The woman flicked out a hand. A tray of champagne appeared beneath it, and she plucked up a glass and handed it to Becky. She took another and handed it to Cecelia.

"Have you met the comte, viscountess?" Mrs. Pionchet inquired of Cecelia.

"Why, no. I haven't."

"Come, then," she said, beckoning at them, curling her long, black-gloved fingers in an inviting gesture. "I shall introduce you."

The comte was a short, balding man with a thick French accent, and again, no names were exchanged. Mrs. Pionchet referred to Becky as "the lady" and Cecelia as "the viscountess." It was all very odd indeed, Becky thought. And she didn't miss that the comte stared hard at Cecelia, licking his lips as they walked away from him.

Mrs. Pionchet introduced them to several more people. Becky was silent, speaking only when spoken to, fascinated by the costumes and attitudes of the people surrounding her. It was a different world.

She and Cecelia found some space to stand at one side of the room. Elaborately painted Chinese screens stood at intervals along the walls, and when Becky peeked behind one of them, she jerked her head back, heat rushing to her face. A man and a woman, her dress sleeves pulled down low on her arms and the tops of her breasts exposed, had been embracing-emphatically embracing-on a couch set in an alcove.

Seeing the look on Becky's face, Cecelia laughed. "Don't tell me."

"Very well, I won't," Becky said primly.

"Becky, for goodness' sakes. Don't be missish."

Cecelia was right-she shouldn't be feeling appalled, or even surprised. She had embraced a man-men-before. Yet the flagrant decadence of this display was beginning to make her uncomfortable.

She didn't judge anyone here-how could she? She'd done far more with Jack, a man to whom she wasn't married, than the man and woman behind the screen. Still, she didn't belong here. All around them, men and women flirted, the men aggressive, the women coquettish. Becky didn't want to flirt with anyone... not anyone here.

Cecelia had leaned away from her, and Becky saw that a slight, black-clad man was whispering into her ear. When he finished, Cecelia gave a murmured response, and he walked away as Cecelia turned back to Becky.

"Becky..." She hesitated, glancing in the direction the man had gone.

"What is it?"

"George-the man we encountered earlier. He has told several people I am here... with him." Her lips thinned in annoyance. "He has asked me to meet him on the terrace. I've no idea as to his intentions, but I feel I must explain to him in no uncertain terms-"

"Of course you must," Becky said.

"I don't like to leave you alone."

"I can see that this is distressing you, Cecelia, so I think you should speak to him. In any case, I'll not be alone," she assured her friend, and then, spotting Mrs. Pionchet, "Look, our hostess is approaching."

Mrs. Pionchet arrived on the arm of a masked gentleman, whom she introduced as "the baronet." Cecelia curtsied politely and then made her excuses. With a final squeeze of Becky's hand, she took her leave.

Mrs. Pionchet and the gentleman led her about and introduced her to a string of people, but they had all begun to look alike to Becky. Her head felt fuzzy from the champagne, and she didn't like the way every man she was introduced to studied her as if to determine whether she was a piece of meat worthy of sticking a fork into.

Spotting an empty velvet-cushioned chair tucked between one of the Chinese screens and a terrace door, Becky said, "Oh, you go ahead, Mrs. Pionchet. I believe I should like to sit for a while."

Mrs. Pionchet didn't argue. Pressing another glass of champagne into Becky's hand, she and the baronet swept away, cutting a swathe through the crowd.

Becky sipped at the champagne and watched people come and go. She saw a man proposition a woman, saw the woman's chest flush pink in response before she wrapped her arms around the man's neck, drew him in, and whispered in his ear-probably an affirmative response, because within a matter of seconds, they had slipped away.

Another couple toasted each other, drank their full glasses of champagne in one draught, and then threw back their heads and laughed full, throaty, uninhibited laughs. Their obvious joy made tears of envy sting at Becky's eyes.

She shook herself slightly. Why did she feel so melancholy? An empty, hollow feeling had settled in her stomach. Loneliness, that was it. Yet she had no desire to carouse with these strangers. Nobody here interested her.

Nothing had changed, she thought ruefully. She'd never been one for social gatherings. She was too shy, too bookish. Too much of a bluestocking.

A high-pitched laugh sounded from beyond the screen, and Becky tilted her head. She'd heard that laugh before.

"Did you see that pamphlet showing the two of them in bed?" The person who spoke was a woman, her voice unfamiliar. "With the duke and that enormous scar looking on in rage? I nearly burst my seams for laughing!"

Becky went very still. She'd assumed she was a topic at parties and in drawing rooms, but she'd thought they'd be whispering about her disgrace and shame. She hadn't expected anyone would be laughing at her.

"Mr. Fulton is such a handsome man." The tone matched the sound of the first laugh Becky had heard, and from the high-pitched nasality of the speaking voice, she knew who it was: Lady Borrill, the woman who'd passed her on the stairs at Sheffield's Hotel, had informed Garrett, and had been one of the crowd to storm in on her and Jack.

The other lady made a disparaging noise through her nose. "Indeed. And he could have any woman in London in his bed, and he chose her. Can you imagine?" She paused briefly, and then added in a disgusted tone, "She is such a mouse, so bookish. And a cripple, to boot!"

Becky sat very still, her face a frozen mask. She would not react. She knew people judged her and disparaged her scarred elbow. She knew people were gossiping about her, and she knew Lady Borrill was the instigator of the entire scandal. None of this was a surprise.

"That family grows more disgraceful by the year," Lady Borrill said. "It is only due to Viscount Westcliff's influence that they are not shunned by every soul in London."

"Surely even his good reputation will not survive a breach this reprehensible!"

Lady Borrill sighed loudly. "I doubt it. I know I shall never speak with any of them again. And neither should you. Think of what it would do to your own reputation should you be linked to one of the Jameses."

"My daughter is a friend to the duke's daughter."

"You must call an end to their acquaintance. Immediately."

"Oh, of course. I certainly will," the other woman, whom Becky still had not recognized, said, a note of finality in her voice. "I will order all communication between them to cease this very instant."

"What's a beautiful lady like you doing all alone here on zees lonely sofa?"

Becky snapped to attention as clammy fingers stroked her neck. She jumped up out of the chair, spinning to look at the person who'd touched her. Blinking in surprise, she studied the stranger. Beyond him, the party continued. She'd been so engrossed in the horrid conversation behind the screen that she had forgotten where she was.

The Frenchman wore a mustard-colored domino, a simple brown half-mask, and a felt cap, and he didn't look familiar at all. Obviously deep in his cups, he reeked of spirits. She racked her brain, trying to recall if Mrs. Pionchet had introduced her to this man. For the life of her, she couldn't remember. There were many Frenchmen in this crowd, and Becky's attention had waned after the first dozen nameless introductions.

"Just resting... er... monsieur," she responded, trying to be polite even as the skin on the back of her neck crawled from his touch.

He reached up a finger to trace her collarbone. It was an attempt at a seductive gesture, but Becky yanked herself away, feeling unconscionably soiled. Appalled, she gazed into his bleary eyes. A hazy recollection of the rules of propriety came to her, insisting she slap him across the face and march away. But that awareness came too late. His fingers wrapped around her neck, and he heaved her against him.

"Just one leetle kiss, eh?" he murmured down at her, his acrid alcoholic breath washing over her face.

Panic surged through Becky. They were surrounded by people, but no one paid them any heed-not here. His arms wrapped around her, solid bands of iron, pinning her against him.

A pair of thin, shiny lips descended toward hers.

No. This was not going to happen. She was going to severely damage his ballocks. She nudged her knee between his legs, as if she were snuggling closer. He sighed in pleasure, clearly thinking she'd submitted to his irresistible amorous advances.

And then he jerked away from her, his hands wrenched from her body so forcefully she could feel the strain on her buttons. She gasped from shock at the sudden movement, and looking up, she saw a suntanned hand gripping the man's mustard-silk-covered shoulder.

"Jack." She said it in an almost-whisper, her voice replete with relief, happiness, true pleasure. She gazed up at him, but he didn't look at her. Instead, he gazed down at the stranger from behind a plain black mask, his features implacable.

"Go away." His voice was pleasant, but there was an edge to it that sharpened each word to a dagger point. "And you will never approach this lady again, do you understand?"

"Ah," said the Frenchman with a bleary smile. "You tink she ees yours?"

Jack's dark eyes slid for the briefest of seconds to Becky and then returned to focus on the stranger. "Yes," he said, quiet but very certain of himself. "She is mine."

And then he shoved him away. The Frenchman stumbled backward into a group of revelers, who seemed to think a man literally crashing into their group was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. They helped him up as one, then saw him off with multiple pats to the back, no one sparing a glance at either Becky or Jack.

"Oh, Jack. I'm so glad you're here."

His features didn't soften. He stared at her. "You were kissing that man."

His eyes flashed with hurt. He thought... oh, God! She shook her head vehemently. "No! He grabbed me. I was trying to defend myself-"

Jack made a scoffing noise. "Didn't look like it to me."

She closed her eyes to stave off a sudden onslaught of tears. Her hands shook at her sides. Now that it was over, the horror of what had just happened surged through her. The man could have dragged her out of this place screaming, and no one would have done a thing.

Her knees softening, she sank back onto the chair.

"He was going to kiss me," she said, trying desperately to keep her voice level. "At first I panicked, but then I just wanted to get away. I was going to knee him in the... in the..." She looked up at him, unable to finish.

Jack studied her for a long moment, and then his lips tightened. His entire expression transformed to a different sort of anger. Becky knew he believed her.

"Did he hurt you?"

"He grabbed me very hard-"

Jack's eyes narrowed to slits and his hands curled into fists. He turned, obviously searching for the Frenchman, but she grabbed his arm.

"But no, he didn't hurt me." She gave him a shaky smile. "I am all right, truly. Just a little frightened, I suppose. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before."

Appearing somewhat mollified, Jack glanced around them. The guests grew more intoxicated by the minute, it seemed, and people touched and embraced in full view of everyone in the room. Becky no longer heard the voices of the two ladies beyond the screen-they'd probably gone off to make their own conquests. The hypocrites, she thought bitterly.

"Why are you here?" Jack asked.

"Cecelia brought me. I was curious." At this moment, that seemed like a very weak reason to come. "People haven't recognized me-I heard them talking about me, about my family. And then that man... Oh, Jack, I want to leave."

He gave a sharp nod. "Of course."

"I mean... I just want to get away. Not only from this, but from everything." She should return to Calton House as she'd originally planned... but she couldn't abandon Kate.

"I understand," Jack said.

Wrapping her arms around her body, she stared up at him. "I wish I could leave London. Leave the judgment of others far behind. Go someplace where none of it exists."

Even in Yorkshire, this scandal would exist. The insults would not be as overt as they were in London; instead, they'd be brutal in their subtlety.

"Come." Jack reached for her hand. "I'll take you away."

He helped her from the chair and they slipped out of the enormous ballroom. Jack led her to a carriage-Lord Stratford's, she assumed-and when Jack began to tuck a heavy fur over her, she remembered her friend. "Oh, dear. Cecelia is on the terrace. She won't know where I have gone."

"I'll take care of it. Stay right here." Leaving her in the warmth of the carriage, Jack returned to the house. After a few short minutes, he returned. "I informed Lady Devore that you're with me."

She smiled gratefully at him. Jack went to speak with the coachman, and Becky untied her mask and set it aside before settling against the violet velvet squabs, allowing herself to relax for the first time in hours. Finally, Jack sat on the cushion beside her. He tossed his mask to the opposite bench and leaned back. When the carriage lurched into motion, he took her hand. "I'm sorry. I should have come earlier."

"I hadn't expected you to come at all, and I'm so glad you did," she said with heartfelt sincerity.

"I wasn't certain you would be here, but Stratford had mentioned Lady Devore had been invited, and he told me exactly what kind of gathering it was. If you had come with her-well, I decided to make an appearance, just to make sure you were all right."

She gave him a quizzical look. " That was why you came? To be certain I was all right?"

His eyes didn't stray from hers. "Yes."

For some reason, her throat felt thick, and tears burned at her eyes. Perhaps she was just tired.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Chapter Twelve.

It took longer than Jack had predicted before she suspected anything. She'd scooted away from him, drawing the curtain shut as if in an attempt to block out the world, and she'd leaned against the carriage door and closed her eyes.

Eventually, she straightened and turned to him. "Shouldn't we be in Mayfair by now? Or at least deeper in Town..."

He chose his words carefully. "I'm not returning you to Lady Devore's house."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"You said you wanted to go away. So I'm taking you away."

"But I can't leave London! Kate is nearing her-"

Raising his hand, he pressed two gloved fingers to her lips. "Ssh. I told Lady Devore where we're going. If anything should happen to your sister-in-law, she'll make certain we're informed immediately."

Her mouth opened as if in protest, then she snapped it shut. Then she opened it again. "But-if anyone... we'll be the laughingstock of the ton."

"Nonsense." He took her hand in his own and traced his finger over the soft, delicate flesh of the back of her hand. "No one but Lady Devore-and Stratford, when I send the carriage back to him-will know. We'll be completely alone."

She stared at him. Shock, fear, denial, anticipation-all of it passed over her expression in waves.

"And if people do find out-well, weren't you the one who said scandal didn't touch you?"

"Yes. But I was wrong. When it affects my whole family's reputation-" she hesitated, then finished, "-it hurts."