"You look beautiful, Elizabeth, just like you mother did during her inaugural ball," Eliza's aunt gushed, her eyes warm with unshed tears.
After hours of unending labour on her aunt's part, countless frustrated mutterings and a hundred alterations on her sapphire colour gown (the one which her aunt deemed almost acceptable after staring at it for half an hour), she had to look beautiful.
And indeed, she did look good, although the sheer waste of so much of time seemed beyond blasphemous to her.
Her originally only-sapphire gown now had pecks of gold strings adorned on it, its previously straight bodice now having dark blue frills over it, making it appear more voluptuous than it really was.
Her unruly, brunette locks, had been expertly straightened and tied up in an intrinsic hair-do, reminding her of the hundreds of hair pins that had been pushed cruelly in her scalp to get her partly curly hair in place.
The sheer beauty of the work got her thinking of the pain she would experience at removing all the torture elements from her head. She shuddered at the thought, adroitly pushing them in the farthest corners of her mind.
Her aunt had gone overboard with taking out the family heirloom, a beautiful diamond necklace, which she had been gifted by her father on her wedding, and placing the priceless jewel on her neck. They could, much to her aunt's and Verena's relief, find a suitable matching pair of diamond studs for the necklace in the jewel boxes Eliza had been sent with, thus perfecting the look.
Elizabeth, while staring at the bizarre beauty that sat it front of her, self-consciously roam her hand on the diamond luxury that now sat upon her neck, a silly fear of somehow losing it looming in her head.
She had to admit, she had never looked so...regal in all her eighteen years as a woman. Her normally dirt-mucked face now seemed spotless, her pale cheeks sporting a very light pink rogue.
Much to her irritation, Elizabeth seemed to almost like the makeover she had been subjected to. It made her feel more...womanly.
More powerful, in an odd way.
The look she had been given didn't seem to hide her inherent qualities. On the contrary, it highlighted them. The very modern neckline of her gown spoke of her bold nature, the sapphire giving her the image of a mystic enchantress-easy to behold, difficult to get. And finally, the necklace on her neck bellowed her regal ancestry.
Of the power she held.
In that moment, it suddenly dawned on Eliza that a sword yielded power. But it didn't necessarily have to be a piece of welded iron-it could also be a crafted diamond.
A weapon could be any- an iron sword, or a diamond necklace.
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How she cursed her stars to have an aunt like the Marchioness! Or else she wouldn't have agreed to wear the dastardly heels. At least, not in this lifetime.
Eliza descended down the marble stairs, her heels clinking on the floor with every step she took. It was the second time in a day that she had been forced to abandon her usual brisk walk and reduced to a snail's pace. It was horrible, and utterly frustrating.
As she was walking down the steps, she saw a couple of ladies making their way towards the main hall. She couldn't help but grimace at the layers of powder the ladies had applied on their face, attempting to look beautiful.
It is a shame that they don't realise that the make up only makes them look like whip-white witches.
She chuckled at the thought.
Just as she was about to tell the herald outside the double doors that led to the ballroom to announce her, she was pushed backward by a lilac coloured bundle of cloth, stationing herself in front of her.
The woman gave her far-too layered gown an elegant swish, and Elizabeth was forced to look at a horrible mix of pink rogue and eye-blinding jewels-studded pale-white face, who looked more like a jewellery case screaming wealth than an actual human being.
She couldn't help but scrunch her nose at the poor choice of the woman's family for an ornament-displaying object.
They could've definitely opted for better, I'm sure of that.
"Oh, pardon me. I didn't notice you standing here," the excessively-jewelled porcelain doll muttered, her haughty persona clearly visible thanks to her poor acting skills.
Beautiful, raven-headed spoilt brat with a loaded father-how very classic! She thought smugly.
Chin held high, Elizabeth replied in a similar high-pitched voice, sarcasm not failing to drop from her sugar-coated words. "Its quite common to not notice people standing on corridors. Don't fret yourself, milady." And signed her words off with her trademark smile.
Her newly-formed nemesis' perfectly crafted eyebrows scrunched in distaste. Her hazel brown eyes collided with Eliza's blue ones, challenging them for a duel.
Elizabeth didn't need to be told twice. She started back. Hard.
Their battle of stares was called off due to the sudden presence of other ladies who were descending from the marble staircase. Feminine chattering and giggles of excited debutantes could be heard coming closer to them. The jewel-decked woman gave her a final nasty glare, and swiftly spun on her heels to face the double-doors leading to the ballroom.
Eliza stood there frigidly, trying to calm her irate nerves. It wouldn't do her any good to enter the ballroom fuming in anger.When she opened her eyes again, feeling the heat of the fury finally leaving her, she allowed herself to think again.
Cognizance hit her like tidal waves of the ocean crashing with the shore, making her aware of the predicament she had landed herself in.
It was hard to understand, but just...how on earth had she been able to get herself a foe in a matter of two bloody minutes?
She had hoped to have her plan carried out with as little obstruction as possible. Her aunt's arrival had made it a bit tougher, but in the end, that was the only obstacle she knew she had to face.
But it now seemed she had acquired herself another-a nameless, unpredictable, and unknown one at that.
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Her newly acquired foe wasn't a nameless one, after all. Lady Isadora De Hannet, daughter of a rich Marquess from Warnia's neighbouring kingdom, had descended the short marble steps to the ballroom with grace and poise, her glittering jewels managing to draw all eyes to her petite form.
The chit had made an entrance alright. Splendidly even, much to her chagrin.
And the fact that she was next to step down didn't bode well with Elizabeth. It was now that she realised the brilliancy of the plan. Enter first, make an impression on the crowd, and have the other debutantes grovelling for attention.
First impressions mattered, and for her plan to succeed, she had needed exactly that kind of attention.
Anyways, there wasn't much she could do than carry on with the walk as well. Impressions could be made at any point of time, isn't it?
Drawing a breath in, she gave her invitation card to the herald.
The herald looked up at her, a subtle look of bewilderment clouding his face. But just as it had been there, the look was stolen away, and all that remained was the poignant impassiveness of a trained servant.
The doors swung open and the herald's booming voice thundered in her ears.
"Lady Elizabeth Mary Isabella Convoy, Heiress of Yardwell." Elizabeth looked sharply at the herald, shock taking its time to settle down on her face.
'Heiress of Yardwell' weren't the words on the invitee, as far as she knew. It was addressed to the 'daughter of the Duke of Yardwell'. Surely the herald couldn't have made such a grave mistake?
And what of her country? Why wasn't her country announced along with her title? There were a lot of questions, but the herald refused to look her way, staring resolutely at the swarm of people of the privileged class.
Eliza didn't tarry long. Holding her chin high, she started to descend the short trail of stairs below her.
If she had harbored any doubts earlier regarding her title, it was wiped off the moment she found the entire ballroom's eyes on her descending form, subtle whispers flying in the air.
She knew that Yardwell was special. Not just in Demonire but in the entire continent; lest why would the Demorinian law allow even daughters born to the Duke of Yardwell inherit its lands?
But she hadn't known that its mere mention would get an entire audience silent. Hell, she hadn't known her presence would get a gathering of elites silent.
She had been fretting in vain. It hadn't required her to do anything. Her title had got her the attention she had been looking for.
Probably too much of it.
She reached at the foot of the stairs and sunk into a deep curtsy, just as her aunt had told her was the custom.
It felt awkward standing there, amidst all the stares and not having a clue what to do next. But apparently the crowd knew. It broke into a thunderous round of applause, and she found my aunt wrestling her way out of the throng to meet her, a wide grin plastered on her face.
She looked splendid, to say the least. How ever did she manage to get ready so fast was beyond Elizabeth, but then everything about the Marchioness was beyond her.
"The Duque of Ahumada shall announce the arrival of the royal family. After the King and Queen will be seated, all the debutantes shall assemble in the center of the ballroom and await the prince to choose his dance partner, after which the others shall choose theirs," her aunt whispered in her ears.
"Where's Catherine, aunt?"
The beautiful old lady let out an irritated huff. "Practice some patience Elizabeth, you shall meet her after the first dance."
She fought to keep an eyeroll in check.
She gave her aunt a nod and walked off looking for the most reclusive of the spots in the gargantuan hall.
The beautiful gargantuan hall.
It wasn't until this moment that Elizabeth was at her leisure to admire the picturesque decoration of the ballroom. The faint fragrance of the national white Warnian flowers, the candle-lit chandelier hanging in the center and the numerous paintings on the walls was heavenly.
It didn't feel like Warnia at all. The mystic beauty of the room clashed heavily with the cryptic nature of its cruel monarchy. The king hadn't chosen a fitting mask to hide the cruel secrets that every soul in the room knew were hidden here.
But it was deceptive alright.
Elizabeth's eyes left the twinkling chandelier and fell on the food table placed on the farthest corner of the room. An audible rumble resounded from her stomach as she eyed the number of sweets lined up on the linen-covered table.
Just as she was about to take a step forward, a sudden quiet befell the crowd and all eyes swept to the double-door entrance.
She bit back a groan as her eyes fell on the Duque of Ahumuda, standing there in his all-noble poise, his lips curled up in an almost-sneer.
He was addressing the crowd, but the words didn't register with Elizabeth. The rumbling in her stomach had increased, thanks to her skipping the evening tea to get ready for the blasted ball.
Her eyes flew to the table every minute, trying to assess the distance between herself and her salvation. But it seemed oceans away to cross, and with her aunt popping out of nowhere and dragging her along made the journey next to impossible.
It wasn't until late that Elizabeth realised exactly where her aunt had brought her. To the center of the ballroom.
The Inaugural ball was going to commence.
And we are going to stand here on display for the blasted prince to have his pick. Nonsense! How very demeaning!
As if her thoughts were written on her face, her aunt gave her a warning look and slowly crept out of the limelight.
She was standing beside a bunch of too excited debutantes, their loud chatter and unnecessary giggling grating on her nerves.
"I've heard the Prince is very handsome. Wonder whom he would choose for his first dance?" One of the girls exclaimed and all others broke into another fit of giggles.
The royal fanfare blew and the entire room sunk down, offering reverence to the royal family. Elizabeth didn't look up from the marbled floor, a sudden anger coursing through her veins as she thought of the torture she had been forced to endure. There was no other comfort to her agonized self than the fact that she was to be free from all the trouble soon enough.
And for life.
She wouldn't be forced to attend balls after this season. She would live life on her own terms. And she would certainly go riding without the side saddle.
No doubts about that.
The King and his queen had reached their dais, and the prince was making his way towards them.
Her lands wouldn't be under a man who knew nothing about it. Who didn't understand its people. They would truly be hers. In every sense. She would be Duchess. She would have power. She would be free to make her own decisions...
Was it her illusion or the white marble had suddenly turned black? It felt like a trick of the eye, but the haze in front of her eyes had certainly turned darker.
And then she heard a cough. A silly little voice, probably a trick of the ear?
Elizabeth blinked her eyes, her gaze zeroing on the thick-leather boots in front of her. She lifted her gaze to be met by an outstretched hand, coaxing her to stand up.
She did. And how she regretted that. She let her eyes roam from the bottom to the top.
The boots, the hand, the prince!
As she stared at the royal figure in front of her, a silly thought came to her mind. About the excited debutantes. They had got their answer, after all.
She was the prince's first dance.
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