The entire ensemble, including the lavish headdress with ostrich feathers and dangling lappets in the same gauzy green crepe, was exquisite. Odd to be sure, with the hoops a fashion accessory from eras past, but magnificent nevertheless.

Darcy chuckled, indicating his suit with a wave of one hand. “Besides, compared to me in this ghastly outfit, you are understated and almost boring.”

“That is absurd and you know it,” she retorted acerbically. “You are more handsome than I have ever seen you.”

“I daresay I can counter with the identical argument. Do you not also profess my attractiveness upon waking with hair awry and face stubbled? Therefore, your assertion is suspect.”

Finally she laughed, if a bit wavering, her voice lifting into her typical teasing tone. “In this case, I confess you have caught me in a falsehood. You are most handsome with hair awry and face stubbled, and unclothed I must add. In this case, you are merely highly attractive. But you are wrong about the outfit being ghastly. Fairly ostentatious, perhaps, but not a total disaster.”

Ceremonial court dress for men did not cater to the whims of fashion and fanciful Queens, thus little changed over the decades. But the protocols and requirements were as stringent. Lizzy had been absolutely flabbergasted when Darcy had donned the suit kept protected in the deep recesses of his wardrobe. It was indeed ostentatious but splendid. Tailored in an older military style, the satin lined jacket of midnight blue velvet sported long tails in a curved fashion, reaching to the knees. Both the jacket and matching waistcoat were embellished with thick braids of gold twisted into elaborate patterns along the cuffs, tall collar, and edges. The shirt, breeches, stockings, and shoes were purest white. Polished buckles of gold and inlayed clear rhinestones adorned each shoe and suspender clasp, the buttons similar in extravagance. The total picture was one of baroque excess, fanciful and pretentious in the extreme, and thus, utterly at odds with Darcy’s innate reserve. Yet somehow he managed to wear it with an aristocratic comfort, even the lacy cravat floridly tied into a pouf clear down to mid-chest not as ludicrous as one would imagine.

Lizzy shook her head, reaching to toy carefully with the ruffled cravat. “It is extremely unfair actually. You wear this frippery, an antiquated affectation, and look regally urbane and suitable. I am a player in a costume.”

He bent, kissing her polished lips gingerly. “Nonsense. You are my wife and dressed as you should be. However, I know this is not your real concern and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate you suffering this agony on my account. It is more than just a duty for me, as you know. To hear your name, Elizabeth Darcy, called by Lord Chamberlain; to see you standing in Court before the Prince; to know that my excellent wife is formally acknowledged before all in Society on the Court List will be an exalting experience for me. I am honored that you are my wife, Elizabeth, and want the entire breadth of England to witness my good fortune.”

“But, Fitzwilliam, that is precisely why I tremble as never in my life! What if I fail you in some way? Stumble or curtsy inadequately or…”

“Elizabeth, if I imagined for one tiny second that you would do any of those things, my pride and confidence would not be so towering. It is distinctly because I am certain of your worthiness and inability to fail at anything you set your mind to that reinforces my belief in your success. Now, come, we cannot delay. His Royal Highness does not yet know it, but he is about to be introduced to two of the most exquisite women in his kingdom.”

Lizzy nodded, bravely lifting her chin and smiling. Darcy was not fooled, but he also knew his wife well enough to be sure she would find her inner fortitude and perform brilliantly. He was well aware of her faults, but he equally understood her strengths. At the moment she was a bundle of nerves, and for good reason, but his Lizzy never succumbed to a challenge.

Georgiana and Lady Matlock waited in the foyer with Lord Matlock. Lady Matlock wore an eye-boggling gown in cream satin with uncountable yards of trimmings and appliquéd flowers draped over the wide hip pannier hoops of her youthful presentation. The latter was dressed in his ceremonial garments, elaborate as Darcy’s, with the addition of a powdered wig. It wasn’t strictly called for, the Prince Regent largely responsible for the decline in the fashion for wigs. But Lord Matlock had his moments of reverting to past norms, such ceremonial appointments one of them. Lizzy groaned, noting how all three of them, along with Darcy, wore their formal vestments with panache.

Two carriages were required, as there was no possible way three women with voluminous skirts could fit into one coach, no matter how spacious. Darcy rode with his wife and sister, Lord and Lady Matlock leading the way to the palace.

The warmth of April was not stifling, but edginess kept the fans fluttering. Lizzy was no longer muttering. In fact she was silent, an unusual state, so Georgiana contributed to the idle chat that passed the time through the crowded London streets.

“Is this the same suit you wore at your levee, William?”

“No, dear. That was a long time ago. I was eighteen, same as you, when presented to His Majesty King George III. Thus I was not at my full growth, at least in the width of my chest. I was to my full height, but far thinner and not as broad. Besides, father ordered my garments. I was merely required to show up for the fitting with no say in the matter. This ensemble is tame compared to his idea of proper dress. It was one of the few times in my life when I actively hated our father.”

He said it with humor, all of them laughing, but neither woman doubted his severe annoyance in being asked to wear an outfit so showy while battling his own nerves. He went on to describe his levee with embellished drama, his dry humor easing the tension in the atmosphere. By the time they finally reached the end of Pall Mall and joined the line of waiting carriages on Cleveland Row as they were slowly admitted through the Palace Gates, Lizzy had gotten a grip on her emotions. In fact, she had entered a state of dreamy peace. Everything was crystalline in clarity while also feeling as if seen on the vividly painted surface of a canvas. Almost as if she were observing the events on a successive series of pictures while they happened to someone else.

St. James’s Palace sat on what had once been the site of a Norman Era leper hospital for women dedicated to St. James the Less. Thanks to the covetous eye of Henry VIII, who saw the fair fields of Piccadilly as too beautiful to be wasted on dying women, the site was arrogated and a stately manor house was erected along with a lush park. The palace itself was commissioned by Henry, but would not fully become the official Royal residence for some hundred years during the reign of William III in 1698. Even after the disastrous fire in 1809 that destroyed a large portion of the palace and with the current lavish renovations to Buckingham House by John Nash, the Prince’s favored architect, St. James’s Palace remained as primary residence and administrative center to the monarchy.

The Tudor-style red-brick structure surrounded four enormous courtyards, the northern entrance facing Cleveland Square the main gateway for visitors. The massive gates of black iron flanked by two turreted polygonal towers were open but heavily protected. The dozen soldiers stationed at the gate, wearing brilliant red uniforms and holding wicked shotguns with razor sharp bayonets, assessed each carriage as it passed. The guards meticulously reviewed the necessary documents, ensuring the seal of Lord Chamberlain, and visually searched each vehicle before allowing entry into the courtyard. Additional soldiers lined the walkways and stood by the doors, their eyes unblinking and bodies rigid, each ready to jump into action at the slightest sign of a threat. Servants and palace functionaries kept traffic moving at a steady pace and provided hasty service to the visiting dignitaries. The tri-weekly presentations of debutantes and ladies of Society, known as Court Drawing Rooms, and the Levees for the gentlemen of the Realm followed standard formats that rarely varied. Attention to every conceivable detail and possible variation was expected to be accomplished without mishap or delay.

Lizzy’s bizarre serenity kept her from ogling as she might have been tempted to do. Instead, she gazed about the courtyard with calm interest. She noted the minor areas of disrepair amongst the overall impressiveness of the structure, the concentrated grandeur that encompassed everything from the servants to the gleaming windows with their brocade curtains to the sculpted greenery to the scrubbed stones, and the hushed stateliness of the gentry in their opulent garments as they walked with measured enthusiasm into the State Apartments facing the gardens of St. James’s Park to the south.

She held to Darcy’s forearm as they followed the line of people. He offered support and comfort merely by his steady confidence, but with each step, Lizzy felt her insides relaxing rather than tying up into the tighter knots that she had anticipated. Occasionally, there was a face she recognized, someone who would nod politely or utter brief words of conversation. Darcy, of course, knew everyone, and engaged in casual discourse as they ascended a stairway of tremendous elegance and entered the armory.

The walls of the ancient guardroom were lined with daggers, muskets, and swords. Lizzy’s fascination with history was piqued, her pace instinctively declining as she swiveled her head to inspect the collection of ancient weapons. She felt more than heard Darcy’s muted chuckle and gazed upward into his serious face. Only a hint of a smile appeared on his lips, but she noted the twinkle in his eyes and also knew why he was laughing at her. They were so akin, she and her spouse, both adoring the study of antiquities. She knew he experienced the same desire to pause and examine the specimens, but of course that was impossible. Here, the Yeoman of the Guard strategically stood to ensure the passageways were kept clear and the traffic flowing. Halting to study as if in a museum was out of the question.