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her unmarried state pardonable, Beatrice’s lower circumstances had the opposite effect.
    Beatrice was an attractive woman, with dark hair and eyes and a beautiful English complexion. She was much shorter than Octavia, rounder in all the right places, and as softly spoken as a summer breeze. She looked lovely in a gown of soft rose silk—a perfect English rose. Ordinarily Octavia would hate her out of sheer spite, but they were family and, above all else, friends. Beatrice was the one family member—otherthan her late grandfather—who knew anything about her mother and her past.
    Beatrice didn’t know Octavia had seen North, however.
    “Am I not the luckiest man in London,” Spinton announced with a smile as he stood to greet Beatrice, “to escort the two loveliest ladies in the city this evening?”
    Beatrice blushed under the praise while Octavia merely smiled. She was accustomed to the earl’s lavish compliments, and perhaps a little spoiled by them now. It was nice to see someone appreciate them and take them for genuine praise rather than mere politeness.
    “Let us go,” Octavia said as she rose, shooing both of them toward the door. “I do not want to be late.”
    Spinton chuckled, but allowed himself to be herded like so much cattle. “I have never understood your fascination with punctuality, Octavia. We do not have to be there as soon as the club opens.”
    It took all of Octavia’s resolve to not to remind Lord Spinton that she had sent word around days ago securing a special table for this evening. It would be rude not to arrive at the prearranged time. She merely smiled. “I suppose I am simply anxious to enjoy the diversions Eden has to offer.”
    “As am I,” Beatrice spoke up, casting a supportive glance in Octavia’s direction. “I find it all terribly exciting. I hear they have games of chance and all manner of exotic entertainments.”
    Spinton flashed an endearing smile—one that made Beatrice blush sweetly. “Yes, I can imagine such diversions would hold some fascination for ladies.”
    Octavia winced. She couldn’t help it. Thankfully Spinton didn’t see it. Here he was, the man she was expected to marry. A friendly, good-hearted dolt who obviously didn’t realize just how ignorant he truly was when it came to “ladies” and the diversions they found entertaining.
    Thank God she was so skilled at hiding her emotions when she wanted. It was a skill she was going to have to depend on from now on. From her wedding night onward, for the rest of her days, she was going to be concealing more than she could ever reveal.
    What a suffocating thought.
    Fortunately, there was no more talk of diversions or the minds of ladies. The trio—Spinton in the middle with Beatrice on one arm and Octavia on the other—left the house in lightweight outerwear and climbed into Spinton’s well-appointed carriage. Octavia stared around the blind at the city drifting past as Spinton and Beatrice made small talk. How alike the two of them were. How much better suited than Spinton and herself. Wouldn’t her grandfather rather his heir be happy? Did it matter which granddaughter Spinton married?
    Yes, it did. She knew it did. She was the oldest, the daughter of the old earl’s youngest son—his favorite—who had died before his time. He had decided Octavia would be the next countess, and he had made her promise to become so. She agreed because he was dying and it pained her to see him suffer. But why? Why did she condemn both herself and Spinton to a life of misery?
    And why make herself even more miserable by dwelling on it? Marriage to Spinton would not be so bad. She was the stronger of the two of them. She would run their household, make all the decisions. She would live as she saw fit, and he would merely smile and find her “womanly ways” infuriatingly amusing. After she produced an heir he would no doubt take a mistress like other men to save her from the degradation of the marriage bed.
    Poor