"I need something spectacular, Mother." I paced across our drawing room, twisting my handkerchief between my fingers. "Something that will make the Marquess forgive my blunder at Lady Prescott's soiree."
My mother, Lady Beatrix Beaumont, sighed heavily from her seat by the window. "Clara, you're making mountains of molehills again. Lord Fairchild barely noticed when you spilled wine on his cravat."
"He noticed," I insisted, stopping to face her. "Everyone noticed. And now there are whispers that we can't afford proper gifts because we're destitute."
Mother smoothed her skirts with practiced nonchalance. "Destitute? Hardly. Look around you." She gestured to our newly refurbished drawing room with its gleaming furniture and fresh wallpaper. "Does this look like the home of a family in financial ruin?"
