The following afternoon, Camellia joined her family at Astley’s Royal Amphitheater on Westminster Bridge Road, just south of Charing Cross. Excitement buzzed through her veins as all six of them filed through the entrance. She had never before attended a circus, and was very much looking forward to experiencing the show.

Based on the cheers of a thousand other spectators crowding the two-foot-high circle and hanging over the balconies of the four-story amphitheater, she was far from alone in her excitement. A thrill went through her at the sight of so many people in one place.

The primary circus was to take place in an enormous center ring in front of the orchestra and a huge square curtain. At some point, the billowing black fabric would swish aside to display a fine stage, upon which vignettes would be performed between acts.

The secondary circus was even larger, and would take place in the dozens of spectator boxes encircling the arena. Camellia gazed about in awe. One could easily believe every class and corner of London represented amongst the crowded rows of curved wooden benches.

As a gift to his daughters, Camellia’s father had procured seats in one of the few semi-private orchestra boxes on either side of the main stage. Their entire family filled the second of two long benches: Camellia’s brother Heath, followed by Father, Mother, Dahlia, Bryony, and herself.

Normally, such up-close seats were reserved for the crème de la crème of society—or, at least, those who could afford the additional cost. Today was no exception.

The row ahead of them contained none other than Lady Pettibone, a formidable matron who ruled the ton with her imperial aura and exacting standards. Her well-to-do nieces Lady Roundtree and Lady Upchurch joined her with twin expressions of genteel disdain for the common rabble overflowing the cheaper sections. Camellia could only imagine what such esteemed individuals thought of a mere baron and his family.

To the left of the three society ladies sat a trio of well-dressed gentlemen. First, next to Lady Roundtree, was Phineas Mapleton. Beside Mapleton was the handsome marquess Lord Hawkridge. On the other side, seated directly in front of Camellia… sat the distracting Lord Wainwright.

Heaven save her. She tried not to watch him, but he was impossible to ignore.

Even as the orchestra began to play a rousing opening number, her gaze was not on the talented flautists and energetic violinists but rather drawn inexorably to wide, masculine shoulders encased in an indigo tailcoat that looked soft enough to touch.

Not that Camellia would dare reach for him. In fact, it was fortuitous indeed that it was she and not Dahlia who sat behind him, or the earl might have found himself shoved unceremoniously from his exalted bench to the sawdust floor.

Fortuitous seating arrangements for Lord Wainwright, that was. For Camellia, it was torture.

She meant to watch the tragedians and comedians, the riding-masters standing on horseback, the contortionists—really she did. But it was difficult to focus on crackling whips and clowns diving through hoops when the attention of every woman in the crowd was directed right at the handsome earl mere inches in front of Camellia.

Her muscles tightened. She hoped the women hanging over the balconies opposite took care not to swoon, lest they tumble onto the horse-fouled sawdust below. Her gaze returned to the handsome earl whose spotless tailcoat was so close to her knees.

What must Lord Hawkridge think of playing second fiddle to Lord Wainwright’s conspicuous popularity? She frowned in thought. The marquess was on the hunt for a fortune… or, at least, a fine-blooded heiress. Perhaps he hoped some portion of the attention the earl attracted would reflect back onto himself.

As for Phineas Mapleton, Camellia suspected the self-important gossip had yet to realize that he wasn’t the gentleman all the ladies were cooing at. Mapleton believed his ability to afford Brummell’s tailor elevated him to the same echelon of acclaim and respect, when in fact all it did was emphasize the difference.

If it were up to her, the man would never receive an invitation to her family musicales again.

She tilted her head at the mismatched front row in consideration. Did Lord Wainwright always gad about with souls considered lesser catches, or was this afternoon’s company merely a coincidence?

Perhaps the fawning ladies were right, and the earl did not distinguish by class or standing due to a kindhearted nature. Or perhaps the envious men were right, and the unrepentant rake carefully arranged his backdrops to make himself look even better.

Whatever the motive, it was certainly working. No feat by the horsemen caused more palpitations of the heart, no daredevil tumble by any clown caused more smiles than Lord Wainwright had by merely gracing the amphitheater with his presence.

She wished she could see his expression. Not because of any desire to gaze upon an outrageously handsome face, of course, but to gauge what the man himself might be thinking.

Was his focus upon the droll comedians and dramatic tragedians? Or did the earl content himself with batting his sinfully long lashes at his legion of rosy-cheeked admirers? Was he thinking something else entirely?

By the time the curtain fell for intermission, Camellia was so irritated at her inability to watch anything besides Wainwright’s muscled shoulders that she was half-tempted to request a second curtain be raised between his bench and hers.

Determined not to become engaged in conversation with anyone in the first row, she turned toward her sisters.

“What do you think?” she asked brightly. “Have you ever seen such a show?”

Dahlia’s eyes shone. “It was marvelous! I’m thinking of bringing my girls next week. They deserve a bit of fun.”

Camellia lifted her brows in surprise. “Can the school afford tickets? Even penny seats become expensive when adding hack fare and all the other little costs.”

Her sister’s cheeks flushed. “As it happens, I’ve received an anonymous donation that will keep us afloat for another month at least.”

“Why, Dahlia, that’s splendid!” Camellia leaned back, as much filled with relief as pride for her sister’s ability as headmistress. “How did that come about?”

“Anonymously.” Dahlia cleared her throat and turned back toward their mother before any additional questions could be asked.

Camellia and Bryony exchanged thoughtful glances.

Bryony lifted a shoulder. “I told you she’s been mysterious lately. There is no chance the donation is anonymous. I’m still hoping she’s become mistress to a rich but rugged ostler or perhaps a dashing pirate.”

Camellia shook her head. “Why would there be a pirate in the middle of London?”

“Ostler, then.” Bryony tilted her head toward the center ring. “Now that I’ve seen what a riding-master can do on horseback, I’ve no doubt a young, handsome one could steal a lady’s heart.”

“I should hope the three of us aren’t so silly that our heads could be turned by nothing more substantial than a pretty face,” Camellia said lightly.

At least, she hoped her sisters were the strong ones.

“What else is there?” Bryony’s blue eyes sparkled. “There’s one in particular I fancy, although I’m sure Mother wouldn’t thank me for the scandal.”

Camellia couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking toward the rakish earl. “Please don’t tell me it’s…”

“Oh, heavens no. Dahlia would disown me for exchanging glances with that man, much less stolen kisses. Besides, the scoundrel I have in mind is…” Bryony gave an exaggerated shiver of pleasure. “My secret.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Camellia chastised her. “You cannot tell me you would dare keep such a secret from your elder sis—”

The curtain flew open and the second half of the circus began.

Probably.

Camellia couldn’t quite determine what delights were unfolding in the center ring, because once again her damnable eyes would not quit their focus on the earl in front of her. He had just turned toward his companion, and in the brief moment in which she caught his profile, the earl had smiled.

Her breath caught.

Even though that slow, breathtaking smile had been aimed at the marquess at his side and not the row of Grenvilles behind him, she had felt its impact from her stockings to her bodice.

Little wonder the man got away with murder. No one could possibly keep a single thought in her head when faced with that knowing, devastating smile and those gorgeous hazel eyes.

She distrusted him even more by the second.

And yet, curse him, she couldn’t make herself look away.

By the time the final curtain closed, she was all but ready to flee from the amphitheater back into the safety of their carriage. Courtesy and simple logistics, however, dictated that she file sedately behind her sisters as they followed their parents toward the door of the private orchestra box.

Just as it was finally Camellia’s turn to exit, a passing groom tripped over a fallen broom. A bucket of muddy mop water in his hands flew from his arms. Its contents slopped to the ground in a growing puddle of rancid goo right at the box exit. Camellia and the entirety of the first row were now trapped inside until the mess could be cleared.

Face flaming with embarrassment, the groom bowed to her and snatched the now-empty bucket from the lake of off-color liquid. “I’m so sorry, miss. A thousand apologies. I’ll clean this right up and have you on your way lickety-click, you’ll see. It won’t be but a moment.”

He dashed away before she could answer, presumably in search of tools with which to mop up the spill.

Several feet ahead, Camellia’s family had paused to wait. They paid little attention to the temporary delay, and instead seemed locked in some sort of debate involving emphatic gesticulation on the part of her father and brother, interposed with nervous handwringing by her mother.

Which left Camellia to fend for herself against the three most influential society matrons, the single most judgmental gossip of the ton, a handsome marquess, and the rakish, arrogant earl she couldn’t get out of her mind.

Full of trepidation, she turned to face the remaining members of the private box.

“Miss Grenville?” gasped Lady Upchurch in disbelief. “How did I miss that you were right behind us? You have the loveliest singing voice of anyone I have ever heard.”

“You might have missed her because Miss Grenville very politely wasn’t singing during the circus,” Lady Roundtree pointed out.

Camellia smiled weakly. On stage, she knew just what to do. Off stage, there was no script to follow. No curtain to end the scene.

“More’s the pity. Your singing voice is second to none.” Lord Hawkridge touched his hat. “Miss Grenville, you truly are far better than the current reigning soprano.”

Lord Wainwright’s brows lifted appraisingly. “In that case, she would be an international phenomenon at the opera.”

Camellia’s teeth gritted at the earl’s choice to speak about her, rather than to her, despite standing less than an arm’s width away.

“Miss Grenville? Part of the opera?” Lady Upchurch recoiled in horror. “Obviously she mustn’t join the theater, Wainwright. Think of her reputation! Why, we’d never be able to associate with a Grenville again.”

Indeed. Camellia bared her teeth in a false smile.

The earl had managed to link her name and, by extension, her entire family to the possibility of reputation-ruining scandal right in front of two of society’s most uppity busybodies as well as the grand dame colloquially known as the “old dragon” due to her ability to destroy the standing of society hopefuls in the space of a single breath.

“I shan’t be singing anywhere but my family musicales,” she assured the ladies before the subject could spiral too far out of control.

Lady Roundtree harrumphed. “I should hope not, child. The very thought of you sinking to the level of a common actress…”

Mortified that the image had even been put into their heads, Camellia’s neck heated uncomfortably. She clenched her fists and sent Lord Wainwright a scathing glare. If she became fodder for salacious rumors… Her skin went cold.

Living through the scandal would be bad enough if she really were an opera singer. But she wasn’t. She was no one. On purpose.

In fact, she’d dedicated six-and-twenty years of her life just to avoid embarrassing moments like these. Unobtrusiveness was the perk of being a wallflower. Decades of hiding from the public eye kept her—and her reputation—safe. Yet all it took was one trip to the circus for a single comment from Lord Wainwright to undo all that sacrifice and thrust her straight into the mouth of the dragon.

The next time any of these ladies attended a Grenville musicale, they would think of this moment and recall their threat to give Camellia’s entire family the cut direct if she were to be foolish enough to follow her dreams.

She raised her brows at the earl in irritation. He’d started this nonsense. Surely he would come to her aid.

“I don’t know,” Lord Wainwright said blandly. “I rather like actresses.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. So much for rescue. Of course the cad liked actresses. The profession was often synonymous with prostitution. And now he’d linked her name to the same image.

Lady Pettibone stared down her nose in utter distaste, as if no longer picturing Camellia merely a too-scandalous-to-associate-with opera singer, but now a painted trollop with loose morals. The sort who would be happy to entertain a man like Lord Wainwright however he pleased.

Camellia’s face flushed in humiliation.

“Perhaps a moneyed, titled ‘gentleman’ doesn’t mind being the center of scandal, but I have never wished for such attention, and I thank you to cease forcing it upon me,” she hissed between clenched teeth.

He raised his brows. “I merely enquire why a woman’s talents should be seen as a strike against her.”

“It depends on the ‘talents,’” Lady Pettibone said coldly, having clearly decided the earl’s comments had gone too far. “A lady of good breeding would never give a fallen woman so much as the time of day.”

Mapleton dug his elbow into the earl’s side with a lewd look. “Wainwright will give anyone the time of night, though, eh?” He wiggled his brows. “Perhaps an opera singer is just what the earl needs.”

Lady Pettibone’s haughty gaze did not waver. “Opera singers may be suitable for dalliances, but they are far from countess quality. Even for a rakehell earl.”

“Oh, you mean the Grenville chit?” Mapleton snorted with laughter. “Obviously not her. A mouse that timid isn’t countess quality or courtesan quality. Too easy to forget in the morning.”

Camellia’s mouth fell open at the horrific slight. Her cheeks burned. She wanted to sink right through the sawdust. Or beat the earl’s pretty head with one of the clowns’ wooden sticks. He was unbelievable. First he had made her an object of speculation, then he stood idly by as his associate made her an object of ridicule. She glared at him. Both men were despicable.

“A mouse, am I?” she demanded, her voice shaking with anger and humiliation. She spun toward Mapleton. “You are an insufferable gossip who spreads tales about other people because you’ve nothing interesting of your own to say.” She turned back to Wainwright. “And even a lioness wouldn’t want to be this blackguard’s countess. You’re a successful rake because ’tis only women of loose morals who will have you.”

Mapleton’s jaw dropped open. After a moment of stunned silence, he roared with delighted laughter. “Not even a lioness! Just wait until the caricaturists hear of this.”

Lady Pettibone rapped the unrepentant gossip with her parasol. “If a single word of this entirely inappropriate conversation gets printed in any scandal columns or scratched into an etching, I will disavow its contents, deny my presence, and ensure you never step foot back into London again. Are we clear?”

Mapleton’s laughing countenance drained of color. He swallowed visibly. “Fine. You’re hurting Wainwright, not me. He basks in the attention.”

“Of course he does,” Camellia muttered. What else could one expect from a rake without a heart?

“The last thing I want is scandal,” Lord Wainwright assured her, his gray-brown-green eyes wide with innocence.

Mapleton nearly choked in disbelief. “That’s only because you’ve a wager in the betting books claiming you can exist forty days without your name in the scandal columns. We all know that’s going to fail.”

What an absurd wager. Camellia turned away in disgust. The earl was the opposite of men like respectable, mature Mr. Bost. Lord Wainwright was scandal incarnate. His exploits had graced scandal columns and penny caricatures for years. She should not have expected more from him.

Mapleton was right. There was no chance of a rakehell like Wainwright curbing his acclaimed flirtations. The only miracle was that he hadn’t lost the bet already.

Camellia stood as far from them both as possible. As someone who had spent her entire life keeping her name out of the gossip columns, she found it appallingly distasteful for a man to be unable to do the same for forty short days.

“Ladies? Gentlemen?” a groom called hesitantly. “The aisle is clear now, if you’d like to exit the box.”

Like to? There wasn’t anything Camellia wanted more.

She curtseyed to the three ladies, ignored all three “gentlemen,” and hastened out of the orchestra box before her once spotless reputation could come to any permanent harm.