How to Impress a Marquess Page 12

  “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 o
f 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.”

  She held Lilith’s gaze a few seconds longer, her eyes narrowing a fraction. Then she turned to Penelope. “Lady Fenmore, my precious daughter. You look quite worn. Does Lord Fenmore not accompany you? You are always abandoning that poor gentleman.”

  Penelope opened her mouth to reply, but George saved her the effort. “Lady Fenmore kindly arrived early to help you with the house party planning.”

  “She should have come before today,” Lady Marylewick replied in saccharine tones. “But it is no matter. I’ve put together this whole affair by myself.” She turned to her secretary and kissed her cheek. “Of course little Beatrice, the dear girl, has been such a lovely help. Like a grateful and attentive daughter she is to me.”

  “Beatrice!” Lilith cried. Her half-sister Beatrice! The last time Lilith had seen her, she was the angelic girl whom her mother had doted upon. Lilith always assumed Beatrice would develop into a beautiful, simpering version of their delicate mama, not this awkward lady with slightly bent shoulders, enormous eyes, and head full of wild blond curls. “You’ve grown so much. I didn’t recognize you.”

  Lilith advanced to embrace her sister, but Beatrice made a quick sidestep, leaving Lilith to grasp the air.

  “Good evening, Lord Marylewick.” Beatrice curtsied stiffly.

  “What is this?” George asked. “I can’t pick you up and twirl you about anymore?”

  Guilt colored Lilith’s conscience as the situation’s full implications sank in. She had tossed her innocent half-siblings, the adorable infants of whom she was so jealous, into the same mental box with her parents, who didn’t love her. She had tied it shut and shoved it into a dark corner in her heart. She hadn’t realized George had become more than a mere guardian to her orphaned half-siblings. He was their surrogate papa.

  “Now, George, I’m teaching Beatrice the tenets of being a great lady,” Lady Marylewick said.

  “Beatrice will be a grand hostess, of this I have no doubt.” George assumed the warm tones of a proud father. Beatrice blushed underneath the spray of freckles on her cheeks.

  “I don’t know,” Beatrice responded. “Lady Marylewick thinks I spend too much time wandering about the countryside and thinking about, well, unnatural things. But I’m getting better, Cousin George. Truly, I am.”

  “Unnatural?” Lilith echoed. What a peculiar thing to say. Unnatural in Lilith’s Bohemian set meant something quite risqué, indeed. “What do you mean?”

  “Science,” Beatrice whispered as though it were a foul word.

  Lilith chuckled. “What is unnatural about science? It’s completely natural. It’s the very study of nature.”

  “It’s not lady talk,” Lady Marylewick explained. “Gentlemen speak of science, not ladies.”

  Lilith blinked. “Pray, I speak of science. I find the subject fascinating.”

  “Of course you do.” Honey dripped from Lady Marylewick’s voice.

  What a subtle jab!

  Was this really the same Lady Marylewick Lilith had remembered? The elegant lady who had seemed to exist in a serene sphere apart from everyone else? Had she always possessed this fissure of meanness? Lilith felt like Alice, falling down a rabbit hole to a world that appeared similar to the one she knew, except very different.

  “Now, Beatrice, my dearest,” Lady Marylewick began, “this perfectly illustrates what I explained yesterday. A good hostess must be prepared when a wonderful guest arrives unexpectedly.”

  “Mama!” George warned.

  “That shan’t be a problem at all,” Beatrice responded. “We can put Miss Dahlgren in the Foxglove chamber.”

  Miss Dahlgren, Lilith noted. Not my sister.

  “Foxglove chamber?” Lady Marylewick asked.

  “Yes, in the southeastern wing or the old Tudor wing,” Beatrice clarified. “Some of the wings and chambers share the same name. It confuses the incoming guests and servants. Therefore, I’ve created a consistent naming convention for the duration of the party.” She opened her notebook to reveal a detailed blueprint of Tyburn that she must have sketched.

  She possessed the drawing talent of her cousin George!

  Beatrice pointed to a chamber with the letter F written on it. “Foxglove is really F. It’s between the Elder and Geranium chambers. I thought flowers would be easier to use than Roman or Greek designations.”

  Before Lilith could examine the impressive sketch, Lady Marylewick closed Beatrice’s notebook. “Thank you,” Lady Marylewick said to Beatrice’s eager face. “That is quite enough.”

  “W-what did I do wrong?” Beatrice’s delicate features screwed in confusion. “I th-thought it would help.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, Beatrice,” Lilith said kindly. “You’ve created such an impressive rendering. How talented you are. And I’m sure the precise naming scheme will prove to be most helpful. I’ll be most content in the Foxglove chamber.”

  Beatrice appeared more confused than ever. Obviously, a compliment from Lilith could only mean a terrible thing.

  “As you can see, dear Beatrice and I have seen to every trifling detail, every possible need, so there is nothing for you to do but to relax.” Lady Marylewick cupped her hand on Penelope’s cheek. “Do get some sleep, my poor dear, you are rather haggard. You will want to appear radiant when your husband arrives.”

  The obvious pain in Penelope’s eyes sliced into Lilith.

  “And Lilith, my dear child.” Lady Marylewick sauntered toward Lilith, linking their arms. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you. Too long. Let us have a darling little chat to catch up. Just between us ladies.”

  Why did Lilith think there would be nothing darling about this “chat”?

  Lady Marylewick didn’t wait for Lilith’s response but led her to the adjacent parlor. Lilith glanced over her shoulder to see George reaching to embrace his sister and Penelope escaping his sympathetic embrace. Then Lady Marylewick closed the door.

  “Come, my dear.” Lady Marylewick sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. Lilith obeyed.

  Tight wrinkles streamed from the edges of Lady Marylewick’s smile. Her gaze drifted down Lilith’s body. “You were a tiny, adorable thing when I last saw you. A little garden rabbit. Not a curve on you. But how you’ve filled out.”

  Was that a compliment? “Thank you.”

  “Now, my dear,” Lady Marylewick continued, “I know you’re a rather excitable lady. Wild ideas just pop into your lovely head. Pop. Pop. Pop.” She laughed and then leaned in. Lilith could smell her floral perfume and the rose oil in her hair bandoline. “However, attending this prominent house party are gentlemen who influence Britain and the world. And my son, dear Lord Marylewick, so like his father, is one of the most powerful men in Britain. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Lord Marylewick shoulders a great deal of responsibility, indeed.”

  “He does, the poor man. Therefore it’s essential that you and I do nothing to jeopardize his political aims or cause him one morsel of embarrassment. Nothing.” Her ladyship drew herself up. “We shall ape the manners of our betters.”

  Lilith had no doub
t that Lady Marylewick’s use of the plural “we” meant the singular Lilith.

  “Tell me that we are of one mind on this matter,” implored Lady Marylewick. “For I assure you, I will be most displeased if George’s honor is tarnished by another’s unseemly behavior.” She capped her menace with a harmless giggle.

  Lilith was beginning to unravel this different version of Lady Marylewick. A younger Lilith, blinded by her hurt and anger, couldn’t see the machinations holding up the smokescreen of perfection. She carefully considered her reply. “I seek only Lord Marylewick’s true happiness.”

  Lady Marylewick studied Lilith, sensing something off-putting about her cool response. Then she gave another silvery laugh again. “By the by, I’m glad we had this tête-à-tête,” she concluded, having injected her sweet venom. “I’m sure you’re worn out from travel and desire to rest. Good night, my dear.”

  Lilith matched Lady Marylewick smile for smile. This battle wasn’t over yet. “I wanted to inquire about your son’s art.”

  “George’s art?”

  “I’ve learned the most remarkable thing: as a boy he created lovely pictures. Of course, like all loving mothers, I know you’ve kept his precious work to remind you of those tender years. How little boys love their mamas! I’m so desirous to see his art.”

  “Good heavens, that was so long ago.” Lady Marylewick waved her hand with feigned casualness. “They have been put away.”

  “No doubt in a special place where they couldn’t be harmed. How thoughtful you are. Can you direct me to this place? I promise that I shall take as good care of the treasures as you have.”

  Calculations worked behind Lady Marylewick’s brilliant eyes as she chose her next tactic.

  “Lilith, do you not see? You are enthralled in another of your wild ideas.” She captured Lilith’s hands and squeezed them. “My dear, had I not the great responsibility of a house party to oversee, I would indulge your fancy. Now, I desire you to consider in what docile way you will pass your time during the party. I suggest sewing. As I recall, you could have improved your technique. I shall be happy to show you the proper way to form a French knot, for truly yours were tangles of thread.”