“My gown is not ragged,” she defended quietly, not wishing to quarrel with Lady Torrington. However, she could not help but to feel as if she needed to find firm footing with her husband’s mother, or pay the price for the duration of her marriage.
“It’s not becoming,” the dowager insisted, unimpressed. “A lady of pale complexion and dark coloring should never wear shades of yellow.”
Elizabeth longed to inform Torrington’s mother that when a lady hadn’t any funds of her own, she had been more than happy to wear whatever she had been given, regardless of style or color. But despite her vexation with the woman, she truly did want to have a friend here at Torrington House in this terrifying new world she’d found herself trapped in. Without the kindly Duchess of Montrose about, Elizabeth was undeniably adrift.
Instead, she forced another smile, hoping to melt some of the dowager’s ice with her own warmth. “Thank you for your counsel, my lady.”
The older woman’s nostrils flared in irritation, but she returned her attention to her own plate, directing her next criticism to her hothouse pineapple. “I’ll arrange for a modiste. Madame Beauchamp possesses the keenest eye in Town. Bad enough Torrington married a governess. I’ll not have it said that she is dowdy as well.”
Elizabeth wondered whose reputation the dowager was more concerned with—her own, or her son’s. She had a suspicion it was the former rather than the latter, and that the viscountess did not wish to be associated with an ill-dressed governess who had been compromised.
Dowdy.The insult should not have stung; after all, she had been called far worse by the dowager’s own son.
It would seem that although time had passed, she could never entirely outrun all her demons and lack of confidence.
She inhaled sharply, old pain merging with new, and then stabbed her breakfast with more force than was necessary.
Lady Torrington dismissed a footman who was attending the breakfast room, leaving the two of them alone. Alarm crept over Elizabeth at the realization. For she very much feared that no good could come of a private audience between herself and the dowager.
“Tell me,” drawled the older woman the moment they were alone, proving her correct. “How carefully did you plan my son’s entrapment?”
So great was her shock at the question and the barb inherent in the dowager’s voice, Elizabeth’s fork clattered to the plate, the sound echoing through the stillness of the breakfast room.
“His entrapment?” she repeated.
“Pray, Miss Brooke, do not attempt to dissemble with me. I know you have always harbored atendrefor my son. I watched you pining for him from across ballrooms for years.”
Dear heavens. She had? Elizabeth had not supposed anyone had ever noticed her marked interest in the viscount. Not even Lady Andromeda, who had been sharp-eyed as a bird of prey, had spoken a word to her of it.
Shame made her ears and cheeks go hot as she forced herself to meet the dowager’s questioning stare, and she was sure she was flushing.
“I’m afraid I know not what you speak of, my lady,” she said feebly, ever aware that she was a dreadful liar.
Even to her own ears, her voice was unnaturally high-pitched. Her denial sounded all wrong. Because itwaswrong, and she was lying.
She had loved Viscount Torrington from afar for years, and he had never taken note of her, other than to callously dismiss her. Not one dance, never an introduction, not a word uttered between them. And oh, how devastated she had been by that.
The dowager gave a bitter little laugh, tucking down her chin to pin Elizabeth with a knowing glare. “You’re lying. Torrington may not remember the foolish way you mooned over him for your disastrous Seasons, but I do. It is hardly his fault, what with the amnesia he has suffered following his phaeton accident. ButIknow, Miss Brooke. Rest assured that I know you for the conniving jade you are.”
Amnesia following his phaeton accident?
The bitter rancor in the other woman’s voice, along with her vicious accusations, was lost on Elizabeth. Her mind seized, shock washing over her.
“Do you mean to tell me that his lordship has lost his memory?” she asked, the possibility seeming so vastly unlikely, terrifying almost.
And yet, entirely possible. She thought of some of the cryptic words he’d said, the way he couldn’t remember her at all. Of course, she had believed herself so forgettable, the plain, plump girl he’d never noticed. What if, however, there was another reason? Another reason for his kindness, his kiss, his intimations he found her—the partridge he’d scorned—attractive?
The dowager’s mouth fell open, and it was plain that she was shocked by Elizabeth’s question. “Of course he has lost his memory. It is the only reason, I dare say, why he would so lower himself to marry you. If he had any recollection of how desperately you set your cap at him, he never would have fallen into your trap.”
Those words hurt, and she couldn’t deny it, but she was still fixated on this monumental revelation. For it changed everything. If Lord Torrington seemed as if he was not the same man who had mocked her appearance, that was because he didn’t remember the man he’d been. It was as if he were a different person.
“There was no trap, my lady,” she managed. “I don’t know what his lordship told you of the incident, but I wasn’t at fault for anything that occurred on the evening in question.”
No, indeed. The entire affair had been Torrie’s doing, from the moment he had bound her, gagged her, and carried away the wrong woman into the night. But surely he hadn’t told his mother that she had orchestrated some manner of plot. Had he?
“You may deny it all you like, and I’m certain my son’s lack of memory has made him vulnerable to your scheming. However, I know the truth.”
It was plain that no amount of protest on her part would persuade the dowager that Elizabeth was innocent of the charges she made against her. However, at the moment, she was far less concerned with Lady Torrington’s opinion of her than with the revelations she had made about her son.
