“Pandora,” came her chaperone’s crisp voice. “Why are you sitting in the corner again? Let me see your dance card.”

Looking up at Eleanor, Lady Berwick, Pandora reluctantly handed her the small fan-shaped card.

The countess, a tall woman with a majestic presence and a spine like a broomstick, fanned open the dance card’s mother-of-pearl covers and surveyed the thin bone pages with a steely gaze.

All blank.

Lady Berwick’s lips tightened as if they’d been hemmed with a drawstring. “This should have been filled by now.”

“I turned my ankle,” Pandora said, not quite meeting her gaze. Faking a minor injury was the only way she could sit safely in the corner and avoid committing a serious social blunder. According to the rules of etiquette, once a lady declined to dance because of fatigue or injury, she couldn’t accept any invitations for the rest of the evening.

Disapproval frosted the older woman’s voice. “Is this how you repay Lord Trenear’s generosity? All your expensive new gowns and accessories—why did you allow him to purchase them for you, if you had already planned to make ill use of your Season?”

As a matter of fact, Pandora did feel bad about that. Her cousin Devon, Lord Trenear, who had assumed the earldom last year after her brother had died, had been remarkably kind to her and Cassandra. Not only had he paid for them to be well dressed for the Season, he had also provided for dowries substantial enough to guarantee the interest of any eligible bachelor. It was certain that her parents, who had passed away several years ago, would have been far less generous.

“I didn’t plan to make ill use of my Season,” she mumbled. “I just didn’t realize how difficult it would be.”

Especially the dancing.

Certain dances, such as the grand march and the quadrille, were manageable. She could even navigate the galop, as long as her partner didn’t whirl her too quickly. But the waltz presented dangers at every turn . . . literally. Pandora lost her equilibrium whenever she spun in a sharp circle. For that matter, she was also thrown off-balance in darkness, when she couldn’t rely on vision to orient herself. Lady Berwick didn’t know about her problem, and for reasons of pride and shame, Pandora would never tell her. Only Cassandra knew her secret and the story behind it, and had helped to conceal it for years.

“It’s only difficult because you make it so,” Lady Berwick said sternly.

“I don’t see why I should go to all this trouble to catch a husband who’ll never like me.”

“Whether or not your husband likes you is immaterial. Marriage has nothing to do with personal feelings. It is a union of interests.”

Pandora held her tongue, although she didn’t agree. Approximately a year ago, her older sister Helen had married Mr. Rhys Winterborne, a common-born Welshman, and they were exceedingly happy. So were Cousin Devon and his wife Kathleen. Love matches might be rare, but they certainly weren’t impossible.

Even so, Pandora found it impossible to imagine that kind of future for herself. Unlike Cassandra, who was a romantic, she had never dreamed of marrying and having children. She didn’t want to belong to anyone, and she especially didn’t want anyone to belong to her. No matter how she had tried to make herself want what she should want, she knew she would never be happy in a conventional life.

Lady Berwick sighed and sat beside her, her spine a rigid parallel to the back of the chair. “The month of May has just begun. Do you remember what I told you about that?”

“It’s the most important month of the Season, when all the great events are held.”

“Correct.” Lady Berwick handed the dance card back to her. “After tonight, I expect you to make an effort. You owe it to Lord and Lady Trenear, and to yourself. I daresay you owe it to me as well, after all my efforts to improve you.”

“You’re right,” Pandora said quietly. “And I’m sorry—truly sorry—for the trouble I’ve caused you. But it’s become clear to me that I’m not meant for any of this. I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ve made plans to support myself and live independently. With any luck I’ll be successful, and no one will have to worry about me any longer.”

“You’re referring to that parlor game nonsense?” the countess asked, her tone inflected with scorn.

“It’s not nonsense. It’s real. I’ve just been granted a patent. Ask Mr. Winterborne.”

Last year, Pandora, who had always loved toys and parlor amusements, had designed a board game. With Mr. Winterborne’s encouragement, she had filed for a patent and intended to produce and distribute the game. Mr. Winterborne owned the largest department store in the world, and had already agreed to place an order for five hundred copies. The game was a guaranteed success, if for no other reason than that there was hardly any competition: Whereas the board game industry was flourishing in America, thanks to the efforts of the Milton Bradley company, it was still in its infancy here in Britain. Pandora had already developed two more games and was almost ready to file patents for them. Someday she would earn enough money to make her own way in the world.

“As fond as I am of Mr. Winterborne,” Lady Berwick said dourly, “I fault him for encouraging you in this folly.”

“He thinks I have the makings of an excellent business woman.”

The countess twitched as if she’d been stung by a wasp. “Pandora, you were born an earl’s daughter. It would be appalling enough if you married a merchant or manufacturer, but to become one yourself is unthinkable. You wouldn’t be received anywhere. You would be ostracized.”