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“It is painful to hear distressing truths,” Lydia said, “but it’s better to know, don’t you see? Besides, it’s not as if it matters what the Duke of Huntington thinks of you. Even I, the daughter of an earl, recognize that he will never look to me. He has no need for a dowry, and you and I aren’t beautiful enough to catch his eye.”

“I don’t like listening to gossip,” Stella said, suddenly feeling a faint vibration under her palm. The kitten was purring.

“It’s for your own good,” Lydia stated.

Lydia was a horrible person, Stella realized: mean while miming kindness. There was no way to silence her. Even if Stella walked away, Lydia would follow.

“All right,” she said, giving in. “All right.”

“The Duke of Huntington pointed you out to Lady Yasmin,” Blanche said. “He said you weren’t a fribble, the way they are. That’s good, because some men genuinely admire bluestockings, Lady Stella. Though not His Grace, obviously. He added that you don’t give a damn about appearances, along with something about your spectacles.”

Stella cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, I can’t see without—”

“My point is what His Grace said next, which was about you and Lydia’s brother, the Earl of Lilford,” Blanche cut in. She lowered her voice to a manly drawl. “The earl could always instruct the family portraitist to pretend the spectacles don’t exist. I’m sure he expects perfection in his wife—or at least will want to pretend he’s found it.”

Lydia tittered. “I expect you know that after you were presented, the Queen herself remarked that your hair reminded her of a bonfire.”

Stella had to admit: when Lydia decided to be mean, she committed totally. Her expression revealed nothing more than concern and sympathy. It was only the depths of her eyes that shone hot and fierce, like something in a nightmare.

“That’s why I wanted to speak to you,” Lydia continued. “I suspect the duke was warning Lady Yasmin that she wouldn’t get anywhere dangling her wares in front of the earl, that is, my brother. But the more important point is that men seeking brides are looking for perfection.”

Stella’s stomach was burning with humiliation. It was one thing when random gossips made fun of her spectacles and her freckles. But Silvester—

Silvester had said that her husband would be ashamed of her spectacles?

“The duke said you use your intelligence like a hammer,” Blanche added.

Stella’s lips had gone numb. She felt as if pieces of her had frayed, as if she were an old piece of flannel. She had known Silvester wouldn’t consider her as a wife, but she’d interpreted their dances and friendly conversations as indicating something.

Not affection, but respect. He seemed kind when he saved her glasses after she fell during the dance.

She had been wrong, obviously.

Behind her back, he enjoyed making fun of her as much as the rest of “polite” society did.

“Then the duke said that he was looking for generosity of spirit and spiritual virtue in a wife,” Blanche added. “Oh, and he said something about a big bosom as well.” She glanced down at her breasts, which were certainly generous.

Blanche would clearly like to be a duchess.

“‘Virtue’ must have been an inside jest,” Lydia said. “I think the duke plans to marry Lady Yasmin. But the important point, Stella, is that His Grace merely said what everyone has been thinking.”

“But you can improve your appearance,” Blanche said earnestly. She actually seemed to have the idea that she was helping.

“I understand,” Stella said. One of her legs was jittering. She forced her feet together, flat on the floor.

It didn’t matter what Silvester thought of her. He was a nasty person, laughing at her while chattering to his beautiful mistress.

“You merely have to do something about the freckles and the—the way your hair is pulled back, as if you don’t care a fig for appearances,” Blanche continued. “Your appearance is far too natural, if you’ll forgive the observation.”

“I can change my hair,” Stella said, her hand curling tighter around the sweet, purring creature in her pocket. Her red hair was pulled back because her aunt thought that a looser style rendered the color too startling.

“I suggest boiling onions in water,” Lydia said self-importantly. “Let the water cool and then soak your head in a pail until that red turns gold.”

“How is she supposed to breathe with her head in a pail?” Blanche asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Hold her breath, of course,” Lydia retorted.

Julia had dragged out the French ballad with trills and arpeggios, but it was finally over. Everyone was clapping enthusiastically, and Julia had turned a pretty shade of pink.