Love had taken her quite unawares. They had both been attending a ball, but were not together because they had already shared the regulation two dances. Elizabeth had been wearing new slippers, which pinched her toes so badly that she was convinced that she must have at least one blister. The house belonged to the parents of one of her intimate friends. She had hobbled to the library, hoping that her aunt would not miss her presence for a while. She closed the door quietly behind her and sank into the nearest chair with an audible sigh. Moonlight from the full-length windows sent shafts of dim light across the carpet.
"Can it be that the indefatigable Elizabeth Rossiter is actually fatigued?" a teasing and familiar voice had asked.
Elizabeth, startled, had looked across to see a dim form occupying a wing chair beside the fireplace.
"Robert, how you startled me!" she had said. "And what are you doing here, pray?"
"Sulking because I cannot dance with you again," he had replied.
Elizabeth had laughed. "What flummery!" she had said lightly. "Anyway, sir, if you really wish to dance with me, you may do so right here. The orchestra can quite plainly be heard. But you must permit me to remove my slippers and allow my blisters some breathing room."
She had been joking. But he had got up from his chair, come across the room to her, and knelt in front of her chair.
"Poor Elizabeth," he had teased gently, "smiling politely at all your admirers in the ballroom and secretly nursing two feetful of blisters." He had lifted her feet one at a time and removed the shoes. She had sighed with exaggerated contentment, and he had laughed.
"Come," he had said, taking her by the hand, "now you may dance in comfort and I may have the partner of my choice."
But she had stumbled over the abandoned slippers as she rose to her feet and lurched clumsily against his chest. They had both laughed. And then somehow they were not laughing anymore. Their arms went around each other and his lips had found hers in the darkened room.
It had been a long and sweet kiss, her first. She had been surprised by the warmth and softness of his lips, by the feel of his breath against her cheek, his hands roaming her back, and the strength and firmness of his body against hers. But most of all she had been surprised by the strength of her own reaction. The moment had seemed electrically charged. She had felt as if her body temperature had shot up. Eventually they had pulled apart and gazed at each other, wide-eyed.
"I should not be here with you, Robert," she had said shakily. "Aunt Matilda will be looking for me."
"You are right," he had agreed, and then, anxiously, "Elizabeth, have I offended you? I did not intend to take advantage of our being alone together, I swear."
"I am not offended," she had assured him.
He had reached out one hand and run his fingers lightly down one cheek and along her jawline. "I have known for some time that I love you," he had said. And he had bent his head again and lightly touched his lips to hers. "You must go, my love, before you are discovered here with me."
And she had gone, after squeezing her feet painfully into the slippers again. She had been dazed, astounded by the discovery that she, too, had loved for some time without realizing it.
Pushing the last pin into the coil of hair at the nape of her neck, Elizabeth again found it difficult to reconcile that memory of a tender, loving Robert with the afternoon's encounter with the cold, unfeeling Marquess of Hetherington.
Chapter 3
A few days later Mrs. Rowe and Cecily ordered out the old, ponderous carriage from the coach house and left to pay an afternoon call at Ferndale. The main purpose of the visit was to issue an invitation to Mr. Mainwaring and his house guests to a dinner party the following week. Mrs. Rowe had pondered long on what entertainment she should organize. Should it be a full-scale ball? Would that be too ostentatious? Should it be an afternoon picnic? Was that too informal on so short an acquaintance? On Elizabeth's advice she finally settled for a dinner party, which had, anyway, been her first idea. As Elizabeth pointed out, a dinner party was free to develop in any direction. Music in the drawing room after dinner, or a few tables of cards, or even an informal dance to the music of the pianoforte could all be arranged with the minimum of fuss, depending upon the mood of the party.
Elizabeth did not accompany the ladies to Ferndale. Instead, she sat down to write her weekly letter to her brother. Although they rarely saw each other and although she steadfastly resisted all his urgings to come home, brother and sister remained very close. From his regular letters Elizabeth felt as if she knew exactly what was happening on the estate and in the neighborhood. She felt well-acquainted with her sister-in-law, whom she had met only twice, and with her nephew, Jeremy, whom she had seen only on the occasion of his christening.
The letter writing was interrupted, though, by the arrival of Ferdie Worthing and his sister, Lucy. Elizabeth was amused to discover that they had come to invite the Rowes and herself to a ball at the squire's home the following week, two days before Mrs. Rowe's dinner party. How chagrined her employer would be! Brother and sister had issued their invitation to Ferndale that morning, and had been accepted.
"I suppose Cec is quite excited by the arrival of the two gentlemen," Ferdie commented gloomily.
Elizabeth smiled. "She seems pleased with all the visitors," she replied. "She became quite friendly with Mrs. Prosser when we were out walking a few days ago."
"Those two men are bound to be dangling after her, though," Ferdie predicted. "They are both top-of-the-trees, you know. And Cec is the prettiest girl in these parts."
"You forget your sister and Anne Claridge, to mention only two," Elizabeth said, amused at the obvious jealousy of the boy.
"Oh, I know I'm no beauty," Lucy said philosophically. "If Mama would just admit it too, I should be so much more comfortable. She is determined I should make a brilliant match and sees the marquess and Mr. Main-waring as likely prospects. I shall hate it, Miss Rossiter. I know she will be forever pushing me at them while they are here."
"I am sure she will not do anything to embarrass you unduly," Elizabeth soothed. "She must have your own happiness at heart, after all."
"Ho, you don't know Mama," Ferdie added.
"I do hope to find a husband during the Season next year," Lucy added. "But I shall be quite contented with an ordinary man whom I can respect."
Elizabeth smiled reassuringly and changed the subject. She felt sorry for Lucy Worthing. She was a thin girl, with a narrow, pale face and yellow-blond, hair. She would be quite striking if she aimed for elegance in her appearance and if her hair were arranged in a smooth, sophisticated style. Instead, her mother insisted on white or pastel-shaded clothes, with as many bows, frills, and flounces as could be reasonably added to each garment. Her hair was a mass of ringlets. Obviously the mother assumed that the more she decorated her daughter, the greater the appearance of beauty she would give. The opposite was true.
The pair did not stay long. Once Ferdie realized that there was little chance of Cecily's returning within the hour, he was ready to begin the ride back home again. Elizabeth promised to pass on the invitation to the ball, though she had already decided to refuse herself. The less she saw of the Marquess of Hetherington, the happier she would be.
The following week was one of great excitement among the leading families of Granby and the surrounding countryside. Although entertainments were not unusual, they were normally very predictable events. Very rarely was there any stranger to add interest. And now there were five strangers, and all of them fashionable and apparently wealthy. The austere good looks of Mr. Mainwaring and his connection with the neighborhood, and the title, vitality, and charm of the Marquess of Hetherington everywhere set the hearts of hopeful mothers and their daughters fluttering. The haughty beauty of Miss Norris inspired awe and admiration everywhere.