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Livie frowned.

“Take my arm,” Regina commanded. “As I said, your domino sets off my costume.” After Livie complied, they took the last few steps to the ballroom floor and joined the outskirts of a large group surrounding their hosts.

“I also instructed Winchester to wear red to provide a foil for my gown,” Regina said in a discontented undertone. “I suppose his coat might appear orange because of my yellow veil. Those scrubby little schoolgirls would probably refer to him as a carrot. What are you grinning about?”

“I am not grinning,” Livie said with dignity. “I’ve merely glimpsed your brother, talking to our hosts.”

“That oink,” Regina snapped. “His wife was horrendously rude to me in the carriage, and he did not defend me.”

“Oh?” Livie said innocently.

“She called my fiancé a turnip.”

“A scallion, a carrot, and a turnip,” Livia mused. “Given tonight’s attire, one might want to add an orange or apricot to the mix. Which is preferable? Marriage to a vegetable, or to a piece of fruit?”

Regina’s scowl was clearly visible through the gold net of her veil. “Have you been at the champagne, Petunia? Wine will mar your complexion, not to mention make you fat. I believe I see a spot on your chin.”

“The Earl of Winchester does not resemble a turnip,” Livie said, ignoring the question of spots, since she knew perfectly well that her skin was unblemished.

“The conversation addressed his intelligence rather than his girth,” Regina said sulkily.

“Ah.”

“I think of the earl’s intellectual ineptitude as a strong point,” Regina said with a trace of defiance. “It makes him biddable. There’s also his title, of course.”

“His docility is remarkable,” Livie agreed. “As is his hair. So magnificently high. I can see it from here, waving like an ostrich feather.”

“Where? I’ve lost sight of him,” Regina said. She picked up her veil and peered about, then drew in a sharp breath. “Look at that handsome man, Petunia! Over there, making his way from the other room.”

Livie’s heart skipped a beat.

Regina had found Joshua.

Livie let her eyes greedily range over Major FitzRoy, happy to discover that she was just as taken by him now as she had been at Rothingale’s masquerade. His letter had been so disappointing that she was slightly afraid that the man she kissed was a coxcomb, as affected as his writing.

But no. Joshua was not mincing his way through the ballroom but striding, without a trace of dandified affectation. His loose-limbed gait befitted a man of action, and the deeply-carved lines by his mouth made Livie long to coax him into smiling.

“I have always found a man in uniform very appealing,” Regina declared. “I believe I know who he is. That chin … a remarkable chin, isn’t it? Now where have I seen that chin?”

Joshua wore neither a domino nor a mask, so he must consider his dress uniform to be a costume in itself. He was wearing a double-breasted crimson coat with golden epaulets, and his collar and cuffs were striped green. His boots were worn high over his white breeches, nearly reaching the top of his calves.

“Not the chin of a biddable man,” Livie commented.

“Who cares for that?” Regina said, letting her veil drop. “Marriage is not a consideration when admiring men like him. Military men are notoriously rusticated, not to mention impoverished. A woman of our stature could never marry such a man—no matter how desperate you may feel, Petunia. Your household would have scarcely more than a maid and a footman. You might as well become a fruit-and-vegetable seller.”

“I’d sell a turnip before I’d marry one,” Livie bit out.

“Winchester is a noble turnip. A slim figure is far more appealing than a brutish set of shoulders, such as that soldier’s,” Regina said. “What if one’s children inherited that trait? More befitted to a farmer than a nobleman. Oh, wait … that reminds me. I do know who he is.”

Livie felt a wash of anger. She would love her sons to inherit Joshua’s shoulders. Winchester wasn’t just a turnip; he was a young turnip, pulled before it was full-grown.

She took a breath, preparing to say as much, when Regina exclaimed: “Of course! That man is Lord Paget’s son. Second son, of course. You could do worse, Petunia.”

“Indeed?” Livie said dangerously.

“He has a fortune from his godmother. Equally importantly, everyone says his elder brother won’t ever marry.”

“Why not?”