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to say. Propriety demanded it, but so did common feeling.
    â€œI got your letter when Mother died. It was kind. Thank you.”
    Lord Casselmain, still struggling with his own bitterness, only shook his head. “I should have come myself.”
    â€œNo, you shouldn’t have. What you did was enough.”
    â€œSince you say it is so, I must accept that.”
    For a brief moment, Rosalind considered adding something along the lines of, “I hope we are still friends.” She dismissed this. To begin with, it was untrue. Whatever she might want of Devon Winterbourne, such a polite and noble sentiment as friendship was not on the list. He rested his hand on the window’s edge. He was so close. If she lifted her own hand, she could touch him. As easily as that. She could feel his warmthagain, know the shape of his strong hand, even if it would be through the double thickness of their winter gloves. No one was paying them any attention. No one would ever have to know. Except her. Except him.
    â€œYou’re truly not going to ask why I’m marrying a girl I’ll never love?”
    The smile that formed on Rosalind’s lips was a small, bitter thing. “If you want me to know, you can tell me. Here we both are, alone and unobserved.”
    Devon paused again. He had become a careful man, one who didn’t like to say a thing he might regret. But she could tell he did want her to know his reasons. Slow, heavy understanding tumbled over Rosalind. He wanted her to know, but more than that, he wanted her to ask. He wanted her to be the one who broke confidence and propriety.
    He wanted to see she was humbled, and brokenhearted. He hoped that she was pining for him and the life he could have given her if only he had not stayed away after Father fled.
    Anger surged through Rosalind, raising a flush to her cheeks despite all the bitter cold. “It is better if you say nothing, sir. After all, we don’t know each other that well, do we?” She did not look at him. She must not look. She must remember the whole, dreadful arc of her life. She must remember the ongoing whispers, and the constant little reminders of exactly who she had become.
    Because Devon was now the one required to uphold the position and fortune of his great and ancient family, much to that family’s relief, Rosalind was sure. Devon’s older brother, Hugh Winterbourne, had been a careless, coarse, intemperate man and no one was at all surprised when he died by falling drunk from his horse and breaking his neck.
    No one knew better than Rosalind the heartbreak that would follow if Devon failed in his duty. He needed a wife who couldmanage the vast household, and provide heirs and income to bolster the bloodline. Honoria Aimesworth could bring him those things. Any other reasons Lord Casselmain might have for choosing this particular bride meant nothing at all to the obscure Miss Rosalind Thorne.
    Since she couldn’t look at him, Rosalind knew Devon was leaving only because his wavering shadow slipped off her lap. She sat alone in the cold, the noise, and the flickering lights of torches and tapers as the coachmen moved about lighting the carriage lanterns.
    â€œGood-bye, Devon,” Rosalind murmured, but only after she felt sure he couldn’t possibly hear her.

CHAPTER 6
    The Empty Ballroom
    Many Diplomatic arts, much finesse, and a host of intrigues were set in motion to get an invitation to Almack’s.
    â€”E. Beresford Chancellor, The Annals of Almack’s
    Fortunately, Rosalind was not left with much time to sit and brood upon the cruelties of fate, much less her many deficiencies of resolve and good judgment. Around her, the crowd was shifting, its assorted conversations and curses overwhelmed by that low, murmuring gasp which indicates a mob has spied something of interest. Rosalind’s gaze lifted itself reflexively to Almack’s, and its low doors.
    Just as she did, those doors