“She won’t be smug forever,” came her friend’s reply. “She doesn’t yet seem to have realized that they are invited only to the homes of those who are financially obligated to him. Or those who are friends of Westcliff, of course.”

“Westcliff is a significant ally,” Lady Wells-Troughton admitted. “But his favor can only get them so far. The fact is, they should have the good taste not to push their way into places where they don’t belong. She married a commoner, and therefore she should mix with commoners. Though I suppose she thinks of herself as too good for them…”

Feeling sick and hollow, Annabelle backed away unseen from the pair of chatting women and headed to the corner of the ballroom. I really have to cure this habit of eavesdropping, she thought with ironic humor, remembering the evening she had heard the comments that Bertha Hunt had made about her. I always seem to overhear such unflattering things about myself.

It did not surprise her that there was gossip about her and Simon—what had startled her was the viciousness of the women’s tone. It was difficult to fathom what could cause such antipathy…except, perhaps, envy. Annabelle had acquired a handsome, virile, and wealthy husband, whereas Lady Wells-Troughton had married a peer at least thirty years older than she, who had all the charisma of a potted plant. It followed that Lady Wells-Troughton and her contemporaries would be fiercely determined to protect the one superiority they possessed…their membership in the aristocracy.

Annabelle recalled Philippa’s comment, “A man in trade will never be as influential as a peer…” But it seemed to her that the peerage was afraid of the growing power of industrialists like Simon. Very few of them would be as clever as Lord Westcliff in realizing that they had to do far more than cling to the ancient privileges of land ownership to maintain their power. Stepping through a pair of columns, Annabelle glanced around the room at the aristocratic crowd…so prideful, so embedded in their traditional ways of thinking and behaving…so determined to ignore that the world around them was beginning to change. She still found their company to be infinitely more soothing than the raw, often callow conduct of Simon’s professional friends. However, she no longer regarded them with awe or yearning. In fact—

Her thoughts were interrupted as a gentleman approached her, bearing two glasses of iced champagne. He was balding and portly, the folds of his neck bulging over the edge of his silk necktie. Annabelle groaned inwardly as she recognized him—Lord Wells-Troughton, the husband of the woman who resented her so deeply. From the way his avid gaze dropped to the shape of her br**sts covered by pale satin, it ap peared that he did not share his wife’s wish that Annabelle had abstained from the ball.

Wells-Troughton, whose penchant for extramarital affairs was well-known, had approached Annabelle a year earlier, hinting strongly that he would be willing to help her with her financial difficulties, in exchange for her companionship. The fact that she had turned him away had not seemed to dampen his interest. Neither had the news of her marriage. For aristocrats like Wells-Troughton, marriage was not a detriment to an affair—if anything, it was an encouragement. “Never bed the unwed” was a common sentiment in the peerage…and love affairs were a privilege that was often enjoyed by married lords and ladies. Nothing was so attractive to a peer as another man’s young wife.

“Mrs. Hunt,” Wells-Troughton said jovially, handing her a glass of champagne, which she accepted with a cool smile of thanks. “You are as fair as a summer rose this evening.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Annabelle said demurely.

“To what shall we attribute your obvious glow of contentment, my dear?”

“To my recent marriage, sir.”

Wells-Troughton chuckled. “Ah, I remember well those early days of marriage. Enjoy the pleasure while it lasts, for it is all too fleeting.”

“Perhaps for some. For others it may last a lifetime.”

“My dear, how delightfully naive.” He gave her a knowing smirk, his gaze falling to her br**sts again. “But I will not disabuse you of such romantic notions, as they will fade in due time.”

“I doubt that,” Annabelle said, causing him to chortle.

“Is Hunt proving a satisfactory husband, then?”

“In every regard,” she assured him.

“Come, I shall be your confidant, and we’ll find some favorable corner to talk in. I know of several.”

“No doubt you do,” Annabelle replied lightly, “but I have no need of a confidant, my lord.”

“I insist on stealing you away for just a moment.” Wells-Troughton settled a meaty hand at the small of her back. “You won’t be so silly as to make a fuss, will you?”

Knowing that her only defense was to make light of his persistence, Annabelle smiled and turned away from him, sipping her champagne with studied insouciance. “I don’t dare go anywhere with you, my lord. I’m afraid my husband possesses a rather jealous temperament.”

She jumped a little as she heard Simon’s voice from behind her. “With good reason, it seems.” Although he spoke quietly, there was a biting note in his tone that alarmed Annabelle. She stared at him in silent entreaty, begging him not to make a scene. Lord Wells-Troughton was irritating but harmless, and Simon would make them all into objects of ridicule if he overreacted to the situation.

“Hunt,” the heavyset peer murmured, grinning with an utter lack of shame. “You are a fortunate man to be in possession of such a delectable prize.”