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I t was a leisurely afternoon—Faith and Hope’s children had been brought down from the nursery to play, and the men were in the corner, discussing something or other Joy could not discern. Grace arrived with Carew, as they were all to dress and go to the Thornhill ball together.

Joy could not suppress a groan.

“What happened to the little imp who wanted to convert my ballroom into the Tower of London or the menagerie at the Exchange?” Westwood asked.

“She was knocked in the head and was na?ve enough to think she could dance. No one will dance with me willingly now.” Joy sounded perilously close to self-pitying.

“You have four brothers-in-law, Freddy, and surely St. John will ask?”

“I dare say he will,” she said wearily.

“You do not favour his court?” Westwood now sounded concerned. What had she done?

“I believe you exaggerate if you think he courts me. I have not seen or heard from him since Ascot.” And Joy could not but help wonder if she had done something to turn him away.

The gentlemen exchanged glances even Joy did not miss. What were they about?

“Well, you can see now, so once all of the fine gentlemen comprehend you are not truly clumsy, they will be begging for a set. Come now, let us go and dress.” Grace prodded Joy from the settee where she’d been most comfortably situated.

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Where is Maeve?” Grace looked around.

“She wanted to rest before tonight’s celebration.”

The maids were already in the chambers preparing, and to Joy, it looked like a milliner’s stall had taken possession of the apartment. Gowns, gloves, stockings, ribbons, and hair fripperies were everywhere.

She walked over to her gown. It was a creation in blue crêpe, trimmed at the hem with scrolls of white satin appliqué.

Tiny seed pearls winked along the empire waist, while a fall of the faintest spider gauze drifted from the short puff sleeves, giving the whole the look of dew sparkling on a fresh web.

Joy, regarding it on the counterpane, had confessed herself half afraid to wear the thing for fear of destroying it.

Now, as Grace whisked back the curtains to admit the afternoon light, its lustre seemed to grow still more daring. Even Joy was in awe.

Grace would go clad in a silver silk embroidered in silver threads. She turned to Joy with an arch look. “Now, let us have a conversation.”

Joy perched at the dressing table while the maid attempted to coil her hair. “Conversation?” she echoed, feigning innocence.

“Do not be provoking, Joy. I refer, as I am sure you are aware, to St. John.” Grace dismissed the maid to fetch warm water and closed the door herself. “Tell me truly: if he were to offer for you this very night, would you accept?”

Joy felt the familiar quickening at the Colonel’s name—part flattery, part foreboding. She smoothed a fold of gauze to gain a moment’s composure. “I am uncertain whether he will offer,” she said at last, “so the question may be idle.”

Grace waited for her to continue.

Joy traced a pattern on the polished wood. “I like him very well, Grace. He is amiable, handsome, an excellent horseman?—”

“And possesses shoulders to make a uniform sigh with gratitude,” Grace supplied, twinkling. “Yet something in your tone suggests doubt.”

Joy breathed out. “But,” she admitted, “I cannot determine if what I feel is admiration or mere relief at being considered worthy. When he speaks, my mind listens; when he rides, my eyes are pleased; and yet when I imagine a life shared—parlours, tours of duty, nursery tales—there is a space where…warmth ought to be.”

Grace rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have ever feared being trapped where you could not breathe. Does the prospect of belonging to a gentleman alarm you?”

Joy considered. “Losing my freedom is, of course, worrying, but so is pretending to be what I am not.”

While the maid worked pearls into Joy’s curls, Grace spoke softly. “Love need not strike like thunder, Joy. Some matches kindle slowly.” Much like her own.

“True,” Joy murmured, “but candle flame suffices only if one does not recall what it is to stand in sunlight. With St. John I feel a gentle light, but—” She broke off, colour rising.

Grace’s hands stilled. “You compare him, perhaps, to another?”

Joy busied herself with the silver brush. “I compare him to…the idea of being wholly myself, and wholly at ease, in another’s company. With Colonel St. John I am conscious of my words, my step, the tilt of my spectacles. I do not wish to feel like a schoolgirl.”

Grace tied the last ribbon and met her sister’s gaze in the mirror. “Is there anyone in whose company you do not feel so?”

The image of Freddy flashed across her mind’s eye—mud-splashed curricles, reckless laughter, the steady warmth of his hand in hers when vision faltered. Joy’s pulse stumbled. “Freddy, of course,” she hedged, “but he is not seeking to marry me. We have the ease of old friends.”

Grace’s brows arched, but before she could speak the maid returned with the requested warm water.

Once Joy was readied and had stepped into the gown, the maid withdrew again.

Grace fastened the seed-pearl clasp and spoke in a low tone.

“If your heart does not desire the match, Joy, you must heed it—for your sake and for the gentleman’s. ”

Joy managed a sardonic smile. “Tonight, my heart shall whisper only not to stumble or tear a flounce.”

Grace bestowed a mocking smile on her as Joy had known she would.

Maeve swept in from her adjoining chamber, her cheeks vivid with happiness.

“The carriage waits—oh! Joy, you are the very breath of spring.” She clasped her own hands beneath her chin, then pirouetted so the peach-rose skirts of her new gown billowed like dawn clouds. “Do I look well enough to announce a betrothal?”

“You look sufficiently celestial,” Grace assured her, laughing.

The journey to Thornhill Place gleamed with lantern-light, the carriage wheels crunching gravel as stars settled into a velvet dusk.

Joy rode with Carew, Grace, and Maeve; the last vibrated with excitement, a single coral rose pinned in her dark hair.

Thornhill’s great house blazed ahead, windows golden, music already swelling as if the walls themselves breathed a minuet.

Inside, the hum of anticipation trembled through every corridor. The Duke and Dowager Duchess greeted them in the drawing room and then led them into the dining room, where fifty of their closest acquaintances were to dine before the ball.

Dinner was a primer in elegance. The footmen seemed to move with composed precision, the fragrant steam of white soup curling into candlelit air—but an undercurrent of expectancy fluttered round them.

Joy, seated between Freddy and Lord Rotham, watched as Maeve’s gaze constantly strayed towards the head of the table, where His Grace toyed with a glass of wine more than he drank it.

When the covers were drawn, Thornhill rose. A hush rippled outward; even the footmen seemed to suspend their silent glide. The Duke inclined his dark head towards the Dowager Duchess, then let his eyes rest on Maeve, who sat very straight, looking nervous.

“My friends,” he began, his baritone carrying with effortless command, “it is both my honour and pleasure to inform you that Lady Maeve has done me the incomparable honour of consenting to become my wife.”

Delight burst forth in a clatter of cutlery and a murmur of congratulation.

Joy’s own heart gave a little leap—it was one thing to anticipate the announcement and another to hear it spoken, shining and irrevocable.

She turned to Maeve, whose cheeks flamed coral-pink beneath the jet of raven hair, and leaned across Freddy to press her friend’s gloved hand.

Freddy also murmured felicitations; Thornhill, catching his glance, offered a small bow of thanks. Around them, champagne glasses appeared.

When it was time to move on to the ballroom, Joy’s breath caught at the mirrored vista.

Couples were already mingling in the ballroom’s reflection, flowers scented the air, and a chandelier scattered light like dewdrops.

Thornhill’s butler announced Colonel St. John, who stepped forward to greet her immediately after greeting the hosts.

He bowed deeply. “Miss Whitford—may I say how enchanting you look?”

Joy, never one to appreciate flattery or think it true, merely curtsied. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“May I claim your opening dance?”

Joy inclined her head, her pulse hammering.

He had come! She felt Grace’s gentle push of encouragement as St. John led her to the floor.

They waited as Thornhill and Lady Maeve began the first measures together, then his hand, warm through her glove, guided with polished sureness to commence an unusual opening waltz.

St. John’s hand guided her waist; they turned.

Joy counted beats and let her blue skirts billow like a morning sky.

Around them, couples floated; chandeliers glittered; laughter chimed.

The Colonel’s conversation flowed—touching upon harmless trifles—how Lady Marchmont’s kittens fared, the most pleasing weather of late.

Joy answered with equal lightness, but somewhere below the exchange her uncertainty coiled tightly.

Yet he made no mention of his absence of late, and Joy sensed tension beneath his smooth manner.

The waltz ended. St. John, still breathing evenly, escorted her to Faith. “Miss Whitford,” he began, then paused, knuckles tightening on his gloves, “may I secure your assent for supper as well?”

“If you wish it, Colonel.”

Relief, unexpected and baffling, washed over her. He was not proposing. He was merely solicitous.