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through her entire body. A smile and he was gone, like smoke on a breeze, like a shadow retreating from the sun.
    “Miss Fyne.” Mr. Pembroke stepped through the crowd. “I believe I have the honor. Shall we?”
    She nodded, quite at a loss for words, still in thrall of that brief interlude with the man who had no name. His voice echoed through her head, drowning out Pembroke’s polite chatter and frequent admirations for her friend, the darling Miss Keating.
    One word repeated, over and over, a heartbeat in her head.
    Bien-aimé .
    French, for beloved .
    Although the stranger was not to be seen again for the remainder of the evening, Senza danced every last dance with him, even if only in spirit.
     
    Felicity, it turned out, didn’t have to worry about left-overs.
    By February, there was a proposal from Mr. Pembroke. By March, there was a gown. By April, Senza’s ears were decidedly exhausted listening to her mother’s endless lamentations that her daughter was doomed to spinsterhood.
    Every complaint only made Senza’s heart stonier.
    The stranger had remained exactly that—few had actually admitted to seeing him at the ball, and those who did had no idea who he was or from whence he came. They couldn’t even agree what he actually looked like, either, and the half-dozen people who had seen him had offered a half-dozen descriptions.
    He was No One. She felt as if a piece of her had been stolen and would never be returned.
    With Felicity engaged and her June wedding fast approaching, there was a general air of expectation that she, too, must be married, as well. She tried to endure the exercises as best she could and attempted more than once to envision her future. With Heaven’s grace, her life would turn out much like that of her parents, but a worry haunted her, never lifting itself from her heart.
    That haunting feeling invariably left her with the memories of her widowed grandmother. While Grandmother had been well-loved and deeply admired, she had always seemed incomplete without a grandfather to stand beside her.
    Was that a more accurate picture of what lie ahead? Wistful stories and frequent glances at old portraits, a whispered I miss you when she thought she was alone? Senza couldn’t picture the idyllic happiness of a long, successful marriage.
    She could only see how it ended: ‘til death do we part, and then I must be forever alone.
    People treated her like a delicate piece of art, a thing to be admired and discussed, not engaged. She did try, for her mother’s sake, to be amiable to the young men but they simply did not connect with her. They saw an exquisite face and assumed that her copious beauty could only be skin deep.
    None of them even considered the possibility that a mind dwelled inside that pretty head.
    At first, the insult made her furious. She was as well-read as her father, as quick-witted as her grandmother had been. But in the end, she was worth no more interest than a purebred racer.
    And she had no interest in being sold off, ridden for sport, or put out for stud. Senza would be doomed to live a complete lie, a shell wrapped around a withered soul, dying from lack of proper stimulation.
    Or—and she didn’t know what would be worse—to be married off to the likes of Mr. Thomas, who prattled endlessly about his father’s great accomplishments yet had none of his own? She’d be auctioned off to the highest bidder, sent to live in a strange house, forced to drag herself through her remaining days birthing children and arranging flowers and hosting supper parties for her husband’s insufferable clients and their wives.
    A lifetime of triviality, only to end up the same as everyone else in the parsonage graveyard.
    What could she possibly do to avoid such a dreary future? Avoid marriage altogether? Seemed a good way to ensure she’d remain completely alone, instead of merely alone at the end.
    Trapped. Senza spent long hours staring into her bedroom mirror, tripping and