For, of course, though it was perfectly true, it was nothing to be conceited about. Rather, it was something to be cursed. It had secured her a wealthy husband at the age of eighteen. It had brought her countless admirers during the nine years of her marriage. And it had brought her, within a ten-year period, a deeper misery than she had ever dreamed a lifetime could hold. It was time to use it for her own gain – to acquire rent for this shabby house and food for the table and clothes for their backs and a little extra to set aside for a rainy day.

No, not a /little/ extra. A great deal extra. Never mind bare subsistence and rainy days, when they would be so dearly bought. She and her friends would live in luxury. They /would/. The man who was going to pay for her services would pay very dearly indeed – or watch someone else claim her instead.

It did not matter that she was twenty-eight years old. She was better than she had been when she was eighteen. She had put on weight – in all the right places. Her face, which had been pretty then, had acquired a more classic beauty since. Her hair, which was a rich copper red, had not darkened over the years or lost any of its luster. And she was less innocent. A great deal less. She knew what pleased men now. There was one gentleman out there somewhere in London right now, at this very minute, who was soon going to be willing to squander a fortune on possessing her and buying exclusive rights to her services. There was more than one gentleman, in fact, but only one whom she would choose.

There was that one gentleman who was aching for the sensual delight of possessing her, though he did not even know it yet.

He was going to want her more than he had wanted anyone or anything else in his life.

She /hated/ men.

"Cassie," Alice said, and Cassandra turned her head to look inquiringly at her, "we have no acquaintances here. How can you expect to meet any gentlemen?"