The music swelled to its conclusion and the dancers halted, offering their final bows and curtsies.
George took Lydia’s hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the lace of her glove.
“Until tomorrow night, my love,” he murmured against her hand.
Lydia felt a flush of intoxicating excitement rush from her toes to the top of her elaborate hairstyle.
George offered his arm to escort her back through the crowd to Colonel Forster and Harriet.
Lydia walked beside him, her head spinning with plans. She needed to pack a trunk, to ensure she had adequate ribbons for Scotland, and to contrive how to slip past Winslow who never slept.
They reached her friends.
“Thank you for the dance, Miss Lydia.” George bowed formally, then turned to Harriet. “Mrs Forster, it has been a delight.”
He did not linger. He executed a final bow to the Colonel and melted into the crowd, moving to the card room.
Lydia stood beside her hostess, and her face split into a wide grin. She was sixteen years of age, standing in the most fashionable assembly room in Brighton, and in twenty-four hours, she would be embarking upon the greatest, most scandalous adventure of her life.
Lydia Bennet smiled again, and her mind drifted to the lobster patties. She sincerely hoped they served them for supper. A future bride required proper nourishment.
Chapter Eleven: A Most Unexpected Passenger
Lydia spent Thursday floating upon a thick, impenetrable cloud of romantic anticipation. She was thinking of George, his blue eyes, and his crooked smile that rendered her knees useless. He had, after all, proposed to her amidst the glittering chandeliers of the Castle Tavern.
Well, he had not actually proposed marriage, but rather a scandalous midnight flight to Scotland, though it was not of great significance. A secret carriage ride was far more thrilling than standing in a draughty parish church while someone read a tedious sermon. Oh, a wedding under the anvil in Gretna Green! What a lark!
The magnitude of her secret was nearly unbearable. She felt like a balloon filled to the bursting point with glorious triumph.
She caught herself three distinct times before accidentally revealing the plot to Harriet. The first occurred over breakfast. The second happened while selecting a new pair of gloves. The third was a very near disaster involving a discussion of the Scottish weather. She almost saidI do not know, but I could tell you next week.
She also very nearly confessed to Elizabeth during afternoon tea. She had stoppedherself just before the words escaped her lips, because her sister would undoubtedly ruin everything with her sensible lectures.
By the conclusion of dinner, the anticipation was a physical agony.
Lydia pushed her syllabub away, and pressed two fingers to her temples, hoping for a pained look.
“I have a pounding megrim.” She offered a weak, suffering sigh to the dining room at large. “The sea air has overwhelmed my constitution. I must retire to my bedchamber to recover.”
Elizabeth offered a look of suspicion. Harriet offered one of sympathy.
Lydia retreated upstairs.
She paced the narrow space of her chamber, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece which indicated it was barely nine o’clock. The carriage was not scheduled to arrive until midnight.
Three hours was an eternity, an impossible expanse of time for a young woman awaiting an elopement.
Lydia retrieved her dark woollen cloak from the wardrobe, draped it over her shoulders, and pulled the hood up to obscure her face. She would walk to the militia encampment on the outskirts of town. She had never visited the camp, but she thought it would be tremendously romantic to surprise her dashing officer before the appointed hour.
She crept down the stairs and slipped out the back door.
The evening air was cool, the streets of Brighton were empty, and the noise from the taverns echoed loudly. Lydia navigated the town with the singular, blind determination of a youth seeking adventure.
The militia encampment was an enormous sea of white canvas tents illuminated by flickering lanterns.
Lydia hovered near the edge of the camp and crept behind a large oak tree, feeling exactly like a heroine in a romantic novel. She peered around the rough bark, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar red coat.
A voice drifted from the shadows behind a nearby supply wagon.
