Page 25 of His Illegitimate Duchess

E lizabeth’s sister was throwing her first ball as a married woman.

Aunt Isolde went to her house to help with the planning almost every day, and during their daily promenading, she went on at length about her personal opinions on the guest list, the menu, and the music choices.

She also commented on how “dear” Lady Madeline and Nicholas’s wife were kind enough to be heavily involved in the undertaking.

“Duchess Sophie has really taken Charlotte under their wing, since she is more experienced. And since this is the first event she is planning as Countess of Pembroke, it has to be perfect, you see,” Aunt Isolde explained.

Elizabeth knew that there was no room for her in such settings; she had learned her lesson the first and only time she had been invited for tea at her sister’s house, when she’d unthinkingly mentioned that her birthday was in May, which had caused Lady Madeline to hastily excuse herself from the parlour.

On the carriage ride home, Aunt Isolde had informed her that Lady Madeline had given birth to Charlotte in November, more than six months before Elizabeth’s birth, which meant Elizabeth’s parents had been together during Lady Madeline’s confinement.

Elizabeth had been mortified and had sworn then and there that she would spare her father’s wife the pain of her presence whenever she could.

But even if Lady Madeline didn’t detest having to see her face, Elizabeth had nothing to contribute to Charlotte’s organising efforts. She was incapable of being helpful in any way.

What she clung to was the hope that one day she’d also be a respectable married woman who would be organising things, and then her brother’s wife and maybe even her sister would join forces to help her navigate the challenges of that life.

She sighed dreamily.

“What is it with you today?” Isolde asked irritably.

“I’m thinking about my dress for the ball,” Elizabeth lied.

“I still maintain that your choices of colour are inappropriate, no matter what Miss Euphemia Macdonald says,” Isolde said, perhaps for the tenth time since she'd met Elizabeth.

Elizabeth suppressed a smile at her Aunt’s obvious dilemma.

On one hand, Isolde, like many others of her rank, revered Lizzie’s former employer and was well aware that the woman was a pioneer in the fashion world of London.

On the other hand, finding fault with Lizzie was of the utmost importance for Isolde.

“Well, perhaps you’ll be pleased with the dress I’ve chosen for Charlotte’s ball - it’s French grey.”

Isolde puckered her mouth in distaste.

“In that case, the name of the colour is the only thing I shall object to.”

Elizabeth laughed, although not entirely sure whether her aunt was jesting or not.

*

At this point in the Season, there was nothing left for Elizabeth but to accept that her nerves would torment her at every event she ever attended, for all eternity.

Perhaps it was the heat in these ballrooms – too many people wearing too many heavy fragrances packed into one very hot room, just so they could gape at each other’s attire and hide their mouths behind fans to make you wonder whether it was you they were discussing with a cruel glint in their eye.

Her sister appeared unaffected as she moved through the room soundlessly, almost floating, like the ethereal water creatures from the Greek stories cousin Andrew had made her read.

Charlotte’s fair skin and blonde curls were in perfect accord with her sea-green dress, while her pearl jewellery resembled what Lizzie imagined bits of sea foam looked like.

Elizabeth’s chest hurt from the longing she suddenly felt for a thing she’d never seen.

The dinner was the best Elizabeth had ever attended as far as food was concerned.

Devil take it, she thought as she accepted another serving of the exquisite white soup while already eyeing the poached salmon and the bone marrow.

Dessert included various trifles, ice cream, and candied almonds, and Elizabeth tasted them all.

As she chewed, another beauty appeared on the horizon – Lady Helena, dressed in her much-favoured virginal white, which, in Elizabeth’s eyes, belied her ugly character. Lizzie quickly reprimanded herself for being nasty, telling herself it was time to stop eating and to find a place to rest a bit.

She wasn’t very familiar with the Sinclairs’ home, but she remembered being told that there was always a coat room next to the dance halls.

The room was not empty as she had hoped, since guests were still arriving and divesting themselves of various items of clothing, but she found a quiet place by one of the windows where she could rest with her back to the room and press her hot cheeks against the cool glass without having to think of her posture or converse with anyone for a while.

Half an hour later, she was gaily waltzing with Corporal Harding.

“You look particularly charming today,” he told her in that unpracticed way of his that Elizabeth found endearing.

“Thank you, Corporal Harding. I like your cravat,” she replied with a smile.

“I get the sense you do not enjoy balls very much, am I mistaken?”

Elizabeth sighed, unhappy that she hadn’t concealed her feelings as well as she’d thought she had.

“I'm afraid you are right. I don’t know why that is. It may be my nature, or it may be my lack of exposure to such events earlier - all I know is they make me very nervous.”

“It’s understandable,” Oliver said thoughtfully. “The sole purpose of such events is to see and be seen, which some people interpret as to judge and be judged. ”

“My friend Lady Amelia told me that, as a child, she once passed through a village market where cows were being showcased and sold. She likened the marriage mart to that scene.”

Oliver laughed. “I’m very familiar with such markets. Lady Amelia Fairchild said that?” He asked, incredulous.

“Your surprise offends me! Just because she is of a more timid temperament doesn’t mean she cannot make clever and witty observations.

Not to mention how right she was to wonder why there was no other way to meet a husband, one that held less pressure, that was more suited to a character that’s perhaps not as outgoing? ”

“It is honourable that you are defending your friend, Lady Elizabeth. I meant no offence. I was more surprised by the idea of Lady Amelia at a village market than I was by her making a witty remark, rest assured.”

Elizabeth was adequately mollified by that. “I apologise for my burst of anger.”

“I’ve told you that I have a talent for reading people, and yet your temper managed to surprise me.”

“I’m glad. It means I’m successfully repressing it.”

“Does it often need repressing?” Oliver asked playfully, and Lizzie found herself smiling at him.

“You have no idea.”

“Did it cause trouble for you when you were a girl?”

Elizabeth let herself think back on her childhood and tried viewing it as a topic of pleasant conversation.

“It did, but mostly with the other children who lived near me. I was always trying to be a part of their little group, but it was frustrating at times, and then I’d get angry and ruin my chances even further.”

Oliver smiled.

“I wonder what that must have looked like. I know what children in the country did to entertain themselves, but what did you do here in the city?”

“All sorts of mischief,” Elizabeth smiled, ordering herself to omit the kitchen thefts and the dares they had engaged in. “Then I moved away and life changed.”

“Where did you move?”

“Just a different neighbourhood,” she said vaguely.

“Did you find new friends there?”

How could Elizabeth even begin to explain all that had happened after Father’s death?

That the move had been a move down in every sense of the word – less money, a smaller house, a worse quarter…

She didn’t want to talk about such things in a sparkling ballroom with a man she hoped would marry her one day soon.

“Yes, I did. What kind of child were you?”

Disaster successfully averted, she listened to entertaining anecdotes of a young Oliver Harding and his siblings getting into trouble with the stable master at Wexcombe for the rest of their dance.

*

Duke Talbot had asked her to waltz, as was quickly becoming their routine at every event where they both found themselves in attendance.

That one dance during which she didn’t have to perform , coupled with her coat room intervals, helped Elizabeth maintain her composure, so she always looked forward to it.

“How are things progressing with your Corporal?”

“It’s been wonderful,” Elizabeth said giddily. “He gave me a gift on our last walk.”

“That is usually a good sign,” Talbot mused, “but first, please do tell me what the gift was.”

“A beautifully ornate silver thimble,” Elizabeth said smugly.

“Not something I would give myself, but I admit, it is a decent gift.”

“Well, I imagine your gifts are quite different, as are their recipients,” Elizabeth said with a barely suppressed smile, and Talbot raised a haughty eyebrow at her freshness.

“You may be right,” he conceded after a moment.

“What gifts would you give a lady you were courting? Say, to Lady Helena Grey?”

“As a matter of fact, that particular lady has been on the receiving end of a lovely bouquet of hothouse flowers recently.”

Elizabeth made a face before she could stop herself.

“Do you not like flowers, Miss Hawkins?”

“I do. But… buying a hothouse bouquet means spending a lot of money on something that will inevitably be thrown away, so it’s like throwing money away. Not to mention it's impersonal.”

“Whereas I assume your Corporal has made your precious thimble in a forge with his own two hands, thus saving money and making it a personal gift?”

Elizabeth grinned. “He knows I like needlework, hence the gift. I shall be using it a lot, and every time I see it, it will remind me of him. I even keep it in my reticule. Can you say the same for a bouquet?”