B006O3T9DG EBOK by Linda Berdoll Read Free Book Online Page A

the dog with fondness, for she had been her constant companion and great comfort whilst Darcy was away on the Continent. That reminded her of when she actually met Miss Clisson.
    It was the height of the hostilities with Napoleon. She was great with child and desperate for word from her husband. Although Elizabeth would have come to town regardless, she had not known that she would meet Miss Clisson that day. She had been taken aback, uncertain whether or not she was victim of a rather cruel joke. Being seen in her condition in public was an offence meriting a verbal stoning by the dutiful decorous. Sitting in that manner, in the company of a woman of ill-repute, insulted all that was holy. As she had always taken great care to conduct herself in a manner befitting her position, the lengths she went to learn of her husband’s fate was testament to her alarm.
    Seated on a public bench in a small park, they spoke for ten minutes full. She had but one cause—to learn if Darcy was alive or laying in some blood-soaked battlefield injured or dead. Indeed, Elizabeth had been sick with worry, desperate for intelligence, and so compleatly flustered that the particulars of Miss Clisson’s complexion was not of the smallest interest.
    It was only on the long journey home that her mind was sufficiently settled to contemplate Miss Clisson’s connection to her husband. Only then did she truly wish that she had paid closer attention.
    Although Juliette offered her a plausible explanation of it at the time, all Elizabeth’s womanly instincts told her she was not to be trusted. (No lady of innocent motives would have dared allude to a past connection to one’s husband, much less imply that it was not consigned to the past.) At the time, Elizabeth had not given a fiddler’s fart whether they were lovers or not. She had been happy enough just to learn that he was alive.
    Once he was safely home, she was no longer magnanimous in regards to that acquaintanceship.
    Admittedly, her interrogation of her husband on that particular matter had been a bit disputatious. His defence, however, was exceedingly thorough. Thereby any connection he had with Miss Clisson was long over—and of no importance. It had remained forgotten (well, perhaps not forgotten, but certainly of no concern) until she happened to see Juliette on the steps of Howgrave’s house on Regent Street the following year. Elizabeth might not have recognised her then had she not been standing on the broad steps in the middle of the day conversing with Darcy. As often bechanced such events, their meeting had been as fortuitous as it was innocent. The information Miss Clisson had extended had been a very present help in settling certain affairs wholly unconnected to her.
    Juliette Clisson had not vexed her thoughts again. Indeed, when Elizabeth had learnt she had married, she was quite happy for her. Elizabeth’s regard for the lady was only as a personage who had twice been the agent of assistance to her family. Her opinion would remain as it was until she had reason to think otherwise. As she was fitted for the gown she meant to wear to their upcoming ball, her husband’s former lover did not trouble her thoughts.
    Not in the least.
    She would have looked at her reflection in the cheval with the same critical eye regardless of who would or would not be in attendance.
    Derbyshire was a lifetime away from the heart of the ton—which was the very reason her family enjoyed abiding at Pemberley. Upon the occasion of their ball she did not care to be accused of being a dowdy country housewife. Had it not been for the visits of Caroline Bingley, she would be altogether unwitting of what was fashionable. Caroline’s life was dedicated to the au courant. She was not, however, always faultlessly attired. Miss Bingley was often adorned with more ribbons than a Maypole (and upon one famous occasion an ear of Indian corn), but she kept apace of what the ladies of Paris were wearing.
    With