How to Impress a Marquess(31)

“But this is more theatrical,” said Lord Charles, overriding the marquess in his own home. He shifted candlesticks on the mantel. “It is like a sultan’s palace, you see.”

“And now we can best view the elocution and poise,” slurred Fenmore.

Lilith felt Penelope tense. She wished she could come up with something to say that would offer solace, but Lilith’s head was a rush of dizzy panic. The most she could discreetly do was hold Penelope’s hand beneath the folds of their gowns, as if they were two women comforting each other on a sinking ship.

A servant came running with the journal.

“Lady Cornelia, if you will be so kind as to read a page.” Lord Charles gestured to the stage.

With a shy, blushing smile, Lady Cornelia crossed to the ferns and accepted the magazine. Lilith peeked at George, who rubbed his chin, enraptured, as he watched Lady Cornelia read. Lilith wanted to yank the pages away from Lady Cornelia’s pretty hands. Stop. Those aren’t your words. You have no idea what you are reading.

Why didn’t Lilith just cut out her guilty heart for the evening’s entertainment and have each young lady grind it under the heel of her dainty slipper?

One by one the ladies read. Lady Marylewick gave each a vivacious undercut in the guise of a gracious compliment.

“Now I believe it is Miss Dahlgren’s turn,” declared Lord Charles.

The room swam in Lilith’s vision as if she were drunk. Did she look guilty? Could everyone tell she had written the story? Could she make toppling a candle and setting the curtains on fire appear accidental? She struggled to sound casual. “I said at dinner that I think the story is mere sensational claptrap. It would be disingenuous of me to read.”

“Ah, but every young lady is reading,” Lord Charles replied.

Lilith feared she would be pressing her luck if she declined again. If it was guessed that she was the author, George would be humiliated at his own house party.

It took all her strength to walk to the makeshift stage instead of running away. Lord Charles gave her the magazine and she glanced at the page. Colette had stabbed the sultan and now hid in a small cave formed by a fallen tree. This was the chapter she had written the night she and George had kissed. Lilith’s throat burned. She glanced at the audience. Their faces seemed to fade into the furniture and walls; all she could see was George, his face, his eyes alight with anticipation. She had never felt more ashamed in her life.

“Miss Dahlgren,” Lord Charles prompted.

Lilith wasn’t sure if a sound would come out when she opened her mouth. But despite the breaking apart inside, the words flowed like silk from her lips. She readily knew their shape and tempo.

“Colette submitted to his kiss as her fingers patted about the ground until she found what she desired: the ivory handle of his sword. ‘You heartless, vicious hobgoblin of a man. You are all that is evil and cruel. I will never give my secret to such a m-malicious t-tormenter.’” Lilith couldn’t continue. Not with George’s gaze heating her skin, unaware that each hateful word was about him.

“I’m afraid this is still sensational claptrap in my mind.” She affected a breezy laugh. “What serious author writes ‘you heartless, vicious hobgoblin of a man. You are all that is evil and cruel’?” What detestable, ignorant, horrible author writes that?

“But you must read an entire page,” insisted Lord Charles.

Lilith could feel the tears coming. Her game was over. She had to prepare herself for the ramifications. She would plead on her knees to George for forgiveness. She would—

“No, she mustn’t,” said George in a low, grinding voice that dared anyone to refute him. “If she doesn’t want to read, it is her decision. Thank you, Miss Dahlgren.”

Her villain had saved her. Could she feel any lower?

Lilith returned the magazine to Lord Charles. By some miracle she made the short distance back to her seat without her quaking legs giving out.

“Lady Cornelia, would you be so kind as to finish?” Lord Charles said. “We have run out of young ladies and I am on tenterhooks to know what happens.”

“You have not asked my ward, Miss Maryle,” pointed out George.

Beatrice jerked her head from where she was studying the crystals hanging from a wall sconce, refracting the light. “Pardon?”

“I humbly beseech your forgiveness, my fair lady.” Lord Charles performed a dramatic, hair-flinging bow before Beatrice.“Please do us the great honor of hearing you read from Colette and the Sultan.”

Lilith’s sister hurried onto the stage, her thin neck bright red. Clutching the pages, she began to read in a fast monotone while swaying on her feet. Then she abruptly stopped. “Wait. Is Colette running away with the formula to Greek Fire?”

“Yes,” Lord Charles replied. “Her father rediscovered its vile components and Colette, because she assisted her father, knows the dark secret. She doesn’t want the secret of Greek Fire to be released into the world.”

“Everyone knows it’s resin and sulfur.” Beatrice shook her head. “Is the sultan an idiot?”

“It’s a work of fiction,” Charles explained. “You must allow yourself the luxury of pretending.”

Beatrice’s brows furrowed. “But why is Colette running if she knows how to make Greek Fire and the sultan doesn’t? What a puddinghead!” She thrust the journal at Lord Charles, her sensibilities clearly offended. “Here, you read it, since you adore it so much.”

Lord Harrowsby said in a loud whisper, “If I were a young whippersnapper, Miss Maryle would be my ideal.”





Fourteen


When the hell was this place last cleaned? George surveyed the fortress wing attics with his lamp. Was his home a rubbish heap for everyone to dump their refuse? Was that a water stain?

And where was Lilith?

He released an exasperated breath and checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes past two. After he had spent the evening torn between excitement and dread, Lilith was late.

In the drawing room, he had tried valiantly to focus on the beautiful Lady Cornelia, but his eyes always drifted to Lilith. He had played Lord Charles’s hateful game in secret and Lilith had won. Though she claimed the story was claptrap, the words came alive from her lips. She captured the nuance of Colette. She voiced Colette as he heard her in his own mind when he read.

He would give her a few more minutes while he shoved trunks and broken furniture away from the wall to determine the extent of the water damage. It would be easier to tear down this ancient wing than continue to sink money into it. Old castles littered England and the guidebooks wouldn’t miss one less.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, sending a warm current down his arm.

Lilith!

He wheeled around, ready to lecture her about timeliness, but the sight of her evaporated his frustrations. She wore that damned robe again. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her breasts. The light from her lamp reflected in her glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

He seized her hand. “Lilith, are you well?”

She smiled and disentangled herself from his hold. “I’m just wonderful,” she cried in false merry tones.

“You’ve been crying. What has happened?”

“Nothing. I’m— I’m merely cracking under the heavy strain of behaving myself.” She edged past him. “Let me show you the paintings.”

He wasn’t going to let her change the subject. He grasped her elbow, again enjoying a flood of warmth.

“Has something upset you? Did someone say something troubling?”

“Yes, all manner of troubling things like cricket, the weather, proper behavior for young ladies, but nothing about radical art or lurid poetry. All the things that I adore.”

“’Tis a pity you find Colette and the Sultan not to your taste.”

She glanced at where he touched her and whispered, “Do you truly enjoy that story?”

“Why do I think that if I answer emphatically yes, you will think less of me…if that is even possible, considering I’m a fusty frog in your eyes.”

She winced.

“Lilith, I was in jest. Tell me if someone upset you. Has a man made an improper gesture?”

“One.”

His pulsed quickened. “Lord Charles?”

“No.”

“Fenmore, that bloody cove. If I get through this house party without landing him a facer—”

“No, the man in question kissed me on my breast this morning. Very improper and compromising. I might insist that he marry me, but you wouldn’t approve of him. He meets ladies in the dead of night alone in attics and he has quite a foul temper when provoked. And worst of all, he is an artist. You know how you feel about artists.”

“I’m implacable in my poor opinion.”

“A pity.” She flashed him an impish glance from under her lashes and then led him through the rubbish.

“It’s in here.” She entered the back attic room.

When he crossed over the threshold, his mouth turned dry and his hands clenched. What the hell was wrong with him? He was just going to view some old drawings made by a little boy.

Lilith set down her lamp and tugged a huge trunk, trying to slide it atop another.

“Here, allow me.” He stepped closer to her than necessary to milk the comfort of her body. Together they shifted the trunk. Beneath it rested an old chamber pot. Lilith reached for it, but he stopped her.