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and dominated by the dome of St. Paul’s and the bulk of Westminster Abbey. Yet her first close view was of mean streets, derelict buildings, and poorly dressed people. Disappointment had been settling over her when the streets suddenly widened into the opulent glory that was Mayfair.
    Yet even here, contrasts were everywhere – well-dressed lords and ragged beggars, haughty matrons and cowering shop girls, nanny-tended children in the park and boys like Jimmy on the streets. Even her own class contained contrasts. Lisping fops minced about clad in outlandish costumes; formidable dandies wielded pretentious quizzing glasses; boisterous Corinthians endlessly relived the latest mill or race. They were joined by sober clubmen, starchy hostesses, pushy matchmakers, giggling girls fresh from the schoolroom…
    Where did Angela Warren fit into this mosaic?
    The emotional extremes were nearly as bad – terror over appearing at the Queen’s drawing room; relief when she survived the ordeal; mortification at Lady Forley’s insistence on vulgar extravagance; nervousness that tied her tongue in knots whenever the ton’ s highest sticklers appeared; fear that she might say something to alienate them; anger at Jimmy’s treatment; painful sympathy for his story; trepidation about her upcoming ball… Where in this muddle was pleasure? Or even contentment? So far, her London Season bore no resemblance to the glittering tales Lady Forley had spun since Lord Forley’s death.
    Blackthorn’s face again hovered before her own. Now there was a man who wasted no time agonizing over what society thought. How much simpler life was for gentlemen. They could break any number of rules and still be welcomed at their clubs. Ladies did not have that freedom. Only through rigid compliance to every expectation could she expect to find a husband during her brief stay in town. Failure was unthinkable – and not only because she was losing her place at the Court. Andrew had made many sacrifices to provide this opportunity for her. How could she waste it?
    I must marry!
    She sighed. Conformity must become her watchword. Society’s matrons had already made that clear. They had watched her like hawks when she first entered their drawing rooms, relaxing only when she proved to be quiet and deferential. But their attention was never far away. Any mistake could ruin her.
    It would be difficult. She had so many faults – an unladylike education, questionable manners, an unfashionable concern for the lower classes. Revealing any of them would lead to failure.
    Again she sighed. Why couldn’t she just be herself?
     

Chapter Two
     
    Dear Lord! This will be a disaster!
    Angela stood in the receiving line, a false smile pasted firmly on her face. What was she doing here? Her mother was right that sharing a ball would harm her. She was an interloper, a mushroom, an upstart who did not belong in this illustrious company.
    When Sylvia had offered to share her come-out ball, their difference in station hadn’t seemed to matter. After all, they were only one rank apart, and Sylvia was happily marrying down. By the time Angela met society for herself, it was too late to change the plans.
    Why had she never realized the enormous gap that separated the upper and lower aristocracy? It was a difference she would have learned at school had she attended one. But beyond even that natural separation, Lord Hartleigh’s credit was high, guaranteeing that the ball would be a squeeze. Not that it would do her any good. The friends of a wealthy, powerful earl would hardly be interested in the barely dowered bluestocking sister of a viscount. And how could she become acquainted with anyone in this frenzied atmosphere?
    “You will be ruined,” Lady Forley had moaned as their carriage approached Hartleigh House. “How can we hold our heads up after making a public admission of penury by bringing you out as an afterthought to someone else’s ball? We might as well place an