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She had to believe there was an end to her loneliness. That something—some one —could fill the well of emptiness inside her. And that someone was Chad Easterbrook.
    She sighed, holding herself very stiff and straight so that the busk of her corset wouldn’t stab into her. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a small smile of triumph. Chad wanted her to participate in the afternoon’s diversion—a croquet match on Kimball Green.
    She pictured the scene: Chad and his crowd wearing dress whites and assembled on the green for croquet. She glowed at the thought of being one of the happy group as they spent a lazy afternoon in laughter and sunshine. Thanks to Chad, she would soon be a part of his charmed world.
    Lovingly, a smile playing about her lips, she folded his note and tucked it in the most romantic spot she could think of—beneath her busk.
    It itched.
    The memory of the ball reared in her mind. She pictured herself stumbling to help Chad with his romantic entanglement. Making a spectacle of herself by knocking over the plant. Being seen scratching her chest with a letter opener. Stammering an excuse to Mrs. Hallowell. Rushing off to find Ryan Calhoun at the harbor.
    The thought of the red-headed Virginian, his lap draped with a half-clad woman and his belly full of rum, brought an unexpected twitch of disgust to Isadora’s mouth. No matter how deeply she humiliated herself, she had never sunk to that level.
    She had finally met someone who was more of a disgrace than she was.
    He would never know what a comfort he was to her.
    She straightened her shoulders. Today would be different, she thought, holding back a sneeze. Today she’d redeem herself from last night’s fiasco.
    First, a dress. Though she had absolutely no sense of fashion, she knew better than to wear black to a croquet match. She plucked up her skirts and hurried to her chambers, opening the walnut clothes press and peering inside.
    Dear heavens. When had she managed to amass such a collection of black, brown and gray? She had black gowns with black lace. Black gowns with brown piping. Black gowns with gray eyelet. But there—off to one side. It was an ecru tea gown made for some awkward, forgotten social occasion. The dress was just the thing for an afternoon of croquet.
    She rang for Thankful, and the maid arrived in a trice, setting her feather duster on the bed. “Well, it’s different, miss, and that’s a fact,” Thankful said, picking up the pale India cotton dress.
    “Do you think it’s too different from my usual style?” Isadora asked.
    “Yes, it is.” With the brisk efficiency that had served her—and the Peabody family—well for three decades, Thankful took up her stay hook and freed Isadora from the black day gown. Then she held up the new dress. “Let’s see if we can make this fit.”
    Isadora obediently put up her hands, and Thankful dropped the gown over her head, saying, “You know, your sister Arabella always looked so lovely in this color. The veriest picture, she was—” Thankful unapologetically put her knee in the middle of Isadora’s back and tugged hard “—stepping out with Lord knows how many gentleman callers….”
    Isadora clutched the bedpost to steady herself as the maid struggled with the closures on the gown. She stopped listening to Thankful’s chatter. She’d heard the stories many times—Lucinda’s social triumphs, the duel that had almost erupted between two of Arabella’s suitors, Quentin’s habit of stepping out with a different young lady every night, Bronson’s liaisons with the best girls in Boston….
    As the maid prattled on and performed the punishing ritual of forcing the dress to contain her, Isadora tried not to wince. She had often wondered why a lady’s garments must hurt. Corsets strangled, shoes pinched, ornamental combs dug into delicate scalps and society said “Ahh,” and made admiring noises. It had always been a puzzle to her.
    “Thankful,” she said, “I