The emerald tiffany gown that Lord Hartwood had chosen for her to wear to dinner this night was, if possible, even more daring than the dress she had worn on her arrival. A band of nearly transparent openwork ran across the bodice, allowing more than a glimpse of her uncorsetted bosom to show through the lace’s many holes. It was a good thing it had been summer when she had agreed to play out this masquerade. To wear such a gown in an English winter would be to risk death from pneumonia! As she put on the fatal necklace Lord Hartwood had decreed she wear, she wondered how his mother would respond to her presence at dinner. However, when Eliza entered the dining room at eight, doing her best to move across the room with the sinuous motion her protector had taught her and thrusting out her bosom proudly, her hostess showed no overt reaction to her presence. Indeed, the only hint she gave of the displeasure she must feel was that she pointedly did not introduce Eliza to her other guests, but merely gestured to the footman to seat her near the foot of the table.
