A russet silk taffeta gown clung to her petite frame. Lady Sinclair wore the confidence of age but none of the trappings of it. Eliza supposed her to be perhaps five years her senior, certainly not more than ten.
“Miss Elizabeth—Eliza—Wayland. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sinclair.” The woman dipped into an appropriate curtsy.
Her gaze narrowed the slightest bit. “Lady Arabella—Bella. I’m not married.”
“Oh, I—” Eliza’s cheeks burned as she broke off, unsure of how to finish that sentence.
“Do not apologize. I am not offended.” The lady ran a distracted gaze around the room, raising a brow without commentary. Eliza understood it to mean that she found the decor no more pleasing on greater exposure than Eliza had herself. “Care to share your window?”
“Of course! You may have it, in fact. I should return to the dancing before I’m missed.” Eliza made to step away from the frame as the other woman joined her. Lady Arabella’s eyes slipped shut, her head tipping back as the fresh night air washed over her. A long silver hairpin flashed dangerously in her glossy curls.
At last, her eyelashes fluttered again, revealing rich brown irises. “The benefit of spinsterhood: I can do as I wish. But the next set is soon to begin. Your partner will be searching for you.”
Eliza had never known a woman to approach spinsterhood with such frank ownership. The declaration left her off-kilter. “I-I do not have a partner for the next set.”
“Truly? Well, do not trouble yourself. Men are fools—I avoid them whenever possible. I’m certain one will locate his ballocks from wherever he’s misplaced them soon and ask you.”
Eliza’s jaw dropped, though whether it was in response to the imagery, the vulgarity, or the forwardness, she couldn’t say.
“Oh, dear. I’ve shocked you. Forgive me. I have been away from town and in the company of only my brother for too long. My manners have abandoned me.”
“No— I’m not— I don’t…”
Lady Arabella failed to fight off a smirk. “Quite.”
Eliza’s eyes slid shut as she took a calming breath. “I’m not shocked. I hear much worse at my father’s cl— I’ve heard worse.”
She’d slipped. It had been so long since Eliza had met someone who was not acquainted with her scandalous origins that she’d nearly let it drop. Her father, an illegitimate gaming hell owner, and her mother, the disgraced daughter of an even more disgraced earl, made a scandalous pairing. As such, the Wayland twins should not be able to move through society, but money and power opened many doors that ought to have been closed—and left Eliza and Sophie infamous before they’d ever set a toe in society.
But this woman, Lady Arabella, didn’t know her. Wasn’t that a relief—to be met entirely without expectation?
“Well then,” the lady smiled. “I shall not waste my evening fretting that I’ve scandalized you beyond all sense.”
“Lizzie?” A bright voice called from the hall. Sophie.
“In here,” Eliza called back.
Lady Arabella’s head tipped to one side, her brow furrowing. Before Eliza could answer her unspoken question, her sister’s dark head popped around the corner.
Sophie Wayland was as effortlessly lovely as always, even flushed from her most recent dance. The becoming peach shade washed over her cheeks. Eliza’s elder sister was striking—thatwas the word everyone used. Her inky waves caressed her sharp cheeks, offsetting the vivid, sapphire blue of her eyes and the burnished gold notes in her complexion.
Where Sophie was effortless, Eliza was precise, exacting. She wore her hair carefully styled, though her wild brown curls often refused to obey her whims and escaped her pins. Her pale skin was prone to splotchy flushing, and her eyes were an unremarkable brown.
“Mama was looking for you,” Sophie informed her. “We should return before the next set begins. I do not yet have a partner, and I intend to catch someone’s eye.”
Eliza arranged her lips into a facsimile of a smile before nodding a silent goodbye to her new acquaintance.
“Good luck,” Lady Arabella whispered to Eliza as she passed, earning a silent chuckle.
On Eliza’s return to the ballroom, her mother offered only a penetrating look—a scolding for her disappearance was in Eliza’s future.
The next set found her once again beside the wall, this time with Rose and a put-upon Sophie.
“What did I miss?” Eliza asked Rose with her hands, not bothering to employ her voice. Sophie, unused to the wall, paid them no mind. Instead, she pressed up onto her toes as though the added inches would help her find a dance partner. She was slightly taller than Eliza, but neither girl could claim enough height to see above a crowd.
“Lady Linden is having an affair with her stepson,” Rose signed.
“Truly?”
