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“I’m not an actor,” Ella reminded her.

“You might still need to run. We also need to make certain the hem lands just above your ankles. It seems a bit long.”

Thankfully, when Ella walked out of the dressing room, Fulvia and Regina were nowhere to be seen.

“How lovely you look, dear!” the viscountess exclaimed. She was sipping hot tea, her face a delicate shade of green. “Lord Peregrine took Fulvia and Lady Regina for a ride in his phaeton.”

“How on earth did he know to find us here?”

“Fulvia sent him a note this morning,” the viscountess said. “I have informed her that it is inappropriate to write to a gentleman, even one’s betrothed, but she says that I am old-fashioned.” She put down her tea and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

“You must eat a rusk,” Mrs. Quimby said, bustling over. “I put it on your saucer for a reason, my lady. It will calm your stomach. Miss St. Trevelyon, please go to the platform before the mirror.”

Ella plucked up her skirts and stepped onto the low platform.

Mrs. Quimby folded her arms over her chest. “That gown is my finest yet,” she announced, a thread of deep satisfaction resounding in her voice.

Ella took a deep breath and looked at the mirror—and froze, unable to speak.

Looking back at her was … her mother. Ella had inherited more than her mother’s rosy curls: she had her mother’s large eyes and strong chin. Her uncle had sold her parents’ portraits, and she had never realized how much she looked like her mother.

To the side of the room, her aunt clapped her hands and cried, “Your mother was a great beauty, Ella, and so are you!”

“An exaggeration, but I thank you for it,” Ella responded. She turned to Mrs. Quimby. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, but the ball is in Fulvia’s honor. Is her gown as beautiful as mine?”

“Absolutely. Your gown is made for a young lady with presence and dignity,” Mrs. Quimby said. “Your cousin’s gown is made for the belle of the ball, for a princess.”

Ella looked at herself again. She felt almost as if her mother were at her shoulder.

“The regularity of my daughter’s features is extremely pleasing,” the viscountess commented. “Yet there’s a sweetness around your eyes and mouth, Ella, that Fulvia will never achieve.”

“You will be the prettiest girl in the ballroom,” Mrs. Quimby said, nodding. “Perhaps not the most beautiful, but the prettiest. Any man who has half a brain in his head will see it. Mind you, quite a few men are trundling along without any brains at all.”

“The marriageable gentlemen will all be at your feet. I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” Ella’s aunt said woefully. “Oh no, now I’m going to cry again. I’m frightfully mopish these days.”

Ella was about to run over and hug her aunt when the door opened and three people entered: Fulvia, followed by Lady Regina on Lord Peregrine’s arm.

Ella felt a stab of pure embarrassment. It was one thing to be seen by candlelight in a gown that skimmed her breasts, but in the broad daylight? She stayed where she was, head high, but it took all her willpower not to slap a hand over her bosom.

“You look so pretty, Ella!” Fulvia exclaimed, with distinct surprise in her voice.

Lord Peregrine didn’t move from the door, perhaps horrified—like Regina had been—to walk in on someone being fitted for new garments in public, rather than in their own bedchamber.

Lady Regina flicked a glance at Ella, raised an eyebrow, and then walked over to the viscountess. “How kind you are!” she said in carrying voice, as she sat down. “Few ladies would order such a striking garment for an orphaned niece.”

“Ella is more than my niece,” Lady St. Trevelyon responded, her tone noticeably cool. “She is another daughter to me.”

Regina patted her arm. “Kindness personified.”

“The hem is a perfect length, so you may descend from the platform,” Mrs. Quimby advised Ella.

“I cannot wait to see my gown!” Fulvia cried, disappearing into a dressing room.

All the while, Lord Peregrine stood by the door, his eyes fixed on Ella.

Why was he staring at her so? With a smile tugging the corner of his mouth? What happened to his customary derisive expression?

A thought occurred to Ella, making her feel even more embarrassed: perhaps he agreed with Regina, who was suggesting to her aunt that Ella’s gown sent the wrong message.