How to Impress a Marquess Page 3

  Later, after she grew older and bolder, having learned to make friends, conceal sweets in her mattress, smoke a cigar, and sneak out of the seventh floor dorm windows at night, she still craved to escape into art, this time into the darker reflections of Mary Shelley, Emily Brontë, and her beloved Keats. She found kindred spirits in the works of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. She spent hours studying their paintings of beauty seemingly locked away behind an invisible wall—perfection so close, but never attainable.

  “I saw you fly away.” Frances clutched the bedpost. “Has odious Marylewick vexed you again? Did he say anything about your money?”

  Lilith rested her pen on the tray. “Of course he did! The man can’t mutter three sentences without reminding me. ‘Hello. What fine weather we’ve been having. Did I mention that I control all your money and expect you to grovel for it?’”

  “He isn’t stopping your allowance, is he?”

  “Until next month, you can be sure.”

  “Dear God! But we need—” Frances visibly checked herself and began again in a calmer voice. “What happened?”

  Lilith’s face heated. She glanced at her pages, where Colette remained trapped beneath the sultan. “He, er…he was angry because of the exhibit opening, what I was wearing, and that I had lied to him—which I hadn’t.” Lilith couldn’t sit still and began tidying her empty toffee papers. “You see, when I begged for extra funds on Monday, I told him that we had outrun the grocer, which was true, and that I had outrun my gowns, which was also true, because I can hardly get into them anymore due to my little toffee problem. I couldn’t tell him that I needed money for the gallery. I didn’t have the fortitude to sit through the denigration of me, my lifestyle, and my bohemian friends, only to be told no. He detests you and Edgar and thinks you’re a terrible influence upon me.”

  “We try our best, darling.”

  “I meant to go to the shops directly after I spoke with him. Truly. Except that Monday was particularly gray and soggy, and you know how low I become after meeting with George. He makes me feel horrible about myself. I thought a tiny spot of tea and toffee in my favorite teashop would brighten my spirits. And what do you know, I smashed into Figgy.”

  “You didn’t tell me about Figgy.”

  Lilith sank into her chair.

  “The poor man. He hasn’t written a poem since his wife died. He was a dreadful sight, disheveled and unshaven. My heart bled for him. How could I not help? So I gave him a few pounds.”

  Frances groaned. “You are too generous, and it’s dreadful. Charity, luv, begins at home. This home.” She waved about her.

  “But I gave the rest of the monies to you for the exhibit opening. Don’t tell me we need even more.”

  Frances bowed her head. “Edgar hasn’t sold a painting, whether his or other artists’, in a month.”

  Oh no! Their little household rolled along on tenuous finances. Lilith gave money for rent, coal, and groceries from her monthly allowance, but running a gallery and supporting a community of underappreciated artists stretched their meager funds.

  “Frances, I simply can’t crawl back and beg George after he kissed—” She faltered, realizing what she had admitted aloud. She moved hastily to cover her mistake. “I can’t—”

  “Wait, did you just say kissed?” Frances lit up.

  “No.” Lilith gazed at Frances with wide, guileless eyes, a trick she had perfected in school.

  Frances, keener than Lilith’s old schoolmistresses, would have none of it. “Yes, you did. You said ‘after he kissed.’”

  Frances crossed to Lilith, her eyes aglitter, and knelt before her. “Did he kiss you? Truly? On the lips?”

  Lilith removed her beloved volume of Keats from under the teapot and hugged it to her chest. The worn leather binding gave her comfort. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, no, my darling, you don’t say ‘he kissed’ and then leave me in suspense. Now tell me all that happened, starting from the beginning and then lingering about the kiss part. Leave nothing out.”

  Lilith released a long breath. Frances was quite tenacious and wouldn’t let up until Lilith threw her a scrap. “It was the usual banter. You know I behave dreadfully around that man. I taunt, I tease. I say the most outrageous things to keep him at bay. I can’t let him near the real me, because he would only mock and hurt me in the deepest way. So it’s always veiled barbs and games, except this time the game took a turn out of my control. He kissed me, and his male part, it…it…never mind.”

  Frances clapped her hands and gleefully laughed. “No, no, this is delicious. What did you do to that man’s instrument?”

  “Nothing. It engorged of its own accord. I did nothing.” Well, maybe a few things she wouldn’t admit despite Frances’s demand for detail—the mocking play, teasing dance, pillow fight, and how for a moment, he appeared like an adorable boy when he laughed. Nor would she reveal that briefly, she had actually desired to know the feel of him deep inside her.

  “Was his manly shaft very big?” Frances relentlessly interrogated.

  “What! How can you think about such a thing as that?”

  “I always think about such things. I make a practice of it. ”

  Normally Lilith would have laughed, admiring Frances’s unabashedly naughty mind. But Lilith wasn’t accustomed to thinking of George in such intimate terms. It was disconcerting and made her painfully self-conscious. “I suppose so. I’m not personally acquainted with any real male parts.”

  “George could remedy that.”

  “What? Absolutely not!” Nonetheless, Lilith’s mind filled with images of her and George’s bodies entwined like in those vivid illustrations in Love’s Wondrous Positions that she had found when she was fifteen, hidden inside the schoolmistress’s copy of Hannah Moore’s lectures. Lilith had “borrowed” the guide and showed it to her friends over jellies and giggles late that night in their room. These were the mysteries that proper girls would only know once wedded. However, in Edgar and Frances’s liberal circles, marriage hardly signified. One needn’t be married to enjoy Love’s Wondrous Positions. And Lilith had received a handful of casual propositions since living with her cousins that she had readily turned down.

  She wanted something more. She desired to give herself to a love that was worthy of Keats—unfettered and all-consuming love. She had been waiting years for such an attachment and was beginning to think it was too pure to exist. Perhaps her dream was merely the leftover yearnings of a lonely child who wanted to be loved completely.

  “So after his ardent showing, what happened?” Frances refused to let the subject drop.

  “I leaped away. I felt…” Wild? Throbbing? Exhilarated? Terrified? Ashamed? “Repulsed, of course. Then he apologized.”

  “He apologized!”

  “Yes, profusely.” She didn’t describe the horror twisting his features. No doubt he was disgusted to have lowered himself to touch her. A stinky gutter rat would carry less taint than lowly Lilith.

  “This is very, very good, darling. You have the upper hand now.” Frances began to pace in the small space between Lilith’s bed and her desk, her brows lowered in concentration. “You must play upon his guilt.”

  Lilith was taken aback at her cousin’s scheming. “Pardon?”

  “Don’t you see, George prides himself on always being proper and right. But, alas, he has tumbled from his self-righteous throne. Trust me, dearest, this is the perfect time to ask for more money.”

  “The perfect time is never! But since we live in an imperfect world, I’ll just wait until my allotted fifteen-minute appointment next month. I won’t go back before then. ”

  Frances’s features tightened to angry lines. She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. She tilted her head. “Are you sure you didn’t enjoy that kiss and arousal?”

  “What?”

 
; She sashayed toward Lilith. “Maybe you’re ashamed of your own feelings for George?”

  “No! Never!”

  Frances ran a strand of Lilith’s hair between her thumb and index finger. “Were his lips soft, my dear? Does his body feel as exquisite as it looks?”

  “I’m not playing your game.”

  “But I wager you played for him, didn’t you? Look at you, all flushed.”

  “What?” Lilith yanked away from Frances. She didn’t know why, but tears welled in her eyes. “Pray, do you realize how much pain George and his family have caused me? I came to my new papa with my young, tender heart open. I didn’t understand such things as title, wealth, and ancestry. I thought this new papa might be kind and love me. And we would be a true family. And…and my stepfather ordered my mother to send me away. But I was never good enough for the Maryles. And now George controls me like a puppet because of that bloody trust. He becomes irate when he tugs a string and I refuse to leap.” She covered her face. “And I kissed him. I kissed my very tormentor. I’m not humiliating myself before George by asking for any more money until my next allotment. I refuse.”

  “The gallery, darling,” Frances whispered. “We are struggling. I don’t know how much longer we can continue.”

  “I’ll write more!” Lilith cried. “I’m finally inspired tonight. See? Words.” She held up her page. “Good words…well, some of them. My elusive muse is rather obstinate.”

  “Damn your muse!” Frances balled her fists. “We can’t live on three pounds a chapter, let alone support a gallery!” She pressed her hand to her mouth, catching herself. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” Her lips trembled.

  Lilith rushed to her cousin and embraced her. Frances and Edgar had taken her into their hearts and the company of fascinating artists. If she lost her home and Frances and Edgar, she had nowhere and no one to go to…but George. “Let me talk to the publisher,” she implored. “The story is very popular now. Maybe I can get more money, or write another story. Several stories.”

  “What? Six pounds a chapter? It’s not near enough.” Frances studied Lilith with her shiny, wet eyes. “Sometimes we must let go of our childish, unattainable ideals. Sometimes we must kiss the fusty patron frog for our art’s sake, and pretend that he is a prince.”

  Lilith pulled back. “George isn’t even a frog. He is much lower. He’s the sultan. He and his family have broken my heart again and again. L-let me ask the publisher tomorrow. If he won’t give me enough money, well, then I’ll go to George. Will that do?”

  Frances kissed Lilith’s cheek. “Thank you, my love,” she whispered and left.

  Lilith trudged to her desk, her shoulders slumping under the weight of worry. “You heard that, Muse, I need money. No more rapturous breasts or sweet nectar on lips.”

  She dipped her pen and began to write.

  When the sultan’s lips touched hers, she was surprised at their softness.

  “Muse! I warned you. If you don’t behave…I’ll…I’ll…”

  Hmm, how does one punish a muse?

  “I’ll force us to eat eel pie and ale in a dirty tavern full of drunken dockworkers who think they belong on the Royal Opera House stage.”

  Colette submitted to his kiss as her fingers patted about the ground until she found what she desired: the ivory handle of his sword.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant, Muse!”

  Her chamber, the party below, Marylewick’s stiff manhood, and her scary emotions all scattered from her mind. She became lost in the rushing current of her story, her hand flying as she scribed her muse’s words.

  * * *

  George was relieved to learn his sister had already retired for the evening when he returned to Grosvenor Square. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. He removed his tie and collar on the way to his study. A golden fire was burning in the grate and his decanter of brandy had been refilled. His secretary had piled a fresh crop of correspondence with a new letter from his mother concerning the Maryle annual house party on the top. He didn’t have the wherewithal to read her latest demands, so he poured a glass of brandy and sank into his leather wingchair by the fire. He studied the flames on the liquid surface. The lulling reddish-brown tones of the alcohol and black shadows of the dancing flames. He squinted his eyes until all the colors seemed to sparkle on the glass.

  He couldn’t explain what happened on that sofa between him and Lilith. He had been weak. No matter how wild, alluring, and infuriating, she was his trustee and responsibility.

  Maybe the months of the Stamp Duty Extension Bill going back and forth between the houses in conference and the pressure from Disraeli to make the bill pass had worn him down. George was a Tory from the egg, as his Maryle ancestors had been before him, and like any dutiful political warrior, he fought his party’s wars without question.

  Maybe the upcoming house party frayed his nerves. A major yet subtle battle would be waged at it in the midst of waltzes and croquet. The party was a treacherous affair of political and romantic maneuvering as ambitious leaders tried to foist their ideas—or their daughters—upon George. He rolled his burning brandy on his tongue and thought of his young female guests.

  Maybe it was finally time to get married. Perhaps the lack of consistent female attention lay at the root of his problem with Lilith. After all, he hadn’t had the best of luck with his last mistresses. They were all lovely ladies and the first weeks with each had been spectacular, but his restlessness soon returned after the initial lust had burned out. He kept craving more, wanting something they couldn’t provide and he couldn’t articulate. Maybe he should concede that this restlessness would always be a part of him, stop expecting a woman to sate it, and marry.

  Maybe.

  However, he knew one thing with certainty. He had to apologize to Lilith. He was a gentleman, and would not cower from his obligations, no matter how odious. Of course, she would lord it over him for months and use it as leverage to wheedle more money. But it couldn’t be helped. He had been in the wrong.

  In the morning, he would send out his secretary for flowers that said “I’m sorry. I assure you that it won’t happen ever again. However, I still don’t approve of your wild ways.” Was that hyacinth and Venus flytraps? He would personally deliver them to Half Moon Street after his meeting with his man of business and be done with the bad business before Parliament.

  But for now, he didn’t want to think anymore. He reached for an old issue of McAllister’s Magazine to let the story of Colette wash over his troubled mind. He opened to the very first chapter in the series. Colette learns of the encroachment of the sultan and his army on her Greek village. The sultan desires her ailing father’s discovery, the components of the fabled Greek Fire—a fire born of water and difficult to extinguish. The sultan has suppressed the surrounding regions through a regime of cruelty and terror. Colette knows that the secret of Greek Fire would make him unconquerable. She attempts to escape to the safety of Northern Greece with her dying father.

  If only Colette existed in bodily form: loving, true, compassionate, and intelligent. She would be his wife.

  Three

  Lilith burst into the dining room that morning, her mind whirling from drinking cup after cup of unadulterated oolong tea through the night. She wore her lucky lavender gown for the upcoming meeting with her publisher. To fit in it required lying facedown on the floor as their only maid shoved her foot into the small of Lilith’s back and tugged mercilessly at her corset laces. In the crook of her arm, Lilith carried her new, clean chapter, devoid of references to Marylewick.

  Frances slumped over a plate of untouched toast and a cupful of steaming tea. Her pallid forehead rested in her hand. Across the table, her husband, Edgar, assumed a matching pose of overindulged, paying-the-piper agony.

  Lilith was too hopped up on tea to be brought down. She gazed around to make sure the se
rvant girl wasn’t lurking about and then raised her pages. “My darling cousins, I present you with a masterpiece of sensational fiction. You see, when you threaten your muse, lovely things can happen.” Lilith spoke in that fast, charging clip brought on by caffeine-induced euphoria. “My publisher will adore this chapter and certainly shell out more money. Just listen—‘Colette hold the veil to her scared, tremble head and crouching down in tiny cave made by a collapsed tree. Over her head, she could hear the sultan barking orders rudely at his reticule and’—oh God!” Her face heated. “I wrote this rubbish! The verbs are wrong and the words…this is terrible. Did I really say he barked orders at a lady’s valise? I can’t show this drivel to anyone!”

  “No!” Frances bolted up and then swayed for moment, muttering something about never drinking punch again before saying, “I felt your words deep inside me. They stirred my soul.”

  Lilith looked at her askew. “Poor grammar stirs your soul?”

  “Darling, how can you be provocative and inventive when you use language like everyone else?” Frances linked her arm through Lilith’s and began leading her toward the hall. “Passion knows no bounds or rules. Don’t be a slave to grammar. Live and write freely.” She opened the front door and gently nudged Lilith onto the pavement. In the stark sunlight, Lilith could see the network of tiny wrinkles under her cousin’s tired eyes.

  “Is something wrong?” Lilith asked. “Aside from the punch, that is.”

  Frances gazed down. “I didn’t want to say this in front of Edgar. But he and I had a dreadful row after the party. He’s terribly worried about money.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Lilith embraced her dear cousin-in-law. “I’m going to find what quids I can. I promise. What more can I do? Tell me.”