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She sighed. “It won’t be easy.”

With that sigh, Nina felt her own lungs deflate.

Lavinia crossed her arms. “I’d hoped something of mine might do. Unfortunately, you and I differ point for point.”

Nina’s smile curdled on her lips. All of Lavinia’s points corresponded to ideals of delicate, feminine beauty.

“If we let out my Worth with the gold brocade, added panels,” Lavinia spoke as though to herself, in a musing tone. “No. No, you’d look like a Bergère chair.”

Nina wondered how to put an end to this particular humiliation. Tell Lavinia “Bergère chair” was just the thing?

“We need a gown designed especially for your figure. A very low neck. Rich color.” Lavinia began to circle around her. “We’re going for full-blown rose. You’ll devastate.”

Nina blinked. Now she had a touch of vertigo.

“The challenge is time.” Lavinia stopped short. “Three days isn’t enough for Miss Stirling. She’s the only dressmaker I’d trust, and she’s in the highest demand. I’ll have to ask her as a personal favor. The sooner the better. Although—” Her voice dropped and she leaned forward, putting her lips to Nina’s ear. “The way he’s staring at you now, the gown I envision might stop his heart. I’d hate to bring about the early demise of my husband’s dearest friend.”

Nina twitched her glance toward the trellis. Neal and Alan stood near the little table, locked in conversation. And yet . . .

Alan’s eyes were fixed upon her.

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take.” Lavinia lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers in farewell.

“Goodbye, darlings,” she called, and lowered her voice again. “I’m desperate for the story. You’ll tell me everything in the carriage.”

In the carriage, Lavinia accepted disappointment reluctantly. “You’re sure you’re not engaged?”

“Quite sure.”

“Not engaged yet,” suggested Lavinia. “You met at Umfreville House, you said. Where you worked as a maid.” Her lashes fluttered as she sighed. “That’s absolutely marvelous. I adore a mésalliance. Was it love at first sight?”

He didn’t see me at all. He saw a fake Rembrandt.

Nina smiled weakly.

“You’ll tell me someday,” Lavinia assured her. The fashion house was a whirring, parti-colored blur. In the cheerful blue-and-gold-papered fitting room, two focused young women helped Nina strip and then set about encircling her body parts with their tapes. At some point in the process, Miss Stirling herself appeared, stern and lynx-eyed and disinclined to accommodate last-minute whims. But it wasn’t long before Lavinia’s high-spirited, appreciative chatter had her shaking her head in fond exasperation, agreeing that, yes, Nina did resemble—in coloring and figure—the opera singer Eliza Gerard, whom she’d always costumed so beautifully. By the time they departed, a half dozen seamstresses were gathered around Miss Stirling, preparing to rush Nina’s evening gown into production. And Nina had discovered—via one of those seamstresses—that Lavinia was the Lavinia, Lavinia Laliberté, author of The Bluebell. Ruby had read chapters of The Bluebell aloud to her, with uncharacteristic sighs and giggles. It followed the fantastically thrilling piratical exploits of a runaway duchess.

“Are you working on a new novel?” she asked, as they settled back into the carriage.

“A romance of the civil wars.” Lavinia gave her a secretive smile. “Can I put you in it?”

“I think I’d rather stay out of it,” said Nina. “If you don’t mind.”

For a moment, Lavinia looked crestfallen, then she brightened. “It’s all right. Your real-life romance will be nearly as exciting. Now, what are we going to do about your hair?”

Talk of tiaras and curled fringes carried them back to Bennet Street, where they joined Neal and Alan for lunch in the garden, a leisurely, comfortable meal that reminded Nina of lunches with her aunts in the garden in Hensthorpe.

No chickens underfoot, though. And in Hensthorpe, she didn’t feel a constant tug, her whole body attuned to someone else’s, his every movement, every glance.

After lunch, she accompanied Alan to painters’ studios, to the theater, and to dinner. No matter the venue, Alan’s eyes sought hers, even as he laughed, made notes, bantered with friends and acquaintances. He found moments to whisper in her ear, rapid précis of the people around them, observations, questions. What did she think about this picture, that poem, her bouillabaisse, the play, her wine? Maybe he kept her with him because he didn’t trust her. He thought she’d break her word, post a letter to Jack, flee herself. But it didn’t feel punitive. It felt as though a flame flickered between their bodies, attracting them both like moths.

When they finally returned to Casa De’Ath, she was half-asleep, half-drunk, dizzied by the night. In the vestibule, she bumped into him, and he steadied her with a firm hand. And then he stepped back. He walked on. He wouldn’t kiss her again.

The next day, Nina spent the morning in the kitchen, baking ratafias for trifle. When she went upstairs to bring Mr. Kuznetsov a hot biscuit, crisp and almond scented, she glimpsed two visitors trooping out the door, respectably dressed men of middle age, neither with the flair that typified Alan’s Chelsea set. Alan appeared a moment later, took Fritz from Mr. Kuznetsov, and whisked her into his waiting coach. They made a brief call to the office of a publishing firm, then a longer stop in a gallery, followed by lunch with literary personalities who traded brilliancies and only picked at the curry and rice.

“And?” Alan asked as the coach began again to roll. He sat across from her, Fritz in his waistcoat.

Nina wrinkled her nose. “I liked the curry more than the conversation.”