He could give her so much more.

Except, he couldn’t.

It went against the very nature of his being to not go after what he wanted, but this was different. She was vastly below his station, and a guest under his roof. Manners, if not honor, demanded that he not bother her with his attentions, for how could she possibly refuse him if she wished?

A good thing their time alone together was at an end. He had filled the next two days with appointments in the city to avoid the last-minute madness leading up to the house party, which had been a reasonable plan before she had walked into his life.

“I’m going to London today,” he said, and she blinked at the sudden coolness of his voice. “And I had a missive from Lady Lingham. She suggests you take Mr. Peter Humphrys as your escort for the ball.”

The warmth he had been basking in faded from her eyes. “That’s very considerate of her ladyship, Your Grace,” she said. “I’m indeed in need of an escort.”

He stared after her as she left, unable to shake the impression that he had offended her in some way.

“You said emerald green.” Annabelle’s gaze flashed between Hattie and the open dress box on her bed.

“I know,” Hattie said, “but isn’t this much more exciting?”

“It’s . . .” She didn’t even know what this color was. Garish pink did not quite describe it.

“It’s magenta,” Hattie supplied. “It’s very modern.”

She breathed slowly through her nose. She’d stand out like a peacock tonight; there was no chance in Hades that she’d find another dress on time. House party guests had begun arriving shortly after breakfast; there was an endless stream of carriages pulling up below her windows. She could either wear magenta or not go to the ball at all.

“You dislike it.” Hattie sounded small.

“I’m sure you meant well.”

“Oh. Oh, no. You really are cross.” Hattie’s face flamed hot red like a torch. “I didn’t mean—it’s just that everyone with green eyes will wear emerald tonight, when magenta is the perfect foil for your coloring, a complementary color contrast if you will. And you always wear such dreary things . . . Oh dear, that came out wrong. I just . . . I couldn’t help it. I heard myself say, ‘I’ll take the magenta.’”

Annabelle lifted the dress. A gauzy petticoat appeared beneath, then a pair of white midlength gloves. Two smaller boxes still sat unopened on the counterpane. The first contained an exquisitely embroidered velvet choker, the second a set of earrings, large pearl drops affixed to square, rose-colored stones.

“Those will be on loan,” Hattie said quickly, “for I know you wouldn’t accept those, right?”

“Right,” Annabelle said, exasperation grappling with a strange tightness in her chest. Hattie had put a lot of thought into this ensemble. How could she explain that this would make her look like an impostor? Like a vicar’s daughter playing lady for a night?

She considered the dress. It seemed less bright now, but it looked awfully narrow, a princess sheath cut she’d only ever seen in magazine clippings in the college’s common room.

“This requires a . . . a corset that goes down to midthigh, doesn’t it?”

Hattie’s eyes widened at the mentioning of unmentionables. “It does. Why?”

Annabelle looked at her with comical despair. “Mine finishes at the waist.” The type that had gone out of fashion years ago and posed no problem with her dated dresses.

Hattie wrung her hands. “Borrow one of mine?”

“But you are much shorter than I.”

“And if we asked—”

“I can hardly ask random ladies to borrow their . . . undergarments,” Annabelle hissed. They were both red in the face now.

“Blast.” Hattie slumped onto the bed. “I’ve really made a mess of it, haven’t I? And here I thought at least one of us would look stunning tonight.”

Annabelle sat down next to her. “Whatever do you mean?”

Her friend smoothed a hand over the magenta silk. “I’m going to look hideous. Mama picks my dresses, and she is clueless. I’ll be wearing pastel, with not a hint of cleavage in sight.”

A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of Annabelle’s mouth. “And so you planned to dress vicariously through me.”

Hattie gave a sulky shrug.

Annabelle took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You put a very . . . complete outfit together for me, and I thank you for that, truly.”

Hattie hesitantly squeezed back. “But what about the, eh, underclothes?” she whispered.

She’d do what she usually did. “I will have to be practical about it.”

That meant hoping her natural shape would fill the dress, and, Lord help her, possibly not wearing any drawers in case they would bunch and show through the clinging fabric . . .

Catriona burst through the doors, looking around wildly. “Have you seen my glasses?”

“Catriona,” Hattie exclaimed, “you look different.”

Catriona turned her head in her direction and blinked. Her face looked startlingly bare and unlike the Catriona they knew. Pretty, though. The spectacles had hidden large Celtic blue eyes fringed with long, black lashes.

“I don’t understand,” Catriona said. “I’m awfully scatterbrained today.”

She swept out of the room again.

Hattie shot Annabelle a meaningful glance. “I think she’s nursing a tendre for Peregrin Devereux,” she murmured. “I think she took the glasses off to practice looking good at the ball tonight.”

Annabelle frowned. “But Lord Devereux left for Wales about an hour ago.” She had seen him climb aboard the travel coach looking confusingly stone faced.

His brother, however, had not yet returned to Claremont.

A frisson of anticipation traveled up her spine.

“Ye gods, please let that dress fit,” she said, and abruptly came to her feet.

Claremont’s reception room was abuzz with the chatter of a few hundred people ready to revel and dance. Jewels and champagne flutes shone softly in the muted light. A far cry from a country dance, this, a veritable sea of unfamiliar pale faces. Glances strayed her way, raking over her like fingers. “Look. It’s Celeste,” a lady said. “No, I am certain the gown is all Celeste . . . but who is she?”

I’m the woman who wears a Celeste sans undergarments.

The gown’s silky skirt had been too filmy for drawers; it clung like a skin to the thin underskirt. The feeling of nakedness was compounded by the snug, low-cut bodice that presented the tops of her breasts with rather dramatic effect. And apart from the lace trimmings on the flounces of the small train, there were no adornments to attract attention away from, well, her. The woman in the mirror had looked like a wealthy, fashionable stranger. Like she had every right to attend an illustrious ball. Peter, her escort, had turned the color of a beetroot once she had descended the grand staircase.

“Annabelle.” Hattie emerged from the crowd on the arm of a handsome young gentleman with chestnut hair. She left his side and rushed toward her.

“How stunning you look,” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh my. Zachary,” she said, turning back to her escort, “isn’t she stunning? I’m awfully envious. Annabelle, may I present my brother, Zachary Greenfield.”

The young man’s brown eyes twinkled as he sketched a bow. “Miss Archer. You are as striking as a lotus flower and as graceful as a willow reed.”

The moment he and Peter began exchanging opinions on the brandy, Hattie linked her arm through Annabelle’s and pulled her aside.

“I told you,” she muttered, gesturing over her own dress. The cascade of bows and flounces swamped her pleasantly plump figure, their color somewhere between beige and yellow. “Apricot,” she groaned, “and these frothy layers—I look like a rice pudding.”