Typically, Ralston found the boisterous Oxford—more often than not deep in his cups—to be insufferable, but considering the marquess’s need for diversion, he made an exception. He stood and approached the group.

“Ten guineas on Prudence Marworthy.”

“She’s got the face of a horse!” This, from Oxford himself.

“Her dowry is worth keeping the lights out!” came a voice from the back of the crowd. Ralston was the only man in the room who did not laugh at the joke.

“I’ve got twenty guineas that says none but Berwick’s daughter will have you!” The Earl of Chilton threw his bet into the pool, garnering a round of groans at the insensitive wager, interspersed with surprise for the size of Chilton’s wager.

“She may be simple,” Oxford said with a laugh, “but her father is the richest man in England!”

Uninterested in the base conversation, Ralston turned to leave the room. He had almost reached the door when a voice called out, above the rest.

“I’ve got it! The Allendale chit!”

He stilled, then turned back to hear the response. The woman was haunting him.

“No good. She’s just been betrothed to Rivington,” someone said. “And you’re touched if you think The Allendale Angel would settle for Oxford.”

“Not the pretty one…the other.”

“The fleshy one?”

“With the ridiculous name?”

Oxford held court with a swagger that was likely the result of too much drink, enjoying every minute of the immature attention. “That said, Rivington did make a smart move marrying into the Allendale fortune…Lady Cassiopeia wouldn’t be the worst ending to my story.”

“Calpurnia.” Ralston said the name softly, too softly to be heard, at the same time one of the other men corrected Oxford.

The baron continued, waving his glass in the air dismissively. “Well, whatever her name, I’d be wealthy again—wealthy enough to keep a stellar mistress and never bother with the wife. Except to get her with the heir and the spare. And I imagine that, at her age”—he paused for bawdy emphasis—“she’ll be grateful for whatever I give her.”

Oxford’s statement brought a round of cacophonous laughter.

A visceral distaste coursed through Ralston. There was no way Calpurnia Hartwell would marry Oxford. No woman with that kind of passion would settle for such an ass. Ralston had never been so certain of anything in his life.

“Who is willing to match a wager that she’s mine by June?”

Several of Oxford’s friends entered the pool, with others wagering that the Earl of Allendale would step in and refuse the match, and at least one man betting that Oxford would have to elope with Lady Calpurnia in order to achieve his gains.

“I’ll take all the wagers.” Ralston’s words, despite their being spoken quietly from across the room, silenced the other men who, to a man, turned to look at him.

Oxford offered him a broad smile. “Ah, Ralston. I hadn’t noticed you. You’d like to place a bet on my future bride?”

Ralston couldn’t imagine a single situation in which the woman who had marched herself into his home last evening would consider Oxford anything more than an irritation. He’d never seen a wager so easily won as this one. Like taking sweets from a babe. “Indeed, Oxford. I’ll take every one of the bets on Lady Calpurnia. There is not a chance in hell that she’ll marry you.” He turned to the bookmaker. “Finney, mark my words. If Oxford even has an opportunity to offer for Lady Calpurnia, she’ll most certainly refuse.”

A rustle of surprise went through the crowd as Finney asked, “How much, my lord?”

Ralston met Oxford’s eyes as he spoke. “One thousand pounds will keep it interesting, I would imagine,” he said, turning and exiting the room, leaving the group of men utterly dumbfounded.

The gauntlet had been thrown.

Six

Callie had thought that tonight would be different.

She had expected Mariana and Rivington’s betrothal ball to be perfect. And it was—every inch of the room had been polished until it shone, from the floors and windows, to the enormous crystal chandeliers and wall sconces that held thousands of twinkling candles, to the marble columns that lined one length of the room, supporting the most impressive feature of the Allendale House ballroom—an upper viewing corridor that allowed guests in need of a respite to find one without ever leaving the ballroom.

She’d expected that Mariana would sparkle, and she did—a glittering gem on Rivington’s arm, swirling through the dozens of other couples in a rousing country dance. And the other guests seemed to agree with Callie; they were thrilled to be there, at the first major event of the season, to fête Mariana and her duke. The ton was at its best, dressed in the height of fashion, eager to see and be seen by those whom they had missed while away from London for the winter months.

Callie had imagined that this ball would be special for both Allendale sisters, however.

And yet, here she sat, in Spinster Seating. As usual.

She should be used to it, of course—used to being ignored and sloughed off with the rest of the women who were on the shelf. Truthfully, in the early years, she’d preferred it here. The women had accepted her into their fold, graciously making room for her on whatever furniture happened to be arranged for their kind. Callie had found it much more enjoyable to watch the season unfold while trading gossip with the older women than to stand awkwardly on the other side of the room waiting patiently to be asked to dance by an eligible young gentleman.