“Generally speaking, yes. It is an invitation.”

“Oh, dear, rather powerful, isn’t it?”

Sophronia suspected Dimity would never look a man in the face again, for fear of issuing invitations.

“This is why you must master the differences among the three, not to mention the nature and length of the look itself. Facial expressions, my dears, can be thought of as part of one’s toilette. In fact, clothing can also transmit messages. Tight stays, for example, offer up to the gentleman the slenderness of one’s waist. Wouldn’t he like to put his hands about it? A low décolletage suggests that he might like to touch, just there.”

All the girls gasped. A few who were wearing dresses with low necklines surreptitiously tried to tug them up.

Sophronia found herself thinking of Felix Mersey. The young viscount had taken rather a shine to her, almost a year ago now, and they maintained a cautiously civil correspondence. The kind of correspondence no parent would sniff at. Although Sophronia’s mother might have had the vapors if she’d known her daughter was receiving missives from a duke’s son. Vapors of joy, mind you. Once or twice Sophronia had, rather desperately, searched between Felix’s brief lines of courteous discourse for something more. But Lord Mersey either hadn’t it in him to pen words of love, or had lost his taste for Sophronia after her Westminster Hive infiltration. In which case, his letters were mere formality from a gentleman who would not be so rude as to break off a courtship via the written word. Sophronia suspected the latter. After all, it would shake any gentleman’s regard to find the object of his affection dressed as a male dandy and cavorting about with a chimney sweep.

Not that Sophronia was at all sure she wanted such attentions from Lord Mersey. His father was a Pickleman. She had come to like some of the supernatural set, all of whom, she knew in her heart, the Picklemen would happily see dead. As much as she admired Felix’s slouch and overconfident flirtations, how could she reconcile his politics with her dislike of his father’s secret society?

Nevertheless, Sophronia found herself daydreaming about the upcoming masquerade. She’d written to Felix of the momentous occasion, more for something to say than in the hope that anything should come of it. But, of course, he’d managed to wangle himself an invitation—after all, he was training to be an evil genius and his father was a duke. If I wear a low-cut gown, she wondered, will Felix want to touch my décolletage? And do I want to lure him in because I think I may have lost him? Or do I want him for himself? He does have very nice eyes. And his waistcoat is always well fitted.

Sophronia cocked her head, considering. And would I want him to kiss me and more? Her pulse raced and she had to consciously slow her breathing so Lady Linette would not notice. It’s amazing that there are such possibilities inherent in just a longing look. Men really are weak willed.

Lady Linette stopped the looks and returned to instruction. “What were we discussing?”

“Um, touching,” said Preshea, in an unusually meek tone.

“Oh, yes. He may also wish to kiss there.”

“What, the décolletage?” Dimity squeaked.

“Quite often.”

Sophronia, thinking of her brothers’ lewd talk, asked, “And elsewhere?”

Lady Linette smiled. “Well, yes, the very best ones like to kiss all over.”

Most of the girls inhaled in shock, and then began asking questions all at once. What did it feel like? Was it nice or was it damp? After touching and kissing, what happened? And could this really all start with simply staring directly into a man’s face at a ball?

Agatha looked as if she would like to faint. Dimity’s cheeks were rosy with embarrassment, but she was utterly enthralled. Sophronia hated to admit it, but so was she.

Lady Linette held up a hand as the wave of curiosity crashed over her. Had she been a more sensitive individual, like Sister Mattie, she might have been embarrassed by the unladylike enthusiasm. But Lady Linette was an expert in manipulation, and if knowledge of connubial relations would arm her girls better in how to infiltrate society, then she would deliver unto them the necessary.

“Calm down, ladies, do. Let us practice a few more initial seduction techniques, and discuss more on the consequences later. We are all a little overwrought at the moment. Suffice it to say that you must remember all the rules of polite society. No more than two dances with the same gentleman. No longer than the space of a dance and a half hour in one man’s company. Do not walk out with a male alone, especially not to the conservatory, unless you are related. The goal is always to keep yourself safe from ruin or accusations thereof. After you have mastered the initial looks, we will move on to the seduction itself, and the boundaries that you must keep in place to protect your reputation. I will discuss how to employ canoodles and of which variety, without being caught. We may even study some light anatomy. Anything more than that, I hope you all understand, is reserved for the marriage bed. It is your mother’s responsibility to explain such details of that situation to you as she sees fit.”

An audible sigh of disappointment met this statement.

The girls then spent a most enjoyable hour practicing longing looks without any true understanding of what might result. It wasn’t all that different from the entirety of their education at the academy. In a strange way, it was like practicing to kill someone with a bladed fan when one had yet to experience any actual act of assassination. Sophronia found herself more worried about how to respond to an imagined Felix kiss—the amount of pressure, what if there was excess saliva, where to put one’s hands?—than she was about dealing out death. Although the concerns were oddly similar—amount of pressure, what if there was excess blood, how to keep one’s gloves clean?