“Wilhelmina,” Lady Grisham said sharply, “we do not speak of disappointments at social gatherings. Especially not in the presence of a duke and duchess.”
“We’re family,” Wilhelmina replied, undeterred. “Where are we to speak the truth?”
Marianne gave a quiet sigh and slid her hand into Elizabeth’s. “Come, Lizzie. Walk with me. I’ve missed our talks.”
Elizabeth’s instinct was to glance toward Lady Grisham, but her stepmother, perhaps eager to avoid further spectacle, gave a tight nod of approval.
“Go on,” she said with forced cheer.
The sisters wove through the crowd, finally escaping the suffocating web of etiquette and expectation. They reached a quiet alcove, a breath of calm amid the glitter and noise.
Elizabeth exhaled. “Dominic dislikes Lady Grisham.”
“He’s trying not to let it show,” Marianne said with a soft smile. “But yes. He’s aware of how she treats you, and the girls. He’s not fond of people who disguise cruelty with propriety.”
“I wish she could be sent away like Father.”
Marianne snorted delicately. “If only exile worked twice.”
They laughed together, quietly, like they had when they were children hiding from storms under blankets and pretending they were pirate queens.
“Well,” Elizabeth continued, sobering, “I’ve decided. I’m going to marry this Season.”
Marianne blinked. “You sound quite sure.”
“I have to be,” Elizabeth said, her voice low. “If I wait too long, the whispers will begin again. I will be seen as the wallflower. A failure. Worse, the girls might be painted with the same brush.”
“You’re doing this for them?”
“And for myself,” she admitted. “I want a home. Control. Freedom. Even if it’s an illusion.”
“Is there someone in particular who could provide that for you?” Marianne asked, eyes narrowing.
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked—just once—toward the corner of the ballroom, where Alasdair stood speaking with Seth. He looked like a storm barely contained. His eyes, unreadable from this distance, never left her.
She looked away quickly. “There are possibilities.”
As if on cue, a gentleman began making his way toward them.
Lord Avery.
He was fine-featured, fashionably attired, and clearly of respectable breeding. But even as he greeted them with a bow and a charming smile, Elizabeth felt the same faint sense ofdisappointment she always did. Like she was trying to summon lightning from a candle.
Still, she smiled.
“Lady Elizabeth, might I have the next dance?” Lord Avery asked.
Elizabeth offered him her card. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
He made the notation and bowed again before retreating to await the next set. Elizabeth’s smile faded slightly the moment he turned away.
“You’ll let me know if he bores you to tears?” Marianne teased.
“I already know,” Elizabeth muttered. “But I must keep trying.”
Her skin prickled. Alasdair was watching.
She couldn’t see him clearly, but she could feel it—that molten gaze pinned to her with palpable heat. Her stomach flipped, and a flush crept up her throat. Instead of shrinking from it, she used it.