Page 12 of A Question of Character

“I will be pleased to meet her, then.” Georgiana came to his side. “Now, come. I have mastered the Mozart, and I wish for you to hear it.” She pulled him to the music room, and he spent an agreeable half an hour listening to her play. His thoughts wandered, though, to the dark-haired beauty who currently resided on Gracechurch Street.

Georgiana Darcy was not prone to dishonesty or dissembling. Still, she had felt such panic when he had entered the room while she read George’s latest missive. She knew her brother would not approve of her actions. She was not out, after all, and corresponding with a man not of her family was expressly forbidden.

Mrs. Younge had facilitated their meetings since they had come across one another in Lambton some months ago. Georgiana had been removed from school last December. Oh, how grateful she was for that—she had been positively miserable. Her dear brother had hired a companion and allowed her to live at home, continuing her studies with the help of a tutor.

Her companion had listened so kindly when Georgiana first confessed her admiration that trusting her had seemed the most natural thing in the world.

George and Georgiana. Their names sounded lovely together. She needed time to convince her brother that she was ready for marriage and would prefer to skip a presentation and season altogether. The thought of being paraded around the ton filled her with dread.

Surely Fitzwilliam will see and understand in time. Her brother wanted what was best for her, and she was certain that meant marrying and never having to have a come out or face all the harpies waiting to tear her to pieces. And George had promised he would never ask her to do anything that made her uncomfortable. That alone proved the honor of his character.

Mrs. Younge had proposed a holiday to Ramsgate that summer. She had mentioned George joining them there, and Georgiana had agreed to forward the idea to her brother. It would be the perfect time for telling him everything.

three

An Evening in Town

Thursday arrived sooner than Elizabeth expected. Mrs. Gardiner began the campaign directly after breakfast.

“You cannot wear the white muslin,” she said, standing before Elizabeth’s open wardrobe with the sober authority of a general inspecting insufficient troops.

Elizabeth, who had been writing a letter to Jane at the small desk by the window, lowered her pen. “I had not yet proposed the white muslin.”

“You were thinking of it.”

“I may have been thinking of my blue sprigged gown.”

“Which you wore to Mrs. Harris’s card party.”

“Then the lilac.”

Mrs. Gardiner shut the wardrobe door with decisive calm. “My dear, Mr. Darcy has invited us to dine at his house. You are not going to Darcy House looking as though you have dressed for an evening at Longbourn.”

Elizabeth twisted in her chair, amused despite herself. “I had not thought Longbourn a place of such disgrace.”

“Longbourn is not in disgrace. Your Hertfordshire gowns, however, are not all prepared for London scrutiny.”

“Is Mr. Darcy so severe a judge of gowns?”

“No,” her aunt replied, which somehow made the matter worse. “But his housekeeper, his servants, and any lady of his circle who hears of the dinner may be. Besides, I have long wished to see this gown worn by someone who will do it justice, and you are not to rob me of my pleasure.”

Elizabeth laid her pen aside. “This has less to do with Mr. Darcy than I had supposed.”

“Everything has to do with Mr. Darcy tonight,” Mrs. Gardiner said, crossing to the bell. “We shall pretend otherwise, of course.”

“Aunt!”

Mrs. Gardiner laughed and rang for her maid.

By the time the carriage was called that evening, Elizabeth had endured more attention to her appearance than she had considered strictly necessary for dining with a gentleman who already knew her capable of criticizing paintings in public. Her aunt’s maid had worked with astonishing industry, arranging Elizabeth’s dark hair into a coiffure of loops and curls that left the nape of her neck feeling curiously exposed. A narrow silver ribbon had been woven among the curls, so fine that it caught the candlelight when she moved.

The gown was ice blue silk overlaid with delicate silver embroidery, the bodice trimmed with lace so fine Elizabeth hardly dared breathe when it was fastened. Intricate beading caught at the sleeves and hem, not enough to dazzle, but enough to remind her that she was in London and very far from the muddy paths of Hertfordshire.

When she stood before the glass, she did not see herself at first.

Or rather, she saw herself altered.

The same eyes.