“As anyone has ever been, ever.” Maisie gave a little wriggle. “I sometimes don’t think it’s real. And then I stab myself with a needle five minutes later and realise it is, and feel wonderful all over again. Anyway, I said it for a reason. What was it? Oh, yes: Phoebe’s going to be Lady Waring. A viscountess, Will, and in her own right, which if you ask me counts for a lot more than an empty courtesy title like Kim’s got.”

“Are you pulling rank on me?”

“No,” Maisie said defensively, and then, “Maybe.”

“If he becomes a marquess, we’ll have this talk again.”

She stuck out her tongue. “Anyway, she’s a viscountess, and rich, and I’m just Maisie Jones from Tiger Bay.”

“You aren’t, though. You were never ‘just’ Maisie Jones, and now you’re Marguerite Zie.”

“And people want Marguerite Zie. I’m going to be a couturier. Sought after. I’m going to be a success because I’ve earned it. She may have a title, but I don’t need to feel inferior, because I’m not. Right?”

“Blasted right.”

“Phoebe could have anyone she wanted,” Maisie went on, with absolute conviction. “Anyone in the world, but she wants me, so I’d be pretty stupid to feel I’m not good enough. I’m the most special person there is, if you think about it. Because Phoebe chose me, and if someone wonderful wants to be with me, I must be pretty wonderful too. Yes?”

“No argument here.”

“And?” she said like a patient schoolteacher.

“And it’s not the same at all. You’re a flaming marvel, Maisie. I’ve got a bookshop, and only because I inherited it.”

“You’ve got the Military Cross, Will Darling!” Maisie snapped. “You’re an actual hero! You may not like the marquess part, but what must Kim think about your medals? Because I happen to think the medals you earned mean a lot more than having a lot of dead relatives, which is all a title is, and I bet he does too!”

“It’s not just the title, though. It’s everything. He’s got an education, and nice hands, and manners, and he talks properly, and I don’t belong in his world, Maise. He took me to that bloody club, the Symposium, and I thumped a Sir Whatsit in the face.”

“You did what? For pity’s sake!”

“It was Johnnie Cheveley’s brother. He was a berk.”

“Even so.”

Will sighed. “I don’t think about this stuff all the time. Day to day, we rub along pretty well. Day to day, it works. Today is good and tomorrow’s probably fine too. But then he asked me for the rest of our lives, and with everything that might happen—I don’t know how to do it, that’s all. It’s too big to work out.”