Chapter 1
May 1817
London
In the drawing room's soft evening light, Miss Elizabeth Armstrong, Bette to her friends and family, stared in mute surprise at her mother, who sat gracefully perched on the sofa with all the grace of a queen holding court.
"Surely you knew my intentions," her mother murmured, taking a few sips of her tea. "I cannot imagine why you wear such an expression of horrified shock, Bette. It is unflattering; do compose yourself, my dear."
Elizabeth lowered the book she'd been reading, a thrilling tale of love and betrayal, onto the small walnut table. "Mother," she began, trying to calm her wildly racing thoughts. "I thought we were merely visiting England for a few months. I never imagined you wanted us to move here permanently."
The very idea was simply outrageous.
Her mother arched an elegant brow. "Plans do change, my dear. Surely you know this."
Elizabeth suspected this plan had always existed, but her mother kept her in the dark. "What about our lives in New York, Mama? Our friends and family there? What about Father? He could not mean to leave his business behind to live in England!"
"We shall hardly miss them," her mother said dismissively. "And whenever we do, we can visit New York."
"Mama, I was happy to make the journey with you because I missed my brother and hoped to beg him to return to New York with us. I cannot stay and I do intend to return home before Christmas. Have you informed Papa—"
"Do not speak of your father to me," she snapped, her dark blue eyes flashing an emotion Elizabeth did not understand. "As much as I love your father and trusted that he wanted the best for you, he has no say in this decision."
Trusted?
"Has … has something happened between you and Father?" she asked, feeling as if her entire world had been tossed into disorder.
"Other than his ridiculous decision to allow you to work in his company against my expressed wish that it was unacceptable and detrimental to your future?" A grimace flashed on her mother's face. "That has been our only quarrel."
Relief filled her chest. "Mama, I went to Father's office twice, and the work I did for him in a private room was not observed by anyone. Papa appreciated the work I did and even said he would increase my responsibilities within the company."
Her mother lowered the cup to the walnut table with a decisive clink. "It is for that reason that I insisted you travel with me to London and make here your new home."
A short laugh of disbelief escaped her. "You insisted I accompany you because I helped Papa transcribe a few letters and reviewed some ledgers?"
"Is that the life you wish to endure, Bette? Wearing a hat and a veil to your father's company because you might face ridicule and a ruined reputation, hiding away in a room by yourself working, coming home to your parents' house and not a husband and children and home of your own?"
A sharp pain pierced Elizabeth's chest. "I never want to endure life. I am determined to live it happily."
"Good," her mother said with soft intensity. "Hiding away in your father's office a few times a month, working on ledgers is enduring life."
"Mama, surely, you are overthinking the matter!"
"Am I?" Her mother narrowed her eyes. "You are three and twenty, and in a few months, you will be four and twenty. This is the time to think about securing your future, Bette. You should not have these nonsensical notions that your father is encouraging, even though he knew it was to your detriment."
"There was no harm—"
"Ladies do not work. You are an heiress, a young woman of grace, beauty, and talent. You should have been married three years ago!"
"Not this again, mama. I am not married. It is not a terrible thing." Elizabeth had never been inclined to self-pity, and while her mother praised that quality, she also believed it made her daughter obstinate and without fear of living her life as a spinster.
"That your dreams were not realized does not mean you simply give up and start believing you could one day help your brother run your father's company."
"I did not envision it that far," she said tightly, fisting her hands atop her lap. "I merely wanted to do something productive with my time, and Papa understood."
"That your father said he understood is the very reason I am angry and hurt. What I understand is that you are not living, Bette. I saw that, and it broke my heart. You refused all marriage offers in New York, and what I hope for you is that you will find a gentleman here in England. We will not be returning to New York this year." Her mother snapped her spine straight. "I have informed your father we will be in London for at least two years."
The weight of her mother's expectations pressed heavily in the silence between them. There was a part of her that understood her mother's reasoning and another part that was afraid to reopen those old, fanciful dreams. Elizabeth had entered New York's social scene when she was nineteen, yet four years later, she remained unwed. As the daughter of a man who owned a bank and several other businesses, she quickly learned that most suitors were more enamored with her wealth and connections than her character. Over the years, her heart had grown wary, and she had refused eight proposals, each suitor more transparent than the last.
For the past several months, disillusioned with the superficial bon ton of New York, Elizabeth had turned her attention to her father's business, taking a particular interest in the financial aspects. Her acumen for numbers was undeniable, and she found the challenge of working invigorating—a stark contrast to the tedious rounds of social calls and endless parties. However, this new passion only served to horrify her mother, a woman of traditional values who saw a woman's place as firmly within the home or, at the very least, within the genteel confines of society.
"Mama," Elizabeth said, breaking the tense silence. "If I cannot find a husband in New York, what chances do I have in England? Have you considered I might once again fail?"
Her mother stood and crossed the room, taking Elizabeth's hands. Her mother stared at her, assessing every nuance on her face.
A spurt of good humor shook her. "What are you looking for, Mama?"
"I am searching for a trace of the girl who once dreamt of a love like those in the novels she devoured. The girl who said she wanted a husband and three children. The girl who often teased she would marry a man who adored her as your father adored me."
Elizabeth's throat tightened, and an invisible pressure squeezed her chest. She had no words to reply, and she could only helplessly return her mother's regard.
"Do you wish to marry, my dear?" she asked softly, "or has the desire been completely removed from your heart?"
A hot surge of want went through Elizabeth's heart, and she glanced away from her lest her eyes betrayed the hunger that still lived within her for a happy marriage and children. What if she tried again and failed? To imagine it left a terrible ache inside her chest.
"Please be honest with me, Bette," her mother said.
Elizabeth felt the old longings stir within her chest, emotions she had buried a couple of years ago.
"I do," she whispered, the admission feeling like a surrender. "However, I feel no excitement at the thought of trying again. It had grown terribly tedious and an unfulfilling venture."
"Your aunt will help you wade through these waters. Sally promised me only this morning."
Elizabeth's heartbeat quickened. "Aunt dramatically wilted upon learning I am not affianced or married and even suggested it was perhaps some fortune that I was not here to seek a husband. She said there are much younger, wealthier, and prettier debutantes that will be more favorably viewed."
"There are some things in life worth fighting and sacrificing for. Your future … the one you deem worthy, is something to fight for." Her mother squeezed her hands, offering a smile that was both sad and understanding. "You will find someone, Bette, a man who sees your worth as I see it," her mother reassured her, her words wrapping around Elizabeth like a warm embrace. "And perhaps a change of scenery will offer what New York could not."
She smiled, feeling a flare of dread and excitement. Her paternal aunt, Viscountess Barnaby, whom they resided with at her townhouse in Berkeley Square, had informed her of several of the ton'srigid adherence to their rules on conduct—shockingly, even stricter and more unforgiving than their society in New York. Since she released the hope of marrying from her heart, Elizabeth enjoyed a greater level of freedom. She could not imagine constraining herself so again. Or suffer condescending glances from those who might deem her a lady firmly on the shelf.
Yet, the possibility of finding someone who loved her for her intelligence and spirit rather than her fortune allowed a sliver of hope to pierce her guarded heart.
Very well, I shall dare to dream again … and perhaps this time, I will find what I am looking for. A marriage with a man she could love and one who would cherish her in return.Elizabeth's heart thrummed with nerves and a burgeoning hope. Maybe, just maybe, this venture to England would offer more than she had dared to expect.
* * *
A week later,Elizabeth stood on the sidelines at one of London's grandest society balls. The room was a spectacle of elegance, illuminated by hundreds of candles mounted on crystal chandeliers. A twenty-piece orchestra played a lively waltz, and the air was thick with music, laughter, facile chattering, and the delicate fragrance of the ladies' perfumes.
"I do hope you see that no one has asked you to dance, Bette," her aunt muttered behind her delicately painted fan.
Elizabeth was quite aware but was not perturbed. Her mother, mingling effortlessly with the other guests, often sent her sympathetic glances that indicated she had seen her daughter's lack of dance partners.
An exaggerated sigh came from her aunt. "The eligible men are perhaps thinking that you are too old. I tell you, it is that gown! I am not pleased with your willfulness."
A humorless smile quirked Elizabeth's lips, but she did not reply to her aunt. Upon entering the countess's ballroom, whispers had rippled through the crowd, tinged with scandalized delight and censure, yet Elizabeth felt a thrilling surge of empowerment. She wore a rose-colored gown that clung to her frame with an almost provocative allure. With its deep décolletage and vibrant hue, the dress was a stark departure from the demure pastels typically favored by debutantes.
Her choice of attire had been deliberate, for she vowed to be honest to her character and without stating it, inform the ton that she was a lady of bold intentions. It was a rather risky move on her part; however, it was most important to Elizabeth that this new foray into the marriage mart be done according to her designs. Her aunt, a stickler for propriety, had been visibly appalled when she first saw the gown.
"A debutante would not wear such colors," she had chided, her eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. "This would only be permissible for widows and married women."
Elizabeth had merely smiled and drawled, "I thought I was collecting dust motes. Never say I am once again a fresh-faced debutante. The English air has indeed done wonders. I daresay I no longer feel decrepit."
"You are facetious! We will need a new wardrobe with more demure—" her aunt had begun, her voice a mix of exasperation and concern.
"No," Elizabeth had cut her off, her tone resolute and firm. "Once, I listened to everyone about what I needed in a husband. I wore clothes my mother thought appropriate. I confined my opinions on subject matters deemed inappropriate for women, subdued my laughter, and my wealth was paraded before me like a beacon. This time, Aunt, my search for a husband will be on my terms."
The room had fallen into a tense silence as her aunt and mother exchanged uneasy glances. Neither woman voiced any further objections, perhaps for the first time recognizing the iron will that underpinned Elizabeth's genteel exterior.
"Well," her mother said, uncurling her fan as she gracefully sashayed over. "A London ball is even more lively than what we are used to, and I thought the men would have been more considerate."
"I am rather appalled they see a young lady in want of a partner, and so many gentlemen remain discourteous," her aunt said, casting an accusatory stare at Elizabeth. "Most men need an enticement to approach a lady. We must let the ton know—"
"No," she said, knowing where her aunt wanted to go. "No one needs to know I am an heiress. I will never like a man whose admiration is generated by self-interest and little else."
"When I met my husband, only the betterment of my family drove me to accept an offer from a viscount; now I love that man with my entire heart," her aunt said. "The importance does not lie in how attachments start, but in how they end."
"I will not change my thoughts on this matter; you need to respect this."
Her aunt narrowed her eyes. "Bette! You are being too stubborn about—"
"I shall leave, given that my wishes cannot be respected." Elizabeth softened it with a small smile. "This is important to my happiness, or else I would not ask this of you both."
Her aunt sighed and grudgingly said, "Very well."
Elizabeth's belly unknotted, and as she watched the swirl of colors and movement before her, she felt an aching sense of detachment. She understood her aunt's worries. Despite their hostess's gracious introductions to several eligible gentlemen, none had asked her to dance. Elizabeth was not the delicate, blonde beauty her brother claimed was celebrated as diamonds and roses of each season. Still, she was pretty, owning dark brown hair with streaks of red that flattered her fair complexion. More than one admiring gaze lingered on her, but no one approached her.
Am I to always be liked first for my wealth?
"I need a breath of fresh air. I will return shortly."
After giving her a sympathetic glance, her mother nodded. As Elizabeth hastened away, she could feel her aunt and mother's concerned stares prickling at her back. She plucked a glass of champagne from a footman moving deftly through the crowd with a serving tray. Pushing through the throng, she reached the doors leading to the terrace balcony and slipped outside, a sigh of relief escaping her lips as she found it deserted, most of it bathed in the soft glow of moonlight.
The cool night air was a balm, and just as Elizabeth contemplated the prospect of leaving the ball early, a sudden stir from inside snagged her attention. The murmur of whispers floated out to the balcony like autumn leaves caught in a gust.
"It is the Duke of Basil," a lady gasped, her tone infused with shock and a hint of thrill.
"Why, I haven't seen him at one of these events in ages. Not since you know … the scandal," another responded in a dramatic whisper, her voice conveying disapproval and delight.
Elizabeth softly scoffed, her lips curling in amusement. It seemed that ladies in England possessed the same penchant for gossip as those in New York.
"Good heavens, is Lady Clara in town?" one queried in a hushed tone.
"Oh, Mary, do not speak of it. We do not wish for that dreadful gossip to be reignited. Clara was so devastated when he did not make her his duchess," the first lady replied, her voice a whisper of sympathy.
Hidden behind the door and a large palm frond, three ladies engaged in fervent gossip. Elizabeth's curiosity piqued, and she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the infamous duke. A few gentlemen milled about, but none bore the distinct aura of nobility she imagined a duke would possess.
"It was very ungentlemanly of him; they were caught together. How could he have been so callous to her? Poor Clara has been in the country for the last two years. I was hoping she would put it all behind her by now," one lady lamented.
"Mary, one does not simply dust off a ruined reputation and put it behind them!" another countered sharply.
"I, for one, could never admire such a man, even if he is as handsome as Lucifer himself," declared another with a snort. "With a devilish wit and charm to match!"
"A rather macabre comparison!" was the quick retort.
As handsome as Lucifer?
Elizabeth rolled her eyes in an unladylike fashion. The idle tongues of gossiping ladies always amazed her—oh! Her thoughts scattered as a tall figure emerged through the throng, his posture regal yet distinctly aloof.
Goodness, he is handsome. Is he these ladies' Lucifer?