As always, his stature, masculine physique, strongly chiseled facial features, and absorbing sapphire eyes stirred her womanly instincts. It was a purely lustful response, and she knew this, instigated as much by the specimen of prime manhood before her as by her internal urges so tightly controlled. It was rare, but there were those times when she missed her husband. Or rather what he had roused in her. She sighed again, allowing the feelings to wash over her briefly as she gazed upon her master.

As quickly as they came, they disappeared. Mr. Darcy was a man of astounding presence. He wore his authority, eminence, and rank as an aura discernable to all. He was so far above her, a reality that brought no anger or bitterness but instead a sensation of peace. This is how the world was supposed to be—people keeping to where God had placed them in the proper order. Grasping beyond where one was born only brought upset and strife; it disturbed the flow and caused chaos.

The burn of suppressed passionate lust ebbed, replaced by the burn of irritation. She clenched her fists tighter, observing as Mr. Darcy turned toward the carriage, reaching in and grasping onto the extended hand and elbow of his wife. He said something, his face lighting with a smile as Mrs. Darcy came into view. Typically, Mrs. Smyth noted with a grimace, she was laughing. Her dark eyes glittered with mirth, and her full lips curved into a beaming smile displaying her teeth whitely against the crude tan of her skin and ruddiness to her cheeks. The housekeeper swept her eyes over her mistress, admitting grudgingly that she could find no fault with Mrs. Darcy’s attire or figure or hairstyle. But the shock of seeing the infant clutched against the woman’s chest was stunning.

Mrs. Smyth caught her breath. When the nanny had arrived with the personal servants and not the infant, Mrs. Smyth had been surprised. Fleetingly, she had wondered who was caring for the child, but put the thought aside in the haste of last minute preparations. If asked, she probably would have answered that the wet nurse was caring for the babe, or that it would be swaddled tightly and contained in a carry basket of some sort. Seeing it now with tiny bare feet emerging from the bottom edge of the blanket that Mrs. Darcy held over the body, the round head and pink face pressed against its mother’s full bosom was astonishing. Obviously the squalling, probably smelly baby had been held and cared for squarely in the midst of them! The idea was revolting, but then Mrs. Smyth did have to admit honestly that she knew nothing about babies, praise the Maker for that miracle. Nevertheless, it was exceedingly rare, as even she knew, for offspring to be so boldly displayed, let alone carted about.

She shook her head, inhaled deeply, and steeled her spine. “Only three months or so,” she murmured aloud, repeating the words again to etch the fact firmly in her mind. With a final sigh, pat of her palms to ensure every hair was secured into the severe bun, and harsh rub to the persistent tic, the housekeeper moved toward the foyer to greet her Master and Mistress.

“Excellent, Georgiana. Remember to casually sweep with your right hand as you rise and grasp onto a few folds, the train will move to the side, and you will be able to back away faultlessly. Small steps though. If your heel snags it will be easier to remedy if you are not off balance from a large stride. Very good. Try it again, Elizabeth. As Georgiana has done.”

“Thank goodness the ridiculousness does not extend to the footwear,” Lizzy muttered. “If I had to don jewel encrusted shoes with three-inch heels and attached feathers I am certain I would fall on my derriere.”

“You shall be marvelous, my dear,” Lady Matlock placated, continuing the instruction in her dulcet voice.

The three women stood in the Darcy House ballroom spending their fifth day in a row practicing the choreographed maneuvers required when presented to the Prince Regent at the Court of St. James. Lizzy and Georgiana were granted permission to be presented to the sovereign by Lord Chamberlain, and the ceremony was scheduled for that afternoon. Darcy never doubted the entitlement. As the wife of a wealthy and esteemed landed gentry with a venerated ancestry, an introduction at Court was an expectation.

It was quite probable that the Georgiana of a year prior may have collapsed in fear at the idea of entering St. James’s Palace, embarrassing the Darcy name by paralyzing nervousness when the time came. Her limited experiences in social milieus while touring Wales and on Twelfth Night partially paved the way; however, even with that minimal exposure to Society, she seemed to grasp readily the pomp involved. She wore the wide hoop skirts and layers of fabric with natural ease. Not once had she erred in her curtsy, her limber body bending into the deep genuflection and rising dozens of times over without the slightest waver or misstep. She masterfully handled the three-foot train, the yards of lace and braided rouleau edging the delicate satin and tissue gown flowing over the curves of her body fluidly as she walked. It was awe-inspiring to observe her graceful command of the protocol-ridden ceremony and unwieldy costume. Even the laughable extravagance of the court-ordered attire with velvet torque adorned with pearls and three ostrich plumes waving a foot over her head did not seem as amusing on her lithe figure.

Moreover, the lifelong immersion in protocol, ease with aristocracy, and natural elegance of the former Lady Madeline Hamilton, daughter of a Marquess and now the Countess of Matlock, was a soothing balm. For weeks, Lady Matlock prepared Georgiana and Lizzy for their presentation to the Prince Regent and his court.

Lizzy observed her newest sister with a mixture of proud adoration and irritation. She felt ungainly and absurd in the heavy dress. It was a feeling that persisted no matter how often she was assured of her beauty and agility. Her constant muttering and flippant comments did not hide her anxiety from Lady Matlock or Georgiana, both of whom ignored her grumblings and offered gentle encouragements.

“I look nine months pregnant,” Lizzy lamented to her husband as he greeted her in their bedchamber an hour later.

“You were stunningly gorgeous when you were nine months pregnant and are stunningly gorgeous now,” he replied with conviction.

Lizzy huffed and shook her head. “How am I to ever believe you when you claim I am beautiful upon waking in the morning with my hair a tangled mess?”

“Very well,” he laughed. “You are merely pretty and highly desirable when freshly waking beside me. Dressed in such lavish attire, you are stunningly gorgeous. I have qualified my assessment. Does this convince you?”

Lizzy bit her lip, glancing down and blinking furiously as she smoothed invisible wrinkles from the gilded moss-colored crepe falling in leafy overlapping layers over the flexible hoop underneath.

Darcy stepped closer—as close as was possible with the full gown interfering—and gently lifted her chin. “My love, trust me. You are indeed a vision of loveliness. Madame Lanchester is the best modiste in London for Court dress. She would never create a gown that was not flattering to the wearer and perfect for presenting to His Highness. I know it is an unusual cut and weighty, but you truly are beautiful.”

And of course it was true. Madame Lanchester was a visionary genius, managing to design gowns that included the abundant arrays of flowers, jewels, rich embroidery, tassels, braided rope, lace, and so on that was requisite, but in an airier pattern that was both lighter in weight and delicate.

For Lizzy, she had gone with rich tones of beige and green that complimented her chocolate hair and bronzed complexion. The bodice was tight, lifting her bosom higher than normal. She further accented the cleavage with a décolletage of starched lace edging a wrapped darker green and beige rope that was then gathered into a knot at the shoulder, puffy sleeves cascading in a veil of satin and crepe to the middle of her upper arm.

The skirt of Chinese crepe as thin as tissue paper was cut into ten hawthorn-leaf shapes, the natural crinkles within the mossy fabric simulating veins. Each “leaf” draped alternately over the petticoat to the floor creating a train of foliage with thin gold braid “branches” connecting. The fawn-colored satin petticoat was adorned along the sides and back with ruffles of blond lace, but the front panel was smooth. The crepe leaves parted just below mid-thigh to reveal a painted garden of flowers and foliage painstakingly detailed with hand-stitched tinseled threads.