Charlotte stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was curling in artful abandonment and her head felt light, as if it were a balloon about to float away. Freed from all the hair, her lips looked larger and her cheekbones were immense.

“Lady Charlotte,” said Marie earnestly. “You look more beautiful than I have ever seen you. You will start a rage!”

Charlotte smiled back at her in the mirror. Monsieur Pamplemousse was fussing about, showing Marie how to adjust a band around her mistress’s head, if she would like, although—he pulled himself up importantly.

“Lady Charlotte must summon me for any important occasion.” He was fully engaged for the following day, for the Duke of Clarence’s ball, but he would make a special exception and arrive at Calverstill House at four o’clock.

“I do not wish my creation to be marred,” he said, with a tremendous frown at Marie. Marie quailed and broke into French protests that Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored, flapping his hands at her.

“I must go, I must go!” he said in his marked accent.

Charlotte smiled to herself. It hadn’t escaped her that Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t respond to Marie in French; in fact, although he dropped foreign words into his speech, they were not all French. He seemed to be using Italian as well. She looked at herself again. It didn’t matter whether he was from the South Pole: He did have scissors of gold. She—Charlotte—felt beautiful, really beautiful, for the first time. To be honest, she felt exuberant. She was beautiful, and desirable, and exquisitely dressed. Why should she feel any shame? She couldn’t wait for the Duke of Clarence’s ball!

And that was why when Alexander McDonough Foakes, the new Earl of Sheffield and Downes, stopped in at his club on his very first evening back in London after three years in Italy, all anyone seemed to be talking about was a delectable heiress named Charlotte. Two gawky boys were practically threatening to duel each other over the question of which of them she had liked the best; his old friend Braddon Chatwin looked miserable when she was mentioned. In the two weeks since Charlotte appeared at the Duke of Clarence’s ball, the male half of London had fallen hopelessly in love with her.

Alex and Braddon settled down together in a quiet corner of the library, legs stretched out before a warm fire. Alexander fingered his brandy, listening absentmindedly to Braddon’s tale of woe … he’d asked her to marry him; she’d said no; last night she danced twice with … Lord! Why didn’t he remember how boring all of this was! He didn’t care who this arrogant little snip danced with. He looked at Braddon darkly.

“Cut rope, Braddon,” he drawled. “She must be a complete twit. Who would turn down an earl? It’s not as if you have seventeen children or something.”