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came to the top landing. He viewed her with an intolerable smirk, his complexion pink and moist from recent exertion, while a lopsided lock of his combed-over hair dangled like a rooster’s crest.
    “Lord Hodgeham,” Annabelle said stiffly, swallowing against the shame and fury that had lumped in her throat. Hodgeham was one of the few people in the world whom she genuinely hated. A so-called friend of her late father’s, Hodgeham paid infrequent calls to the household, but never at regular visiting hours. He came late at night, and against all dictates of decorum, he spent time alone in a private room with Annabelle’s mother, Philippa. And in the days after his visits, Annabelle could hardly fail to notice that some of their most pressing bills had been mysteriously paid, and some irate creditor or another had been appeased. And Philippa was uncustomarily brittle and irritable, and disinclined to talk.
    It was nearly impossible for Annabelle to believe that her mother, who had always shrunk from impropriety, would allow anyone the use of her body in return for money. Yet it was the only reasonable conclusion to draw, and it filled Annabelle with helpless shame and rage. Her anger was not directed solely at her mother — she was also furious at their situation, and herself for not yet having been able to land a husband. It had taken a long time for Annabelle to realize that, no matter how pretty and charming she was, and no matter how much interest a gentleman displayed, she was not going to get an offer. At least not a respectable one.
    Since her come-out, Annabelle had gradually been forced to accept that her dreams of some handsome, cultivated suitor who would fall in love with her and make all her problems go away was a naive fantasy. That disillusionment had sunk in deeply during the prolonged disappointment that was her third season. And now in her fourth season, the unappealing image of Annabelle-the-farmer’s-wife was alarmingly close to reality.
    Stone-faced, Annabelle attempted to walk past Hodgeham in silence. He stopped her with a meaty hand on her arm. Annabelle jerked back with such antipathy that the force of the movement nearly caused her to lose her balance. “Don’t touch me,” she said, glaring into his florid face.
    Hodgeham’s eyes appeared very blue against the ruddiness of his complexion. Grinning, he rested his hand on the top of the banister, preventing Annabelle from ascending to the landing. “So inhospitable,” he murmured, in the incongruous tenor voice that so many tall men seemed to be afflicted with. “After the favors I have done for your family—”
    “You’ve done no favors for us,” Annabelle said tersely.
    “You would have been cast into the streets long ago if not for my generosity.”
    “Are you suggesting that I should be grateful?” Annabelle asked, her tone saturated with loathing. “You’re a filthy scavenger.”
    “I’ve taken nothing that wasn’t willingly offered to me.” Hodgeham reached out and touched her chin, the damp brush of his fingers making her recoil in disgust. “In truth, it’s been tame sport. Your mother is too docile for my taste.” He leaned closer, until the odor of his body — stale sweat liberally overlaid with cologne — filled Annabelle’s nostrils with a pungent stench. “Perhaps the next time I’ll try you out,” he murmured.
    No doubt he expected Annabelle to cry, or blush, or plead. Instead, she leveled a cold stare at him. “You vain old fool,” she said evenly, “if I were to become someone’s mistress, don’t you think I could get someone better than you?”
    Hodgeham eventually twisted his lips into a smile though Annabelle was pleased to see that it had taken some effort. “It’s unwise to make an enemy of me. With a few well-placed words, I could ruin your family beyond all hope of redemption.” He stared at the frayed fabric of her bodice and smiled contemptuously. “If I were you, I shouldn’t be quite