Chapter 9

That evening, Lizzy sat at her vanity, bright candlelight reflecting off the mirrors. She had never been this excited before an assembly. Her first ton ball! Tonight could change her life.

The tedium of getting ready was almost unbearable. She gritted her teeth but held her head still as Sally’s hands deftly worked the hairpins and curling iron. The faint scent of violet perfume rose from Lizzy’s wrists and throat.

Seed pearls woven through her coiffure complemented the strand at her neck. The silk of her pale blue gown shimmered in the light. A tinge of rouge and lip salve enhanced her natural glow.

“You will do Lord Greymore proud,” Sally said when she had finished. “La, ma’am, I never thought I’d be so lucky as to dress such beautiful ladies as you and Miss Bennet. And you are to open the dance with the earl himself! What a fine thing it would be, if you became a countess! Although I must say, I am partial to Mr. Darcy. He was prodigious kind to us that day in the rain, and I have never seen a man more handsome.”

Butterflies somersaulted in Lizzy’s belly. Her thoughts of Greymore were pure anticipation. She did not know him well enough to have formed an opinion. But Darcy? Her emotions were in such turmoil where he was concerned, she could not put them into words. She was filled with an indecipherable sense of unease.

Where did she stand with him? His last visit had only confused her more. She was in such a state over the man—that must signify something. She at least wished for his esteem. And that was a terrifying prospect, given how sparing Darcy was with his good opinion.

“You do not think Mr. Darcy proud, Sally?” Lizzy no longer did, but she wondered about her maid’s impression of the man.

“No, ma’am,” the girl said, her eyes wide. “I saw no pride in him. No more than in any other of that set. His uncle is the Earl of Matlock, is he not? The earl is a great man, with his work in the House of Lords. They say he made a fine speech about reforming the vote. He is a friend of the common man, and I like Mr. Darcy the more for it.”

Lizzy nodded absently. “I wonder whether Mr. Darcy holds his uncle’s sentiments.”

“That day in the rain, he spoke kindly to me and looked after me as well as if I were a lady. I cannot see how anyone could think him proud.”

Lizzy did not push the point. It was strange—all of Meryton had perceived him one way, while Sally perceived him another. In London, Lizzy never heard him called proud.

She recalled his behaviour at the ball where he had first been introduced to Meryton society. Had that night alone sealed his unfavourable reputation?

In London, amongst those of his own station, Darcy was indeed courteous and kind. The fact of it puzzled her. But she did not wish to think about him at that moment. She was exhausted with trying to make him out.

Instead, she wished to think about Lord Greymore. To dream of being a countess, however improbable the dream might be.

Her thoughts continued in that light manner during the short ride to the Greymore home. Then came the tedious wait while the carriages pulled up one at a time in front of the house. Mrs. Gardiner had allowed a full hour, since Lizzy was to be Greymore’s partner for the first dance. It would not do to be late. Even so, given the delay, Lizzy worried whether they would arrive in time.

As it was, the footman announced them to the gathered assembly at what seemed the perfect moment. They were neither punctual nor fashionably late. Lady Greymore greeted them with a fluttering welcome; Lord Greymore with a deep bow; and Lady Cressida Marlowe with a conspiratorial whisper.

They had the pleasure of meeting the rest of the Marlowe brothers. Five in total, if Lizzy counted correctly. There was also another daughter, but she was currently in her confinement. Lady Greymore was rapturous at the prospect of her first grandchild.

Jane had barely stepped out of the receiving line before Bingley claimed her. She was to be his partner for the first set, of course. Yet, the music had not started. Lizzy wondered whether they ought to be so obvious about their partiality.

But Lizzy would hardly advise Jane to show less of a preference, and risk Darcy’s interference again. Yet somehow, that thought did not inspire the same rancour it had before.

Had he arrived? She looked about the room and spotted him speaking with Lady Arabella and Miss Peabody. Arabella was dressed in white, Miss Peabody in a cerulean blue that seemed showy for a girl who had just come out.

From what Lizzy had heard, Viscount Wayne was eager to see his sister married off in her first season. She was pretty enough, but a bit nondescript in both her appearance and her personality. The colour of her gown was doubtless designed to counteract that effect.

When Darcy leaned down and kissed Miss Peabody’s gloved hand, a sudden wave of emotion washed over Lizzy. It was hot and sharp and dreadfully unpleasant, as if something that had belonged to her had been taken away. Was she jealous? Was that possible?

Darcy was not hers. What she was feeling...it was pure possessiveness. He had showered her with attention that night at the theatre, and again at Gunter’s. Now, he was with someone else. Her pride was hurt. That was all.

Their eyes met across the ballroom. He gave a little bow, and she a little curtsey. But he did not move towards her. So she turned to greet as many others of the guests as she could before the dancing began.

She was chatting with Lady Nerissa when Greymore came for her. “My mother has instructed the musicians to ready themselves. May I lead you out to open the ball?”

She gave him her hand. They walked to the floor as the first strains of music began. Some stares and whispers accompanied them as they went. Clearly, this was not what the guests had expected of Greymore for the first dance.

She did not let the reaction affect her equanimity. Elizabeth Bennet was the daughter of a gentleman. She had as much right to dance with an earl as any other young woman in England. She gazed at her partner and held her head high, while butterflies waged war in her stomach.

AS THE COUPLES TOOK their places in the set, Darcy startled. Greymore escorting Elizabeth—what the devil? It was one thing for the man to flatter her at the theatre. It was another for him to distinguish her in this way at a ball thrown by his mother. The dancing had not even started, and already the matrons were whispering.

Darcy turned his attention to Lady Cressida. At the Netherfield ball, Elizabeth had scolded him for his reticence. Tonight, he was determined to play the gallant to his partner.

“Your mother must be pleased with the turnout,” he said to Cressida. “I imagine more guests will join us as the evening progresses.”

“That is generally the case,” she said blandly. “There are not so many couples yet that we might be squeezed. One wonders whether it will continue so for the rest of the evening.”

Scintillating conversation it was not. At least Darcy’s partner could not accuse him of neglecting her.

As the cotillion got underway, Lady Cressida’s pale green gown swirled as she moved through the turns. She looked young and carefree and beautiful.

Darcy had always thought her pretty, but her exuberance as they danced brought a sparkle to her eye. Her movements were so graceful, a sort of transcendent joy stirred in his chest. With Lady Cressida, dance was not just an entertainment. It was an art.

They exchanged partners around the square. She promenaded with Greymore, he with Elizabeth. An altogether different sensation came over him. When his gloved hand pressed to Elizabeth’s, he felt it like a brand.

Her eyes were not just bright from activity. Their dark depths invited him to lose himself. The stirring was not only in his heart, but also in his loins. And there was nothing transcendent about it.

He could not disguise the huskiness in his voice as he said, “How good to see you, Miss Bennet.”

Those were the only words they had time to speak before the dance parted them again.

The rest of the half hour proceeded in much the same way. He was all politeness to Lady Cressida. However, every time he found himself by Elizabeth’s side, gazing into her eyes, the rest of the room fell away.

“I saw you speaking with Lady Jersey earlier,” he said, searching for a topic of conversation. “Have you secured permission to waltz?”

As she moved back in Greymore’s direction, Darcy realized what a blunder he had made. Now she would expect him to ask her to waltz.

He could do no such thing. And not only because of the potential for gossip. He could not trust his body if he were so close to her.

No woman had aroused such uncontrollable desire in him before. Darcy took pride in his mastery over his passions—but all that seemed lost in her presence.

He turned his attention to Lady Cressida. Setting his jaw, he resolved to concentrate on the dance.

How long would it be until he could propose to Elizabeth? A month’s courtship should be enough. She must have a hint of his feelings by now, and she had not discouraged him. Given another three weeks for the banns to be read, they could be married by Easter.

His blood stirred as he watched Elizabeth dance. Her pale blue gown showed off her beguiling figure. The sooner, the better, as far as he was concerned. By April, she would be his.

LIZZY TOLD HERSELF to stop watching Darcy out of the corner of her eye. Seeing him chat so amiably with Lady Cressida when the dance first began had raised Lizzy’s anger. She seethed with it. He had never been so courteous to any of the young ladies in Hertfordshire.

But as the dance progressed, he seemed to lose his sociability. He had grown taciturn, and now seemed to be staring daggers at Lizzy. What had she done to offend him?

She suspected tongues were wagging about his choice of partner for the first set. Some of the guests had clearly expected she and Darcy to dance together. Now those rumours had been put to rest. It was plain for all to see that Mr. Darcy was not courting Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Fortunately, they were both dancing in a place of honour. No one need pity them, or assume one had spurned the other. They were, one might conclude, just friends.

That was exactly what she had most wished from this dance. The effect was perfect. She could not be more pleased.

But then, how could she explain the sensations that had beset her when Darcy had led Cressida to the dance floor? The heaviness in her chest and the lump in her throat? She had felt it like a slap.

That petite blonde thing, with her forty thousand pounds, would make him the perfect wife. Darcy knew it, and Lizzy knew it. He was parading the girl under Lizzy’s nose so she could not misunderstand the situation.

Remembering herself, she looked up at Lord Greymore. He was a graceful partner, his movements smooth and easy. When they came together in the dance, he gazed at her intensely. The look brought a flush to her—one more of embarrassment than excitement. But he was excessively handsome, not to mention tall and well formed. She told herself to enjoy the moment and cast off her self-consciousness.

“How are you enjoying London?” he asked her. “Do you miss the countryside?”

“I do not miss the quiet, but I do miss the landscape. Fortunately, Berkeley Square provides a lovely venue for my morning walks.”

The dance separated them. When they came back together, Greymore spoke again. “My mother’s great passion is the garden at our country estate. She does what she can here. She has put in several new plantings this year.”

“The garden is lit with lanterns tonight, so our guests can take the air. Might I accompany you outside after the dance?”

That seemed a bit forward to Lizzy. But if they stayed close to the house, there could be no impropriety in it.

So when the music ended, Greymore led Lizzy to Mrs. Gardiner. “Might I have your permission, ma’am, to escort Miss Elizabeth out to the terrace? I have been telling her of the plantings my mother installed, and she is eager to see them.”

Lizzy wondered what Greymore’s intentions were. He did not have a reputation as a rake, or even a rogue. Yet, even the most upstanding male might try to sneak a kiss.

Such a liberty would not be welcome. She did not wish him to think her the sort of woman who would allow such intimacy after a single dance. No, she would keep him at arm’s length. He seemed gentleman enough to respect that.

The broad terrace shone with the light of a dozen lanterns. The stone beneath their feet was a pale brown, and a few steps led down to the formal garden. Huge urns on either side of the stairs were planted with hollies. Red berries burst from branches covered with glossy green leaves. Winter jasmine grew around the trunks. The slender stems of yellow flowers cascaded over the edge of the pots.

“Very pretty,” Lizzy approved. “It is not Longbourn, but the hollies give me a sense of home.”

She looked up at him slyly. “If I did not know better, I would think I had conjured you from a novel. A dashing and handsome earl, all kindness and flattery...”

“But like any romantic hero, you must have some flaw. They do in all the novels. Did you witness a murder as a child, and lock away the memories? Or perhaps it is nothing so dark. Your property is mortgaged, and you must marry a crass, hateful upstart of an heiress to save it.”

“Nothing so interesting.” He narrowed his brow. “If I had to name my greatest flaw, I would say it is this: I intimidate my fellows with my extraordinary talents at sporting pursuits. Boxing, shooting, fencing, billiards—I surpass them all.”

Lizzy looked at him askance. “I agree, your lordship. Your greatest flaw is your lack of humility.”

A cold breeze rustled the trees. She hoped it would not muss her coiffure. She drew her shawl close around her and considered the question a moment. “Sometimes I place more stock in being clever than in being wise.”

“There is. But it is not mine to tell. Suffice it to say that I shall never again trust my first impressions.”

“That is a fine trait indeed. But it is not the one I would choose as your best.”

He looked at her with a gaze so intense it stopped her breath. His pale eyes sparkled in the lamplight, his wry smile dimpling at the corner.

For an anxious moment, she thought he might kiss her. She was relieved when he suddenly pulled away instead. In a dramatic fashion, he stepped up onto a stone bench as if it were a stage. In a rich baritone, he recited,

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Thus mellow’d to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies

He stepped down and approached her, a soft smile on his face. She watched him appreciatively. He took her gloved hand and kissed it.

“How romantic, your lordship,” she said, heart fluttering. “You rival Byron himself.” She slipped from his grasp. “But if you believe beauty to be my best quality, that is not a compliment to my character. If you get to know me better, I hope you will discover more laudable ones.”

He gazed at her deeply. “Now I know two more things about you. You are not beguiled by poetry, and you prefer to be admired for your mind.”

She looked up at him, scrutinizing his face. He was ridiculously handsome—stormy eyes, an aristocratic nose, a neat blond moustache. His shoulders were broad, his waist lean, and his legs muscular. His dark breeches showed off the latter to excellent effect.

“With all you have to recommend you,” she asked, “why would you open a ball with me?”

“You are an original,” he said without hesitation. “Cressida likes you, and she likes hardly anyone. She has an uncanny knack for recognizing when someone is dissembling. She said you might be the most honest person she ever met.” He gave Lizzy a wicked grin. “That might have something to do with your penchant for being clever rather than wise.”

The wind picked up again, and the trees above them creaked. Lizzy hoped it would not storm. The sky looked clear, thankfully.

Greymore’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I noticed that your sister opened the ball with Bingley. Some think there is an understanding between them.”

She knitted her brows, troubled by the rumour. Could it be true? Might Jane have entered into an engagement with Bingley and told no one—not even Lizzy?

“I cannot believe that to be the case. Jane would know the impropriety of it, and it is not in her nature to flaunt social expectations. Besides, what would be the advantage of secrecy? He is independent, and she of age.”

She wondered how much to reveal to him. “There are those, I believe, who sought to prevent the match. They convinced him my sister’s affection was more for his fortune than for himself. Now that the two have been reunited, he is perhaps more wary than he would otherwise be.”

Greymore’s brows drew together in consternation. He said sharply, “Who would impose on him in such a way? From all his sisters say, they adore Miss Bennet.”

Lizzy had to give Miss Bingley her due. Even a man of Greymore’s discernment believed she held Jane in affection. Caroline was a fine actress indeed.

Lizzy chose her words carefully. She did not wish to seem catty. “Miss Bingley has been most generous in heaping praise on my sister and me. Why, she has convinced the entire ton to take notice of us. Jane has acquired so many suitors, one might expect her to turn her attention away from Bingley. Leaving him free to pursue a more advantageous match.”

Greymore’s expression changed to one of confusion, then surprise, then understanding. “By Jove,” he said, “I have always known Miss Bingley to be clever. And her kindness towards you and your sister did seem out of character. But tell me, Miss Elizabeth, is your sister so fickle? Are her affections likely to be swayed?”

Lizzy warmed as thoughts of Jane’s generous nature swelled her heart. “Not at all, your lordship. I have never seen anyone so constant. In that aspect, at least, Miss Bingley’s plan will fail.”

“And what about in your case? She pays as many compliments to you as she does your sister.”

“I believe Miss Bingley regards me as a rival for Mr. Darcy’s affection. She hopes someone else will sweep me off my feet.”

Greymore looked at her significantly, his brows arched. “Are you her rival for Darcy’s affection?”

He grinned. “Let me put that another way. Should I consider Darcy a rival for your affection?”

Her breathing grew shallow as she felt herself caught in his aura. Her heart experienced such palpitations, her impulse was to call for Hill to bring her a tonic. But Hill was back at Longbourn attending to Mrs. Bennet’s ills, both real and imagined.

Lizzy contemplated the question. Did she wish for Lord Greymore to court her? Of course she did. She would be a fool not to.

But what of Darcy? Her feelings for him were as muddled as ever. If she were in love—and if she believed him to feel the same—it would be wrong to string Greymore along.

But she did not know her own heart, much less Darcy’s. Had the past few weeks been the start of a grand passion? Or a fleeting and insignificant interlude? Only time would tell.

So she answered carefully, leaning in to offer encouragement. “My affection has not yet been given. At this time, it is entirely my own.”

He hesitated a long moment. “I see the way Darcy looks at you—as if you are the most fascinating creature he has ever beheld—and I wonder why.”

His words left her breathless. She took a moment to recover. “I cannot help wondering myself. Sometimes I believe he is assessing my faults.”

Greymore chuckled. “I doubt that. I was surprised, though, when he made a point of asking Cressida for the first two dances tonight. Otherwise, I would not have dared to request the same of you. He and I have been friends a long time. If he had a prior claim on you, I would step aside.”

“Odd, that.” He shifted his weight. “I would not have thought him a stickler, any more than I am. I do not seek a wife from a noble family—only one who can make me happy. I would expect Darcy would want the same.”

“You and I have different impressions of him. In Hertfordshire, he made it clear that rank mattered.”

Greymore nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see how that might be the case. It was not always so, I assure you. When we first started at Cambridge, his closest friend was a man of no rank at all, barely even a gentleman. His father was the steward at Pemberley.”

“I considered him a friend before I learnt of his true nature.” Lizzy still felt a pang in her heart over the man. Except it was no longer for the friendship she had lost, or the disillusionment she had felt. Rather, it was for the foolishness of letting him colour her opinion of Darcy. She hated that she had ever thought ill of him.

“Then you understand a little of Darcy’s disappointment,” Greymore said. “He clung to that friendship our first two years at Cambridge. Meanwhile, Wickham grew ever more dissolute. The break finally came when Darcy let him linger in debtor’s prison for a week before paying what was owed. After that, Darcy told the man he would not help him again. He said Wickham would have to apply directly to Darcy’s father. Of course Wickham did not do that. He knew on which side his bread was buttered. The old man went to his grave never knowing what Wickham had become.”

“Poor Darcy indeed. His oldest friend in the world had come to regard him as nothing more than a financier.”

“It was shortly after that incident when Darcy met Bingley. Bingley has all of Wickham’s amiability but none of his vices. He truly is amongst the best of men, Miss Bennet.”

Lizzy beamed at that praise of her sister’s sweetheart. “He has shown all evidence of being so. Mr. Bingley has been exceedingly kind to my family from the first we met—to the entire town, in fact. He is much beloved in Meryton.”

“I imagine he is beloved wherever he goes. He has that talent for ingratiating himself to everyone he meets. Yet there is no dissembling in him. He genuinely likes people and sees the best in them.”

The trees above them swayed. Was a storm brewing? Perhaps they ought to go back inside. But no, the sky was still full of moonlight. As long as it did not rain, a little wind would not bother her.

She said, “Mr. Darcy does not possess the habit of ingratiating himself to strangers. Yet he seems comfortable here amongst the ton.”

“He is well regarded, though his circle of close friends is small. By his own choice. He does not trust easily.”

Greymore nodded, giving her a significant look. “After the disappointment with Wickham, Darcy particularly distrusts those not of his rank.”

And that includes me, she thought, though she did not say it. She did not have to. Greymore understood.

Lizzy pulled her shawl close against another gust of wind. A snap rent the air, and Lizzy jumped as a tree bough hit the ground with a crack. It fell just beyond the terrace, not three feet from her.

“Good heavens!” Greymore cried, clasping her shoulders. “Are you well, Miss Bennet?”

She took a calming breath. “Yes, fine. It...startled me more than anything.”

He looked up at the canopy of branches above them. “I must have the groundskeeper check that tree tomorrow to make sure it is not rotten. I would never have forgiven myself if you had been injured.”

She gave him a smile, her composure returning. “I thank you for your solicitude. I am fine, truly.”

He went to inspect the bough. It was a yard long and as thick as her wrist. It would likely not have killed her, but it might have done some harm if it had struck her head. She winced at the thought.

Greymore tossed it behind a shrub, clearing the path. “I would not want anyone tripping over that in the dim light.”

He brushed off his hands as he approached her. “I fear you are getting chilled. Let us go back inside.”

She nodded and took the arm he offered. She decided she liked the Earl of Greymore very much.

Yet some part of her rebelled at the thought. In her heart, she yearned for Darcy.