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Whom Regina thought was Petunia, her best friend.

“Once I am a marchioness, I shan’t spend my time with old maids,” she continued. “Not that you should despair. Even the most hag-ridden ladies occasionally achieve a respectable alliance. Not that I mean to imply that you are hag-ridden!”

Given her behavior in the millinery shop, Petunia didn’t seem the type who would—or should—put up with abuse, so Livie protested. “That isn’t fair, Regina, since you are at least a year older than me and also unmarried.”

Regina bridled before collecting herself. “You seem to require both a lesson in civility and the peerage,” she said acidly. “I am betrothed to an earl and only eleven months older than you!”

“I forgot the precise number,” Livie retorted. She shrugged. “Eleven months, a year …”

“Are you coming down with a cold? Your voice is rather low,” Regina said. “I cannot bear ill people about me. My constitution is not as strong as some.”

“I am quite well,” Livie replied.

“Come to the side, won’t you? Hold this glass for me.”

Livie obediently held up the small mirror that Regina had taken from her reticule, hoping that the militant sparkle in her eyes couldn’t be seen through her veil.

She ought to rush away, but she could not bring herself to flee.

Not from Regina.

Regina powdered her chin, adjusted the veil on her masquerade hat, straightened her diamond tiara, and said, “Well, come along, Petunia! My brother and his wife are already in the ballroom. You have that manner of drifting along like a seedpod caught in a breeze, but it often makes us late, doesn’t it?”

“Unfair,” Livie commented.

Regina examined “Petunia” from head to foot. “I am gratified that you wore a red domino, as I requested. The color will set off the gold in my gown.”

“You’re not worried that you have overdone the gold trim?” Livie gave Regina the same head-to-toe examination. “Personally, I am concerned that the bustle attached to your rear will make a waltz challenging.”

“You must be jesting.” Regina twirled, which caused her bustle to wag from side to side, rather like the rear end of a happy, overweight dog. Facing Livie once again, she pointed her toe, holding out a high-heeled slipper adorned with a diamond cluster. “My skirts are daringly short, as you can see. My ankles have been called exquisite by more than one gentleman.”

“How is your bustle constructed?” Livie asked. “I thought they were made of cork, but that looks far heavier.”

“It’s padded cotton. My maid fashioned it.”

“I suspect she used a bolster,” Livie observed, noticing that the bustle was still quivering of its own accord.

“Sophisticated apparel is not your forté, Petunia. Just look at the spangles on your masquerade hat. You resemble a porcelain Turkish dancer,” Regina declared, taking hold of Livie’s arm and heading through the ballroom door.

“Your costume has all the sophistication of a donkey wearing an Easter bonnet,” Livie retorted.

Regina gasped and dropped Livie’s arm. “You forget yourself!”

“Perhaps I have simply found my voice,” Livie suggested. Taking advantage of their position at the top of the steps leading into the ballroom, she began looking over the crowd for Joshua.

“Who are you looking for?” Regina asked suspiciously. “Oh, bloody hell, there’s Winchester.”

Livie almost blurted out “Who?” before she remembered that the Earl of Winchester, the scallion himself, was Regina’s fiancé.

“At least he’s not wearing green,” Regina added. She caught Livie’s upper arm again. “Do you see him, over to the right?”

Livie peered through her veil until she found the earl, as tall and slim as ever, his hair brushed upward into the Brutus.

“Is he wearing orange?” Regina asked, jutting her chin toward her fiancé.

“Apricot,” Livie said, though it was hard to distinguish the precise color through her rosy veil.

Regina let go of Livie’s arm and offered her elbow.