Poor Clara had been closer to the truth than Letty had wanted to admit. The future was indeed bleak for the family and for herself. Not only had she doomed herself to spinsterhood, but she had condemned the family to a life of near poverty. She lay down on her bed and shut her eyes. Had she tossed away all their futures for a silly scruple? She had met Roger Denham during the month of her come-out two years ago. From the moment she had been introduced to him at Almack’s, she had adored him. He had seemed to her a model of masculine perfection—a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, Ned would have called him. His dark curls, his sardonic smile, his easy manner with his friends, his polished address with young ladies, the stories of his sporting exploits that were repeated in all the drawing rooms with such admiration, even his reputation for immunity to the lures of ladies of quality—all these things combined to make him a hero in her eyes. As a result of the worshipful adoration with which she viewed him, her one and only dance with him had been a complete disaster.
