“And we shall see you at Mr. Somerset’s dinner next week, shan’t we?”
“But of course,” said Lizzy. “Come prepared to marvel, my dear Mrs. Douglas, for Mr. Somerset has inherited the most astonishing cook.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But…” Mrs. Mortimer looked about them, leaned in, and spoke from beneath her fan. “A piece of advice, my dear Miss Bessler. Sack the cook as soon as you are married.”
“Mrs. Douglas, I must have misunderstood you,” Lizzy said coolly. “Have reliable cooks become so easy to replace these days?”
“No, of course not. Goodness knows, mine is a nightmare and still I dare not let her go.” Mrs. Douglas giggled nervously. “But you know what people have said about that woman and Mr. Somerset’s brother.”
And you know what people have said about your brother and that governess, Lizzy was tempted to retort. But she was to be a politician’s wife and such open skirmishes were best avoided.
“I will keep that in mind,” she said.
That encounter wasn’t enough to spoil Lizzy’s mood on its own, but she turned around only to be confronted with the sight of Henry and his new wife, a sweet young thing who looked as if she’d stepped out of a beauty soap advertisement, arriving at the dance.
Word was that it had been love at first sight. He’d proposed to her within a month of their first meeting and three months later they were married, ten days before Sweet Young Thing’s eighteenth birthday.
“Are you an admirer of the great philosopher, Miss Bessler?”
Lizzy started. Mr. Marsden stood at her elbow, watching her. He tilted his chin in Henry’s direction.
“No,” she said. Her gaze returned to the happy couple.
“Allow me to phrase it better. Were you an admirer?”
Had she been? It was difficult to say. To this day she couldn’t adequately explain to herself why she had taken Henry Franklin as a lover. Because life as a failed debutante was one of unending tedium? Because she meant to destroy herself in a fiery act of nihilism? Because since she couldn’t have either the highest title or the greatest wealth, what use was her virginity?
Henry had been a married man from the beginning of their acquaintance, but he never concealed his distaste for his wife, a pale, limp woman who spent her days as a semi-invalid. His honesty and brutal intelligence had intrigued Lizzy, as well as his reputation as the most esteemed philosopher of his generation.
She’d thought herself an intellectual equal to Henry, the sort of woman who fascinated a man. And perhaps she was his intellectual equal, but she was no match for him in callousness or manipulation, for Henry’s fine mind and voracious sexual appetite both paled in comparison to his effortless disregard for others.
When his first wife had unexpectedly passed away of pneumonia, Lizzy had thought Henry would propose to her, only to have him laugh and tell her that she was but one of his mistresses, and that while she was a fine diversion when he was in the mood, he married only virgins.
She’d been speechless. He was the one who’d taken her virginity, or did he not remember? He did, he assured her. But since she had so little regard for it, why should he value it more? And what evidence did he have that she hadn’t slept with other men since then?
It might have been all right had that been the end of it. After all, a man so publicly dismissive of his wife probably had it in him to be devoted to no one but himself. But then Henry had fallen in love, hard, and Society talked of nothing but the vast romance of his courtship, his endless tenderness to the young woman who’d captured his heart, and what a changed man he’d become.
And that had nearly destroyed what remained of Lizzy’s confidence.
“Do you think, Mr. Marsden, that had I been an admirer of Mr. Franklin’s, I would choose to tell you, of all people, about it?”
He chuckled. “I would never have told Mr. Somerset anything, you do realize?”
She turned her face to him, paying attention now. He was in dark evening formals, the tails of his jacket cut long, his features perfect as always—Cupid grown up and out to wreak havoc.
“And how do you suppose I should have realized such goodwill and restraint on your part?” she said sharply.
Their eyes met. He smiled, a small, rueful smile, and raised a punch glass to his lips. “I beg your pardon. Of course you’ve no way of knowing.”
The musicians struck up a new waltz. He surveyed the landscape about them. “I see no one rushing this way to claim you. May I have this dance?”
The refusal was on the tip of her tongue. But then Henry glanced in her direction and her answer changed. “You may, sir.”