She knew what it meant.

But here, in this formal town home, with its unfamiliar servants and pursed-lipped matrons coming to call, she was adrift. She second-guessed every word.

And now Lady Manston wanted to attend a ball?

“Ghislaine’s daughter is eighteen, I believe,” Lady Manston mused, flipping over the invitation and glancing at the back. “Maybe nineteen. Certainly of an age to marry.”

Billie held her tongue.

“A lovely girl. So pretty and genteel.” Lady Manston looked up with a wide, devious smile. “Shall I insist that George be my escort? It’s high time he started looking for a wife.”

“I’m sure he will be delighted,” Billie said diplomatically. But in her head she was already painting Ghislaine’s beautiful daughter with horns and a pitchfork.

“And you shall attend as well.”

Billie looked up, alarmed. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“We’ll have to get you a dress.”

“It’s really not—”

“And shoes, I would imagine.”

“But Lady Manston, I—”

“I wonder if we can get away without a wig. They can be difficult to manage if you’re not used to wearing them.”

“I really don’t like wearing wigs,” Billie said.

“Then you won’t have to,” Lady Manston declared, and it was only then that Billie realized just how deftly she’d been manipulated.

That had been two days earlier. Two days and five fittings. Six, counting this one.

“Billie, hold your breath for a moment,” Lady Manston called out.

Billie squinted over at her. “What?” It was bloody difficult to focus on anything other than the two seamstresses currently yanking her about. She’d heard that most dressmakers faked their French accents so as to seem more sophisticated, but these two seemed to be genuine. Billie couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

“She doesn’t speak French,” Lady Manston said to Crossy. “I’m not sure what her mother was thinking.” She glanced back up at Billie. “Your breath, darling. They need to tighten your corset.”

Billie looked at Crossy’s two assistants, waiting patiently behind her, corset laces in hand. “It requires two people?”

“It’s a very good corset,” Lady Manston said.

“Ze best,” Crossy confirmed.

Billie sighed.

“No, in,” Lady Manston directed. “Breathe in.”

Billie obeyed, sucking in her stomach so that the two seamstresses could do some sort of choreographed crossways yank that resulted in Billie’s spine curving in an entirely new manner. Her hips jutted forward, and her head seemed remarkably far back on her neck. She wasn’t quite certain how she was meant to walk like this.

“This isn’t terribly comfortable,” she called out.

“No.” Lady Manston sounded unconcerned. “It won’t be.”

One of the ladies said something in French and then pushed Billie’s shoulders forward and her stomach back. “Meilleur?” she asked.

Billie cocked her head to the side, then twisted her spine a bit each way. It was better. Yet another aspect of genteel femininity she’d had no idea how to navigate: corset wearing. Or rather, “good” corset wearing. Apparently the ones she’d been wearing were far too permissive.