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come?”
    â€œOh, no,” Anna said.
    When she thought back over the last two years, her mind thought in color—or rather in the absence of color. Black and gray, all of it. Of course, those were the colors they had worn for two years. Only in the last two months had they put off their mourning. And there had been the grief, first over the lingering illness and death of Mama and then over the sudden death of Papa. But it was not just the mourning that had sapped life of its color. There had been everything else too. The fight to keep the family together despite adversity, the struggle to avoid ruin and to keep Papa from debtors’ prison and her brother and sisters from destitution, the futile, futile efforts to pay off or redeem all the debts. And the greatest blackness of all—the web that had been woven inexorably about herself, drawing her ever inward, trapping her in a forever after of enslavement. Except that he had gone away after Papa’s death. He had gone to America, promising to come back, promising to come to claim her. But he had been gone for longer than a year, and perhaps—oh, she prayed for it—he would not come back after all.
    And now she was in a different world.
    Anna smiled suddenly as Lord Quinn caught her eye and winked. And the smile held and spread. She felt an unexpected welling of excitement and happiness. She was in a new world, a world of splendor, a fairy-tale world that she had only ever dreamed of a long, long time ago, when there still seemed to be some point in dreaming. It was true that it was for only a brief time. It was true that he might, after all, come back to claim her and bring back the darkness. But now, at this moment, she was in a London ballroom at the start of a ball. And she was going to enjoy herself.
    Oh, yes, she was. She was going to enjoy herself as she had never enjoyed anything else in her life before. She lifted the fan that hung from her wrist by a ribbon, opened it, and cooled her face with it. And she gazed about her with a wondering smile and sparkling eyes.

3

    L UKE arrived as the opening minuet was ending. It was unusually early for him, but latecomers at a ball in London were frowned upon, it seemed. Or so his uncle had warned him. Actually his uncle was up to something, and it did not take a genius to guess what.
    â€œMarjorie has her goddaughter up from the country for the spring,” Lord Quinn had remarked casually the evening before. “The Earl of Royce’s daughter. And her younger sister too. A pair of lovely gels, I warrant you, lad.”
    Which one, Luke had wondered, did his uncle intend as his bride?
    â€œIndeed?” he had commented. “A little rustic, are they, Theo?”
    â€œEgad, no,” his uncle had replied. “Not with Marjorie to look to outfitting them. They are lovely enough and well-bred enough to make one forgive some rusticity anyway. Pox on it, lad, if I were twenty years younger—”
    â€œIf you were twenty years younger, my dear,” Luke had said, “you would still be attached to Lady Sterne but somewhat embarrassed at the age gap.”
    His uncle had thrown back his head and laughed heartily. “And so I would, lad,” he had said. “And so I would. Now in your case . . .”
    â€œI suppose,” Luke had said, “Lady Sterne is to be at the Diddering ball tomorrow evening? With her charges?”
    â€œWhat?” His uncle had looked startled. “Tomorrow evening already is that, lad? Zounds, and so it is. Marjorie will be there with the gels? It is altogether possible, I suppose. Yes, they may well be there. I hope someone asks them to dance, Luke. Apart from me, that is. They are strangers and all that.”
    â€œBut lovely strangers,” Luke had said. His uncle was overdoing the carelessness.
    â€œLovely? Zounds, yes,” Lord Quinn had said. “I daresay they will not lack for partners, will they?”
    Luke