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Fiennes braced a hand on the bed and looked more closely. “So I see.”
“I found him as a baby. Joe was terribly thin and bedraggled, but he’s thriving now. Just look at his round tummy. I may have to limit his treats!”
“Hmmm.” He straightened.
“What?”
“You know how surprised the viscountess was to find that she’s with child?”
Ella nodded.
“Will you be similarly shocked by Joe’s condition—or perhaps we might rename her Josephina?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
A BALL GIVEN BY THE VISCOUNT ST. TREVELYON IN HONOR OF HIS DAUGHTER’S DEBUT
FEATURING A COMMAND PERFORMANCE BY LONDON’S FOREMOST ACTOR, THOMAS WOODWARD, CURRENTLY STARRING AT THE THEATER ROYAL AT DRURY LANE
Ella was so busy in the week leading up to the ball that she scarcely slept. The sale of her mother’s diamonds allowed Jarvis to rent a small forest of lemon trees and buy many cases of excellent champagne, as well as hire six footmen for the night.
An elegant supper would be supplied by Fortnum & Mason, an up-and-coming provider of luxury goods. Their household cook was excellent at stretching one duck to feed the family, but a ball for several hundred guests was far beyond her abilities.
“Miss, it’s time for you to dress,” Jarvis said, once they had safely overseen the arrival of flavored snowballs from Gunther’s, nestled in blocks of ice that would keep them cool so they could be offered to guests after the performance of Romeo and Juliet.
“Keep an eye out for the actors,” Ella told him, walking through the baize door into the front of the house. The entry was gleaming with lemon oil and smelled sweetly of flowers.
“If only the house could be like this all the time,” the viscountess sighed, descending the stairs. Then she shrieked. “Ella! Go upstairs this minute! I sent my maid to the attic to dress you fifteen minutes ago.”
When Ella returned downstairs in her magnificent ballgown, her aunt, uncle, and cousin were clustered in the foyer, waiting to receive guests.
The viscount was as elegantly clothed as his wife and daughter. With a lurch of her stomach, Ella saw that he must have talked a modiste into advancing him a new suit, likely citing the promise of his daughter’s marriage to Lord Peregrine.
Or Fiennes, as he’d asked her to call him.
Fiennes’s proposal—such as it was—felt like a dream. She hadn’t seen him since.
He had escorted Fulvia and Regina to the theater to see Catherine and Petruchio yet again, but Fulvia said nothing about him the next day. Though Ella longed to inquire, she’d kept her mouth shut.
Perhaps his proposal had been an elaborate joke, though every instinct she had insisted that he was sincere. But if he was sincere, why did he escort Fulvia to the theater? Why was he still betrothed to her cousin?
“Humph,” her uncle grumbled, looking at Ella from head to toe. “You seem to have inherited your mother’s figure. My brother took one look at her, and turned as lusty as—”
“Husband,” the viscountess said.
“Where did you find those pearls?” his lordship asked, his eyes sharpening.
“Mrs. Quimby supplied them,” Ella informed him. “They are not real, of course.”
“They look real,” he observed.
“Fulvia, you look extraordinarily beautiful!” Ella exclaimed hastily.
Fulvia’s gown was fashioned of pale crepe over peach satin, the whole of it sewn with spangles that dangled from bits of thread and caught the light. The deep hem was adorned with circlets of roses, as was the narrow bodice. Her puffed sleeves had rose-bud trim, and she wore roses in her hair.
