Mrs Forster came tearing through the courtyard. She was dishevelled, her bonnet was askew, she was breathless, and full of self-importance.
The fragile moment shattered instantly. Mr Darcy and Elizabeth stepped apart, the space between them suddenly filled with the presence of the commanding officer’s wife.
“I am meant to be chaperoning the both of you!” Mrs Forster gasped for air, clutching her side. “But I was captivated by a horse with the most adorable mane! I had to try tying a ribbon onto it! But then some very silly officers forcibly removed me from the premises!”
She stopped to catch her breath, looking between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy.
“Oh.” Mrs Forster blinked. “Have I interrupted anything?”
“No!” Elizabeth and Mr Darcy answered simultaneously.
They were both flushed. Neither of them sounded remotely convincing.
At that precise moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam returned from his successful deployment of Lady Clement. He appeared at their side, looking immensely satisfied.
“What did I miss?” Richard looked between his cousin and Elizabeth with the same expression as Mrs Forster.
“I shall provide you with the details later.” Mr Darcy regained his composure with remarkable speed. He gestured to Elizabeth and Mrs Forster. “For now, we must enjoy the delightful company of these two ladies.”
Mrs Forster preened, smoothing her rumpled skirts, delighted to be the object of such distinguishedattention.
The interrupted moment was firmly, securely forced back beneath the surface of Brighton society. Elizabeth offered the Colonel a polite smile, while her heart continued to hammer, full of hope.
Chapter Ten: A Midnight Arrangement
The Castle Tavern Assembly Rooms in Castle Square stood as the pinnacle of fashionable Brighton society. While the Old Ship Inn catered to the lively militia, the Castle Tavern drew the highest echelon of London’sbon tonseeking the sea air. It was majestic, glittering, and perfect.
Lydia Bennet fully intended to conquer it.
The preparation for such a conquest, however, required significant strategic effort. The small bedchamber in Mrs Forster’s lodgings was a battlefield of muslin and scented powder.
Harriet Forster clutched a small pot of rouge in her left hand and waved a hot curling tong in her right.
“Sally, you must attend to my fringe this very instant.” Harriet stamped her satin slipper upon the wooden floorboards. “The Colonel is waiting in the parlour, and my hair resembles a collapsed nest.”
Lydia snatched the curling tong directly from her hostess’s hand.
“Your fringe is fine, Harriet.” Lydia presented her own head to the overworked maid. “My ringlets are a disaster. I cannot possibly appear before the militia looking like a damp spaniel. Sally, pinthis back.”
“We must send the maid to your sister.” Harriet adjusted the neckline of her gown a bit lower. “Miss Elizabeth cannot attend an assembly looking like a country spinster.”
Lydia shoved the curling tong back into the maid’s hands and marched into the adjoining room to inspect the damage.
She stopped dead in the doorway.
Elizabeth sat before a small dressing glass, not looking like a country spinster at all. She was magnificent. Her hair was swept up into an intricate, flawless arrangement of braids and curls, intertwined with a delicate string of pearls.
Standing behind her, wielding a tortoiseshell comb with the precision of a master artist, was Winslow.
“Winslow!” Lydia gaped at the elderly, supposedly useless servant. “You are doing hair.”
Winslow did not look up from her work. She secured a final pearl with a thrust of a hairpin.
Lydia felt a sudden prick of jealousy. She wanted pearls in her hair. She wanted her curls to look effortlessly elegant instead of desperately pinned.
She stared at her sister’s reflection in the glass. Elizabeth smiled at her.
The jealousy evaporated instantly. Lydia loved her sister. She frequently found Elizabeth’s strict adherence to proper conduct vexing, but she loved her fiercely all the same, and she wanted Elizabeth to be beautiful at the assembly.
