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Prologue

Elizabeth Cates, Countess of Andover, had accepted the invitation for the house party before she understood why Charlotte had extended it. Until then, she had considered the visit a favor to her friend. Five nights in the country with a comfortable room. She could manage that. She had attended gatherings before and knew how to be pleasant without attracting much attention. She could smile at the right moments and murmur agreement when needed. She could also slip away to the edge of the room when the conversation grew too bright.

Then Charlotte mentioned dancing. Elizabeth lowered the folded invitation to her lap, her fingers tightening on the paper's edge. “I had understood it to be a small party,” she said.

“It is,” Charlotte replied easily.

“With dancing?” She arched a brow. Elizabeth did not do dancing…

“Possibly,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “Lady Wetherby has a pianoforte and several guests who can be persuaded to play.”

They sat in the little morning room at Matron Manor, where sunlight warmed the carpet in long, pale bars. The open window let in the smell of damp earth and early roses. Elizabeth had spent the earlier part of the morning helping a new resident find her way about the house. The woman arrived tired and anxious. The lock on her trunk refused to open. Elizabeth spoke to her gently and settled her in another room to rest. Then she sent a servant to attend to the trunk. She had left the woman with a cup of tea and a small, grateful smile.

That had been easy. Someone needed something, and she could help. She understood the steadiness in it, and she enjoyed helping others. The prospect of standing before a gentleman while he decided whether to ask her to dance was considerably less comfortable. Her stomach gave a small, uneasy flutter at the thought. “I am not particularly accomplished…” she said, smoothing the paper against her knee.

“At persuading people to play.” Charlotte waved her hand dismissively. “Neither am I. I generally offer them wine and hope for the best,” Charlotte said, her eyes glinting.

Elizabeth smiled despite herself, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “You know what I mean.”

Charlotte leaned back upon the sofa, her gaze resting kindly upon her. “You need not dance if you do not wish to.”

“Then perhaps you inform Lady Wetheby of my dislike of dancing,” Elizabeth said. “I should hate for her to have expectations I cannot fulfill.”

“I have told her only that you are coming with me and would appreciate a room away from the stairs.”

Elizabeth looked up, startled. “You remembered?”

“You dislike hearing people pass your door when you are attempting to sleep,” Charlotte said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Of course I remembered.”

It was such a small preference. She had mentioned it once, in passing, after a visit when a succession of late guests had kept her awake until dawn. Charlotte’s easy recollection eased the apprehension gathering beneath her ribs, and a quiet warmth spread through her chest, tender and a little surprising. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You are welcome.” Charlotte reached for her tea, the china chiming faintly against the saucer. “Now, what else troubles you?”

Elizabeth glanced down at the invitation. The paper had warmed beneath her fingers, softening at the creases from her restless handling. Lady Wetherby’s note was friendly, promising a few days of good company and country air. Nothing in it suggested that Elizabeth would be expected to distinguish herself. She ought to have been pleased. She was pleased in a small, cautious way that she feared might vanish if examined too closely, like a bubble that would burst at the slightest touch.

“I shall know very few people,” she said. Elizabeth hated social gatherings, especially ones where she knew almost no one.

“You will know me,” Charlotte said, softly.

Elizabeth sighed. “You cannot sit beside me every moment.”

“Certainly not,” Charlotte agreed. “You would become tired of my conversation by luncheon.”

Elizabeth tilted her lips upward. “I have survived it for considerably longer.”

“And I appreciate your fortitude.” Charlotte set down her cup, her expression gentling. “You may speak to the other guests as much or as little as you wish. Lady Wetherby does not keep a tally.”

Elizabeth folded the invitation again, following the crease with unnecessary care, pressing it flat with her thumbnail. She knew how to answer questions about the weather, the journey, and whether she had visited a certain part of the country before. Beyond that, she mostly listened while others carried the conversation. She did not always mind. People could be interesting when they forgot to make an impression. Sometimes she returned home with something still unsaid. A thought she had been too slow to offer, or a question she feared would sound foolish. By the time she found the courage, the opportunity had passed, and she was left with a small, familiar ache of regret.

Charlotte watched her smooth the paper, her head tilted. “You need not be entertaining every minute, Elizabeth.”

“I had not thought I would need to be,” Elizabeth said, a little defensively.

“No, but I suspect you have been trying very hard not to be any trouble,” Charlotte said quietly.

The observation was gently made. It still warmed Elizabeth’s cheeks, a slow flush rising from her collar. “I would not wish Lady Wetherby to regret inviting me,” she murmured.

“She invited a guest, not someone to assist with the arrangements. You are allowed to sit down and enjoy yourself.”