Whispers in
the Wallpaper

Lady Ophelia Whitmore knows the cost of a single whispered word. She knows it even as her lover, the brooding Viscount Ashford, presses her against the flocked wallpaper of the Featherington supper room, her skirts bunched around her waist and his hand clamped over her mouth. She knows it when he drives into her to the beat of the waltz, when she bites his shoulder to keep from crying out, when he spills inside her and then calmly buttons her gown. A footman saw. By morning, the drawing rooms are humming with her name. Now Ophelia must decide: let the ton devour her, or stand before every debutante and dowager and prove she is no fallen woman — but a woman who chose her fall.