The drawing room held the three Bennet sisters like a jeweler’s case displaying its finest pieces.
Jane stood nearest the window, pale blue silk catching the late afternoon light, her beauty so complete and unforced that it seemed almost unfair to the other women who would attend Lady Harewood’s ball. Mary had positioned herself by the pianoforte. Her rose gown harmonized with the Broadwood’s deep brown and Georgiana’s silver pin gleaming in her dark hair. And Elizabeth, in ivory threaded with gold, stood at the center of the room wearing the long gloves that came almost up to the lace bands of her short sleeves.
Lady Sophia surveyed them from the doorway. Her gaze moved from Jane to Mary, approving, and then settled on Elizabeth.
“The ivory,” Lady Sophia said. “With the gold thread.”
“Madame Delacroix’s choice.”
“Delacroix has an eye. Lady Anne Darcy wore ivory to her first ball at Almack’s. The resemblance is coincidental, but the coincidence pleases me.” She crossed to Elizabeth and adjusted the gold comb by a degree so small it could not possibly have mattered, and yet, Elizabeth observed, it did, because Lady Sophia’s fingers understood the candlelight and how a young girl’s heart could flutter at the prospect of her first London ball.
“You will enter the ballroom, and every gentleman will look. This is inevitable and unimportant. What matters is which gentleman you look at, and for how long, and with whatexpression. Thetonreads faces the way scholars read Latin: fluently, critically, and with an eye for grammatical errors.”
“I shall endeavor to keep my grammar impeccable.”
“You shall endeavor to enjoy yourself.” Lady Sophia’s hand came down to rest briefly upon Elizabeth’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly firm. “You are twenty years old. You have a gown that suits you, a wit that will carry you through any salon in the kingdom, and a fortune that ensures you need not accept the first tolerable offer merely to escape your father’s house. This is a freedom that very few young women in England possess, Elizabeth. Use it. Dance with everyone. Observe everything. Be brilliant. Be yourself.”
“And the fortune hunters and rakes in our midst?”
“Will be managed by your trustee, who is the most vigilant man in London and who guards your reputation with a devotion that I attribute to professional duty and that I choose not to examine more closely.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, and Lady Sophia raised one finger—the finger that silenced drawing rooms and redirected conversations and had, according to family legend, once silenced a duke—and added, “You have a monk guarding your reliquary, child. The monk has excellent taste in supper dances. Do try to enjoy the evening.”
Elizabeth laughed—what else could she do? The monk would choose, and she’d have to summon that elusive serenity Jane wore so easily. She did love a good setdown, but Mayfair wanted something else: bland smiles, elegant shrugs, and hints. Utterly exhausting.
“Now, girls, the carriage is prepared, and your escorts are waiting,” Lady Sophia said, gathering them near the door with a final, sweeping assessment. “I bid you to the gods of the ballroom, my angels. Georgiana will remain awake for the gossip. Nettle and I shall not.”
Georgiana settled a heavy cashmere shawl over Mary’s rose silk, and Elizabeth took Jane’s arm as they began their descent.
“Madam, a packet.” Mrs. Alford appeared at the foot of the stairs. “For Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Mr. Darcy. His valet brought it through the stables. He said it could not wait for the carriages and requires a response.”
Elizabeth’s heart skipped as she took the parcel, wrapped in brown paper. What kind of message could he send and still remain within the boundaries of propriety?
The young ladies and Lady Sophia stopped, gathering around as she unwrapped the paper to find her dance card.
The schedule was written out in Darcy’s elegant, severe hand, every slot filled with the names Allegra had predicted—Mr. Langley, the safe, non-notable suitors, and a weeping Arthur from the shires. Every set was neat, professional, and perfectly insulated from danger.
Except for the center of the card.
There, under the heading of the fourth set—the supper waltz—the line was completely blank. He had not written his cousin’s name. He had not written his own. He had simply drawn a thick, dark box around the set.
A slip of Darcy House stationery was tucked into the silver clip at the top of the pasteboard, bearing two lines in his heavy but endearing script.
You deserve an evening of pleasure, Miss Bennet. The pencil is in your hand. - F. Darcy
A small pencil was attached to a thin white ribbon.
“What does this mean?” Jane gasped, blinking at Elizabeth.
Even Allegra was too stunned to comment, her gaze darting from the blank box to Elizabeth’s face.
“It appears,” Elizabeth said, “that I am to choose who occupies the supper set.”
“You mean you are to ask a gentleman to dance?” Mary stared wide-eyed while Georgiana at her side shot Elizabeth a wicked wink.
“I believe my trustee wishes me to write the name, and he will present it to the gentleman so honored.”
She took the pencil and, using the mahogany banister as a desk, scribbled a swift, definitive set of initials into the box and handed the card back to Mrs. Alford. “See that Mr. Darcy receives this before his carriage departs for Portman Square.”
