The house was magnificent in the oppressive way of houses designed to impress rather than comfort. The entrance hall alone was larger than the entire ground floor of Hartfield, its floors gleaming, its walls hung with portraits of stern-faced ancestors who seemed to disapprove of Lillian's presence. Footmen in immaculate livery stood at attention, ready to spring into action at the slightest command.
Lillian had visited imposing houses before, Wynthorpe Hall was certainly imposing, but this was something different. This was wealth displayed as power, architecture wielded as a weapon. Every gilded frame, every crystal chandelier, every piece of exquisite furniture seemed to whisper:You do not belong here.
She lifted her chin and followed Lady Smith up the sweeping staircase.
***
The blue room was, Lillian had to admit, beautiful; decorated in soft shades of azure and cream that created an atmosphere of calm elegance quite at odds with the house's more intimidating public spaces. Two beds had been made up, separated by a delicate writing desk, and fresh flowers adorned every surface.
"Lady Rosanne's mother was a dear friend," Lady Smith remarked, watching as servants deposited their trunks. "Such a tragedy, her early death. And such a disappointment that her children seem determined to squander the advantages their birth has provided." Her gaze sharpened on Rosanne . "You are seventeen, are you not? High time you were thinking seriously about your future."
"I think of little else, Lady Smith."
"Hmm. Well, we shall see what can be done this week." She turned to Lillian with an expression that suggested she was not quite finished with her assessment. "You are three-and-twenty, Miss Whitcombe?"
"Yes, Lady Smith."
"And unmarried."
"As you see."
"Curious. You are not unattractive, and your manners seem adequate. One wonders what has kept the gentlemen at bay." Before Lillian could formulate a response to this breathtaking rudeness, Lady Smith continued: "No matter. There will be opportunities enough during your stay. Dinner is at seven; I expect punctuality. The other guests are gathered in the drawing room and you may join them when you have refreshed yourselves."
She departed in a rustle of purple silk, and Lillian let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
"That," Rosanne said faintly, "was rather like being examined by a particularly thorough physician. I feel as though she has catalogued all my deficiencies and filed them away for future reference."
"I believe she has." Lillian moved to the window and looked out at the manicured grounds—formal gardens stretching toward a distant lake, every hedge trimmed to geometric perfection. "She mentioned other guests. Do you know who else has been invited?"
"Some of them." Rosanne sank onto one of the beds, her earlier composure beginning to crack. "Mr. Edward Potter—Lord Blackwood's second son. He is the one Lady Smith intends for me, though I have never met him. Miss Phoebe Smith, her niece—accomplished, beautiful, and by all accounts deeply unpleasant. Lord Hartwell’s daughters, who are notorious gossips. Sir William Drake, a widower hunting for a second wife." She ticked them off on her fingers. "There are others, but those are the ones Mama used to mention when she spoke of Lady Smith's gatherings."
"It sounds exhausting."
"It will be." Rosanne looked up at her, and Lillian saw real fear beneath the attempted lightness. "I do not know if I can do this, Lillian. All these people, all this scrutiny, and Lady Smith watching everything, judging everything, arranging everything to suit her own designs."
Lillian crossed to sit beside her friend, taking her hand. "You can do this. You are stronger than you know; we have established this already, have we not? The worst that can happen is social embarrassment, and you have survived that before."
"The wine incident."
"Precisely. And you survived. Life continued." Lillian squeezed her hand. "I will be beside you the entire time. If you need to escape, give me a signal and I will manufacture a crisis that requires our immediate withdrawal."
"What sort of crisis?"
"I shall think of something. A sudden headache. A torn hem. An urgent need to discuss wildflower cultivation in the privacy of our room." Lillian smiled. "Trust me."
Rosanne's answering smile was watery but genuine. "I do trust you. You are the only reason I am here at all."
"Then let us face the lions together. Starting with dinner."
***
The drawing room was a masterpiece of intimidation; high ceilings, silk wallpaper, and enough gilded furniture to furnish a small palace. Lillian counted perhaps twenty guests arranged in careful clusters throughout the space, their conversation a low hum punctuated by occasional laughter.
Lady Smith presided from a central position, her sharp eyes tracking every movement, every interaction, every social misstep that might occur under her roof. Beside her sat a young woman of striking beauty; pale blonde hair, perfect features, a figure that her expensive gown displayed to full advantage. This, Lillian assumed, was the infamous Miss Phoebe Smith.
"Courage," Lillian murmured to Rosanne, and they advanced into the room.
The next hour was an exercise in social navigation. Lillian found herself introduced to what felt like dozens of people, each name and face blurring into the next: Lord this, Lady that, the Honorable someone-or-other. She smiled, curtsied, made appropriate responses, and tried to remember who was connected to whom and what topics were safe for discussion.
