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Elisabeth glared at her aunt’s reflection in the cheval mirror. It was a familiar argument between them. Aunt Fitz—her own figure rail-thin—had always viewed her niece’s voluptuous Renaissance body with displeasure. Or perhaps with jealousy. Either way, visits by the modiste always ended in short tempers and long silences. And an overwhelming urge in Elisabeth to eat something tooth-achingly sweet just out of spite.
She risked smoothing a hand over the swell of one hip, the slide of the pale silk cool against her palm. “Perhaps you could simply throw a sack over me and save all this bother.”
“Don’t be pert, dear,” came her aunt’s response as she sank into an armchair by the fire with a tired rub to her temples.
Miss Havisham stood with an accommodating smile. “There now, Miss Fitzgerald. You can take it off.”
With the assistance of her maid and the modiste, Elisabeth wiggled out of the gown.
“I’ll have the alterations completed by tomorrow. Oh, it shall be absolutely stunning. You’ll be a vision. Mr. Shaw will think he’s marrying an angel.”
Elisabeth stared hard into the mirror, doubting even the expensive and exclusive Dublin modiste could affect that kind of transformation. But it was pleasant to envision appreciation lighting Gordon’s eyes upon seeing her in the creamy lace-and-silk confection.
Miss Havisham chattered on as she packed up her bags. “It must be so exciting. Having all your relations gathered together. The anticipation of starting a new life with such a respected and very handsome young man.”
“It was exciting the first time,” Aunt Fitz groused. “This time, it’s simply tedious.”
Elisabeth blushed, color staining her neck and cheeks. Eyes may act as windows to the soul for others, but in her case, all thoughts and feelings appeared pink and splotchy upon her face. Not a pretty picture when combined with her red hair. “You didn’t have to make such a to-do over the wedding. In fact, I’d have been happier had you not.”
Her aunt’s lips quirked in a sympathetic grimace. “I know, child, but Aunt Pheeney would never have forgiven us. You know how she loves a spectacle. Let’s just hope this wedding comes off without a hitch. I don’t have the strength for a third. And neither you nor I are getting any younger. You’ll be twenty-six this summer. Most of your friends wed long ago, their nurseries full.”
Elisabeth stood still while her maid secured the tapes of her morning gown. “Thank you for reminding me of my approaching decrepitude.”
“I’m only saying that once a woman reaches a certain age, it becomes more difficult to entice the—”
“I know what you’re saying, Aunt Fitz. And you’re right. It’s just taken me this long to find a suitable man. Someone I could respect enough to build a life together. Gordon Shaw is that man.”
“I hope so, or we’ve gone to a lot of bother for nothing—again,” Aunt Fitz mumbled before plastering on a cheery smile at sight of Elisabeth’s tart frown. “No, you’re right, Lissa. He’s a fine man and a suitable husband.”
Lissa. Why had her aunt used that silly childhood pet name? Did she mean to confound her just when she most needed confidence? Or was it a slip of the tongue after an interminable day of wedding arrangements?
Only one other person had ever dared call her Lissa past her tenth birthday. One infuriating, exasperating, unconscionable, miserable hors
e’s arse.
The dis-Honorable Brendan Douglas.
Music reached her. Even in her bedchamber, so far from the light and color and laughter of the drawing room downstairs, strains of Mozart floated round her like a ghost. The second movement of his piano concerto no. 27, of all things. She’d once thought it her favorite piece. But that had been many years ago. Now, just hearing the familiar chords set her teeth on edge.
First Aunt Fitz’s use of that ridiculous pet name and now this. Memories hung heavier in the air tonight than they had in many a year. Like a fog, clinging to the back of her throat. Squeezing the air from her lungs. Though that might be her stays. Hard to tell.
She placed a drop of scent behind each ear. At the base of her throat. Repinned a straggling piece of hair. Silly things. Inconsequential things. But they kept her safely in her chair while that horrible, incessant tune played below-stairs.
As a final gesture, she lifted a hand to the necklace Gordon had presented her at dinner. Amid a chorus of oohs and ahs from female relations and the menfolk ribbing him mercilessly about his besotted state, Gordon had fastened the opulent and conspicuously expensive string of sapphires about her throat. She leaned back into his hands, but he retreated with a singularly un-lover-like pat on her shoulder.
The necklace was stunning. Spectacular. A work of art. And completely not to her taste.
She reached behind, undoing the clasp. Laying the gaudy choker carefully back in its box. The music swelled as she searched her jewelry case. Lifted out another pendant to wear in its place. A plain gold chain. A simple setting. And a stone more breathtakingly dramatic than any she’d ever seen.
Large as a baby’s fist and still chipped and rough as if it had only just been mined, the milky translucent crystal was slashed with veins of silver, gold, rosy pearl, and jet black. Depending upon the light, it could shimmer with flame-like incandescence or smolder like banked coals. Tonight it glimmered in the curve of her breasts. The subtleties of its colors accentuating the honey tones of her skin, pulling glints of gold into her brown eyes.
Would Gordon understand, or would he glimpse her neck and see only her refusal to wear his costly gift? Best to wear the sapphires tonight.
She started fumbling at the catch when the door burst open on the girlish round features of Aunt Pheeney.
“Are you still lolling about up here? My dear, everyone is beginning to think you’ve gotten cold feet. Even Gordon is concerned. You know what they say about time and tide. . . .”
“I’ll just be a moment.”
