She found herself longing for a tall glass of milk, as if something so fresh and wholesome might restore her sense of balance. She’d never thought herself particularly prim, and heaven knew that she was the Winslow most likely to fall asleep in church, but every day in the capital seemed to bring yet another shock, another moment that left her slack-jawed and confused.

A month she’d been here now. A month! And still she felt as if she were tiptoeing along, never quite sure if she was doing or saying the right thing.

She hated that.

At home she was certain. She wasn’t always right, but she was almost always certain. In London the rules were different. And worse, every one knew everyone else. And if they didn’t, they knew about them. It was as if all the ton shared some secret history that Annabel was not privy to. Every conversation held an undercurrent, a deeper, more subtle meaning. And Annabel, who in addition to being the Winslow most likely to fall asleep in church was the Winslow most likely to speak her mind, felt she could not say a thing, for fear of making offense.

Or embarrassing herself.

Or embarrassing someone else.

She could not bear the thought. She simply could not bear the thought that she might somehow prove to her grandfather that her mother had indeed been a fool and her father had been a damned fool and that she was the damnedest fool of them all.

There were a thousand ways to make an idiot of oneself, with new opportunities arising every day. It was exhausting trying to avoid them all.

Annabel stood and curtsied when the Earl of Newbury took his leave, trying not to notice when his eyes lingered on her bosom. Her grandfather exited the room along with him, leaving her alone with Louisa, their grandmother, and a decanter of sherry.

“Won’t your mother be pleased,” Lady Vickers announced.

“About what, ma’am?” Annabel asked.