23. The Butterfly’s Ball
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE BUTTERFLY’S BALL
Elizabeth’s grand entrance to the Harewood estate nearly ended in disaster.
Lord Fusington had barely cleared the threshold when he missed his footing on the smooth marble, his weight shifting so violently that Elizabeth was nearly dragged over the stone.
Fortune smiled at her when Mary’s young escort, the agile Mr. Davenport, darted forward to steady the elderly lord and kept Elizabeth from beginning her London debut facedown upon the Persian rug.
Beside them, Allegra held Lord Coke’s regal arm with an ease that bordered on the offensive.
Coke was unbearably composed, offering his hand to their hosts with the smooth elegance of a man who owned the air he breathed.
Elizabeth, however, worried whether Darcy had received the marked-up dance card in time, or whether her trustee was even in attendance.
She was unable to spot him through the sea of black coats and tall men aplenty.
“Keep your chin aligned with the chandelier, Elizabeth, and for heaven’s sake, stop scanning the floor like a bailiff looking for a debtor,” Allegra hissed from behind her shoulder, her voice perfectly level even as her smile remained frozen for the crowd.
“A lady does not look for her acquaintances; she allows them the privilege of finding her. Look straight ahead, as we descend the stairs to the ballroom, and do not let your eyelids twitch.”
“My eyes are perfectly steady,” Elizabeth hissed back at her. “Have you seen Darcy?”
“No, he will find you or be presented if he wishes,” Allegra whispered as she curtsied to another notable.
Elizabeth forced her gaze forward, anchoring her chin to the immense chandelier that hung over the center of the parquet.
Light scattered from hundreds of candlesticks too bright to follow, catching the jewels of the countesses, the white of the waistcoats, and the gold thread surrounding her own collarbone.
“Breathe,” Allegra murmured beside her, “and curtsy deeper. The ranks here are higher than in Hertfordshire.”
“I am less breathing than vibrating, and my knees are bending quite prodigiously.”
“Then you are quite out of order. Breathe first, descend second, vibrate after.” Allegra’s hand found her elbow.
“The chandelier is Venetian, the punch is dangerous, Lady Harewood wears purple, and the gentleman by the third column who is pretending to examine a painting he has seen forty times is Mr. Darcy, who has been watching the entrance for ten minutes and will deny it with his dying breath.”
Elizabeth’s stomach performed a dangerous maneuver that she hoped would not bring up the oysters she had at tea.
Although she was told not to look, she glanced anyway while curtsying to Lady Matlock upon Lord Coke’s introduction.
The dark Darcy gaze that caught her eye across the parquet smoldered with the heat of the entire chandelier.
There was no professional coldness in his countenance now; it was a heavy, unblinking focus that pinned her to the spot.
She held his gaze for the space of a single heartbeat, signaling through the glare— did you receive it? Will you stand your ground?
But Allegra nudged her. “I believe Lady Matlock is awaiting your answer.”
“Yes, my lady.” Elizabeth dipped into another curtsy without the faintest idea of what she was agreeing to. “You are very civil.”
The orchestra’s French horn sent a low, heavy moan through the room, and Lord Fusington took the sound as a signal of his liberation. “Miss Bennet, it has been a pleasure. I shall retire to the card room, or perhaps the library. My regards for a pleasant evening.”
He bowed, she curtsied, and Lord Fusington shuffled off toward the sanctuary of the card room, leaving Elizabeth at the top of the stairs. She doubted he could have made it down without a rescue party.
Here they stood—three sisters from a small market town, positioned at the pinnacle of their debut into London society. From this height, the ballroom floor looked less like a wonderland and more like a beautifully lit marketplace where connections and marriages were fixed with the flick of a fan.
“Jane.” Elizabeth turned to her sister, who stood placidly in her pale-blue silk. “Are you prepared?”
“I have been prepared since Hertfordshire,” Jane said, and the quiet certainty in her voice was new and wonderful. “Let us descend to the floor, shall we? Mr. Darcy has seen you enter, and I believe he has received the dance card.”
“Whether he will acknowledge it is another matter.” Elizabeth grabbed Mary’s hand. “Come, sister, let us walk together.”
The room noticed—oh, it noticed—a ripple of turned heads, lowered fans, and whispered assessments that traveled across the parquet faster than a rumor about a ruined hem.
The ton was evaluating the trio of Bennet girls, looking for the country mud beneath the French silk, and finding none, because the Bennet shoulders stayed straight and firm.
To Elizabeth’s profound surprise, Lord Coke did not wait for introductions; he stepped forward immediately and claimed Jane for the first country set, his mother’s sharp eyes following his movement with a sudden, narrowing intensity.
Mary was led away by her escort, young Mr. Davenport, leaving Elizabeth to watch as Darcy himself stepped from behind the column Allegra had noticed earlier.
He did not approach her. With a rigid, unreadable courtesy, he offered his arm to Allegra and escorted her onto the floor for the opening set, leaving Elizabeth standing at the margin of the room.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Mr. Arthur Craster approached with a bow that suggested recent and vigorous instruction from a dancing master with a heavy cane.
He was sandy-haired, twenty-three, and possessed the cheerful bewilderment of a puppy who had been groomed for a show.
His mother hovered six feet behind him, her eyes wide and tracking his movements with the alertness of a theatrical director on opening night.
“I am honored to appear on your dance card in the first position. Mother said, Mr. Darcy was most insistent, and well, you look very well this evening.”
The compliment arrived entirely out of sequence.
Elizabeth could see by the flicker of panic in his blue eyes that he had meant to save it for the second pass of the figures, and it had escaped early, like a cork from a shaken bottle.
The escape was so endearing that Elizabeth’s resolve to remain composed dissolved into a genuine grin.
“Thank you, Mr. Craster. You are very kind.”
“Arthur, please. Everyone calls me Arthur. Mother calls me Arthur when she is pleased and Mr. Craster when she is not, and she is not very often, though she is remarkably pleased tonight. I cannot think why.”
“I think I know,” Elizabeth said, watching Arthur’s mother signal her victory to every woman in range with a flurry of nods and glances. She’d landed a country heiress with fifteen thousand pounds for her son’s first dance—no wonder she looked ready to collect the dowry.
The music began, and Arthur danced with more enthusiasm than skill, which Elizabeth preferred wholeheartedly. But then, he trod on her right foot during the first figure while apologizing with such mortification that his face went the color of a strawberry.
“I am so dreadfully—Mother warned me about the—it is these new shoes, they are?—”
“Arthur, the fault is mine. I placed my foot directly in your path. I have a genius for inconvenient placement.”
As she swung through the promenade, her eyes darted toward the center of the set where Darcy was guiding Allegra flawlessly. Even though Allegra spoke to him, his gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth and the bumbling Arthur, who was struggling to deliver his second rehearsed compliment.
“Mother said I should remark upon the gold thread. It catches.” He waved vaguely at the four hundred candles, the chandeliers, and the entirety of light everywhere. “The everything.”
“Why yes, I do suppose it does.” Elizabeth’s laugh escaped as she peeked at Darcy, who pretended not to notice, solemnly spinning Allegra as if he hadn’t been watching her all along.
By the third compliment, Elizabeth finally relaxed. The ballroom felt less like a gauntlet and more like a game.
“Why, I do believe, Miss Bennet, that my mother wished to me to say that your family is—” Arthur glanced desperately toward his mother, who was mouthing words across the ballroom that proved her son was clearly not a lip reader, ending with, “Very nice.”
“Yes, Mr. Craster, I do believe we Bennets have niceness sewn up in our silk slippers.”
Arthur beamed, clearly convinced he’d just delivered a triumph. Then, in the final turn, his foot landed squarely on Elizabeth’s left toes.
Elizabeth swallowed a yelp, and Arthur’s face went crimson. “Oh, Miss Bennet, I am so sorry—my feet have minds of their own. Are your toes intact?”
“I do believe these little piggies are still able to go to market, Mr. Craster. But I suppose one of them wishes to stay home.”
At that, Arthur let out a great, booming laugh, and Elizabeth laughed with him, throwing up her hands with an unguarded delight that would have shocked the assemblies of Hertfordshire.
In the periphery of her vision, she noted the sudden, dark scowl of Lady Matlock watching from the raised sofas.
The sight of that aristocratic displeasure only made Elizabeth skip and hop even more enthusiastically around the final turns.
The dance ended, Arthur bowed, and Elizabeth realized she’d made a friend. His mother swooped in, all feathers and fuss. Watching them go, Elizabeth felt something fizzy and bright bubbling up inside her. The night was young, the ballroom golden, and her feet itched to dance again.