“Very fine,” said Alice in a flat voice. She actually thought it would surely be better if they exchanged gowns, Miss Snapper’s sprig muslin being more suited to a young girl, and Alice’s ornate ball gown being more flattering on a woman of mature years and sallow complexion.

As they descended the elegant curved staircase into the small tiled hall, and thence through into the green and gold drawing room with its fashionably backless sofas and striped upholstery, Alice suddenly felt something strange happening to her mind. It was as if a great black weight of despair had been lifted from it. All at once, she knew her ghost was dead to her, that he no longer thought of her. She felt empty and light, a feeling which persisted right to the august doors of the Duchess of Courtland’s town house where the flambeaux hissed and flared in their iron brackets against the wall.

Alice was vividly aware of being alive, vividly conscious of each sight and scent, of the splendor of the gowns and jewels, of the tantalizingly sweet strains of a waltz drifting across the warm air.

She was young and would be pretty again once she had crept from under the domineering shadow of her companion. There were many handsome men about. Why had she not noticed them before?

Alice sat sedately enough beside Miss Snapper, but her large eyes had begun to sparkle and there was a delicate blush on her cheeks.

“I say,” said Lord Harold Webb, raising his quizzing glass, “ain’t that the little Frenchie who was at Haversham’s ball?”

His friend, Harry Russell, followed his gaze and then sniggered. “Damme, if it ain’t,” he said cheerfully. “Pon rep, you was bosky that night. Said to me she and her friend melted through the wall.”

“Stow it,” said Webb brutally, an angry expression marring his handsome features. “Pretty little chit, all the same. Tell you what. Ask her for a dance. Bound to be impressed.”

Lord Harold Webb was very handsome, being fair with dark brown eyes and a high complexion. He was tall and well built and his clothes had been tailored by the hand of a master. He had been complimented on his good looks since the day he was born. He was possessed of a handsome fortune and he delighted in the pleasures of the London Season, for he knew he was much sought after. The fact that men, with the exception of his unlovely friend Mr. Russell, did not seem to seek his company much, held no sway with the ladies who appeared to adore him one and all.

He had several times been on the point of popping the question but had always drawn back at the last minute. For the lady of his choice always seemed… well… too independent and not conscious enough of the great favor that he was about to bestow on her.