How to Impress a Marquess(48)

“To whom?” Lord Charles kept his pale eyes fixed on George’s face. “Tell me his name.”

George remained quiet.

Charles chuckled and stepped back. “You’re a terrible liar, Lord Marylewick. You always were.”

“She’s engaged to me,” George barked.

George’s anger didn’t stem Charles’s mirth. His taunting laughter only grew stronger. “You, my dear fellow, are strongly opposed to her marriage to me.” A smirk smeared his mouth. “Lilith wouldn’t possibly consider marrying you. You know nothing of her true nature. Or her secrets. You couldn’t keep her even if this ‘engagement’ you invented were true.”

“I am a marquess,” he said through his clenched jaw. “You are nothing but a younger son. You have an estate. How pleasant for you. I have several. I’ve known Lilith most of her life. I know her heart, her mind, her…” He silenced the word “body,” refusing to demean Lilith before Charles.

“If this is true, well, it’s utterly delicious.” Lord Charles finished his glass and stared at the empty bottom, shaking his head. “So, old boy, Colette is going to marry the sultan. I admit, I’m shocked you had the stomach to forgive her after how she portrayed you before everyone in England.”

“What are you talking about?”

Charles flung up his arm and shook his fist. “Good God, this is brilliant. A masterful farce. Why are we not on stage with this genius?” He sat again, casually crossing his legs and draping an arm. “I have a darling story to tell you. You will find it quite enlightening. In fact, I think you may want to reconsider your little ‘engagement.’”

George could scarcely hear the man. His words seemed to be coming from miles away. Lilith wrote Colette and the Sultan? Impossible. If it were true, she would have shouted it from the rooftops of London. Or at least admitted it as he held her, her eyes tender and earnest, incapable of such a malicious secret.

“Last summer,” Charles began his tale, “in an attempt to recover from the horrible ailment known as Parliament, I sojourned to Paris. There I came across the most interesting people, as one always does in Paris. A delightfully roguish fellow by the name of Mr. Edgar Dahlgren and his charming wife, Frances. We met in a gallery and he struck up a conversation about art. I was intrigued as ever I am when a British gent speaks of art. It’s very rare, you know. Soon the conversation moved us to a wonderfully bohemian establishment, where it was made clear to me that Mr. Dahlgren sought a patron. So desperate was the poor chap that he told me an extraordinary secret. Care to hear?”

“I have no interest.”

Nonetheless, Charles forged on. “It was about this darling lady Lilith Dahlgren and her wicked guardian Lord Marylewick. This piqued my interest, as my sister attended school with Lilith, and by Jove, I’ve certainly had the displeasure of our friendship for years. So I poured a drink—a rather pricey cognac that my new acquaintance had selected—settled snugly into my chair, and asked the man to go on.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “It seemed the poor girl had transformed you into a villainous sultan and was venting your mistreatment of her for all England to enjoy.” He paused for effect and then feigned a yawn. “Unfortunately, I was not able to help the Dahlgren cove, but I say, the story almost made up for the expensive bill they left me and my gold cigarette case they stole. But I admit, after a day or so, I lost interest in the story written by a seemingly bitter spinster, except to keep it in the back of my mind in the event that one day it might prove useful. You know, dear fellow, it’s just politics, after all. Then one dreary evening, after suffering through an equally dreary play, I picked up an issue of McAllister’s Magazine trying to escape my ennui. Oh, but Colette was glorious. I was determined to meet this Lilith Dahlgren.”

Charles rose and began pacing, his energy turning frenetic. “Unfortunately, the bill and the cigarette case incident kept me away from their gallery, but I found that Lilith Dahlgren was moving around me, that our lives were parallel. I would go to galleries to learn she was just there. Oh, the allure of knowing she was near but just out of touch. What a cruel and utterly delightful game. It wasn’t until that day when we met in the park that I assimilated the entire Lilith. She was,” he paused and gazed out the window, “far superior than I had imagined her. The most striking and charming woman I have ever met.”

Charles turned. The light glowing from the window turned his eyes a translucent blue. “You tell me I do not know Miss Dahlgren. But I beg to differ. You do not know her at all, it seems. She has been making a mockery of you this entire time. And to be honest, my man, I adore her for it.” He crossed to the decanter. “Speak to me of this engagement,” he said, pouring another drink. “I want all the details. Where is the wedding to be held? Has she picked out the bridesmaids? I wonder about her gown.”

“You are wrong in your assumptions. Lilith would never—Miss Dahlgren has more integrity than the lies of which you accuse her.”

“Go ask her. By all means, prove her innocence. I, however, never understood the allure of innocence.”

Lord Charles’s words rang in George’s ears as he strolled from the room. “I say, this has been a most enjoyable house party, Lord Marylewick. The crush of the season. To think I dreaded coming a few weeks ago.”



George’s body trembled as he navigated the corridors to Lilith’s chamber. What was he doing? Why did he have these doubts? She couldn’t have done this to him. She was many things, but not viciously cruel.

He didn’t bother to knock or request Lilith’s presence in his study, but slipped into her chamber. She wore only a white corset and petticoat. She and a maid sat atop the bed, sewing on a gown turned inside out.

The maid gasped as George entered and seized Lilith’s robe, draping it over her.

“Pardon us,” he said, more harshly than he had intended. The servant scurried out, her face crimson, eyes averted.

“George.” A tentative smile wavered on Lilith’s lips as she slipped off the bed. “Is something wrong?” Anxiety quivered in her voice. She didn’t approach him but began edging away, her hands clasped together as if she were praying.

Black heat rushed into his brain. His temples throbbed. No, she wouldn’t have done that to him. She wouldn’t have betrayed him. “Lord Charles asked for your hand.” He was barely able to manage the words.

“Your bill! Was he very angry?” She reached out to him, but didn’t touch his arm.

A rueful bark of laughter escaped his lips. “Never mind the bill. He told me an interesting story. One I’m sure can’t be true.” He paused, trying to put his words in order. He never could spin beautiful webs with words. All he had was color and emotion—the stark white of her chemise and the fear in her dark brown eyes. “It seems that in Paris last summer your cousin Edgar confided in Lord Charles a most extraordinary secret: that you penned Colette and the Sultan. Not only that, I was the model for the sultan. I was your villain.” He flicked his hand. “Naturally, I told him that he was wrong. You could never be so cruel.” He lifted a brow, waiting for her answer.

She closed her eyes, her shoulders sinking with her exhale.

Dear God! No!

“How?” he cried softly. “Why?”

She had betrayed him.

He didn’t want to acknowledge how like a hurt little boy he felt. The pain was raw and fresh, all the cynicism he had built up in this thirty-something years of living afforded no protection. His mind flooded with precious images: the beautiful light in her eyes as she held his childhood art, the ivory of her skin bared for him as he sketched her, the burnished tones of firelight in her hair as he held her and made her agree to marry him. All these colors now ran together to a muddled brownish-black.

“I’m sorry.” Lilith’s eyes shone with tears. “I didn’t know you—the real you—when I wrote those words. Forgive me. Please. I beg you.”

Now he was supposed to forgive her? Was this merely another scrape she’d landed in? Was she that oblivious to his pain? To all he had done for her? No, he was a villain. He had no forgiveness for her, only rage.

“That’s right,” he growled. “You only knew the unreal me when you lampooned me in those pages. The one who took care of you and pulled you from the suds again and again. The evil man who paid your rent and stayed with you when your cousins left you. The unreal me oversees this estate and the well-being of its tenants, attends Parliament to see to the welfare of this country, and serves as a guardian to my greater family, including your siblings whom you abandoned.”

“It’s only a story.” Her words were a choked squeak.

“Was it funny? Did you and your Dahlgren cousins, the ones that were so loyal to you, laugh behind my back the way Charles did to my face?”

Again she was quiet. She pressed her hands to her mouth.

He paced and raked his hand through his hair, unable to tamp down his fury.

“I am not a villain!” he thundered. “I have sacrificed everything. Every moment of my life is spent worried about this country, this estate, this family. I…I…” He swallowed, remembering the harsh lessons his father taught. The boyhood taunts he suffered from Lord Charles and his ilk. And now every day he had to be strong and responsible for others, when he wanted to walk away. When he only wanted to paint.