How to Impress a Marquess(22)

Now the newfound laughter between the women was silenced. They appeared glum as they stood on the platform, clearly wishing they were anywhere else.

Lilith waited in her wet coat, holding her portmanteau and closed umbrella, staring at some nondescript spot on the station wall in that dazed, vacant manner indicative of lack of sleep or severe trauma. His sister Penelope clutched and unclutched the strings to her reticule, looking as if she might burst into tears at any moment.

“Come, ladies, it’s a house party,” he jested, trying to lighten the mood. “Not a sentence to Newgate.”

Lilith finally decided to acknowledge his existence and flashed him a hot glower. “I would much rather spend the week in the congenial company of such established societal matrons as Nimble Fingers Nelly, Axe Handle Anna, and Mary Tart of All Seasons. And I wouldn’t even need a new wardrobe.”

It scared him to admit how much his body surged at the littlest scrap of her attention. “By Jove, I never thought to have you arrested,” he retorted. “That would solve my Lilith problem quite nicely.”

“Just stop bickering!” his sister uncharacteristically barked. “For goodness’ sake, we’re not five!” People further down the platform turned to observe them.

He and Lilith swapped startled glances.

“Penelope, are you well?” Lilith put an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “I was only funning with George. I can’t help it. He’s always so stiff.”

His sister’s face colored. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well. And Mama… I should rest on the train.”

As soon as they boarded their first class seats, Penelope turned her head and closed her eyes, shutting out her fellow passengers. Lilith mumbled something about catching up with correspondence, opened her portmanteau, drew out her Keats book, paper, and a pencil. She hunched over her work, shielding it with her body, lest George should spy a word.

He had brought parliamentary work along with him, as well as some letters from his solicitor which required careful reading. Between “wherein the party of liability” and “under the terms as found in exhibit A” he found his gaze drifting to Lilith and her peculiar behavior. For several pregnant moments, she would stare at her page with fierce eyes and then burst forth in writing as if the words were erupting from her mind. After the volcanic spew slowed, she would nibble on her fingertip as she looked over what she had written. Then with the same ferocity as the lines were written, she would mark through them. He wondered who might be the recipient of this passionate outpouring.

He returned to his boring letter, only to lift his head a minute later to find her studying him with two tiny pleats between her eyebrows and her pencil hovering over her page.

“Does something about my person offend you?” he asked.

She jerked her head as if waking from a dream. Her face flushed. “Of course, George. Everything about your person offends me.” She wadded up her pages and jammed them into her portmanteau. He thought he heard her mutter, “You can go to fiery Hades, Muse.” She opened her Keats book and dived in. And that composed the entirety of their conversation for the rail trip.



At the train station, George had a four-wheeler waiting to deliver them to Tyburn and a covered cart to carry their luggage. The rain had finally stopped, but trees still dripped. The pearly orange and blue tones of dusk lit the sky.

The four-wheeler sloshed along the rutted road through the village and then turned onto the long drive. After rounding a line of oaks, the great estate of Tyburn filled the horizon, a mountain range of masonry, vaulting windows, chimney stacks, and towers. His spirits waned. Although each Marquess of Marylewick had made his own mark on the structure, every inch of the estate reminded George of his father—intimidating, impassive, and larger than life.

Across the carriage, Lilith’s chin trembled. She resembled the young girl she used to be, her eyes large and tense, her motions jittery like a nervous squirrel.

He wanted to squeeze her hand and tell her everything was going to be well. But he knew that might not be true. Instead he said, “Are you feeling well?”

“Every demon of my childhood is coming back to haunt me at the moment,” she replied. “Otherwise, I’m just splendid.”

Penelope released a puff of bitter laughter that she quickly hushed up.

It was clear that no one inside the carriage wanted to be here.

Lilith touched the carriage window with her finger and began to tick off the architectural history of Tyburn. “The original unadorned fortress wing built by the savage George I and the foreboding Tudor addition by the ambitious George III, the staid Jacobean wing by dour, uncompromising George IV, the dry, neo-Classical addition by painfully symmetrical George VI.” She looked at him. “What will be your addition, George? What will you leave behind for future generations of Georges to remember you by?”

He didn’t know why, but her question dejected him even further. “I’m thinking of making an Egyptian addition and adding a sphinx. When you come up the drive, you’ll see just the massive stone head.”

Lilith opened her mouth in shock that turned to laughter and Penelope joined in. He wanted to tell the driver to keep riding on this moment of good humor, getting far away from old family disputes, the Stamp Duty Extension Bill, political maneuvering, blushing young ladies with their ambitious mamas vying for his title, memories of his father, the despondency of his sister, his controlling mother, and the loaded gun that was Lilith.



Lilith gazed up at the massive doorway. She hadn’t been back to Tyburn Hall since the Christmas before her mother died. The extended Maryle family always gathered for Christmas and Easter, and Lilith only came home from school at those times, so her few family memories occurred within the walls and corridors of Tyburn. When she had been very young, she would enter the grand home, imagining that this visit would be different. By some Christmas miracle, her mother and stepfather would suddenly see a special spark in her that they had missed all these years and they would come to love her as they did her half-siblings. Her mother would be unable to part with her when school resumed. This sad delusion led to many tears and screaming tantrums. Later, as a sulky, withdrawn adolescent, she passed the torturous holidays by escaping into her mind, fantasizing about being grown and married to a radical, handsome artist in France. She would spend her days sipping wine and discussing art, writing, and the deep matters of life with other free-spirited artists in Paris cafés. That dream had yet to materialize.

All she truly wanted was to break from this family, to sever the tie forever. But the more she tugged at the string holding her, the faster she was snapped back. Now she found herself at twenty-three back at Tyburn Hall, as homeless and confused as ever.

Passing into the grand hall of marble staircases and massive portraits of Maryles, more and more old memories assailed her. Would their potency ever fade? Or did the bitterness remain with her forever?

“My darling boy,” a majestic female voice cried.

Dowager Lady Marylewick entered the hall in a grand sweep followed by a thin, ungainly young woman who appeared to be a secretary, judging from the notebook and pencil she carried. Lilith hadn’t seen the magnificent Lady Marylewick in years. In her presence, Lilith was reduced to the insecure girl who was intimidated by her ladyship’s elegant countenance. Lady Marylewick’s ivory skin had remained firm and unmarred by age spots, her pale eyes unclouded, and her lips still delicately curved in a pleasant smile. Her black mourning gown molded to her slender form and accented her platinum hair.

“George!” she cried. “George, my little—” She halted, her gaze landing upon Lilith. The pleasant expression on her face remained intact, but a perceivable coolness washed over her features.

“Lilith Dahlgren,” she said slowly. Her smile lifted a fraction. “What a surprise. It’s been so very, very long.” Her eyes shifted to George. “You should have told me she was coming, my darling.”

George hadn’t wired his mother that she was attending? Lilith’s face heated with embarrassment.

“The fault is all mine,” he admitted. His hand clutched Lilith’s elbow. “I begged Lilith to attend at the last minute. She kindly took pity on me and consented.”

“Oh dear,” Lady Marylewick said to Lilith. Her eyes grew large with concern. “I hope you haven’t landed in another one of your infamous scrapes. I remember how my late husband always said that no one could cause a delightful uproar like Lilith Dahlgren.” She gave a little tinkling laugh.

The typical words of greeting—how lovely to see you again, I look forward to the house party, and so forth—didn’t make it to Lilith’s lips. Did Lady Marylewick employ the malicious female trick of the sugar-coated insult?

Lilith gave her ladyship the benefit of the doubt. “Lord Marylewick most ardently wished my presence.” She lifted a quizzing brow to him. “He just wouldn’t let me refuse.”

Lady Marylewick’s sharp, glittery gaze shifted from George to Lilith to where he clutched her arm. “I see, a private joke. How simply darling. You must explain it to me sometime, so that I can find it amusing as well.”