She could still see him.
Just the top of his head. Those unmistakable eyebrows, drawn in mild amusement as he bent to murmur something to the woman beside him—a woman whose only visible feature was the towering purple turban affixed to her head like a battlement.
Of course, it was his wife.
Why would he come otherwise?
He had married. And she was here—again—poking her scorched reputation into his corner of the world like a stubborn weed.
Lady Chiswell’s voice cut across her thoughts, bright as ever. “Well! What an array of offerings we have collected! Some of these entries positively reek of self-satisfaction—I shall have to air them by the fire. If wit were wine, this room would be under the table already.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Elizabeth took a step toward the doorway—then ducked swiftly behind a footman bearing a tray of glasses.
One of the glasses tipped precariously. Elizabeth reached out to steady it—too late. The tray tilted. The glasses clinked, one toppled. The footman caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been through far worse.
A sharp clatter. A ripple of laughter.
“Steady on, miss!” someone called.
Elizabeth managed a mortified curtsy, her cheeks prickling with heat. She dared a glance toward Darcy.
He was not looking at her. He was watching Lady Chiswell with the kind of intensity normally reserved for duels and disputed inheritance.
She pivoted at once, retreating behind a ficus with all the grace of a guilty child caught in a parlor she ought not to have entered.
Lady Chiswell cleared her throat. “Let us begin.”
A flurry of hushes passed through the room. A few guests adjusted their gloves in anticipation.
“‘To the gentleman who insisted last week that women ought never to play chess: I should be delighted to let you win. Provided you learn to spell bishop without assistance.’”
There was general laughter. A red-faced gentleman near the sideboard gave a theatrical bow, muttering, “Touché.”
“Miss Grey,” someone guessed.
“No, no, that sounds like Mrs. Eldridge!”
Lady Chiswell waved them off. “No guessing until the end.”
She unfolded the next.
“‘Lady Feathering’s wig should be knighted for its service in the face of gravity.’”
A collective gasp.
Lady Feathering blinked thrice, then sniffed. “Well, I never—”
“Oh, but you have,” her companion whispered too loudly.
“Lord, these are ghastly,” Elizabeth muttered, ducking deeper behind the ficus.
“They are not yours,” Mrs. Gardiner whispered, suddenly appearing at her side with an exasperated smile. “Why are you skulking like a barmaid caught stealing sugar cubes?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I am protecting the dignity of ficus plants everywhere.”
Her aunt gave her a look. “Your dignity could do with less crouching.”
The room tittered as Lady Chiswell picked up another.
