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Her friend withdrew her hand and took up her cup, cradling it between her palms. “You will come with me. We shall walk, eat and complain privately if someone becomes tedious. Should you meet a gentleman you enjoy speaking to, you may speak to him again. Nothing more need be decided before we leave.”

Elizabeth considered that modest prospect, turning it over in her mind. It required no promise that she would become bold, no declaration that she intended to pursue an adventure. It asked only that she remain open, and its smallness made it possible. She could begin with a conversation. “Yes,” she said, nodding slowly and thoughtfully. “I think I should like that.”

Charlotte’s smile was warm, not triumphant, soft with affection. “Good. I shall answer Lady Wetherby this afternoon.”

Elizabeth reached for her tea and found it pleasantly warm, the heat seeping into her fingers. Her hands had steadied. She had not realized how tightly she had been holding them until her fingers relaxed around the cup, the faint ache in her knuckles easing.

After a moment, Charlotte glanced toward her, her head tilted. “What will you bring with you?”

“My usual gowns.”

“All of them?” Charlotte asked.

“I shall require something for dinner,” Elizabeth said, a touch primly.

“And something you enjoy wearing, I hope,” Charlotte said.

Elizabeth hesitated, her cup pausing halfway to her lips. In her wardrobe at home hung a length of purple silk she had chosen because the color pleased her, rich and deep as a plum. Once made into a gown, it had seemed more noticeable than she expected, the fabric whispering and gleaming with every movement. She had put it away after trying it on, her heart pounding, intending to wear it when an occasion required it.

No occasion ever quite had. “I have one,” she said, a little shyly. Charlotte waited, allowing her to continue. “A purple gown. I have not worn it.”

“Does it fit?” she asked.

“Of course,” Elizabeth said.

“Then bring it,” Charlotte told her.

Elizabeth looked into her cup, watching the faint ripples on the surface. “The neckline is a little lower than I generally choose.”

She arched a brow. “Do you dislike it?”

She remembered her reflection. Her light brown hair was pinned up, and the rich color brought out her gray eyes. She looked less likely to fade into the background. She had stood before the glass for a long moment, startled by the stranger staring back. Something stirred in her chest, a flicker she hurried to smother. “No,” she said slowly. “I thought it pretty.”

“Then it deserves room in your trunk.”

Charlotte said nothing about gentlemen admiring it. Elizabeth felt a quiet relief unfurl in her. She wanted the decision to be hers, even if she wasn’t yet certain she could wear it, even if the gown hung in the wardrobe's shadows all five nights.

“I could take a shawl,” she offered.

“Certainly,” Charlotte agreed.

“And I need not choose it for the first evening.” She was thinking aloud.

Charlotte shrugged. “You need not choose it at all.”

That made packing it seem easier. The weight of the choice lifted, leaving only the little, bright possibility. Elizabeth set down her cup and picked up the invitation, reading Lady Wetherby’s friendly words once more, the ink dark and the loops generous. Five nights in the country. Charlotte beside her. A garden in which she might walk when the company grew tiring, the paths soft with dew and the air sweet with roses.

Perhaps someone who would enjoy speaking with her. She folded the note carefully, pressed the crease with her thumb. This time, she kept it, tucking it into the pocket of her gown where she could feel its slight, reassuring weight. “I shall bring the purple silk,” she said, lifting her chin.

Charlotte smiled and reached for a biscuit, her eyes bright. “Then we have settled the important matter.”

Elizabeth looked toward the open window, where the gardener had moved on, and the sunlight lay golden over the lawn. A small, unfamiliar anticipation fluttered beneath her lingering nerves, quiet and shy. She had not agreed to be daring. She had agreed to go, and that was a huge step.

One

Julian Westcott, Marquess of Rosedale, noticed Lady Andover because she listened as though the conversation mattered. The elderly woman beside her had been describing a journey from Bath for several minutes. Julian knew because he had heard the beginning while crossing the room, paused to speak with their hostess, and returned to find the account still in progress. Most of the other guests had drifted toward the card tables. Lady Andover remained beside the sofa, her head inclined attentively, her hands folded in her lap. “And your companion was recovered by the time you arrived?” she asked.

“Quite recovered, though I feared we would be obliged to stop again,” the older woman said, with a sigh.