Nora did her best to hold perfectly still so the hot tongs would not burn her scalp. She still wasn’t used to having a lady’s maid at her disposal. Much less the thrice-daily wardrobe changes Lady Roundtree vowed were the bare minimum any self-respecting lady and her wide-eyed companion must adhere to.

The baroness would be shocked indeed to learn Nora found submitting to the process more than mildly embarrassing.

“Look to the left,” ordered Pepys, the lady’s maid responsible for making Nora presentable three times per day.

Nora obediently turned to the left.

It was either that or have her hair singed from her skull with a yank of the tongs.

Not that Pepys was cruel; she was a veritable artist with pins, tongs, and a roaring fire. The young woman claimed she could make anyone’s hair match the fashion plate of their choosing, even someone like Nora herself. Thus far, Pepys had worked positive magic.

As had Lady Roundtree’s modiste. The day dress Nora wore of dusky pink figured muslin over a pale pink underdress was not only the finest gown Nora had ever worn, but also specifically tailored for her frame. The puffed sleeves were the perfect fit, the rose-colored ribbon encircling beneath her bosom at precisely the right height.

Whenever she glimpsed herself in a looking-glass, she no longer saw Nora from a farm in the West Midlands, or even Nora, poor relation and temporary employee. The stranger staring back at her was Miss Eleanora Winfield, a proper and well-groomed woman who looked like she could be mistaken as a young lady who belonged in the midst of the London Season.

“Now down,” Pepys ordered.

Nora tilted her head toward the sketchbook in her lap, where she had been drawing imaginary gowns to wear to an equally imaginary ball. As much as she loved these dress-up sessions, she never forgot that the result was an illusion. So she drew a universe where it was not. Ballrooms where she belonged. Fashionable friends she would never have. Mr. Grenville’s arms, reaching out to pull her close.

Her day would not be so exciting. If anything, she was surprised Lady Roundtree had gone this long without summoning Nora to her side. It would not do to anger the baroness.

“Are we nearly ready?” she asked Pepys, anticipating the maid’s trademark, long-suffering sigh.

She was not disappointed.

“By now you should know that one cannot rush perfection,” Pepys chastised her. “Lady Roundtree will thank you for ensuring your appearance fits her station. Think of the baroness.”

Nora was thinking of the baroness. Fancy coiffures befitted Lady Roundtree’s station, not Nora’s. She couldn’t see the logic in hiring someone to be a companion, and then essentially paying that person to spend hours each day primping in a guest chamber well out of sight of the person the companion was meant to be accompanying.

Even Captain Pugboat was here with Nora, rather than with his owner. He yipped softly in his sleep, wriggling in a patch of sunlight beside a spotless bay window.

She grinned despite herself. It was so nice to have a pet, even temporarily. At home, they could not afford to keep non-producing animals from a monetary standpoint, and also due to her aging grandparents’ waning eyesight. The last thing Nora needed was for one of them to trip over a puppy, endangering both themselves and the pet.

The sketches she sent home of the myriad dogs she glimpsed would simply have to be enough.

“So lifelike!” Pepys exclaimed as Nora’s fingers added Captain Pugboat as her accompaniment to the imaginary ball. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I taught myself,” Nora admitted. This was what she preferred to draw—realistic portraits and hyper-detailed fashions, not boring, simplistic caricatures. “From the time I was small, I’ve loved art. We rarely have money for paints, but I can always manage to scrounge up a bit of pencil lead. Eventually I figured out how to draw and shade and create various styles. It was just a way to entertain myself.”

And now it was a means to an end. Not drawings like these, in which she could hold artistic pride, but the exaggerated cartoons she sent home to her brother to help fund the farm. The companion salary wasn’t accruing fast enough, nor did it provide as much relief for her grandparents as the caricatures.

Nora’s eyes shifted. She felt like a hypocrite sending a pittance home to her grateful family when even the towel she dried her face on each morning was more luxurious than anything her family could possibly afford. But what else could she do that she hadn’t already tried?

“No long faces,” Pepys said. “I’m nearly done.”

“I wasn’t scowling because of you.” Nora stopped drawing. “I was just thinking about how different life will be when I go back home.”

“Couldn’t you find some other lady in need of a companion?” Pepys asked.

Nora grimaced. Was that what she wanted? A life of public servitude and secret sketches, far from her family? She ignored the loneliness in her belly. Perhaps it didn’t matter what she wanted. All that mattered was her family.

“You don’t think Lady Roundtree would let me stay on a bit after her splints come off?”

“The baron would never allow it,” Pepys answered without hesitation. “Those splints are the only reason she has any company at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if she broke her leg on purpose, just for a little attention.”

Nora shuddered at the thought.

“Stop that,” Pepys scolded. “I’ll have to redo the last curl.”

“You cannot mean it.” Nora couldn’t believe how sorry she’d come to feel for a woman who seemingly had everything. “Why marry her and then never wish to see her again?”

“He’s the baron,” Pepys said simply. “He has more important matters to attend to than a wife. All titled men do. That’s what ton marriages are like.”

Mr. Grenville’s face flashed across Nora’s mind. For the first time, she thought of him not as a charming and genuine Society gentleman, but as a future baron. Would he be just as cold and distant as Lord Roundtree someday? With nary a moment or a care to spare for his wife?

She suspected it would break her heart to marry a man she loved, only for him to never again have time for her. And if she discovered that her love was one-sided, that he consciously chose not to fit her into a purposefully busy schedule… Her heart clenched at the thought. It would be as though she had not wedded a husband, but rather shackled herself to a daydream. A wish that would never come true.

And if the reason he did not have time for her was because his attentions were more eagerly spent at the club or in the practiced arms of a mistress…

“Henwit,” she muttered under her breath.

What did it matter what kind of husband Mr. Grenville would be like? It wasn’t as if Nora was in any danger of marrying anyone, least of all him. By the end of the Season, she wouldn’t even be in London.

“There.” Pepys handed Nora a mirror so she could view the maid’s efforts in the vanity looking-glass. “What do you think?”

Nora stared at the elegant stranger reflected back at her.

All this finery, the elaborate hairstyles, the sweeping gowns, the luxurious bed, the imposing armoire, the lady’s maid whose sole responsibility was to make Nora look like she belonged… She couldn’t help but feel like she was living someone else’s life.

“Beautiful,” she said in awe.

She paged through her sketchbook. These detailed drawings had taken far more effort than the caricatures. Mixed in with endless pages of designs for ball gowns and daywear for fashionable ladies were an equal number of sketches of events that had never happened. Nora as the queen of a ball. Mr. Grenville inviting her to dance. A stolen kiss beneath the light of—

Nora snapped the book closed. It was one thing to sketch fanciful situations as if High Society were a fairy story. For girls like her, it certainly was. But she would do well not to confuse dreams with real life. Drawings did not come true.

“Truly?” Pepys stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You are pleased?”

“You’ve outdone yourself. Thank you.” Nora set the sketchbook atop the vanity and woke Captain Pugboat from his nap. “Come along, snuggle pug. We’re on companion duty.”

She hurried down the stairs with the puppy bounding delightedly beside her, his interrupted nap completely forgotten with the promise of new adventure. Or at least a brief jaunt from one floor to another.

As they drew closer to Lady Roundtree’s favorite salon, muffled voices wafted through the semi-open door.

Nora hesitated just out of sight.

If the baroness was entertaining, was Nora meant to enter as usual, or to keep a discreet distance?

She wished someone would explain the rules. High Society life was so different than the environment back home, where the only title in town was that of “vicar.”

Her fingers clenched. Even if someone had penned a tome entitled How to be a Proper Companion to one’s Wealthy Distant Cousin who is also a Baroness, she wouldn’t have been able to read it anyway. The bouncing letters of the title alone would be too difficult to parse. Nora was just going to have to figure things out as she went along, like always.

She took a step forward just as a low, rich laugh reached her ears. Her heart warmed. Might Lord Roundtree finally have carved out a moment for his wife?

“She didn’t!” Lady Roundtree exclaimed. “You Grenvilles are a force of nature!”

Grenvilles.

Mr. Grenville.

He was here. Why on earth was he here?

Obviously not for Nora. He had come to visit with Lady Roundtree. A peer. An equal. ’Twas nonsensical to feel disappointed. Nora hadn’t come to London to receive callers, but to serve the baroness.

Yet she could not help wistfully imagining how she would sketch the scene tonight in the privacy of her guest chamber. Herself reposed in a salon, Mr. Grenville her gentleman caller, a duenna in the corner so that he should not forget himself in passion. She grinned at the fanciful idea.

“Come along Captain Pugboat,” she murmured to the puppy circling excitedly about her feet. “Let us provide some companionship. At least you and I will be a united front.”

Captain Pugboat immediately darted off toward the rear of the town house, leaving Nora alone in the corridor.

“Traitor,” she muttered.

“Winfield, is that you?” Lady Roundtree called. “Come join us.”

Nora gritted her teeth.

On the one hand, it should be an honor to be invited to join a baroness and future baron. On the other, remaining “Winfield” rather than “Miss Winfield”—or the far less likely “my cousin Nora”—in front of Mr. Grenville served to not-so-subtly remind her that she was being invited in as an employee, not an equal.

The implicit warning was wholly unnecessary. Nora was unlikely to forget where she stood, or why she was there.

When she stepped into the room, Mr. Grenville sprang to his feet, as if preparing to bow, or perhaps ensure she took her seat first.

Lady Roundtree motioned for Nora to join them. “This is Winfield, my companion. You may recall her presence in my carriage the other day in Hyde Park?”

“I have not forgotten.” Mr. Grenville did not bow, but nor did he immediately retake his seat. “How do you do, Miss Winfield?”

“Very well, thank you.” Nora dipped a curtsey and perched on the edge of the closest chair.

He retook his seat and held up a book that had been laid on a side table. “How about you? Have you read the latest?”

“Not yet,” Nora stammered. Heat climbed up the back of her neck.

Not yet, not ever.

She didn’t need to know the title or the author to realize the enjoyment of literature was yet another privilege they were never going to have in common.

Her palms began to sweat. Why had he mentioned the book? They weren’t going to ask her to read from it, were they?

Panic assailed her. She could not squelch a rush of fear that after successfully avoiding being required to read aloud thus far, she was going to have to do so in front of Mr. Grenville, and thereby lose her companion post and his respect all in one fell swoop. Her heart pounded.

Mr. Grenville set the leather volume back onto the side table and turned to Lady Roundtree. “How does your book club determine which title to read next?”

Nora swayed, lightheaded with relief that it had been an idle question and not the harbinger of doom.

“We take turns, although perhaps we shouldn’t, what with some people’s shocking taste.” Lady Roundtree affected a shiver.

Nora’s eyes bounced between them as the baroness recounted an exhaustive list of past titles chosen, and why each was inferior to her own suggestions. Nora frowned in confusion. She had no idea what had brought Mr. Grenville to this town house today, but she did not imagine he’d come calling in order to better understand the intricacies of Society ladies’ book club selections.

There was so much she didn’t know. Were visits like these a normal occurrence? Were Mr. Grenville and Lady Roundtree friends? The gaps in her knowledge seemed to widen by the day.

“I suppose you would have fixed it in a trice,” the baroness was saying. “You being the most famous professional problem-solver in all of London.”

“I am the only professional problem-solver in all of London,” Mr. Grenville said with a self-deprecating smile. “And I doubt your book club requires outside assistance. Women who are wise enough to read tend to be smart enough to solve their own problems.”

“Oh, you flatterer.” Lady Roundtree laughed in delight.

Nora did not.

She knew Mr. Grenville had meant no offense. Had, indeed, meant to compliment female-kind’s capabilities. He would be disgusted to learn that she could barely sound out the short, simple letters she received from home.

Her stomach twisted. Of all people, she had no wish for him to look at her with disgust. Not when his opinion had begun to carry more weight than ever. She wanted him to like her. If only a fraction as much as she was coming to feel for him.

“Enough about book clubs.” Lady Roundtree motioned to the tea table. “Why don’t we—”

Captain Pugboat darted into the room and slid on the freshly waxed floor.

Just as the puppy was about to slide directly into the well-stocked tea table, Nora leapt from her chair and scooped him into her arms before he could cause irreversible damage.

“And who is this fine fellow?” Mr. Grenville asked, eyes twinkling.

Nora smiled back shyly. “This is Captain Pugboat.”

“Captain.… Pugboat?” Mr. Grenville repeated doubtfully.

“Like a tugboat. But a pug, because he’s a dog,” Lady Roundtree explained. “A pug dog.”

“Yes, I grasped the connection.” He raised his brows in amusement. “Captain Pugboat seems like a very good boy.”

“Of course he is. Winfield, show Mr. Grenville how he… How he…” Lady Roundtree covered her mouth with a gloved hand to hide an enormous yawn.

Nora sent a sharp glance to the tea table. Of course. Ever since she’d broken her leg, the baroness had taken to adding a drop of laudanum to every cup of tea. It was not at all unusual for the baroness to fall asleep in the middle of conversations with Nora, but she doubted Lady Roundtree wished to do so in front of Mr. Grenville.

“Winfield?” the baroness began.

Nora was already halfway to the bell pull.

In moments, the same footmen who always carried the baroness upstairs to her bedchamber materialized in the salon with her wheeled chair at the ready.

“Tell him about Captain Pugboat,” the baroness ordered as she was bundled into her chair. “Do forgive me, Mr. Grenville. I’m afraid my broken leg has got the better of me.”

Mr. Grenville bowed to the retreating baroness. “May you recover quickly.”

In the space of a breath, Nora was now alone in an empty salon with Mr. Grenville.

Of course there was no cause for a duenna, Nora realized with a start. As she was essentially a servant, it would never cross Lady Roundtree’s mind to arrange a chaperone for her companion. It would be like hiring a lady’s maid for her lady’s maid.

Mr. Grenville had not retaken his seat, but nor had he fled from the parlor in horror at the sudden downward shift in his conversation partner. Indeed, he was gazing at her and the puppy with what appeared to be genuine interest.

“Do you ever let a face that cute out of your sight?” he inquired.

“Rarely,” Nora admitted. “Although he is Lady Roundtree’s pet. I merely care for him whilst she is unable.”

Captain Pugboat wiggled up Nora’s bodice in an attempt to lick her cheek, as if wishing to prove that Nora belonged to him rather than the other way around.

“I love pets,” Mr. Grenville confessed. “I haven’t one at the moment. Perhaps that is an oversight I should rectify. Do you favor any certain breeds?”

Nora shook her head. Captain Pugboat was the closest she’d ever come to having a pet of her own. She wished she had esoteric dog wisdom to impart that would make her seem just as clever as the cultured women who participated in book clubs.

“You look particularly lovely today.” His gaze was intense and warm.

She shook her head. “You said that last time.”

“It’s been true every time,” he said softly.

A flush crept up her cheeks. “I cannot take credit. The talent belongs to Lady Roundtree’s talented lady’s maid.”

“You must take some of the credit.” Mr. Grenville lifted his brows. “My mother has impressed upon me the tragedy that no lady’s maid on earth is capable of curling my youngest sister’s hair.”

The corner of Nora’s mouth twitched. “How many do you have?”

“Three, every one of them mad as a hatter. I love them all dearly.” He grinned. “I’m afraid I am the only male. How about you? Brothers or sisters?”

“One. Carter has been both my brother and my best friend for as long as I can remember.”

“Then you understand.” Mr. Grenville nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “That’s how I feel about my sisters. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them. Although they don’t make it easy,” he added with an indulgent shake of his head.

“Siblings never do,” Nora agreed with a tentative smile.

“I imagine you’re quite proud of your brother,” said Mr. Grenville.

She looked at him in surprise. “I am. But why should you think so?”

“Because I’m certain he’s proud of you.” Mr. Grenville’s hazel eyes locked on hers. “Captain Pugboat seems like a marvelous judge of character.”

“He likes belly rubs,” she confessed. “He would leave with you right now if I allowed you to pet him.”

He stepped forward. “May I?”

“Absolutely not.” She pretended to keep Captain Pugboat out of Mr. Grenville’s grasp. “I saw him first.”

He lifted his brows. “Didn’t Lady Roundtree see him first?”

“I saw him fifteenth,” Nora amended. “But it’s too late. He’s ours.”

“It’s never too late,” Mr. Grenville said as he rubbed behind Captain Pugboat’s ears. “And I promise to never steal your beau.”

Nora grinned back at him.

If she weren’t herself and he weren’t himself, she could easily fall in love with a man like him. He seemed wonderful. And exactly the wrong person to be exchanging a single word with.

He was not only a charming, attractive man, but also the only person outside of this household to give her the time of day. Once she left London, they were unlikely to see each other again. So why not enjoy the moment?

Captain Pugboat wiggled in her arms.

“Shh,” she hushed him. “Be a good little snuggle pug.”

The puppy ignored her and kept wiggling.

She glanced over at Mr. Grenville in embarrassment. “I fear it is past time for his afternoon walk.”

Mr. Grenville sent a startled glance toward the open parlor door as if he only now realized how long they had been conversing alone. “I did not mean to disturb anyone’s schedule. I shall leave you in peace.”

Nora wished she could tell him to disturb her schedule anytime he wished. Instead, she dipped a curtsey.

Captain Pugboat immediately sprang from her arms and streaked straight to Mr. Grenville.

“Come back,” Nora hissed urgently. “Captain Pugboat! Snuggle pug!”

It was too late.

Captain Pugboat had latched tight onto Mr. Grenville’s leg, and began to pump his little pug hips against the side of Mr. Grenville’s champagne-shined Hessians.

“Snuggle pug?” Mr. Grenville stared down at the wrinkly pug humping his leg. “That’s… not snuggling.”

Nora was unsure whether she was about to die of mortification or laughter.

“Perhaps it’s a type of snuggling,” she offered when Captain Pugboat showed no signs of stopping.

“Odd manner,” Mr. Grenville said, his eyes twinkling. “I thought your snuggle pug was despoiling my ankle.”

Nora tilted her head. “You do have shapely ankles.”

He waved a stern finger at her. “Even shapely ankles should not live in fear of being caught in a pug-of-war.”

“Pug of war!” She clapped her hands approvingly. “Excellent play on words. You, sir, are ready for your very own puglet.”

Mr. Grenville glanced down. “I believe that’s what he’s trying to make right now.”

“No, no. It shan’t do. Not at the first tea.” Nora dashed forward and yanked the flailing puppy from Mr. Grenville’s defiled ankle. “Next time, try to play harder to get. You promised not to steal my beau.”

“Please assure me this wasn’t the trick Lady Roundtree wanted you to show me,” he said drolly.

Nora burst into laughter. “Captain Pugboat has many tricks. His repertoire would amaze and astound you.”

“Then I shall expect to be further amazed at every visit.”

“Do you visit often?” she asked, unsure whether her voice trembled from hope or nervousness.

“I do now.” The expression in Mr. Grenville’s hazel eyes was unfathomable. “Until next time, Miss Winfield.”

Without further explanation, he swept a bow worthy of a royal court and left her standing alone in an empty parlor with a yipping pug in her arms and a thousand questions in her heart.