Finally the fittings were over and the last pearls were painstakingly sewn into Charlotte’s presentation dress. Seventeen ball dresses fit for a duke’s young daughter were swaddled in tissue and hung in a wardrobe; the delphiniums were growing well, the duchess was relieved to hear; ten footmen were summoned from the country; the ballroom was polished and the chandeliers shined, and the watch notified of the extra traffic. The Calverstills were ready to launch their last child onto society. Invitations winged their way to the London ton. And the London ton accepted. The duchess may have been shy, but she was beloved, creative, and had money to spare. A Calverstill ball would never be slighted.

Perhaps most important, young men accepted, all of them—fops, courtiers, gallants, Corinthians—all the groups and cliques and sets of London. Charlotte was rumored to be beautiful (her two elder sisters were) and she was sure to have an excellent dowry as her father was plump in the pocket. And still two weeks remained before the ball.

So Charlotte was given permission to visit Julia in the country. Her mama didn’t worry much.

“Charlotte, you mustn’t be seen in public; this is a terribly delicate time,” she said brightly, looking at her dutiful but somehow detached daughter.

Could it be that Charlotte wasn’t really interested in her presentation? No, no, the duchess thought: Why, she loves talking about her dresses, and we had such a good time looking at all the silks. Charlotte is so good with colors! And she had a positive surge of affection for her youngest daughter, who had never caused her any real trouble or anxiety. Charlotte was reasonable, calm, and unexcitable.

Charlotte was driven, in the ducal coach but with only one footman, a few hours out of London to Squire Brentorton’s estate. Julia greeted her with glowing eyes. She too had ball gowns to show, with less embroidery and no pearls sewn in the hem, but beautiful all the same. And she had a passion—of course.

“He’s adorable, Charlotte! I adore him! He’s not at all like that old Mr. Luskie. He’s beautiful, really beautiful; you’ll love him—no red veins!”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose at her.

“What do you mean, beautiful? And who are we talking about?” She noticed with some dismay that Julia’s violet eyes were dreamy with love.

“His name is Christopher,” Julia said. “He has curls … he looks like Adonis, truly, Charlotte.”

“But who is he?” Charlotte was getting suspicious. There was something evasive about the way her friend’s dewy gaze kept drifting off into the corners of the room. Julia pouted, just a little.

“Julia!” Charlotte said threateningly, smothering a grin. Her friend was so silly about men. Just a few weeks ago she had cried heartbrokenly because she would never see Mr. Luskie again.