Catherine and Daventry arrived at the punch bowl just in time to find it empty.

"Oh bother," said Catherine.

She turned to the footman who was serving the punch. "Please, could you go check the kitchen to see if there is more? I would hate to have the punchbowl run dry already."

"We shall occupy ourselves while we wait," said Daventry, flashing his shining white teeth. He paused, pretending to consider something. "...I had occasion to think of you recently."

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? May I ask why?"

"I was shopping in Ingleston–you know, around where the circulation room is–and I passed by the ribbon shop where we met once. I remember thinking that green ribbon suited you so well. Did you ever purchase it?"

"I did, although not on that day. Did the ribbon shop really bring back that memory so strongly?" asked Catherine. "Surely there must have been some other catalyst."

"Now that you remind me," said Daventry, "I was across the street, just about to post a letter, when I saw a woman with bright red hair enter the shop. I’m sure it must have been you. But, for the sake of quick business matters, I posted my letter before I ran to the shop. By the time I had entered, you were already gone."

"More's the pity!" cried Catherine. "I could have used some company in the shop that day. They drove a hard bargain and I am sure I ended up paying twice what those ribbons were worth. A little help would have been superb."

Daventry's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps in future, I can be of more use to you where ribbons are concerned. I am very sorry to have been so lacking in that regard up until now."

Catherine laughed, then furrowed her brow, looking at the punch bowl. "It’s been far too long since I sent that footman for punch," she said. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Daventry, I think I shall just have to go attend to it myself."

With that, Catherine swept importantly across the ballroom and into the entry hall. She took a turn, and then another, making her way towards the kitchens. On the third turn, her dress caught upon the corner of a little side table. She gasped in surprise, then endeavored to pull the dress free.

It was stuck.

She yanked at her skirt–hard–only to have a loud ripping noise greet her ears. Catherine was freed, but not without consequences. Frowning, she walked straight to the nearest room with a mirror to survey the damage she had done.

Little did she know that Lord Daventry had been quietly following her the entire time.

The room that Catherine entered was a small writing room, suitable for time spent penning missives and letters to friends. Glenarvon spent little time there, preferring his study for such things, but Catherine found that she appreciated an afternoon spent alone sending greetings to her favorite people.

She had outfitted the room with a large mirror soon after she had discovered it. Catherine had the embarrassing tendency to wipe ink across her face when she was writing, and the well-placed mirror allowed her to catch herself before anyone else noticed.

Looking in the mirror, Catherine pushed a tendril of her hair back into place, then turned around so that she could get a good look at the back of her dress. Mercifully, it seemed the tear was a small one. It would go unnoticed for the rest of the night, and then she could have it fixed in the morning. She straightened, then double-checked her appearance, pinching her cheeks.

Then, she heard the little click of the door shutting. Catherine reeled around, convinced that one of her guests must have wandered away from the party. Her heartbeat settled as she realized that it was only Lord Daventry.

"Are you lost?" she asked. "I can direct you to the–wherever you wish to go."

Daventry strode confidently towards her, a beatific smile on his face. "Catherine, I have no wish to be anywhere but here."

Catherine colored. "Whatever do you mean, Lord Daventry?"

"I think you know what I mean," he said, taking her hands.

That seemed very forward, even for a friend. Catherine's heart began to beat again. She tried to politely slip her hands out of his, but he held them fast.

"Lord Daventry," she said calmly. "I am afraid that this is not–"

"Don't be afraid, dear Catherine. It is only natural that we are drawn together," said Daventry, his voice growing fervent. "I know you feel it, too."

Catherine's face grew stern. "Lord Daventry," she said curtly. "I am a married woman."

“That doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters is you. I have been dreaming of the sweet taste of your mouth, Catherine. I want you.”

Catherine tried to pull away from Daventry once more. “I’m afraid that your feelings are not reciprocated, Lord Daventry,” she said, trying to sound calm. Panic was starting to thrum through her veins. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t a normal declaration of love. A sharp edge tinged Daventry’s seemingly loving words, making him sound almost diabolical.

Grasping Catherine’s hands more firmly, Daventry stepped towards her, forcing her to stumble backward. “Not reciprocated?” he hissed.

“N–no,” Catherine stuttered. “I am faithful to Glenarvon.”

At the mention of Glenarvon’s name, all humanity drained from Daventry’s face. He pushed Catherine up against the wall, his hot breath blowing on her neck. “Glenarvon only married you to frustrate me,” he whispered.

“Don’t say that.”

Catherine stiffened as Daventry ran the back of his palm down her cheek. He let his hand settle on her waist, squeezing her soft flesh.

It was too much. Something in Daventry had flipped, and the sweet man she thought she knew had suddenly turned into a nightmare.

Catherine pushed back at him, shoving her knee into his groin as hard as she could muster. “Do not touch me,” she said, her voice ringing through the room.

Doubling over in pain, Daventry’s face twisted in anger. Catherine tried to brush past him, but he reached out and took hold of her skirts. Kicking at him, Catherine’s foot made contact with his hand. He recoiled, but couldn’t resist getting back one final shot as she walked away.

“Think about it, you silly fool,” he spat. “Your marriage is a sham. Just a little bet between Glenarvon and I. Too bad he got to taste you first.” He licked his lips. “You’re just a pawn in our game. I have no doubt that it will be my turn to play soon.”

Catherine hesitated as she walked away, her hand hovering just above the doorknob. She glanced back at the man on the floor. He was still incapacitated, his bloodied hand clutching at his groin, but his eyes held the fury of a thousand suns.

“A bet?” Catherine whispered.

“Oh,” said Daventry, manipulating his mouth into a clownish pout. “You didn’t think Glenarvon actually loved you, did you? You can go ask him yourself.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Mention Rebecca.”

With that, Catherine swept out of the room, another woman’s name echoing in her ears as she slammed the door behind herself.

    There was no possible way anything Lord Daventry said had been true. She couldn’t believe that she had been so drastically mistaken about his character. The man had turned out to be downright monstrous.

    She shook her head in outrage, wiping her hands on her dress as if she might wash away the stink of his skin on hers. The cad!

    As Catherine advanced down the hall, her righteous anger began to subside, slowly being replaced by a cold fear. If she had been so wrong about Lord Daventry, who was to say that she wasn’t wrong about Glenarvon, too?

    Many things about their marriage had seemed off to her. For one, he had barely even seemed to like her for quite some time. His marriage proposal had also been completely unexpected. Almost as if someone had made the marriage worth his while. Favorable terms for a bet.

    She shook her head. No. This was paranoia. Daventry was just trying to trick her. But if she was so sure he was lying, then why was she still marching towards Glenarvon, Rebecca’s name tingling on her lips?

    Entering the ballroom, Catherine surveyed the crowd looking for the black cloud she called her husband.

There. Chatting merrily with a small throng of people.

    The sight made Catherine’s blood boil. She strode towards the group, murder set in the firm line of her mouth.

Tapping Glenarvon firmly on the shoulder, she hissed, "Who is Rebecca?"

The marquess colored, then bowed to the ladies he was conversing with. "If you will excuse me," he said. Then, he turned quickly around to face Catherine, taking her arm and pulling her away from the prying eyes of the people around them.

"Who is Rebecca?" Catherine asked again. This time, her voice was stronger, more assured. She would get some sort of answer out of him.

Glenarvon's eyes grew dark and the corners of his mouth pulled down ever so slightly. "Now is not the time, Catherine."

The look on his face only fueled Catherine. Changing tactics, she whispered, voice venomous: "Was it all a bet?"

All the color that had collected in Glenarvon's cheeks drained away. His lips suddenly felt dry, like the arid land come summertime. "Catherine..." he said.

Her heart stopped. Glenarvon's hesitation could only mean one thing: he truly was hiding something. In some sense, Catherine felt as if she had known this all along. The deep fear that she had pushed down into the pit of her stomach reared its head, consuming her. Her vision flared red.

"Tell the truth," she spat. "Was our marriage a bet?"

The marquess paused, closing his eyes slowly. When he opened them, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Catherine. Somehow, he had hoped that his wife would never find out the truth. Naively, perhaps, he had thought that they might eventually reach a point in their marriage where he could forget that the damned bet had ever been made.

When he had found out about Anne and Peter Wynn, he had been furious and hurt that Catherine had hidden the affair from him. But when it all came out, Catherine didn’t lie to him. She did not dissemble, did not try to hide her involvement in the scandal. Instead, she had laid herself bare to Glenarvon, and asked his forgiveness.

There was no possible way that he could to lie to her after she had done such a thing. To do so would truly be unforgivable, both in Catherine's eyes and in his own. Still, what he had done to Catherine was far, far worse than Catherine failing to tell him about her sister.

Even if a scandal had broken out involving Anne, it wouldn’t have truly affected Glenarvon. In his position, he was nearly untouchable. He could have left for London with Catherine and bid all the country dramas goodbye. The ton might hear a bit of gossip from the countryside, but one London season would erase all that. Catherine had done nothing that would change Glenarvon's life.

Glenarvon, on the other hand, had married Catherine under false pretenses. He had made a bet with her life, and now he was about to lose it. Everything he had done leading up to this moment had irrevocably changed Catherine's fate, and he had left her no say in the matter.

Glenarvon had made a deal with the devil, and now Catherine had to suffer the consequences.

Frustrated by the marquess’s far away look, Catherine dug her fingers into his arm, startling him.

"Was it a bet?" she repeated.

Glenarvon swallowed his fear. "Yes."

The word came out simply, as if it were nothing. But the weight it carried knocked Catherine back. She retracted her hand from Glenarvon's arm as if his skin were consumed by fire.

She couldn't believe it. And yet, she could. Nostrils flaring, her lip curled back in anger. Without speaking, she lifted her skirts and turned heel, fleeing away from her husband with winged feet.

"Catherine!" he called. "Wait."

He almost made to run after her, but realized at the last second that making a scene would only cause more scandal–the last thing Catherine wanted in her life. He would speak to her when everyone was gone. He would make it right. Somehow, he would find a way to make her forgive him. Somehow.

As Catherine fled across the room, she realized that she had no place to go. The thought of staying here, at this godforsaken party, filled her with dread. Even the thought of remaining at Castle Fen was unbearable. She didn’t want to face Glenarvon. She didn't want to hear from him ever again. After what she had learned from Daventry, there was nothing that her husband could possibly say to redeem himself.

In her haste, she bumped into someone just on the outskirts of the dance floor. Catherine barely glanced up.

"So sorry," she said, forcing her voice to sound light. Then, she looked again. She had run right into Anne.

Seeing her sister flooded Catherine's body with relief. Her shoulders drooped, her body finally giving up. Anne clasped Catherine's hands, her eyes shot with worry.

"Why, Catherine," she said. "Whatever is the matter?"

At this moment in time, Catherine could not bring herself to say. She sagged. All the fire that had fueled her flight was extinguished, and she was left only with sorrow. "Anne, can you–can you get Mama and Papa and Lydia and we'll just–" she bit back a sob, her mouth trembling, "we'll just go home now."

"Home?" asked Anne, her voice probing. "I thought Lydia was to stay the night with us in Castle Fen."

"Not–not tonight," replied Catherine. "Please, Anne. Let's leave. Quickly."

Anne knew better than to push any further.

"Go to the entrance," she said resolutely. "I'll gather Mama, Papa, and Lydia and we will be off as fast as we can."

With that, the Edmonson family gathered together speedily, rushed along by Anne's fervent commands. Within minutes, they were all sitting in their cramped carriage, Lydia pouting to the best of her ability.

Anne took her sister's hand as the coach swayed slowly down the road. A tear rolled down Catherine's pale face, the first of many.