Beyond Innocence by Emma Holly

catch her breath.
    She told herself she could do this. She would take the evening slowly. She would speak when spoken to, dance when asked, and—above all—pay attention to any nice gentlemen she met. The sooner she settled herself, the sooner she could repay Aunt Hypatia's faith, not to mention her purse.
    Her face had begun to cool when a trio of women stopped on the other side of the wall of greenery. To her dismay, two were the Misses Wainwright, in matching white tarlatan gowns. They stood so
close she could not possibly leave without them seeing her. But perhaps she would stay where she was
a little longer. Discretion was, after all, the better part of valor. Her cowardice thus justified, Florence steeled herself to wait as quietly as she could.
    "They say he's smitten," the elder Miss Wainwright was saying. Her name was Greta, Florence recalled, and the younger's name was Minna. Both sisters were handsome, built on Amazonian lines with dark gleaming hair and equally dark and gleaming eyes. Their curls, the likes of which Lizzie despaired of ever coaxing from Florence 's hair, hung in perfect corkscrews to their shoulders. They sang charmingly, she had heard, and possessed a wealth of airs and graces. Their only flaw, if it even was one and not a figment of her imagination, was a certain petulance to then-mouths. Truthfully, whatever Hypatia's ambitions , Florence could not imagine outshining these lovely girls.
    "I can't believe his affections are engaged," said a third woman whom Florence didn't know. "Everyone knows he's an incorrigible flirt. I'm sure he's simply being cousinly."
    "Perhaps," drawled Miss Minna in a cool, superior tone. "But one of her cousins doesn't welcome the association. I saw him cut her myself. Galloped off without a word when the hopeless ninny bumped
his horse. I thought she'd burst into tears right there."
    Heavens, Florence thought, starting up in her chair. They were talking about her, about her and Edward. Heart thundering, she shrank back and willed the women not to see her. Fortunately, they were too caught up in their gossip to look around. Even as Florence held her breath, the third whispered furiously in Minna's ear. When she'd finished, Minna's curls trembled with indignation.
    "Now that," she pronounced, "is the grossest slander yet. Freddie Burbrooke adores women. Any female who's met him knows that. In any case"—she snapped her painted fan—"I don't see why we should concern ourselves with such a nobody . Why, if it weren't for that tired old dragon who's carting her about, no one would pay her any mind."
    "She is pretty," Greta said in the tone of one too sure of her own beauty to be threatened.
    "Milkmaid pretty," Minna scorned. "And who among us believes those blushes don't come out of a pot?"
    If the trio had seen Florence then, they would have known her blushes were real. Her very ears were hot. With relief, she watched the women moving towards the door. The third, alas, had a final parting shot.
    " It's animal magnetism," she said as they rustled off. "She's coarse and fleshy and men are the biggest animals of all. Didn't you hear what Devonshire 's horse did to her hat?"
    Florence clapped her hands to her cheeks. Were people really talking about that?
    A low, musical laugh broke through her shock. Florence looked up. A slim young woman with frizzy gold hair and freckles was parting the fronds beside her ear, like an African hunter who'd found his game.
    "I see from your horror," she said, "that you are the infamous Miss Fairleigh."
    The woman's words were so mischievous Florence couldn't help but laugh. She rose and dropped a small curtsey. "I am," she said. "Milkmaid blushes and all."
    "And I," said the girl, "am Meredith Vance, the plainest deb in London ." She gave Florence 's hand a brisk, unfeminine shake. "Shall we walk down together and show those silly cats that plain girls and milkmaids know how to behave?"
    Florence had not met Miss Vance before, but knew