Page 14 of The Work of Art

Philly hated to agree. “Who’s the gentleman with her?”

“Him?” Elizabeth smirked. “Why that’s Mr. Ludlow, Lady Eliot’s very particular friend.”

As Philly and her cousins watched, Mr. Ludlow repeatedly leaned in to Lady Eliot and whispered into her ear. Each time he did so, Lady Eliot threw back her head and laughed, baring her long white throat.

“They’ve been lovers for over a month,” Elizabeth said under her breath. “Before that, Lady Eliot was seeing the man over there. The portly gentleman with the red face. I heard that he bought her a necklace with a diamond as big as a quail’s egg.”

Philly’s gaze flicked from one gentleman to the other in dismay. “How do you know all this?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Lady Eustace and Lady Eliot are bosom friends. Whenever I visit Lady Eustace, she always shares the latest on-dit.”

“She’s coming over,” Abigail whispered. “Perhaps she wants to be introduced to you, Phyllida?”

Lady Eliot and her paramour advanced upon them from across the floor. Up close, she was even more beautiful. Her skin was pale as alabaster, and the elaborate silver embroidery along the edge of her gown sparkled in the flickering light of the chandeliers.

“Miss Townsend,” she drawled. “You must introduce me to your cousin.”

While Elizabeth hastily dispensed with the introductions, Lady Eliot’s dark eyes settled on Philly.

“What an original you are,” she said before Elizabeth had finished speaking. “I vow I’ve never seen eyes like yours in my whole life. Did your mother have eyes just the same? Or your father?”

Philly met Lady Eliot’s gaze. She found no friendliness there, only a glint of something cold and faintly amused. “They did not, ma’am.”

“What a mystery.” Lady Eliot laughed. “I wonder if your children will have eyes like yours. And maybe red hair, as well? Can you imagine that, Ludlow?”

Mr. Ludlow chuckled. “Rather singular.”

“You’re fortunate, Miss Satterthwaite, that you’re not cursed with freckles. But then, your hair isn’t truly red now, is it?” Lady Eliot reached out one white-gloved hand and twined a lock of Philly’s hair between two of her fingers. “Dark brown, I think. With just a touch of red. What would you call it, Ludlow?”

“Auburn?” Ludlow suggested. “Or something approaching auburn?”

Heat flooded Philly’s cheeks. She had little experience with this type of banter, and didn’t know in what spirit to take it.

“I think it’s chestnut.” Lady Eliot withdrew her hand. “And that’s how I’ll refer to it when I describe you to everyone at my salon next week.” With a languorous smile, she linked her arm through Mr. Ludlow’s. “I must tell you, I’m rather envious of you, Miss Satterthwaite. My poor brown eyes are quite plain next to yours.”

“Your eyes have no equal, my lady,” Ludlow declared. “I challenge anyone to say otherwise.”

Lady Eliot smiled at her admirer. “I won’t believe it. Miss Satterthwaite has outshone me in every respect tonight.” She gave Philly a small, mocking nod. “I congratulate you on your victory.”

And with another tinkling laugh, she turned away in a sweep of white-and-silver fabric, and along with her gentleman, disappeared back into the crowd.

“I don’t understand,” Philly said. “Did I do something to offend her?”

Elizabeth heaved an exasperated sigh. “Heaven’s sake, Phyllida. It’s perfectly clear.”

“Is it?”

“Why, Lady Eliot is wildly jealous of you, of course.”

Philly stared at Elizabeth, dumbstruck. The idea that a creature as lovely as Lady Eliot could find anything in her to be jealous of was frankly astonishing. It wasn’t that Philly valued her own looks so meanly, but that she’d spent her whole life thinking herself more odd than beautiful. If she’d been gawped at or made a fuss over, it had never been on account of being pretty. It had been on account of being different.

In Fox Cross, those differences hadn’t seemed to matter so much. Her grandparents had taught her that there was no great value in outward appearances. It was the inside of a person that mattered. The heart and soul of them. As a result, except for a shyness about her mismatched eyes, Philly had never given her own appearance much thought at all.

Without another word, she followed her cousins as they made their way back across the ballroom toward Mrs. Vale.

“I’m famished,” Abigail said. “Thank goodness it isn’t long until supper—”

“I don’t know how you can be hungry,” Elizabeth interrupted. “You’ve hardly danced at all. If anyone should be famished, it should be—”