"Congratulations on your engagement, Cressida."

Red-haired Belinda was smiling at her, but Cressida knew that behind that perfect look were thoughts of disdain.

The lady was only one of the many women who had a special distaste toward Cressida, but to be fair, the woman was amongst the few who did not bother to hide it. She'd had enough time spent behind curtains, corridors and pillars to overhear other ladies speak of her with malice, but were voluntary mutes when confronted. Belinda was different. Like Cressida, she was not shy to speak her mind.

Their relationship was beyond that of abhorrence, for it started years ago.

"Thank you," Cressida answered, returning her gaze to the middle of the ballroom, ignoring Belinda altogether. She had no time for spats because she had decided to be very graceful from now on. One should not draw more attention to themselves if one was to commit a crime.

But it was proving to be difficult, of course, especially in this particular setting. Her mother had to drag her to the ball because she had to make appearances now that the Willowfair Season had finally begun. But Cressida knew better. Lady Eloise wanted to brag about her lucky strike. A Haverston name was not merely a big catch but the catch of not just this Season, but perhaps the rest of the year—or the decade!

"I notice your fiancé did not escort you?" Belinda pressed, giving Cressida one of those looks that were provoking and condescending, yet beautifully innocent at the same time. However the brat could master such look was a mystery to Cressida. The woman had obviously mastered the art of it.

"He's busy, I assume," she gritted out while chanting in her mind, 'You can't be on the Herald tomorrow, Cressy. You can't be on the gossip section. Not one name!'

The last time she came face to face with one of Belinda's friends, she ended up unintentionally emptying a glass of wine on the woman's dress. But it was Cressida holding the glass, so perhaps it must have been no accident after all, the gossips said.

Her mother had to pay off someone simply to make sure that incident did not appear on the Herald. Really, who fool would enjoy penning such petty things? Of all the valuable things one could write about, who would bother wasting strokes of ink on some foolish ladies hunting for husbands?

"Too busy for his betrothed? My, I wonder how he would manage to have an heir after you're married if he cannot force himself to be near you?" Belinda turned her all-too-perfectly-made red head to stare at the dancing couples in the ballroom, acting nonchalant. Another talent of hers, of course. Not everyone could utter insults clearly through barely moving lips except Belinda. "He will need an heir, yes?"

"You have such broad knowledge of the complexities of the subject, Belinda. I'm surprised."

The woman chuckled, pretending to watch the dancers that whirled past them. "But then, he could always sire an heir without his wife, if you know what I mean." Cressida's brow twitched, the last remaining strings that held her patience erect slowly cutting themselves. Belinda sighed dramatically. "You can always rear a child from one of his mistresses like a lot of women here secretly do."

Cressida forced a smile, eyes on the dancers, and murmured, "If that happens, I hope the child will not be from you, dear, because I cannot imagine rearing one with a brain like yours."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Belinda's eyes widen, mouth falling open as she scoffed. "Are you... Did you call me stupid?"

Without sparing the woman a look, Cressida leaned closer. "Now, why would I do that to a very respectable lady of polite society, Belinda?" she asked and sighed in mock boredom. "I'm not calling you stupid, dear," she said, finally eyeing Belinda with a slight sneer. "I'm treating you as one."

Her longtime nemesis from when they were in Madam Pearson's School for Young Ladies scandalously—and gracefully—gasped. "You—"

"I'm being honest," Cressida cajoled. Sometimes, she enjoyed bantering with the chit, but she liked Belinda more in her head—burning in the middle of a pyre. She crunched her face and tilted her head to the left as if in deep thought. "Mayhap that's why I caught big. The Lord of Easton seems to like the idea of a scandalous wife than a..." She veered her eyes back to Belinda. "...pampered, manufactured, phony girl very much comparable to my mother's garden plants—the fake ones, of course, because the living ones are quite valuable." She looked at Belinda with as much condescension as she could gather and added, "I really hope that prettily dressed head of yours has more talent than it lets on." Over Belinda's shoulder, she could see the woman's friends making their way over, perhaps sensing trouble. "I suggest you find a better hobby better than sewing flowers on a cloth, darling."

Belinda's face was now scarlet. And under her breath she clearly said, "You should count yourself lucky that your parents fooled the Haverstons to consider someone with no breeding at all. You have no other friends other than that untitled friend of yours who grew up in the brothels her father owns. Your mother must be—"

"I know I'm never one of you. You do not have to point that one out. Although I should consider myself lucky indeed, because to be considered a member of your circle is the most insulting and scandalous thing ever, if not at all abhorrent," she spilled out in one breath before she walked away, leaving Belinda gaping at her in horror and disbelief. She stopped a good distance and turned to add, "And dare not insult Mary in front of me again, Belinda. Your friendship with the Prewitts can never equal what I share with her."

Cressida fought her way through the crowd of people wearing the finest gowns and jackets. She hated the entire charade even more now. The loud, blasted music, the dim lights, the heavy air. And the stares. They were not congratulatory ones—they were curious and gawking because how in the bloody hell did Lady Cressida Belverst catch a Haverston?

Cressida could only scoff. Was she not worth it? Were they much more deserving?

Perhaps they were more deserving if perfecting the flair of social etiquette was the only criteria, but they did not have her father's business. The Belversts were the largest manufacturers of cotton. They owned the biggest factory that provided nearly half of the Town's supply. Unless the desperate mamas and their daughters could put up a bigger one to accommodate the vast Haverston cotton plantations, then they would have to settle with the fact that Cressida was the chosen lady to sire the next Haverston heir.

Along the way, she had heard whispers around her.

Where's Easton?

She is that girl who called the Lord of Bradford a pig, am I right?

Seen her walk around, pretty sure she was without a corset! Can you imagine that?

If I knew being scandalous would land one a lord, I would have let my daughter do a thing or two.

She's not even that pretty.

She ought to learn to be as soft as the cotton they manufacture, I tell you, dear...

Finally, Cressida found herself alone in one corridor outside the ballroom. The lights were dimmer and she could only guess what time it was. They did not have skies to even see if it was night time!

The World Above spoke of how people could tell the time simply by the color of the sky. They have different weather seasons.

Here, they only had their four social Seasons which transpired in four cities around the Town. Elegant balls and pretty weddings meant Willowfair Season; extravagant parties and scandalous marriages could only mean the entire Wickhurst Season; snore-worthy gatherings and rare romantic weddings mostly happened only during the Sheills Season; and of course, the very prim-and-proper-only parties and overly religious marriages were available to those who enjoy the Granville Season, one Cressida had never even attended because her mother knew her well enough.

Having suffered three years of those four Seasons and witnessed how it was the center of everyone's lives, was enough for Cressida. But here she was on her fourth Willowfair Season.

She sighed and shook her head to wave off the impending daydream. Leaning her hack against the wall, she looked up with a sigh. The muffled music and the mingling sounds of chatters and forced demure laughter were all excruciating.

Mayhap that's why she was never one of them. She always found herself alone in times like this, sometimes catching gossips about her or others. Oh, how many times had she stood alone, hidden, and heard the ladies talk about the Belverst girl and how she was a lost cause!

Her eyes wandered to the door that led to the small garden of the estate. Lady Furton was amongst those who did not believe a garden should be as lavish as the ballroom, and the gray and dreary garden clearly manifested that. And clearly, everyone recognized it as well because there was no one around.

Gardens in the Town were mostly filled with fake plants that the gardener's role was to water to clean and dust, instead of nurture. There were living plants, of course. Other estates had their own greenhouses lit with special lamps to make the plants thrive. For many married women, maintaining a beautiful greenhouse was a pride and joy. Apart from marrying their daughters off, that is.

But greenhouses were not enough for Cressida. She wanted more. There were woodlands in the Town but most of them were not friendly to women. Perhaps the only one recognized to be safe was the one in Wickhurst. She heard that the Everards, a very rich family in Wickhurst, owned one of the largest and best greenhouses.

She sighed. She did not even know the Everards personally. Why was she even thinking about them and their garden?

The air tonight was chilly. Night must have settled up there, she thought. She sat down on a lone stone bench and took a deep breath. Her mother must be looking for her by now, but she did not care. She had no gentleman to please any longer. She was engaged, was she not?

"I thought I'd find you here."

Cressida jumped to her feet and whirled around.

The Lord of Easton was standing behind her, almost hidden behind the wall of tall fake hedges. His powerful presence was even more palpable in his evening black jacket and trousers. His black hair was brushed away from his face and his eyes hard and steady as he looked at her.

"You startled me," she huffed, sitting back down on the bench with relief.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I needed some air." She waved with her hand. "Not that you can get it here. Or anywhere in the Town. Except in a very good greenhouse. Or the parks or the woodlands—where I have never been to. But then, that too can—"

"You talk too much, Cressy."

Her eyes flickered to him. "I do not talk too much. I simply have to explain—"

"Not everyone wants to hear you explain," he cut her off, walking closer. "Have you made your decision?"

"It has only been three days," she said, not meeting his gaze. "And why are you here? I thought you cannot come? If people saw you arrive without my company..."

"What would they think?"

She sighed. "Bother not," she muttered.

"Because you do not care what they think."

"Just so." She squared her shoulders, refusing to meet his gaze because it bothered her. His eyes seemed to see more than they should, making her uncomfortable.

"I told you I'll find you soon," he said, answering her last question. "Why are you out here alone?"

"I told you. I needed some air."

"Have you caused another scandal?"

"No, although I nearly did."

"Oh?"

"Not that I care."

He simply stood there and when it seemed to Cressida that he was not planning to start another conversation, she stood and said, "I better go."

"Have you made your decision?"

She sighed. "I simply know I do not want to be here any longer."

"And what stops you from telling me to go on with our plan?"

Cressida met his gaze, and it almost took her quite a while to form an appropriate answer. His eyes were boring into her as if he wanted to devour her. She was not naïve as not to get the meaning. She heard maids whisper about it.

But it couldn't be. Or could it be? But it was impossible!

She cleared her throat to speak. "I'm not so certain if I can trust you."

He gave her an incredulous look, the first real emotion she had seen him wear. "You have the audacity to tell me I cannot be trusted?"

She shrugged. "You told me you are a Leaguer. That is something a Leaguer does not easily share."

"If the situation does not call for it," he gritted out. "But I believe this one does. As you guessed correctly, I also do not wish for this marriage."

"You cannot tell your father no? Surely, you can convince him you can find a better match," she pointed out. "The first round of the four Seasons has begun, after all."

His jaw tightened and something crossed his eyes that Cressida could not quite decipher. A secret perhaps? "I do not retreat from an agreement."

"An agreement between your father and mine. You did not make the decision."

"My father's words are as good as mine."

Cressida let out a long sigh. "Gentlemen and your words." Before he could utter a word, she raised a hand and said, "Very well, then." She circled around him, reversing their position. "If I say yes, how do you plan to get me out?"

*****

Calan turned to face her, struggling to ignore how she looked in that green dress or how her hair teased her shoulder.

Cressida was one of the few ladies he met who wore their emotions in their eyes. He could easily read her within seconds. But she knew of that disadvantageous trait that she barely allowed herself to look him in the eyes. Those moments were her most vulnerable. But right now, she was looking at him with a challenge burning in her pale brown globes.

"I know of passages. I simply take you to one and you can be out of here. How I do so shall never have to be your problem."

He watched as she considered his words and he had to look away again when she chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. The woman did not know she was inviting trouble. Even the way she shrugged sent impulses in parts where he did not want them.

"If I take your word, I can be free of this place," she said, more to herself than to him.

Calan almost did not want to tell her of the bargain she had to do in exchange, one that would horrify her.

But that would be for later. She had to agree first.

"I shall give you more time to make up your mind," he offered. "I know it's not easy, considering you're not allowed to return."

But she shook her head and squared her shoulders. "I shall do it. Everyone may condemn me for it, even God, but I'll get out of this place."

"It is that distasteful for you?"

The fearless look in her pale brown eyes was stronger in the dark, and the determination set by her perfectly curved brows made Calan agree that this woman was not cut for the shallow upper society of the Town. Her courage to set out on an adventure to an unknown world set her out from the rest of the women—even the gentlemen—inside that ballroom.

And women like her are dangerous, he thought.

"No, not so distasteful. The Town has been my home from the moment I was conceived. I would not go as far as say it's distasteful simply because I'm surrounded by bloody—"

"Your tongue, my lady," he warned, amusement at the back of his mind. It was not every day that a lady of any good standing would openly throw expletives. He wondered how often she did it, and how many swear words she was eloquent with. Should he start counting now?

"Do not tell me when not to curse, my lord. You're not my mother," she snapped. "Anyhow, I'm tired of being judged here by people who sleep with worse demons under their beds, but pretend to be living their dreams after the nightmare. The Town is not distasteful. It's the people."

He wanted to tell her she had not been to the other parts of the Town to give that opinion, but he did not. He could argue about her opinions, but how? He knew how the Town could be toward a woman.

He had already set his mind to help her escape and free himself of the marriage. It may be the most selfish move he had done so far, but it was better than to tie someone to a life he could not even give in the first place.

Pushing Cressida to get out of the Town was better than to tie her to him. Because he would always be a Leaguer. He would always sacrifice other things to protect the greater good.

Yet apart from being a Leaguer, there were other things others could never know about him. He had darker secrets no one could imagine. And he knew what she would be in the future. She would still long for her adventure. And eventually, she would lose herself in a dream she never got to live. And Calan would not live with a dead woman who would consider him the demon under her bed.

"Very well, now that you have decided, I must tell you of my plan," he started. He paused, preparing himself—and her. "I have thought of a way to help you disappear after our talk in your mother's garden." She stood motionless, attentive to his every word. "If you leave, I would be left with a missing bride, but still unmarried. They may give me years to search for you or mourn your loss, but it won't be long before the mamas throw their daughters at my feet. And my father will demand that I find another bride."

A frown had formed on her face as she listened. "What do you mean to say?"

"What I'm trying to say, my lady, is that we must wed first."