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Ella’s heart skipped a beat. She stole a glance at Fiennes.

“I don’t give a damn if Fulvia falls on her knees begging to marry me. As God’s my witness, I will never marry any woman other than you.”

She managed a smile. “You’re quite certain?”

“I don’t care whether your cousin is ruined or not, or whether that makes me a bastard and not a gentleman. I don’t give a damn about anything, Ella, except you.”

Before Ella could come up on her toes to kiss him, the front door of the St. Trevelyon townhouse opened. Jarvis bowed and backed into the house.

Before the viscount reached the white marble steps, Fulvia walked out the door, arm-in-arm with Mr. Woodward.

Even dressed in a suit of livery that must belong to the Duke of Lennox, the actor was clearly recognizable: his elegant features had graced placards advertising Romeo and Juliet all over London.

For her part, Fulvia was wearing a walking gown of pale lemon adorned with a wide swath of violet silk around the bodice and hem. The neckline was low and the skirts scandalously high; as Fulvia started down the steps, her ankles were charmingly framed by a violet ruffle.

As with all of Mrs. Quimby’s garments, her gown had more than a touch of drama, especially when Fulvia twirled a matching silk parasol adorned with tassels.

Fulvia was always beautiful, but there was a flush on her cheeks and a glow in her eyes that Ella thought likely matched her own.

Though she realized with a wince that her shabby, brown garment hardly matched her cousin’s, even if she hadn’t been clutching her torn skirt so as not to expose her legs to the entire street.

Fiennes bent his head and murmured in her ear, “Will you be heartbroken if I admit that I’d prefer you in a gown that covered at least the half of your breasts?”

“Is that the knave?” her father screeched, charging forward. “I’ll make you into a eunuch, you blackguard!”

Ella didn’t move. Tucked against the warmth and strength of Fiennes’s body, she felt as if she were watching a play.

Her cousin walked down two steps, bringing her Romeo with her. “Well met, Father,” she said sweetly, stopping at a level that left her gazing down at the man.

The viscount scowled at the actor. “You pirate! You pig-headed swindler who seduced my daughter!”

Mr. Woodward’s expression didn’t change. He regarded the irate peer with a genial smile.

“You’re an abductor, a Viking,” his lordship shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “I’ll have you in court, you ruffian!’

“No, you won’t,” his daughter said, drawing on a pair of purple gloves.

“You won’t get to Gretna Green. Your fiancé is standing before you, you stupid turnip of a girl! You don’t think Lord Peregrine will let you go?”

“That is absolutely what I think,” Fulvia said. Her eyes flickered over Ella’s face, then to Fiennes. “Third time lucky,” she said to him, smiling.

Turning back to her father, she said, “The betrothal you arranged is irrelevant, Father. Thomas and I married by special license this morning.”

Viscount St. Trevelyon gasped. “Special license! You couldn’t marry without my permission. You’re underage!”

“I forged your signature,” his daughter said dispassionately.

“A lowly actor could never afford such a special license,” the viscount said, obviously grasping at straws.

“Oh, he didn’t,” Fulvia said cheerfully. “I sold Ella’s pearl circlet to pay for it. I do apologize, Ella. Mr. Havers, of Havers & Rouver, promised faithfully that he would hold it for a week so that you can buy it back, Lord Peregrine.”

Ella blinked. “How could you know that Fiennes would do such a thing for me?”

“I’m very observant. I saw the way he looked at you,” her cousin said.

Fiennes grinned at her. “You did, did you?”

“Under the circumstances, I thought it was terribly kind of you to save my reputation last night. But I decided to marry Thomas anyway.”