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Aunt Pheeney would not be put off any longer. She dragged Elisabeth from her chair. “No more hiding away up here. This is meant to be a celebration. Not a wake.”
“I know, I only need to—”
“No more delays, young lady.” Aunt Pheeney had already bullied her halfway to the door. “Come downstairs now.” Her usually cheerful features rearranged themselves into what, for her, passed as stern lines. “That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Elisabeth allowed herself to be led out, Gordon’s sapphires abandoned upon her dressing table.
As they descended the stairs, the music rearranged itself into a proper country dance. Men led their partners onto the drawing room floor, the furniture removed for the evening, doors flung wide to create one enormous, glittering, laughter-filled expanse.
Elisabeth cast her eyes over the sea of guests. Most of them family, though neighbors and friends, some from as far away as Dublin, had come to be a part of the wedding festivities. The marriage of the Fitzgerald heiress had been a long time coming. Everyone wanted to be there to witness it. Or, a more cynical voice nagged at her, say they were present when Elisabeth Fitzgerald was jilted a second time.
Aunt Fitz and Lord Taverner chatted in one corner. Elisabeth’s guardian no doubt discussing marriage settlements and jointures and land trusteeships. Aunt Fitz nodding thoughtfully, though she bore a hawkish scowl.
Cousin Rolf, dashing in his scarlet regimentals, and beautiful Cousin Francis, in white and gold, whirled their way through the set while Cousin Fanny and Sir James grazed from the passing platters.
Uncle McCafferty deep in conversation with a gentleman she didn’t recognize. Obviously one of the Dublin crowd invited by softhearted Aunt Pheeney, who felt anyone she so much as passed three words with merited an invitation.
Gordon and his half brother, Marcus, stood amid a group of sober-clad companions. Gordon’s handsome features and athletic physique, as usual, drawing the eye of every woman in the room. She squared her shoulders. Plastered a smile upon her face. In a few days, this absurd spectacle would be over. She would be wed.
“Come along, Elisabeth. They’re all waiting on you,” Aunt Pheeney coaxed. “Behold, the bride cometh.”
“I think that’s bridegroom, Aunt Pheeney.”
“Tish tush, close enough.”
The music ended. But only for a moment before the scrape of violins began again. Different couples. Same pairings and partings to the steps of the dance.
She held back, slightly breathless, a strange tightening in her stomach. “Let me just collect myself for a moment and I’ll be in.” At her aunt’s skeptical look, she added, “I promise,” and kissed her soft, dry cheek.
Her aunt patted her hand. “Very well, child. But a moment only.”
Elisabeth watched the scene below her as if she were a little girl sneaking down from the night nursery to catch a glimpse of her mother and father among the florid, laughing faces.
Even long after their deaths abroad, when Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney had been the ones hosting the lavish balls and jolly house parties, Elisabeth’s gaze had always wandered over the tableaux below her as if she might spot her mother’s Titian hair or her father’s broad back amid the throng.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the comfortable shadows of the hall into the blaze of a thousand candles. Immediately, Gordon lifted a quizzing glass to his eye, studying her for a long moment before he lowered it, a question glinting in his eyes.
She tried smiling an apology, but he’d already turned back to the men in response to a chummy slap on the back that left them all guffawing in good humor.
But another had yet to look away. The stranger with Uncle McCafferty. The weight of his stare sent heat rising into her cheeks until she realized it wasn’t her face he was fixated upon but her chest. Hardly the first man to be so bold, though it unnerved her just the same. Let him ogle his fill, then. What did she care? She lifted her chin to return his steady regard with her own.
He stood well above her uncle, perhaps even of a height with Gordon. But whereas her betrothed possessed a wrestler’s build, this man’s lean muscularity spoke of agility and nuance. A swordsman. Not a pugilist.
His gaze narrowed as he bent to sip at his wine. Tossing Uncle McCafferty a word while keeping her under watch. There was something familiar about him. The way he stood, perhaps. Or the slash of his dark brows. His eyes finally moved from her breasts to her face, a rakish invitation playing at the edges of his mouth. Warmth became a flood of scalding heat. No, she certainly did not know such a forward, insinuating gentleman.
And with a regal twitch of her skirts, she entered the fray.
The hours passed in a haze of conversation and music. She barely sat out a single dance. Traded from partner to partner as each man sought to compliment her beauty and impart his good wishes. Gordon spoke for her first, of course. Led her to the floor, his hand gripping hers as if she might try to escape. He made only one comment upon her choice of adornment. “I’m sorry you didn’t like my gift. If you’d prefer, we can choose something more to your liking.”
Guilt dropped into the pit of her stomach, and she smiled more brightly than she otherwise would have done. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” He arched a brow which made her words spill faster. “But it didn’t go with my gown, you see. Tomorrow evening. I promise. I have a new gown it will suit perfectly.” She went so far as to bat him playfully on the arm with her fan.
Gordon offered a pained smile. “Wear your little bauble, Elisabeth. Among this company, it’s quite beautiful enough.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“No need to fly into the boughs, my darling. I only meant that I find you faultless in anything you decide to wear.”
Her prickles smoothed, she gazed up at him in clear invitation. They could slip away for a moment or two. There were alcoves aplenty. And it wasn’t as if they weren’t going to be wed in a few days.
