Chapter 34 #2
More opportunity for the certainty of the night before to fade into something irretrievable.
“I…” she began, but memory surged unbidden: the warmth of his arms, the reverence of his touch, the way his voice had softened when he spoke her name, and the fierce conviction with which he had declared his love.
Hope had felt so real then. So absolute.
She pressed her lips together, unable to reconcile the woman who had believed in him only hours ago with the frightened creature now sitting beneath the cold judgment of strangers.
“I was a fool,” she whispered, and the words wounded her even as she spoke them.
Several hours later, Darcy stood at the edge of Elizabeth’s grand ballroom, her fingers curled around the slender stem of a champagne glass as she gazed across a glittering expanse of guests.
Hundreds of candles burned in the crystal chandeliers overhead, scattering light over gilded cornices, mirrored panels, jeweled hair, and silken gowns.
Music swept through the room in graceful waves, yet beneath it ran the ceaseless susurration of voices, as soft and merciless as silk drawn across a blade.
She felt curiously numb.
It astonished her that she had allowed herself to be persuaded into attending the ball.
Elizabeth had been resolute, declaring that she would not permit her friend to retreat into solitude and sorrow, and Darcy had understood the sentiment.
The duchess herself had endured a scandal of no small magnitude when she fell in love with the Duke of Basil, one that had swept through society with merciless fervor and cast her in a most unfavorable light.
That revelation had emboldened Darcy, if only for a fleeting moment. Elizabeth had survived the scandal and married the man she loved. Though Darcy had longed to remain at home and pour every wounded emotion onto a canvas, both Agatha and Elizabeth had implored her to attend.
So Darcy lifted her chin and prepared to enjoy the evening. She believed she possessed nothing for which she ought to feel shame. How na?ve that belief now seemed. The whispers began the instant she entered.
She felt them before she heard them: the subtle alteration in the air, the attention lingering a heartbeat too long, the swift turn of heads, and the deliberate lowering of voices behind jeweled fans. When the words at last reached her, they struck with quiet brutality.
Mistress. Fallen woman. No better than her mother. Does anyone know who she truly is?
The whispers followed Darcy like a trailing shadow, murmured behind gloved hands or concealed beneath the flutter of painted fans. One lady, less careful than most, wondered aloud why the duchess chose to keep such company.
Another replied, with a faint note of disdain, that the duchess was American and therefore inclined toward unusual associations.
Darcy nearly choked upon her champagne at that.
Elizabeth, for her part, remained the very image of a gracious hostess.
She returned to Darcy repeatedly with warmth and sincerity, introducing her wherever she could and drawing her into conversation with a determination that was both kind and, to Darcy’s growing discomfort, increasingly conspicuous.
It only cast the truth into sharper relief.
Her reception was nothing like the welcome she had received at Agatha’s ball. No gentleman approached to request a dance. No curious conversation unfolded at her side. Save for her friends, she remained untouched, uninvited into conversations, and unmistakably set apart.
Darcy had not known it was possible to feel so profoundly alone in the midst of a crowded room.
The orchestra swelled, laughter sparkled beneath the chandeliers, and couples turned through the figures of the dance, satin slippers gliding over the gleaming floor.
Darcy stood apart from it all, divided from the beauty by an invisible barrier no one dared cross.
She lifted her glass though she had no desire to drink and fixed her gaze upon the dancers, determined to endure for a little while longer.
A ripple passed through the crowd, subtle at first and then unmistakable, as the butler’s announcement rang clearly across the ballroom.
“The Earl of Raine. The Countess of Raine.”
Darcy froze. For one suspended moment she could not draw breath, her pulse seeming to stop as shock coursed through her. Elizabeth and Agatha left their husbands and moved swiftly to her side.
“I had not imagined, with the article published this morning, that the countess would attend,” the duchess murmured beneath the swell of music. “Nor Lord Raine.”
“Of course she would,” Agatha replied faintly, her gaze fixed upon the entrance. “The countess is a proud woman. And the earl would escort her. His presence alone may quell the whispers.”
Darcy frowned, her throat burning and her heart aching. “How can his presence accomplish that?”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Lord Raine is a very powerful man. According to my husband, few in this room would risk offending him. A word from Raine could see investments withdrawn, doors closed, and fortunes altered. He possesses that degree of influence.”
“Sebastian is truly so powerful?” Darcy whispered, her heart tightening painfully within her chest.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said quietly. “He belongs to the small circle of men whose wealth and influence shape policy, patronage, and even the laws of the realm.”
Darcy swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
Sebastian advanced beside his mother through the parted crowd, darkly elegant in evening black, one gloved hand beneath the countess’s fingers.
Candlelight struck the severe planes of his face and gleamed in his midnight hair.
He looked remote, commanding, and so devastatingly handsome that the sight of him stole what little breath she possessed.
How shall I ever learn to let you go? she cried silently.
“Would you prefer to withdraw to the library?” Elizabeth asked gently, her expression soft with concern.
Darcy understood the kindness in the offer. “I…”
“I think we should,” Agatha said. “I shall keep you company.”
Darcy nodded, then tensed as she realized Sebastian was drawing nearer, though he had not yet seen her. Oh God. She commanded her legs to move, to carry her away with as much speed and discretion as she could manage, but her body refused to obey.
The stares began anew, sharper now and emboldened by the countess’s presence. Fans lifted like painted shields. Whispers swelled. Several ladies regarded Darcy with thinly veiled satisfaction, as though her humiliation were an entertainment they had long anticipated.
They would not dare offend the countess. Nor her son. But Darcy had no title, no powerful family, and no gentleman publicly claiming the right to defend her. She was unprotected.
Expendable.