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When Elizabeth did not look away, she ventured. “I believe you were once in love with my brother. Are you still?”

A lone tear slipped from Elizabeth’s eye, the only sign of her discomposure. Dropping her head, she nodded.

“Is that why you did not want him to touch you? You seek to protect him by keeping him at a distance ...by keeping him from caring?”

“For a brief moment I imagined him to be Stefano, but when I realised—” She stopped.

“No. He cannot care for me. I am too far beneath him, but Stefano would never believe he does not have some feelings for me if I stay.” This revelation was followed by fresh tears.

“Please do not cry. All will be well. Trust me. We will care for you—Fitzwilliam and I, Mrs. Drury, Mrs. Reynolds, and your sister and brother, Jane and Charles. Together we will keep you safe.”

Elizabeth continued to cry, as Georgiana ran soft hands over her face and hair.

“Shhh, you will make yourself more upset. Try not to cry.”

Finally, Elizabeth sobbed, “Do not tell him.” She looked up. “Please, you promised.”

“I will keep your secret, though I think you should tell him what you have told me.”

“I cannot.”

“I understand.”

London

Matlock House

The Viscount’s Birthday Ball

As at every party in London, a group gathered in a corner to critique the participants of the Matlock’s ball. These little get-togethers were a source of delight to this coterie, as they, themselves, were of little consequence. Thus, following the comings and goings of those who were important, made them feel somewhat important, too, especially when they were the first to learn the latest gossip.

Each lady in the circle was beyond the flower of youth, and none had ever been called a beauty, so they were resigned to being ignored by most of the male populace. Gentlemen of their acquaintance were mainly interested in the gullible debutantes, pretty young widows and lonely wives. Even their own husbands preferred the company of other men in the smoke-filled card rooms to partnering them in a set.

Thus, left to their own devices, the ladies formed a club of sorts recently. Their favourite activity thus far was wagering on the likelihood of one lady or another capturing the attention of a certain gentleman, always designated to be the most eligible one in attendance. Tonight the man who captured their interest was not only the most eligible man at this ball, but quite possibly, in all of England—Fitzwilliam Darcy.

“Oh, ladies, I am so excited. We do not often have a man of Mr. Darcy’s calibre, so shall we begin? Tonight my wager is on Lady Waltham,” Mrs. Graham exclaimed, trying to be heard over the din of conversation surrounding her circle of friends. “Lady Leighton is not even in the receiving line, though I had understood that she was to attend with her husband, the viscount, so perhaps she has given up her designs on Mr. Darcy.”

Even as she spoke, Mrs. Graham’s eyes combed the receiving line to see who might be next, seeing that Lady Gwendolyn Waltham had made her dramatic entrance moments before, and the murmuring amongst the crowd at her appearance had just now quieted. On the far end of the line were, of course, Lord and Lady Matlock, followed by the Viscount Leighton, his brother Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, and lastly, Mr. Darcy. But still, Lady Leighton had not appeared.

“I have never seen a more daring gown than Lady Waltham’s! I would never wear something as bold as red satin and certainly not one so revealing. I expected her bosom to fall out at any moment. And those rubies! The necklace must have cost a fortune, let alone the earrings.”

Mrs. Mumford finally had her say. “I hear she has had plenty of experience in, shall we say, arts and allurements.” Then remembering her own failed attempt to engage Mr. Darcy in suggestive conversation at the Matlock’s dinner for Richard, she chuckled. “I could certainly use some advice.”

“I could as well!” Mrs. Trentholm sighed, glancing again at Mr. Darcy. Her attempt at seduction came on the heels of Mrs. Mumford’s and had been quickly thwarted by the dark-haired Master of Pemberley.

Mrs. Hinds stated decidedly, “Gwendolyn Waltham does not stand a chance if Jacqueline Leighton decides to attend. You know the rumours as well as I—how they were found in the library together the night of her engagement dinner and by his own sister!” As several began to voice disagreement, it forced her to concede, “I know—I know. Mr. Darcy was never implicated as being anything but an innocent party, but that is all the more reason to suspect she will try again. She set her sights on him once, why would she not try again with her marriage in tatters? Certainly there is no love lost between the viscount and her.”

As the ladies nodded in agreement, Janet Mumford brought in another name. “I believe Cecile Preston has given up her quest to be the next Mistress of Pemberley and rightfully so. Lord knows she is too plain to compete with Gwendolyn or Jacqueline.”

“Or most women!” Martha Harris interjected to everyone’s delight.

“I never saw any logic for Mr. Darcy’s attraction,” Patience Trentholm added.

“I agree entirely,” Gertrude Hinds confided enthusiastically, then adding, “I have it on good authority that dear Cecile has now set her cap for Lord Farthington.”

“Farthington!” The rest exclaimed in concert.

“Why he is at least eight and fifty!” Janet Mumford gasped.