Page 39 of A Counterfeit Engagement
Miss Collins had never before contemplated forcing her way into an event for which she did not have an invitation.
In the event, it was less difficult than she would have guessed.
The sacrifice of her friendship with Miss Williams had proved its worth almost at once, for the footman had indeed checked her invitation at the door.
But he had not asked her to remove her mask, and likely would not have been able to distinguish her from Miss Williams if he had.
Miss Collins therefore entered the gate without incident.
As she walked through the rows of Tuscan cypress in their terracotta pots and heard the first notes of music coming from inside, Miss Collins was forced into unwilling admiration.
The balls of the London Season had long since blended into an indistinguishable whole for her.
The music was better or worse, the decorations more or less perfunctory, the guests more or less distinguished. It was all too forgettable.
That would not be the case tonight. There seemed to be a spell cast over Haverly House that left the guests dancing and speaking to each other in a kind of pleasant dream.
Miss Collins knew at once that she would have been having a wonderful time, if even the knowledge of potential enjoyment had not left her furious.
The splendour of the evening rendered her task more difficult, for when everyone she met was so determined to find it the event of the Season, it would not be easy to convince them otherwise.
Even Lady Phoebe and Sir Owen were too busy enjoying the addition to their own consequence derived from mentioning “my nephew’s ball” and “my cousin, the duke” in every second sentence to join her in any disparagement of the evening.
But nothing was so infuriating as her first glimpse of her cousin.
Knowing that a mask and a false name could not hide her from Sophie, Miss Collins had ducked away from the receiving line immediately upon entering the front gates.
She had stayed well away until the dancing had begun, and she could no longer be summoned to greet the duke and duchess.
Thus it was not until rather later in the night that Miss Collins made her way to the ballroom and nearly stumbled over her own feet at the first sight of her cousin.
The plain, too-quiet Sophie she remembered from childhood days was gone, replaced by a woman who seemed as much a queen as a duchess.
Sophie moved easily through the crowd, offering a smile to one guest and a quiet greeting to another.
The crowds parted as she walked, as though no one could bear to degrade their hostess, the magnificent duchess, by any such inconvenience as letting her feel the press of the evening.
And her appearance — Miss Collins ground her teeth, wishing that she could find any way to describe it other than as a triumph.
From the ruby diadem atop her head to the silk slippers on her feet, it was perfect.
She had not the slightest doubt that Sophie was about to start yet another fashion, for Miss Collins could not deny that she herself had wanted that magnificent dress of translucent blue silks instantly and passionately on sight.
For a moment, she half-thought of rushing at her cousin and tearing the dress from her body.
At least it would wipe that gentle smile from Sophie’s face.
And if it would end in no less disgrace for Miss Collins herself, she thought for a moment that she would do it anyway.
The idea of simply standing there and watching Sophie triumph over her was more impossible by far.
Yet there was something odd. Miss Collins frowned.
Something was different, something was not quite right in the story of this night.
She knew it without knowing how she knew and resolved to watch carefully.
A young man with a full head of blond curls asked her to dance, and she sent him away as quickly as courtesy would allow.
Well. As quickly as was possible with only a little discourtesy.
It was when Miss Collins shifted to watch the duke that she knew.
Skilfully as they had attempted to conceal it, all was not well with the Duke and Duchess of Belford.
The truth was there in how he looked at her, or rather, how he did not look at her.
The softness of every time she had seen them in company before was gone.
He had gone cold and remote again, as he had been each time Miss Collins had spoken to him.
She smiled wickedly. Perhaps it was not necessary to make a public scene after all. A private scene, one with just Sophie and herself, might be even more satisfying.
If she could succeed in breaking Sophie’s heart, in letting her know how very inadequate she was, she would want nothing more.
Patience is the greatest virtue for a schemer. It took all of Mary Collins’s to wait until her cousin ventured outside for the refreshment of the night air. At last, Sophie and her sister Isabel stepped out to the border of the garden.
“Take a turn through the gardens, Sophie,” Isabel urged her. “You are looking a little tired from speaking to everyone. It would only take a moment, and I am sure a little time alone is just what you need.”
“I should not wish to slight anyone,” Sophie said thoughtfully. Miss Collins bared her teeth in a savage grin. It was easy to see that her cousin wanted only to be persuaded.
“You would not, to be sure,” Isabel said at once. “Only walk for a moment, and come back before anyone notices. I shall come with you, if you like.”
That would have ruined everything, for Isabel could not be expected to let Mary say everything she wished to dearest Sophie, the finest big sister in England. But before Mary could think of any way she might intervene, Sophie was already shaking her head.
“Thank you, Isabel, but I will do perfectly well on my own. Mama was just telling me there was a gentleman she wished to introduce to you. It will be just as you said — I will walk for only long enough to enjoy the coolness and solitude, and return before anyone misses me.”
And with that, Sophie hurried down the path away from her sister. Mary Collins waited only long enough to see Isabel turn back inside before following after her.