Of course she had been invited. Once it was seen that the knocker had been replaced on the door of 45 Berkeley Square, signifying that Theo was in residence, invitations poured in the door.

There were many who barely remembered her, as she was married halfway through the season of ’09 and never again glimpsed in polite London society. They longed to make a judgment about her ugliness themselves.

But there were also those who had visited the French capital, or had heard the news from there, and they confidently reminded all and sundry that ugly ducklings—and duchesses—sometimes turn into swans.

In fact, Theo elected not only to skip the opening ball, but to wait out the first three weeks of the season as well. She had decided to make her first appearance—her reentry into British society—at a ball being thrown by Cecil and Claribel.

Claribel was just as dazzlingly empty-headed as she had been a decade before. Her milk-and-water prettiness had not aged well: she was beginning to resemble a wilted rose, the kind that goes blowsy before all its petals drop. And like Cecil, she had broadened considerably around the waist.

Theo’s angular slimness and strong features, on the other hand, had come into focus in her twenties. She knew that she had never looked better—but each time she allowed herself the thought, it was followed by a tinge of regret: her mother would have abhorred such a vain and self-regarding observation. It was truly astonishing that one’s mother can pass away and yet one constantly hears her talking in one’s ear.

When Mr. and Mrs. Pinkler-Ryburn opened their ball, the subject on everyone’s lips was the Countess of Islay. The news had spread that her ladyship had accepted her relatives’ invitation.

“Did we invite Lord Tinkwater?” Claribel asked her husband, watching as the butler ushered in a fantastically drunk lord, who had the wisdom to have developed a method of walking that didn’t require a sense of balance.

“We did not,” Cecil said. “All sorts of people have come whom we didn’t invite, darling.”

He squeezed Claribel’s arm and turned away to greet Lord Tinkwater.

But by the time they decided to close the receiving line, there was still no sign of Lady Islay. They had barely made their way down the steps into the ballroom when a terrific noise erupted behind them.

“That’ll be Theo,” Cecil said, turning to look back up the stairs. “She planned her entrance perfectly, of course.” And then: “Damn!”

Claribel was about to reprimand him for using a profanity in her presence, but her jaw dropped instead.

The woman poised at the top of the stairs, looking down at all of them with a little smile that indicated absolute self-confidence, looked like a goddess who happened to come down to earth by way of Paris. She radiated that sort of ineffable glamour that simply cannot be learned—as Claribel knew to her sorrow, having made multiple efforts.

The fabric of Lady Islay’s gown certainly cost as much as Claribel’s entire quarterly allowance. It was a pearly pink silk taffeta shot with threads of silver. Her breasts were scarcely covered, and from there the gown fell straight to the ground in a hauntingly beautiful sweep of cloth.

The pink brought out the color of her hair—burnt amber entwined with brandy and buttercup. If only she had left it free around her face and perhaps created some charming curls! Claribel made up her mind to tell her privately about the newest curling irons. She herself had lovely corkscrew curls bobbing next to her ears.

Even so, there was something magnificent about the countess tonight, almost hypnotic. The pièce de résistance of her costume was a formal cape that gleamed under the light, soft and lustrous, almost as if it were made of fur.

“Damnation,” Cecil said again, scarcely under his breath.

She glanced at him and saw to her astonishment that his eyes were gleaming with an appreciation that she recognized—and was used to reserving for herself and her own rather generous figure.

“I see no reason for profanity,” she observed. Then she started forward to greet her guest.

“You look lovely, Lady Islay,” she told Theo earnestly, a moment or so later. “Your gown is exquisite. Would you like Jeffers to take your cape? I’m afraid it must be rather hot, beautiful though it is.”

Cecil was bending over Theo’s gloved hand. “Oh no,” he said, before Lady Islay could even answer. “I’m quite certain that Theo plans to wear her cape for at least part of the evening.” There was a note of amusement in his voice.

“If you’re quite sure that you won’t grow overwarm,” Claribel said uncertainly, eyeing the cape. It sprang out from Lady Islay’s shoulders and then swirled to the ground, managing to look surprisingly light. The inside was lined with a gorgeous rosy silk, and the outside . . .

“What on earth is that made of?” Claribel couldn’t help asking as she reached out to touch it.

“I can guess,” Cecil put in, the thread of amusement in his voice even stronger.

“Oh, can you?” Theo remarked. “Then tell me this: am I being altogether too obvious?”

Claribel hadn’t the faintest idea what she meant. But Cecil, clever Cecil, obviously did, because he bellowed with laughter.

“Swansdown,” he said. “Gorgeous swansdown, and every man and woman in this room has taken note of your swanlike triumph.”

“I could not resist,” Theo said, with that smile that was all the more attractive for being so rarely seen. “How lucky you are in your husband,” she said to Claribel. “It’s a rare man who knows his fairy tales.”

“I know, of course, I know,” Claribel said, babbling a bit. There was something about Lady Islay that was rather daunting. She was so elegant, for one thing. And that severe hair, which should by rights look positively awful, looked sensual, though it wasn’t a word Claribel cared for.

Plus, now she realized that her gown was scandalously thin. No wonder she wasn’t worried about being overly warm. Why, when Lady Islay turned away to greet Lord Scarborough, Claribel clearly saw the line of her bare calf.

She suppressed a sigh. Of course she loved her three darling children, but carrying them had had a deleterious effect on her figure. She felt like an overstuffed pincushion in comparison.

“Looks marvelous, doesn’t she?” her husband remarked.

“I think she’s a trifle underdressed,” Claribel said. Despite herself, her tone was a little hurt.

Cecil took one of her gloved hands and raised it to his lips. “You cannot possibly imagine that I find Theo as attractive as you?”

“Her figure is perfect,” Claribel said wistfully. “Just perfect.”

He leaned closer. “A man doesn’t care about that, my sweet buttercup.”

Claribel rolled her eyes.

“She’s chilly,” he said, more quietly. “I do adore her, but I don’t envy the man she marries. Just look at her.”

They both turned, to find the countess surrounded by a gaggle of men as tightly pressed together as ha’pennies in the church box.

“They’re fascinated, intrigued, even adoring,” Cecil said. “But I saw the same reaction in Paris many a time. If you ask me, that’s why there’s never been even the faintest whiff of scandal about her in the last six years. No one would want to actually bed her.”