She sat up quickly and instantly regretted it. A thunderous banging echoed in her ears. No, in her head. And when her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the fireplace, she realized she wasn’t in her room above the shop at all. She was at Hartwell, and it had to be quite late because she’d already dined and . . . Oh no. Please no. Dribs and drabs of memories came back—mouths drawn down in disapproval and gasps of shock as she’d uttered awful things. She’d said something of her politics and—why oh why?—confessed to kissing the viscount for money. She’d fallen, or had nearly done so. Who would have guessed she’d ever feel such gratitude for her corset? In the end, it was the only thing that held her up. Along with the thumping in her head, embarrassment and regret bubbled like a sickly stew in her belly. Why had she allowed herself so much wine? And why had she let her tongue race ahead of her good sense? Despite all that had happened in the last month, she still believed she possessed a bit of it.
