“You won’t come, will you?”
“No.”
“That part of you, that curious, sensitive artist, is shut away forever. You are all grown up. No room for so-called silliness.”
“Yes. And I would like you to do the same.”
“Would you?” Still holding his hand to her bosom, she started to sway, letting her full skirt swing about her hips. “Isn’t this gown magnificent? I’m sure the guests will adore it. It will be written up in all the magazines. I think I shall perform my exotic Arabian dance in it.” She lifted his hand and twirled underneath it.
Wasn’t she clever? In a fast motion, he braced his arm across the small of her back and dipped her.
She released a surprised squeak.
“You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you?” He leaned over, keeping her body trapped beneath his. The vanilla and citrus scent of her skin, tinged with lavender soap, exploded in his mind.
“Unless you vow to see your art, this is how I will meet your guests.” Her eyes held a bold challenge. “Do you think I’ll make a good impression? Will I help your political ambitions?”
He took those words as an invitation to examine in the minutest detail how she planned to greet his guests. Starting from the loose locks falling from that ridiculous bun, then to her soft open lips, down the curve of her neck to where her breasts rose over the top of her bodice. He felt her shiver under his gaze, but she kept her dark eyes locked on his face. His cock grew harder. He released an uneven breath through his teeth.
His lips were so close to that silky skin. He was certain that releasing her breasts from this hideous gown, taking the tip of one into his mouth, licking and suckling it, could calm his anxious thoughts.
“I can’t now,” he growled between clenched teeth.
She lowered her head until it dangled beneath his arm. Her breasts slid from her bodice until the very tops of her rosy areolas peeked over the edge of the bodice just below his lips. “Promise me,” she said, all low and creamy. “Meet me in the attics in the fortress wing at two in the morning, when everyone has gone to bed.”
He released a tight groan. “Good God, I promise,” he cried. “Stop this game.”
She was too much. All ivory, silk, and heat. He kissed the mound of her breasts with open lips, letting his tongue taste her tender skin. He heard her whimper, the kind a woman makes when lost in the pleasured heat of a man moving inside of her. He drew her closer; no doubt she could feel every inch of his erection against her thigh as his mouth moved closer to dangerous territory at the edge of her bodice.
He heard the creak of boards under carpet and the turn of a knob. He quickly flipped Lilith up. The door opened; he saw the swish of his mother’s black gown. Dear God, he was as hard as an iron girder. But Lilith, that mysterious, infuriating, and amazing woman, realized his problem and mercifully stepped in front of him, blocking his trousers from his mother’s hot gaze.
“You—you arrogant, unartistic lump-head!” Lilith shouted at him. “I see nothing wrong with my gown. It’s lovely. You are all cruel to stifle my fashion, my soul’s expression, my being.”
“Miss Dahlgren, don’t you dare talk such nonsense to the marquess. Put on a proper gown without delay. You will find that I’m not as diplomatic as my son in dealing with domestic matters.”
Lilith rolled her eyes and stalked away, but when she reached the turn in the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder. “You promised,” she mouthed and then disappeared around the corner.
“She is untamable and sadly misguided,” his mother said. “It’s that low Dahlgren in her. She has never been anything but resentful and ungracious to our kind overtures.”
George didn’t trust himself to answer. He spun on his heel and stormed to his study.
Not ten minutes before, George had been pondering courting a lady guest. Then he kissed Lilith’s breasts. By all measures of correct behavior he should propose. But she could no more be the Marchioness of Marylewick than he could be a Whig.
Some things were simply too horrible to contemplate.
If she made a mockery of his party, he would… What would he do? He was running out of options for her. He threw money and marital threats at her and none of them stuck. How did one hold back a human gale?
He was going to read Colette until the first guest arrived. It was the only way he knew how to prevent homicide at this point.
In his study, he tried to focus on Colette’s story, but his mind kept wandering to the box Lilith had found. Penelope had told him when he was thirteen that she had hidden his work in the attic, but he didn’t care to see it then because it was filled with the relics of the boy he didn’t want to be anymore. Why now at thirty-one did it matter what was up there?
He tried to focus on the page, but soon the words faded behind the memory of Lilith’s beautiful eyes, imbued with awe and admiration, when she said, “I’ve seen your art. I’ve seen it. You’re brilliant.”
Just what was under that chamber pot?
Twelve
George was informed that the guests had begun to arrive an hour later. He straightened his waistcoat, smoothed his coat sleeves, and headed down to the great hall, feeling very much like a condemned inmate going to the scaffold.
He found his mother waiting in the hall like some version of a queen receiving her court. Penelope appeared distraught as she lurked in their mother’s shadow. Across the hall, Beatrice traced her fingers along the leaves of a planted palm.
“Where is Miss Dahlgren?” George asked, turning about.
“She’s probably off somewhere distracted by the colorful circus in her mind,” his mother said. “Now let us be content. We are so content.” She sang the last word. “Penelope, dearest, remove that sour frown or you’ll get unsightly wrinkles. Beatrice, my darling girl, what are you doing over there by that plant? Why, no one can see you behind the foliage.”
“This tropical plant appears to be blighted by a fungus or, perhaps, tiny insects.” Beatrice turned a leaf. “Perhaps this is a new ailment from its nonnative environment? I wonder how I might get a proper specimen to study?”
“My darling, darling, darling,” Lady Marylewick chimed. “Remember, delicate female conversation. The guests are arriving and I don’t want to hear any more unbecoming, unladylike talk.”
The bright, lovely fascination on Beatrice’s features drained away. “I’m so sorry! I will be better. I will.”
Before George could intercede, the front door opened. Mr. Pomfret strolled in a few feet ahead of his wife and daughter. George pretended not to notice Mrs. Pomfret discreetly fussing over her daughter’s gown.
“Ah, Lord Marylewick, a fine day to begin your house party,” Mr. Pomfret said congenially. He wore a plaid coat and trousers. His hair and whiskers were ruffled from the journey, yet this didn’t bother the plain-spoken, unaffected gentleman.
His wife lacked all her husband’s easiness. Her clothes were a little more adorned than was tasteful, and her ornate hair and hint of cosmetics gave the impression of someone who tried too hard. “Tyburn Hall is more magnificent than ever I imagined, Your Grace,” she said, confusing his title. She performed an affected curtsy. “Is there a more superior home in England, my dear Cecelia?” She gave her daughter a tiny tug, pulling her forward.
“Y-yes, er, I mean no.” Miss Pomfret performed a stiff curtsy, her hands trembling with nervousness. She broke out in a ferocious blush when he bowed in return and mentioned how delighted he was that she could attend.
Lady Marylewick further undid the poor young lady by gracing her with a compliment. “Such charming conversation,” she said to the girl who had only stammered a few words.
Mrs. Pomfret seized upon the praise for her daughter. “Thank you, thank you, Your Grace. Miss Cecelia is exceedingly charming in conversation. Everyone says that they can’t wait to converse with her.” Her eyes flickered to George. “No doubt she will not be charming us with her conversation much longer. A gentleman will pluck her away now that she is out of the schoolroom.”
“A lucky gentleman, indeed,” George managed. All he could think was she wasn’t near the woman Lilith was. Why was he comparing her to Lilith?
“Come, my dears,” said Mr. Pomfret, realizing his wife teetered dangerously close to impropriety.
After they passed out of earshot, George’s mother leaned in. “What a delightful mother. Not a hint of vulgarity or ambition.”
“Mama,” he growled under this breath.
Where was Lilith? Should he be relieved that she had chosen not to appear? Was he looking a gift horse in the mouth?
More guests began streaming in. Some were bachelors, whose eyes roamed around the hall, no doubt searching for the elusive Lilith Dahlgren they had heard so much about. Others were families of MPs or important political figures toting a decked-out, nervous daughter, granddaughter, or young female relative of marriageable age. Upon greeting each young lady, his mother would utter vicious little compliments such as “what a darling complexion” about the poor pimple-faced girl or “a delicate figure” about the young lady filling out her dress.