Olivia swished the sky blue skirts around her ankles as she looked at herself in the ornate oval mirror that stood in the corner of her bedchamber. She was certainly not taking extra care of her appearance for anyone in particular, she told herself. Especially not the Duke of Breckenridge.

An image of the Duke came into her thoughts, but she pushed it away. The Duke was charming, handsome, and seemed to know the right words to say to make her feel a gravitation for him despite how much she tried to push it away.

It would never do for her to act on that attraction. If she allowed herself to feel anything for the Duke — whether it be sentiment or simply the pull of desire — it could turn into something very, very dangerous.

For to fall for a man like the Duke would be a disaster. She knew that at least some of the gossip about him rang true. The Duke was a rogue, who loved women, and never one woman for any more than a short length of time. If she drew close to a man like him, he would break her heart, that was for certain. Besides, Olivia was too proud a woman to throw herself in amongst the innocent young debutantes who flung themselves towards him for his title, or the experienced ladies of the ton who wanted him for his charm and skills in the bedchamber. For while Olivia Jackson was relentless when she wanted something, she refused to share, particularly the affection of a man.

She reminded herself that she was not thinking of the Duke as she dressed that evening, of whether he may or may not be present at the coming out ball of Lady Sybille, which would be held at the Argyll Rooms. It didn’t matter in the slightest. All that mattered was that he kept her identity of Mrs. Harris secret. She knew she had made him a good amount of money through their games of whist that evening. Hopefully his gratefulness to her would be enough to still his tongue.

Her eyes drew upward to the artful style of her honey blonde hair, pulled away from her face but for a few tendrils that drifted down her forehead to her cheeks. The blue dress brought out of the color of her eyes, and its high waist allowed the soft folds of satin to fall delicately over her curves.

She smiled, straightened, and turned to join her mother downstairs.

* * *

As Lady Sutcliffe nattered at her all the way to the Argyll Rooms, Olivia was tempted to tell her about her visit to Lady Atwood’s house just to make her stop talking, but she was too concerned of the tirade it would send her mother into. If she knew what Olivia had done, it was likely Olivia would never again have the ability to leave her rooms alone.

Instead, Olivia gazed out the window, turning away from the woman who somehow had birthed her. They were pulling up to the doors when Olivia finally turned to Lady Sutcliffe. “That’s enough, Mother,” she said, attempting to suppress the scorn she felt at her mother’s words. Yes, it had been five seasons since she came out. Yes, she had turned away an ample number of men who had originally shown interest in her. But did her happiness not matter at all?

She looked at her father, imploring him to say something to suggest that he supported her and what she wanted, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes, instead staring out the carriage window with the side of his ample cheek turned toward her. Helen sat across from her, staring at her feet as she attempted to ignore the conflict around her.

Olivia sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. She pursed her lips, saying nothing, but let the icy glare she shot at her mother speak for her. Her mother’s words did give rise to the concerns Olivia had long held but didn’t dare to speak aloud. What would she do with her life? She had her column in the journal. Could she grow her work enough to sustain herself one day? Her parents may no longer support her if they knew what she did, but she would have rewarding work, and be doing an activity that actually meant something and would make a difference. The idea began to percolate in her mind, and her mother shot her a glance of alarm at the sly smile that began to cross her face.

* * *

Alastair Finchley, the Duke of Breckenridge, did not want to attend this ball, a sentiment which was quite out of character. Alastair typically enjoyed these types of events, to have the opportunity to converse with the great variety of lords and ladies in attendance, during the moments he did not have a beautiful woman in his arms as he whirled around the dance floor.

Since his father had died, however, things had been different. He noticed now the way the mothers looked greedily at him as if he held the key to their daughter’s futures. He saw how the young women stared at him as if they would do anything he asked, if only he would make them his bride. He also could not shake the idea that some of the other men now looked at him as more of a threat, believing marriage may be more imminent for him now that he was a duke.

He gave a wry laugh. If only these women knew what they would be getting — a duchy near to financial ruin and a man ill-prepared to be a duke or a husband. He knew the answer to at least some of his problems were staring him in the face — he could marry one of those ladies with a large dowry, and bring an end to his short-term financial troubles while also taking on the responsibility that awaited him of beginning a family of his own.

The idea, however, sent a shiver down his spine. He did not want the responsibility of a wife, to have to worry about her wants and needs. Perhaps he could find a woman who would not care about the attention, or lack thereof, he provided to her. But even so, how could he enjoy himself in the company of others, women in particular, if he knew he had a wife waiting for him at home?

He was aware that he was known in society as somewhat of a rake for his love of women and the gambling hells, but he wasn’t a true rogue in the sense of the word. He played by the rules, for the most part. He loved the art of seduction, but he was careful in the women he chose. He gambled, but not into debt. He drank, but not to the point in which he made a fool of himself.

He set his turbulent thoughts aside and determined that tonight he would not worry so much and simply enjoy himself. He fixed his cravat, settled the sandy curls on his head in some semblance of order, and made for the door to attend the ball in honor of Lady Sybille Grant at the Argyll Rooms, as the Grant's London home was not large enough to host such an event. His thoughts, unbidden, turned once again to Lady Olivia Jackson and a smile tugged at the corners of his previously downturned mouth. She defied the conventions of society, which interested him, though not enough for him to consider anything more serious with her. She deserved better than him, more than a man who would leave her at home while he did as he pleased. He was not ready to give up the one aspect of his life that brought him pleasure, and he refused to be the man to break such a spirit as hers.

The smile remained on his face as he entered the magnificent front doors, lit by gilded lamps and bordered by Corinthian pillars, and passed his cloak to the butler. Alastair was soon greeted by Lord and Lady Grant. Lady Sybille was all smiles toward him, her youth and innocence and her mother’s exuberance somewhat overwhelming.

He thanked them for having him before continuing through the crush of people into the ballroom, the din of chatter and the swell of the orchestra sweeping over him. He quickly found Lord Merryweather conversing among other gentlemen, and was welcomed into the circle with pats on the back and condolences, as this was the first true society event he had attended following his father’s death.

He excused himself to find a drink, which he heartily needed, though his spirits began to be somewhat buoyed by the camaraderie and exuberance of those around him. He was returning to the group of gentleman when his path was blocked by voluminous skirts and the smiling faces of women of the ton.

“Ladies,” he said with a slight bow towards them.

“We are ever so sorry to hear of the passing of your father, Your Grace,” said Lady Hester Montgomery, as she looked up at him from underneath forced fluttering eyelashes.

“Thank you, Lady Hester,” he replied. “I appreciate it.”

“It must be so difficult to be on your own during these troubling times,” she said, placing a hand on his arm and practically leaning on him as her friend looked on with a similar smile plastered on her face. “Please call on me anytime should you need someone to talk to.”

He nodded, and felt compelled to ask the woman if he might have a dance later that evening. She thrust a creamy white arm to him immediately. She was good-looking, dark-haired with brown eyes that flashed up at him eagerly. If she didn’t throw off such an air of desperation, he might find himself more attracted to her.

She smiled up at him.

“I can hardly wait for our dance, Your Grace.”

“Until then, Lady Hester,” he said, and with a nod continued on his way.

* * *

They were late, as always. Olivia’s mother felt if they arrived after most of the crowd, somehow it put them above everyone else awaiting them. Olivia thought it was ridiculous but of course her mother brushed aside her scoffing and her affable father found it easier to just follow along with what her mother wanted.

The ballroom looked beautiful, its bas-reliefs looking down on them from high upon the walls, the glass chandeliers shining overhead. Olivia thought she saw in Lady Grant the same hope and excitement that had been in her own mother’s eyes five long years ago. Is that what they lived for? She thought to herself, for their daughters to come out and find a husband? How depressing.

As she skirted the ballroom, Rosalind practically flew up toward her.

“Olivia! I have been waiting and waiting for you to tell me all about your adventure to the gambling house!”

“Shh,” Olivia said with a quick look around to make sure no one had heard Rosalind’s words. She led her over to a quieter corner of the room, away from interested ears.

Finally satisfied they would not be overheard, Olivia turned to her friend. “Oh Rosalind, it was wonderful,” she said, her eyes shining.

“Was it truly?”

“Yes, absolutely,” she responded, her excitement spilling over. “I played, and played well. Not just for fun, but it meant something. I didn’t win on luck either, but I earned it.”

“You always have been the intelligent one,” said Rosalind with a sigh. “I am so envious. Not that I would ever take the risk that you did, but what fun. Did you see anyone you knew?”

“I did, actually,” said Olivia slowly. “Lord Kenley — the Duke of Breckenridge.”

“Oh, how interesting,” Rosalind said with a knowing smile at her friend.

“It was nothing like that,” Olivia denied. “He did recognize me. We were partnered, however, so I won him a good deal of money and for that I believe he will keep my secret.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” said Rosalind. “Is that the only reason? I heard how friendly you were at Isabella’s house party last year. And you were at the Carrington dinner party last night — did you see him there as well?”

Olivia waved her words away with her hand and decided it was best to change the subject.

“There were other men present I recognized, of course,” she said. “Fortunately I was able to stay far enough away from them, and besides that, most were too much in their cups to pay much notice of me. There was a moment I admit I believe I played a little too well as it seemed some of the men were not pleased with my winnings, but I managed to find the correct balance of success for the rest of the night.”

“Very good, Olivia, very good,” Rosalind said before her eyes turned to the dance floor. “Ah, look, there he is.”

“There who is?”

“Why none other than your Duke — with Lady Hester.”