Chapter One
“Stand straighter. Chin up,” Lady Grisham barked.
Elizabeth Brighton, the Marquess of Grisham’s second daughter, tried her best to obey her stepmother. She pulled her shoulders back while still under the unforgiving and ever-assessing eye of Lady Grisham.
The chandeliers glittered above like captured starlight, casting golden reflections across polished floors and silk gowns, but the beauty only made her more uneasy. Everything shimmered and sparkled, and yet all it stirred in her was dread. Other young ladies might have seen the ballroom as a place of enchantment, but to Elizabeth, it was little short of a waking nightmare.
“Has anyone told you that you slouch like a milkmaid, Elizabeth?” her stepmother asked, sounding perpetually aggravated with her.
To be fair, Lady Grisham gave her own daughter—Elizabeth’s younger half-sister—the same treatment.
“Wilhelmina, do compose yourself. If you persist in glowering so, you shall frighten away every eligible gentleman in the room. A young lady ought not to appear as though she means to duel the first man who approaches.”
“That’s rather the point, Mother,” Wilhelmina muttered. “Heaven forbid I blend in with this flock of overdressed, self-congratulating peacocks.”
Elizabeth had to suppress a smile. She was genuinely grateful to be out here with her younger half-sister. Wilhelmina might be only seventeen, but she could hold her ground and even defend Elizabeth’s far better than anyone else could these days.
That role had once belonged to their eldest sister, Marianne, but she was now married to the Duke of Oakmere, so her duties had shifted elsewhere.
Thankfully, Lady Grisham was too consumed by her logistical maneuverings to have caught Wilhelmina’s muttered remark. The marchioness was already orchestrating their positions in the ballroom with the precision of a general, arranging her daughters like life-sized chess pieces.
Elizabeth and Wilhelmina now stood at a calculated distance from the dance floor: close enough to be noticed, yet not so near as to appear eager.
“Smile, both of you,” Lady Grisham commanded through a tight grin that showed all her teeth. “It’s not an execution. It’s a ball.”
Elizabeth wondered if an execution was, in fact, preferable to what she would be dealing with. She never had macabre tendencies, but the thought flitted in her mind so easily.
“Aren’t we the very picture of delight,” Wilhelmina muttered, forcing a smile.
Elizabeth attempted to mimic the expression, but her cheeks ached with the effort, and she knew the truth would still show in her eyes: dull, weary, and perhaps a little lost.
Rooms like this always set her heart racing. They were too loud, too bright, too filled with glittering strangers who moved with effortless ease, as though they all knew precisely where to go and what to say.
Unlike her.
She tightened her grip on her fan, the only thing in the room that felt solid in her hand.
“Elizabeth, youwillmake a favorable impression this evening,” Lady Grisham said coldly.
With her, it was never a suggestion—it was a decree. The lady might not carry a cane like her late father, but she wielded her will like a blade.
“Marianne may be comfortably ensconced at Oakmere with her noble husband and their perfectly timed child,” she added, “but do not imagine the family name rests entirely on her accomplishments.You, my dear, are our standard-bearer now. I expect you not to falter.”
It was never about concern for her happiness or future. It was about disposing of her, securing a new alliance, turning her into a useful connection. The ordeal with Lord Linpool last Season still lingered in her memory, sharp and humiliating, a lesson in how little her well-being truly mattered.
Lady Grisham’s mention of her sister stirred a pang of longing. Elizabeth missed Marianne terribly. Her elder sister had promised to visit, but her time was now consumed by her infant son, and understandably so. Still, her letters arrived faithfully, filled with warmth and gentle encouragement. Elizabeth clung to them with quiet desperation, as if the ink and paper might somehow hold her together.
“I will try my best,” Elizabeth whispered, knowing that she was saying it more to herself than to anyone, but Lady Grisham seemed to be satisfied.
“Good. I will see what I can do on my end,” the marchioness said with a smile.
“Ten shillings says she’s off to charm some ancient earl or marquess for you, Elizabeth,” Wilhelmina whispered, clearly reveling in her own mischief. “And to make matters worse, he’llhave gout, a crumbling castle, and no fortune to speak of. You’ll be married off for money that doesn’t exist.”
Elizabeth smiled, though nervously. She knew her sister was trying to coax a laugh from her, but oddly enough, she could almost see the ridiculous scene playing out exactly as Wilhelmina described.
Then they heard it.
The unmistakable clamor of an approaching group.