Chapter One
Tonight’s ballwas the latest in an entire season of disappointments. Eliza Wayland was tired—tired of dull balls, bland suppers, and out-of-tune musicales. And she was especially tired of standing beside the wall, watching her sister twirl about in the arms of yet another suitor.
Beside Eliza, Emma Ainsley grimaced at a bite of something pastry-like in appearance, her auburn curls fluttering with the motion.
“That bad?”
“You know I am a terrible judge—none are as good as Mama’s. But yes. I think they’ve cut it with sawdust.”
A sympathetic wince crossed Eliza’s face. “I think theyforgotto add sugar to the lemonade as well—best to avoid it.”
“Ravenous and parched… Delightful. At least the quartet is in key— Oh, there’s Rose.” Emma raised her hand in a delicate wave, drawing the attention of Rose and Henry Grayson amid the overdone decor. The room was a swirl of too-orange reds and too-yellow golds, casting everyone in a sallow tinge. Marigolds, primroses, and a few unfortunate tulips drooped in mirroredglass arrangements—a melancholy march toward death that suited the evening a little too well.
Eliza’s cousin Henry—especially sallow in this lighting—wore a pinched expression. As Rose approached, Emma quickly switched from speaking to the familiar signed hand gestures Rose employed to greet her.
“Who has earned your ire now, Cousin?” Eliza asked Henry, low under her breath.
“Stewart and Fife.”
“Do I need to have Sophie tread on their toes?”
“If your sister trod on the toes of everyfriendthat was rude to Rose, she’d never dance again,” he muttered as he reached for a glass of lemonade.
“Best avoided,” Eliza cautioned.
Henry stifled a groan before waving to catch his sister’s gaze and signing for her to refuse the drink as well.
“You’ve no time for lemonade, anyway. There are ladies in need of a partner,” Eliza signed as Rose and Emma turned to join them. Rose’s dark hair and pale skin stood in lovely contrast to the aquamarine of her gown.
“We’ve already danced a set tonight—any more will give rise to talk. Emma, do you have a space on your dance card?” Henry asked.
Emma offered her wrist for Henry to take, and he penciled his name beside the next set.
Across the room, the familiar bell-chime giggles of her sister swirled alongside the gruff chuckle of her partner.
“Excuse me, I need to refresh myself,” Eliza explained to the others before fleeing the ballroom. She made her way down the hall. The music was softer there, less overwhelming. Lady Linden’s hallway was every bit as overdone as the ballroom. Still, the air was fresher, which lent Eliza some relief.
It was easy to locate the ladies’ retiring room, blessedly empty for the moment. While the temptation to hide there until the time came to return home was nearly overwhelming, Eliza likely had five minutes, ten if she was lucky, before her mother or Aunt Kate sought her out.
Beside the carmine velvet sofa, a window beckoned to her. Without thought, Eliza threw open the sash and breathed in the night. The afternoon rain had given way to an evening heavy with lingering damp. The air was thick, allowing Eliza to sip it in great gulps.
She loathed this piece of herself. Sophie did not court the notice she attracted everywhere she went. Nor was it her fault that Eliza blended into the wallpaper. Eliza did not even desire a dance with any of the men who twirled her sister about the room.
It was only that she wished rather desperately that someone wanted to dance with her. Anyone. She longed for someone to see her beside the vibrant, striking Sophie, and for that someone to choose her, plain Eliza.
Feigning disinterest was the greater agony. If Eliza wished it, Sophie would skillfully goad a gentleman into asking Eliza to dance—he’d think it his own notion by the time Sophie finished with him. Butthatwas not the outcome Eliza wished.
“Lord, I know. It is oppressive in there,” a feminine voice commented from behind her.
Eliza spun on her heels, placing her back against the window with her spine ramrod straight.
“Do not mind me,” the lady urged. “Hell, I might join you.”
She snapped open a gold fan that dangled from her wrist and fluttered it practically, with none of the guile Eliza had seen other ladies use.
Eliza didn’t recognize the woman—a novelty. Though she was not long in society, Eliza had quickly learned the names of all the families that circulated through the social season.
“Lady Arabella Sinclair,” the woman supplied without prompting. Her voice was low, luscious, and perfectly suited her.
