“Unlikely, however, given that you are proving to be such a hit.”

“Heaven knows why! Mama is quite as perplexed as I am by my success. Perhaps it’s because it’s so early in the Season and there is little competition.”

“Or perhaps it’s because you are the Duke of Buccleuch’s flame-haired daughter—”

“Second daughter.”

Louise waved a dismissive hand. “I’m the queen’s fourth daughter, but in the eyes of the world all that matters is that I am a princess. Which means, of course, that if I were properly out in society I would spare you some of the press’s attention, for a princess trumps a mere duke’s daughter.”

“You are out now, though, aren’t you? You were at the ball at Marlborough House last week.”

“Did you read the report of it in the Times? I assure you, it was every bit as dull as it sounded. It was held to celebrate Bertie and Alix’s second wedding anniversary. Alix is expecting again, though of course you’d never know, for she is laced so tightly.”

Margaret winced. “One can’t help but wonder if it would be better not to squish one’s unborn child for the sake of fashion.”

“She wears a special corset which accommodates the baby,” Louise said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “When she told me her happy news she was at home en déshabillé, and her interesting state was perfectly obvious. She was showing me the gown she’d had made for the anniversary ball, and I asked her how on earth she expected to get into it. So she let me see the contraption, as she called it.” Louise’s cheeks coloured. “It looked more like an instrument of torture than a corset.”

“Why wear it then? Breeding is perfectly natural.”

Louise affected a shudder. “You must not say breeding in polite company. Horses breed, as do farmyard animals and dogs. The populace procreate. But ladies—my dear, absolutely not. Do you know nothing?”

“Since coming to London, I’ve realised that my ignorance knows almost no bounds,” Margaret confessed. “How does one describe it more delicately?”

“One may admit to being in an interesting condition or expecting an event—but only to one’s female friends. In public, a lady must simply pretend that her unborn child doesn’t exist.”

“Well, I think that’s preposterous, given the amount of time a married lady spends with child.”

“Oh, I agree,” Louise said, abandoning her affected tone. “Look at my sister Vicky. She’s had four so far, in only six years. Can you imagine! It will be your sister Victoria’s turn soon, now she is married. I blame the queen, you know, for setting the fashion by having nine of us.”