Pausing only a moment to look at her appearance one final time, she rose and turned from the mirror to face him. The peacock blue silk fell in graceful lines from her square neckline, the sheen deepening beneath the candlelight. The rivière at her throat lay cool and brilliant against her skin, each stone catching the light with restrained fire.
She had scarcely taken a step when she realised he had not spoken again.
His waistcoat, a darker blue shot through with silver thread, harmonised deliberately with her gown, the subtle pattern echoing the embroidery at her hem.
It was not his attire that held her attention.
It was his expression.
For several long moments, he did nothing but look at her. When he finally smiled, pride warmed his gaze; his admiration on full display.
“You cannot expect me to endure an entire evening,” he said quietly, “while every man in that room looks at you in that gown—not when you are mine.”
Warmth rose beneath the diamonds at her throat. “It was not my intention to cause you to struggle.”
“No?” He crossed the distance between them, his eyes lingering first upon the necklace, then along the line of silk at her shoulders, before settling upon her face. “It will have precisely that effect.”
He moved behind her and turned her gently towards the mirror, his hands settling at her waist. Bending close, he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, to that place he had long since discovered made her shiver.
The contact drew the expected response.
Several minutes passed before he reluctantly drew back. “Let us get this over with,” he murmured, offering his arm.
Together they descended.
They entered the ballroom quietly and took their place among the early guests, circulating only briefly while Lord and Lady Matlock received arrivals at the head of the room. Elizabeth was aware of the many curious glances directed at them, yet none suspected the truth.
For some time, she and William greeted those they knew well, speaking when addressed and allowing the evening to unfold as planned. He confined his conversation to those already acquainted with their news, avoiding any who were not.
At length, the receiving line concluded. The last of the invited guests had been announced, and the musicians were beginning to prepare for the first set. William had just been drawn aside by one of his uncle’s acquaintances, leaving Elizabeth engaged in conversation with his cousin.
It was then that she heard it.
“Miss Eliza,” a sneering voice rang out, louder than propriety would bear and clearly intended to draw notice, “what on earth are you doing at Lady Matlock’s ball this evening?”
“I was invited by Lady Matlock, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied evenly.
Before Miss Bingley could shape her next insult, the crowd shifted and parted. Lady Matlock advanced, tall and commanding in midnight silk, the diamonds at her throat flashing as she fixed Miss Bingley with a look Elizabeth had once seen reduce a colonel to uneasy silence.
The receiving line had only just concluded, and Lord Matlock was already moving towards the musicians, clearly intending to set the evening’s festivities in motion. However, the countess,having evidently caught the first strains of what promised to become a spectacle, had altered her course.
“My dear Elizabeth,” she said, turning towards her, “may I ask who addresses you in such a manner?” Her gaze moved, cool and assessing, to Miss Bingley. “I have never heard anyone call you Miss Eliza. It surprises me that such liberty should be taken—particularly now.”
“No, my lady. I was known by that name to only a few in Hertfordshire, but it is not one I prefer,” Elizabeth answered calmly. “Nor have I ever given Miss Bingley leave to address me so. But you must know her well, since she is here this evening—do you not?”
Lady Matlock’s brows lifted. “I cannot say that I do.” Her gaze travelled from Miss Bingley’s coiffure to her slippers, pausing with pointed deliberation upon the extravagant feather nodding in her hair. “How came you to be present?”
“My brother is a guest of Mr Darcy,” Miss Bingley said, straightening and attempting an air of consequence.
“Mr Bingley was not invited this evening,” Lady Matlock replied crisply, “and I know with certainty that he did not arrive with my nephew.” She regarded Miss Bingley steadily. “I am astonished that you would attend my house for any purpose. Was I not sufficiently clear when last we spoke?”
Elizabeth saw colour rise high in Miss Bingley’s cheeks.
“It was only a few months ago at the theatre,” Lady Matlock continued coolly, “when you attempted to persuade me that your connection to my nephew was of a far more intimate nature than it proved to be. The guest list this evening was selected with care. I fail to comprehend how you obtained admittance.”
“I… um…” Miss Bingley faltered. Elizabeth became acutely aware of the hush forming around them; nearby conversation had ceased altogether.
“Did you present an invitation at the door?” Lady Matlock’s tone sharpened. With a small, decisive gesture, she summoned a footman in Matlock livery. “Assist this lady in locating her brother, if he is indeed present, and then see them both from the house. Should an invitation have been shown, you will take possession of it. I shall make further enquiries in the morning.”
