“You’ll see, darling,” her mother said confidently. “When the rooms are full of ladies and all the candles are shining, this blue will make a splendid background. Now, off you go and see if Monsieur Pamplemousse is finished with Violetta’s hair. He will take at least an hour, and you know we must eat by eight o’clock tonight, since the invitations are for half past nine.”

Charlotte wandered upstairs. How could she forget what had happened? Even now she could imagine the chiseled warmth of his lips descending on hers, the strength of his huge hands gripping her shoulders and sliding down her back. How does one forget something like that? Oh, why hadn’t she said something! She was such a booby; she should have said—what? “Please, sir, what is your name? Reginald? And is it nice being a footman?” Charlotte stifled a giggle. She did see her mother’s point. Forget this, she said firmly to herself.

Still, she couldn’t stop hoping. Maybe he was a nobleman, or a gentleman. Maybe he would come to her ball, and she would meet his gaze across the room, just as she had at the other ball. And maybe he would shoulder his way through the crowd and bow before her. Charlotte’s eyes glowed.

The Duchess of Calverstill’s ball for her youngest daughter was a triumph. By half past eight, spectators were thronging the streets outside Calverstill House, hoping to see nobility, even royalty, going in. By eleven o’clock the ball was clearly the success of the season. Everyone who counted was there, and several scandals were circulating briskly, which made the party all the more delightful.

The formidable Lady Molyneaux herself had declared that Adelaide’s delphinium scheme was “delicious”; she and her fellow patrons of Almack’s had graciously extended permission for Charlotte to enter the sacred premises. The ball continued until dawn, long after supper was served in the marquee around midnight.

And as to whether Charlotte had a good time: well, she survived. Charlotte didn’t enjoy it, her mother thought as she undressed in the wee hours. Anyone could tell that. Charlotte’s eyes kept scanning the room anxiously, as if the guest of honor hadn’t arrived, and finally she burst into tears and had to be quietly whisked off to the upper reaches of the house.

But she looked lovely, Adelaide comforted herself. Many young ladies at their debuts were nauseated with pure nervousness, and if Charlotte was a bit, well, damp, who would blame her? Of course, no one in the ballroom was advised that the lady of honor had retired weeping to bed.

Around two in the morning Adelaide looked up from the middle of a rather slow cotillion and saw two young men standing at the top of the stairs, looking down into the ballroom.

She froze and stopped dead in her tracks, causing her partner, the Honorable Sylvester Bredbeck, to stumble slightly.