Charles’s gaze met George’s—a challenge more than an entreaty. George felt that gut-churning sensation of having been bested by Charles again. Except this time the victory was more subtle than young George sniveling in his dormitory bed, his backside aching from a paddling, and all the candies Penelope had sent him stolen.
“I warn you, you have much worthy competition.” George couldn’t deny Charles, but he would be damned if he’d let the man roll over him.
“As I understand. All the eligible politicians are sharpening their jousting sticks, ready to win the fair maiden’s hand. Which gallant knight shall succeed, Lord Marylewick?” He gestured to the room. George found the eyes of young men watching their conversation with great interest.
Damn Lilith Dahlgren, he thought. Damn her to her own special frigid hell of white empty walls, books without words, poems without meter, and Schumann on a harpsichord. He was backed into a political corner. Lilith must attend the house party.
“We shall see,” George replied coolly and bowed. “Good evening, Lord Charles.”
George wanted to stomp to the cloakroom, retrieve his hat and other accoutrements, and go home to Colette. But as Admiral Nelson said, “England expects that every man will do his duty.” And George unflinchingly performed his. So he approached the host, complimented his daughter, Lady Cornelia, and asked her for the next dance.
Four hours later, George stalked into his library. He had learned several enlightening things that evening. First, no one really enjoyed the Marylewick annual house party, and second, if Lilith didn’t attend this year’s painfully boring party, the earth might stop going around the sun.
He poured a glass of brandy, sank into a wing chair, and rubbed his temple. He had only a few days to turn Lilith into some semblance of a proper lady. It was impossible. He sipped and stared at the glowing coals. How to create a meek lady out of that termagant?
His father’s voice echoed in his head. I’m going to turn you into a man, Goddammit! What was George supposed to do? Obviously his father’s solutions wouldn’t work. He couldn’t force her into the boxing ring to be pummeled while he shouted Fight back, damn you, or give her a rifle and order her to shoot the orphaned fawn, or pour brandy down her throat until she vomited. He wasn’t making a man, but the ideal female.
What was the ideal female, anyway?
His eyes lit on McAllister’s Magazine resting on the table beside his chair where he had left it the previous evening.
Colette.
She was the perfect woman. Most likely because she was created by a man.
He carried the journal to his desk, picked up a pen and tapped the page. How could he create a modern Colette in a matter of days? And out of Lilith?
He rubbed his tired, burning eyes, dipped the pen and scrawled on a piece of his stationery: The Education of Lilith Dahlgren.
Six
The morning light warmed Lilith’s face. She wasn’t ready to wake up yet. She wanted to loll in this peaceful, drowsy feeling longer. She snuggled into the soft sheets and drifted back into her dream where she was clad in Colette’s robes and veil and dancing in a flower garden. She was completely free, her spirit unencumbered. She lifted her smiling face to the brilliant sky.
Tap tap.
Colette stopped. How did a door suddenly appear in her garden?
Tap tap.
“Miss Dahlgren, Lord Marylewick requests your presence at breakfast,” a timid female voice said.
Lilith’s lids shot open. Brilliant light flooded in from two huge windows on the opposite wall, hurting her eyes. She wasn’t dancing in a garden. Where was she? And how did she get in this nightgown?
“Shall I help you dress?” the voice said.
Lilith pressed her hand to her thundering heart. What was happening? Her sleep-dulled mind slowly sharpened. The previous day’s memory returned. She had been betrayed again. Frances and Edgar had deserted her. Her lovely life in the world of art and words had been ripped away.
She drew her knees to her chest. She didn’t have the strength to get up.
“Miss?” The determined young servant slipped into the room. “Are you well?” she cried when she spied Lilith huddled on the bed.
An anxious thought exploded in Lilith’s mind. The story! Where was the story? If George found out…
Lilith bolted up. “Where are my…my things?” Oh God! She studied her chamber—a bright, airy room in George’s Grosvenor Square prison. She had slept in a large mahogany canopy bed. On the left wall stood a mirrored wardrobe, and on the other wall, a washing stand and carved bureau writing desk sandwiched the chimney-piece.
“I put your clothes and toiletries in the wardrobe,” the maid said.
Lilith rushed to the wardrobe and tore open the doors. Her gowns and chemises were neatly pressed and hung. Her reticule dangled from a hook. The drawers housed her folded stockings and pantalets. But her portmanteau and portfolio remained missing. She released a panicked squeal.
“I’m Lucy,” the servant said, not commenting on Lilith’s frantic fossicking. “I thought your nightgown was too worn. Lord Marylewick’s sister kindly lent one. Shall I help you dress?”
“My portfolio!” Lilith cried. “Dear God! Where is my portfolio? Did George take it?”
Lucy blushed. “I-I don’t recall Lord Marylewick visiting your chamber last night. I placed it in the bureau. I thought that’s where you would want it, miss.”
Lilith pulled down the bureau desktop to find the portfolio still locked and resting in a cubby below her volume of Keats. She yanked them out and hugged them.
“Thank you, Lucy,” she whispered, sinking into the chair. Tears formed in her eyes. “Thank you.”
Lilith picked up the pen from the inkwell. Her fingers were shaking around the point. She had to write. It was the only way she knew to make sense of what had happened, else she would fall apart. “P-pray, tell Lord Marylewick that I’m indisposed and desire a nice pot of tea—and toffee if available—brought to my room.”
The servant’s mouth dropped open as if she had been asked to climb onto the roof and then jump. “You…you really want me to tell my lord that? Are you quite certain, miss?”
“Yes, please.”
Lucy swayed on her feet as if waiting for Lilith to change her mind. When Lilith didn’t, she curtsied and edged fearfully out of the room.
Lilith felt sorry for Lucy. No doubt Lord Marylewick marched about his house like Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts, cutting off the heads of anyone who dared to defy him.
She couldn’t face him yet. She had to gather her emotions and plant them in neat rows of prose. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out her key from her reticule. Back at the bureau, she unlocked the portfolio and then grabbed a piece of stationery with a big gold M embossed on it.
She marked through the M until she couldn’t see it anymore. “Please be present for me, Muse. I need you.”
Colette blinked, drowsy from the poison the sultan had forced her to drink. She could make out vivid drapes in deep reds and purples and the gleam of gold ornaments.
A shadow moved from the dim corners of the tent. “You’re awake, my fair one.” The sultan came into the sparse light.
She struggled to rise, clutching at the blanket to cover her bare skin. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life—her clothes, her identity, everything that was hers, stripped away. “What are you going to do with me?”
He shrugged. “Take you to my palace.”
“You’re not going to…to…”
He raised a black brow. “To what, my lovely dove?”
She raised her head boldly, refusing to show fear. “Ravish me?”
He chuckled darkly, a strangely musical sound. “You think me a monster.”He twined her hair about his finger. Her body trembled with terror…and pleasure. “I will ravish you in good time,” he growled. “Rest now, soon we will travel.” He strode to the tent’s entrance. “And don’t think of escaping.” He opened the flap with his sword and strolled out. She heard him order the guards outside,“Give her anything she desires, but don’t let her leave.”
Colette buried her head in her hands and wept…
and wept…
and wept…
and wept some more.
“Muse, I realize she’s distraught, but how does she get out? She needs a plan. She needs hope.”
“Why have I lived only to know pain?” Colette cried out. “I can go on no longer. My soul is tired and desires to rest in the heavens.”
What? Lilith stared at the pages. Colette couldn’t die. “No, no, Muse. She must live. This can’t be a tragedy. Tell me she escapes.”
Her pen waited, poised on the page. But no words came.
“No.” Her eyes grew moist again.
Tap tap.
“Pardon, Miss Dahlgren,” Lucy called.
She jammed the pages into her portfolio, locked it again, and wiped her eyes on the nightgown sleeve. “Yes.”
The door cracked enough for Lucy to slip through. “His lordship still requests your presence downstairs.” She kept her gaze averted.
“Tell him that I’m sorry, but I prefer my presence in this chamber.”
“He said…” Lucy swallowed. “He said that we don’t practice the loose and lazy hours you are accustomed to. If you don’t come to the dining room, he shall personally drag you there.”