For the past several months, disillusioned with the superficialbon tonof New York, Elizabeth had turned her attention to her father’s business, taking a particular interest in the financial aspects. Her acumen for numbers was undeniable, and she found the challenge of working invigorating—a stark contrast to the tedious rounds of social calls and endless parties. However, this new passion only served to horrify her mother, a woman of traditional values who saw a woman’s place as firmly within the home or, at the very least, within the genteel confines of society.
“Mama,” Elizabeth said, breaking the tense silence. “If I cannot find a husband in New York, what chances do I have in England? Have you considered I might once again fail?”
Her mother stood and crossed the room, taking Elizabeth’s hands. Her mother stared at her, assessing every nuance on her face.
A spurt of good humor shook her. “What are you looking for, Mama?”
“I am searching for a trace of the girl who once dreamt of a love like those in the novels she devoured. The girl who said she wanted a husband and three children. The girl who often teased she would marry a man who adored her as your father adored me.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, and an invisible pressure squeezed her chest. She had no words to reply, and she could only helplessly return her mother’s regard.
“Do you wish to marry, my dear?” she asked softly, “or has the desire been completely removed from your heart?”
A hot surge of want went through Elizabeth’s heart, and she glanced away from her lest her eyes betrayed the hunger that still lived within her for a happy marriage and children. What if she tried again and failed? To imagine it left a terrible ache inside her chest.
“Please be honest with me, Bette,” her mother said.
Elizabeth felt the old longings stir within her chest, emotions she had buried a couple of years ago.
“I do,” she whispered, the admission feeling like a surrender. “However, I feel no excitement at the thought of trying again. It had grown terribly tedious and an unfulfilling venture.”
“Your aunt will help you wade through these waters. Sally promised me only this morning.”
Elizabeth’s heartbeat quickened. “Aunt dramatically wilted upon learning I am not affianced or married and even suggested it was perhaps some fortune that I was not here to seek a husband. She said there are much younger, wealthier, and prettier debutantes that will be more favorably viewed.”
“There are some things in life worth fighting and sacrificing for. Your future … the one you deem worthy, is something to fight for.” Her mother squeezed her hands, offering a smile that was both sad and understanding. “You will find someone, Bette, a man who sees your worth as I see it,” her mother reassured her, her words wrapping around Elizabeth like a warm embrace. “And perhaps a change of scenery will offer what New York could not.”
She smiled, feeling a flare of dread and excitement. Her paternal aunt, Viscountess Barnaby, whom they resided with at her townhouse in Berkeley Square, had informed her of several of theton’srigidadherence to their rules on conduct—shockingly, even stricter and more unforgiving than their society in New York. Since she released the hope of marrying from her heart, Elizabeth enjoyed a greater level of freedom. She could not imagine constraining herself so again. Or suffer condescending glances from those who might deem her a lady firmly on the shelf.
Yet, the possibility of finding someone who loved her for her intelligence and spirit rather than her fortune allowed a sliver of hope to pierce her guarded heart.
Very well, I shall dare to dream again … and perhaps this time, I will find what I am looking for.A marriage with a man she could love and one who would cherish her in return.Elizabeth’s heart thrummed with nerves and a burgeoning hope. Maybe, just maybe, this venture to England would offer more than she had dared to expect.
* * *
A week later,Elizabeth stood on the sidelines at one of London’s grandest society balls. The room was a spectacle of elegance, illuminated by hundreds of candles mounted on crystal chandeliers. A twenty-piece orchestra played a lively waltz, and the air was thick with music, laughter, facile chattering, and the delicate fragrance of the ladies’ perfumes.
“I do hope you see that no one has asked you to dance, Bette,” her aunt muttered behind her delicately painted fan.
Elizabeth was quite aware but was not perturbed. Her mother, mingling effortlessly with the other guests, often sent her sympathetic glances that indicated she had seen her daughter’s lack of dance partners.
An exaggerated sigh came from her aunt. “The eligible men are perhaps thinking that you are too old. I tell you, it is thatgown! I am not pleased with your willfulness.”
A humorless smile quirked Elizabeth’s lips, but she did not reply to her aunt. Upon entering the countess’s ballroom, whispers had rippled through the crowd, tinged with scandalized delight and censure, yet Elizabeth felt a thrilling surge of empowerment. She wore a rose-colored gown that clung to her frame with an almost provocative allure. With its deep décolletage and vibrant hue, the dress was a stark departure from the demure pastels typically favored by debutantes.
Her choice of attire had been deliberate, for she vowed to be honest to her character and without stating it, inform thetonthat she was a lady of bold intentions. It was a rather risky move on her part; however, it was most important to Elizabeth that this new foray into the marriage mart be done according to her designs. Her aunt, a stickler for propriety, had been visibly appalled when she first saw the gown.
“A debutante would not wear such colors,” she had chided, her eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. “This would only be permissible for widows and married women.”
Elizabeth had merely smiled and drawled, “I thought I was collecting dust motes.Never say I am once again a fresh-faced debutante. The English air has indeed done wonders.I daresay I no longer feel decrepit.”
“You are facetious! We will need a new wardrobe with more demure—” her aunt had begun, her voice a mix of exasperation and concern.
“No,” Elizabeth had cut her off, her tone resolute and firm. “Once, I listened to everyone about what I needed in a husband. I wore clothes my mother thought appropriate. I confined my opinions on subject matters deemed inappropriate for women, subdued my laughter, and my wealth was paraded before me like a beacon. This time, Aunt, my search for a husband will be on my terms.”
The room had fallen into a tense silence as her aunt and mother exchanged uneasy glances. Neither woman voiced any further objections, perhaps for the first time recognizing the iron will that underpinned Elizabeth’s genteel exterior.
“Well,” her mother said, uncurling her fan as she gracefully sashayed over. “A London ball is even more lively than what we are used to, and I thought the men would have been more considerate.”
