“What on earth are you talking about?”
Lord Sinclair hadn’t behaved too inappropriately. He’d danced a touch too close, flirted rather boldly, and definitely shouldn’t have given her the sip of scotch, but he’d carefully skirted the edge of propriety until the drink.
“Lord Sinclair—apparently they call him the Lord of Sin,” Sophie added.
Lord of Sin? How humiliating.
“Enough, Sophie,” her mother snapped.
Eliza turned to look at her friends beside her, hoping for a show of support, but both Emma and her bolder sister, Georgiana, were studiously studying the folds of their skirts.
“He doesn’t even know Papa. Any self-respecting ‘Lord of Sin’ would be a regular at Wayland’s.” Eliza infused the absurd moniker with as much sarcasm as she was capable.
“Both of you, enough.” It was a tone Eliza’s mother rarely employed, but all the ladies understood it implicitly.
Sophie crossed her arms and made a show of staring out the window with a pout on her face. Tears welled behind Eliza’s eyes and she blinked them back.
Beneath the layers of ruffles, Emma’s hand found Eliza’s, gripping gently in a silent display of support. Emma understood her in a way Sophie never could. Georgie was more similar to Sophie, outgoing and bold—though less irritating about it.
Her moment of comfort was brief as the carriage reached the Ainsley home in short order. Emma offered her one last squeeze before exiting with a quiet, “Thank you. Goodnight.”
Usually, Mr. Ainsley met the carriage after a ball and escorted his daughters inside. But tonight they were too early for him to be waiting. Eliza watched out the window as one of the Wayland footmen escorted her friends to the door and waited until it opened before returning to the carriage.
Eliza turned back to face her mother and sister. Sophie opened her mouth but, without even turning, her mother interrupted, “Sophia, I said enough.”
Sophie turned back to her window, and Eliza chose the opposite.
The night was dark, though it was probably not yet midnight. And she’d been forced to flee from the ball. What a sad, pitiable Cinderella she made.
Wisps of fog collected along the empty streets and between the buildings, undisturbed by passing carriages, save theirs. The moon, not yet full, caught the edges of the ghostly strands.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza caught her mother pinching the bridge of her nose. She usually reserved the gesture for Sophie, and it chafed Eliza to see the disapproval directed to her.
What had she done? Accepted a dance? That was hardly a crime—in fact, it was rather the entire point of a ball. Flirted? Sophie flirted like breathing. Accepted a single sip of scotch? She wasn’t entirely certain anyone had actually seen that.
And theonetime someone had finally asked to dance with her—herand not Sophie—it was ruined. No one would ever ask again. She was being dramatic, but the humiliation threatened to overtake all sense. And she didn’t want to rot against the wall forever, pretending she didn’t care—a wretched purgatory.
Finally, the carriage stopped in front of Dalton Place.
“Straight to bed, Sophie,” Mama cautioned as the footman opened the door and reached in to hand her sister out. “It’s a pleasant night. Join me in the gazebo, Eliza?”
It wasn’t a request. But the temptation to decline the offer out of sheer petulance was strong. Instead, Eliza nodded, then waited inside the carriage while the footman assisted her mother before returning for her.
Together, they set off through the back gate and down the graveled pathway. Small, thick patches of fog collected in the dips of the little yard.
Once they reached the gazebo, her mother pulled her down onto the bench, trapping Eliza at her side.
For a long moment, they sat in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Mama said simply, shocking the fight out of her daughter. Eliza turned to face her. Lady Juliet Wayland was the picture of elegance, despite being crushed in the carriage anda long ball. Her periwinkle silk gown, dotted with impossibly intricate embroidered forget-me-nots, was unmussed.
Bright blue eyes caught Eliza’s as her lips pressed together in sympathy. “I know how much that dance meant to you.”
“Then why have you put a stop to it?”
“Lord Sinclair has an unsavory reputation. It was the work of moments to discern it.”
“He doesn’t even know Wayland’s. He cannot be so bad as all that.”
