Since she’d parted from her father’s direct influence, she’d enjoyed some happiness. The prescribed occupation of every single British female, rich or not, titled or not, was to find a suitable husband. She had tried. Each year, she’d dutifully drunk tea in every parlor, dined in every dining room and danced in every ballroom from London to Bath and Brighton to Edinburgh. Purposely, she’d done all that. Yes, with the appropriate goal in mind to marry. Someone who thrilled her, like Octo. Someone acceptable, hopefully intelligent and amusing, perhaps even wise. Like Octo. Yet now, she could declare with facts to hand that no man attracted her to his intellect, no man set her heart to race as did Octavian Simms. She’d spent the last year avidly—desperately—searching for the one man she wanted above all others. And as with all her other objectives in life, she’d achieved it. She was here, where he was, where she wished to be forevermore.
Only now she had to persuade him to her own ends.
She frowned at him from across the room. Attentive to his work, he did not pay her any mind…until she caught him sweep his gaze across the crowd and lock on her.
She gave him her signature moue and threw herself into the revelry of Christmas in Brighton with her friends.
Finding her place card at table, Eliza happily noted they were all seated as all were at the Prince Regent’s dinner parties at the Royal Pavilion. Each lady sat between two men. To one side of her was a man she’d met briefly during the reception. He was the Alastair Demerest, who was home from the wars to learn that he had inherited a dukedom from a distant relative. He seemed a charming creature, handsome and blond. Word here tonight had it that he’d gone missing from the melee at the battle of Waterloo. Tonight he’d appeared quite by surprise in the Countess’s home, shocking everyone, including the Bee Craymore whom he’d always loved. He’d returned from Paris with the help of his friend, the earl of Marsden, the countess’s young step-son. Eliza was eager to talk with him about his experiences. To her other side was to sit another gentleman, Neville Vaughn, Viscount Bromley. Eliza had not yet had the pleasure of meeting him, but she’d known his deceased wife well.
On the other side of Bromley stood Lady Penelope Goddard, a lovely widow whom Eliza enjoyed tremendously. Penn, as she was known to friends, claimed her chair, leaned over and offered to introduce Bromley to her. “Lady Elizabeth, this charming fellow is my cousin. Lord Bromley.”
“I am delighted to meet you, my lord.” They were well into their second course and at ease with each other when Eliza broached the subject of his wife’s death. "I was sorry to hear of Carolyn's passing. She was a dear. We were at school together in Coventry and I thought her sweet."
"Thank you, my lady. Carolyn was a darling. She spoke well of you and your friendship."
How good of her.Eliza was an assertive female, had always been, and many thought her outré. “She was kind to everyone."
"As were you to her," he added with a knowing look. "She told me what you had done for her. Over and over again, she sang your praises.”
Not too many women did. Females tended to regard Eliza as too wealthy, too straight-forward or just too enviable to say a kind word. But hearing that Bromley’s little wife applauded her, comforted her. “I assure you, sir, what I did was exactly what any right-minded person would."
"Or more, my lady. Carolyn said you thwarted an attack on her by two of the older girls when she was new to the school and quite defenseless."
When anyone preyed upon another, Eliza rose like a Fury to their side. Octo had taught her how. Carolyn was one she’d happily defended. “Carolyn was so tiny. Everyone thought her so much younger than she was. People tend to take advantage where they think they have one. Such bullying I would not abide."
"A credit to you, my lady. She thanked you for it. And I do, too."
Recalling Bromley’s wife and another girl, similar in build and temperament, Eliza picked up her wine glass and drank at length. Carolyn, Lady Bromley, had lived a fuller life than the other girl Eliza had saved from the wrath of Amarna Withersfield and her cadre of rodents. The other girl, Matilda Smuthers, had not learned how to stand up to the likes of Withersfield. She’d gone home after one term, a broken arm in a sling. The poor girl had died young, soon after marrying another creature who used his fists to get his way.
Eliza bit back her anger at the injustices she could not stop.
Bromley was lost in his own memories. “Indeed Carolyn credited you with showing her how to stand up for herself."
Would that all women learned it. And used it often.But to continue to dwell on this topic would seem self-aggrandizing and so she tried for levity. “I gather you are friends of the earl and his step-mother, the countess?"
He offered a cursory explanation of his acquaintance with the Marsdens and ended with, “So I am a very distant cousin who is also happy to have been invited."
"Marjorie tells me her aunt, the countess, wants to secure husbands for the three sisters this week. Are you here to be counted as one of the swains?"
He gave her a sly smile. "You can say I am."
She laughed. "You are that rare man, sir, who admits to going courting."
"That I am." He picked up his white wine and took a swallow.
"I say. That's marvelous." She lifted her own glass toward him. "To you, sir. Best of luck. From what I saw when you arrived, may I speculate that you are focused on catching the elusive Delphine?"
He inhaled. "You may."
"You have strong competition, sir."
“Many?"
She winced. “The house bursts with eligible men."
"Don't discourage him, Lady Eliza." Penn teased them both.
"She's right," he said with a laugh. “Show me those I should mark with interest."
