Emily paused and looked over a ballroom shimmering with gowns in the neoclassical mode, gowns heavily trimmed with satin roses, gowns with collars of lace, and gowns whose bodices were so low that the waistlines mimicked a collar. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Oh, this is wonderful!” Then she clutched Lucien’s arm. “Do you happen to know the young woman next to the window, Mr. Boch?”

Lucien looked in that direction. “Do you mean the lady with all the objects in her hair?”

“That is a very fashionable coiffure,” Emily said, instinctively pulling him slightly in that direction. “She’s dressed her hair with lace, and I can see at least one white ostrich feather.”

“Don’t forget all those tassels,” Lucien said disapprovingly. “However, as it happens, I do know Cecilia Morgan, and I’d be happy to introduce you.”

A moment later, he bowed before Cecilia. Within a few moments, Emily and Cecilia—or Sissy, as she insisted Emily call her—were deep in a discussion of the virtues of pink silk tassels as opposed to ostrich feathers, and Lucien and Sissy’s sturdy husband, Squire Morgan, were relegated to the side.

As the evening progressed, Lucien found, to his utter astonishment, that he didn’t mind the fact that Emily could hardly be persuaded to stand up with him. Instead, he watched her charm the women of the very society that had rejected her, ignoring their initial frosty greetings and winning them over by her engaging, infectious interest in fashion. Discussing the merits of slashed sleeves, Emily became alight with joy. She belongs here, Lucien thought with a pang. Not in that tiny house with its shabby furniture and few servants. Finally he dragged her away from an animated discussion of the fact that crepe conversation hats were quite, quite out of date, and drew her into a dance.

She floated in his arms. As they swept down the room, he had the fierce knowledge that they moved more gracefully than any of the other guests. It brought with it a mild intoxication, although it was not nearly as intoxicating as Emily’s slender body in his arms.

SUCH A SWEET LITTLE SMILE lit the corners of Gabby’s mouth as they walked into the Fester ball that Peter was startled. Gabby appeared to be looking forward to the evening as much as he did, generally speaking. Mind you, he was a bit more nervous than usual tonight. But normally he felt a racing sense of excitement as the evening hour approached, ushering in hours of pleasure and possibility. At every ball he strengthened his position in the ton just a trifle, he fancied. In every conversation, he strove to present himself in the best possible fashion.