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“Goodness,” Esme said faintly. “It certainly is long, isn’t it?”

“Braids make it a manageable length.”

“It’s exquisite.”

“Rees loved it,” Helene said, narrowing her eyes. “I do believe it was the only thing he liked about me. He—” She stopped. “I’ll cut it off.”

“Cut it off?” Esme was astounded. Helene’s great woven mound of braids was an integral part of her regal, calm character.

Helene nodded. “All of it.” She drew her hands through sleek masses that fell like cornsilk. “Now.”

“What?”

“Madame Rocque must have a pair of scissors,” Helene said. She flung the door open. Madame had left a girl in the hallway. “Fetch a pair of scissors!” she commanded, and the girl fled.

“No!” Esme gasped. “You cannot do such a thing without forethought. We’ll send a footman to request that Monsieur Olivier attend you this afternoon. Helene!”

Helene grabbed the shears from the girl.

“You!” Esme said, waving at the maid, who was standing, mouth agape, staring at the beautiful woman about to chop off her hair. “Send about to Monsieur Olivier, Number Twelve, Bond Street. Beg him to come here immediately, with kindest compliments of Lady Bonnington. Tell him we have a challenge for him. Did you get that?”

The young girl fled.

Even as Esme turned back to Helene, the first great sheaf of hair fell to the ground. And Helene was already hacking off another chunk.

“Oh lord,” Esme moaned. “You never do anything by half measures, do you?”

“Why should I?” Helene said. She didn’t look like a Danish queen now, remote and icy cold, but more like a belligerent English dairymaid. “Why should I keep all this hair? Do you know, it just occurred to me that I haven’t cut it in the past because of some misguided sentiment leading back to Rees’s fondness for my hair? Rees, who dragged his inamorata home so that he could have his way with her in the middle of the day? Rees? The hell with Rees!”

“Helene!” Esme gasped. She was quite certain that she had just heard the very first profanity ever to leave Helene’s mouth.

“And the same to all of them!” Helene said gleefully, wielding her shears. “I don’t care what men think of my hair, do I? All I want is their participation. Their cooperation!” She sliced off the last hank of hair and threw it to the ground. “There! What do you think?”

Helene’s hair stuck out around her shoulders like the stubble from cornstalks left on a harvest field. She was shaking her head and grinning like a fool. “Oh, Esme, it’s wonderful not to feel all that weight on my head. I had no idea! I would have done this years ago.” A moment later she pulled Madame Rocque’s gown over her head and began unlacing her corset. The corset hit the floor, followed by her chemise, and the gown went back over her head.

A mere ten minutes later, a sharp knock sounded on the door and Monsieur Olivier trotted into the room. He was small and round and very French. His own hair was pomaded and brushed in such a fashion that it rose straight from his forehead like the curl of a wave.

“Where is zee challenge?” he said, but his voice died as he caught sight of Helene.

To Esme’s mind, if anyone could repair what Helene had just done to her hair, it would be Maurice Olivier.

He moved toward Helene, delicately kicking a sheaf of hair away with the toe of his boot. “I gather you committed this outrage yourself, my lady?”

Helene tossed her head and the chopped ends of her hair flew about her shoulders. “If you’re going to be impudent about my hair, Monsieur Olivier, I shall summon another stylist.”

“That would be your downfall,” Olivier remarked, prowling about her for all the world like a stout tiger, who has cornered a pullet. “I am the only man in London who may—may—be able to recapture your natural beauty, my lady.”

“What do you think of your gown now, Madame?” Helene demanded.

Everyone looked. Madame Rocque’s creation was made of rose-colored silk, so delicate that it fell to the ground like a stream of water. It was formed of two layers, drawn tight under the breasts with silver ribbons. Halfway to Helene’s knee the upper layer of silk was caught back by small clusters of embroidered roses. It had a fairly high neck, trim around the neck of a slightly darker color and short sleeves. In all…unexceptionable. Appropriate for a debutante, really. Except…except…

Except it was almost transparent.

Where two layers clung together, one could see nothing other than the outline of Helene’s body, which was revealed to be slender but not angular. She had curves: her waist curved in, and her breasts curved out. The thin silk of Madame Rocque’s gown hugged each of those curves in a way that revealed them to be deliciously rounded.

And then where only the underskirt was revealed, below her knees, one could see everything: Helene’s delicate ankles, the garter holding up her stockings, the delicate shape of her knees.

Esme blinked. She suddenly felt fleshy and over-plump.