How to Impress a Marquess Page 6

  “Absolutely absurd,” Charles assured her. “I once tried sense and rationality, but I stuck out like a sore thumb in society.”

  “I, for one, don’t understand a word of sense and rationality. Lord Marylewick keeps trying to teach me, but alas, it is going as poorly as the time I tried to teach myself Siamese. However, I’m quite fluent in absurdity, and proficient in ridiculous, should I find myself traveling there.”

  “Ridiculous is my favorite holiday spot,” Charles declared. “The views are stunning and the locals utterly charming.”

  George wished they would stop this silly conversation at once. He hated when people talked in this nonsensical manner. Say something of value or say nothing at all.

  “My dear, I see that you have a book,” Charles observed. “I must know what it is so that I might purchase it immediately.” He slid it from her hands and examined the cover. “Ah, Keats. And well-loved, if I may judge from the worn condition.” He began to quote: “‘O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung / By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, / And pardon that thy secrets should be sung / Even into thine own soft-conched ear: / Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see / The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes?’”

  “Very nice,” Lilith said of his recitation.

  “What is your favorite Keats poem?” asked Charles. “I must learn it by heart.”

  George expected her to break out in quotes as she usually did. But she remained elusive, drawing her book back and cradling it to her chest. “I do not give away such things so easily.”

  “You leave me a mystery that I cannot resist,” Charles said. “I must endeavor to solve it at Lord Marylewick’s annual house party.”

  “House party?” She blinked and then raised a brow at George. “Annual house party?”

  “The zenith of the season, of course,” Charles answered for George. “Politicians and young debutantes alike swoon to receive an invitation. It’s all political and romantic intrigue, and lawn tennis.”

  Lilith continued to gaze at George. The words “why have I never been invited to this party?” hung in the air. George tugged at his tie. He had always assumed she knew about the party but would rather lose an eye and limb than attend. And his mother had made it clear that she would sooner be laid in her cold grave before that “atrocious, recalcitrant girl” Lilith Dahlgren would cross the Tyburn threshold again. Thus he never mentioned it.

  But he could tell from her expression she now included “omitted from family annual house party” to her list of perceived injustices he committed against her.

  Charles’s glance flickered between Lilith and George, a realization lighting their shallow depths. “Father and I have been looking forward to it with great anticipation,” he said slowly. “We are having our gowns done up, so to speak. But this year, let the other guests chase balls with racquets or sticks. I shall monopolize Miss Dahlgren’s company until I discover her secrets, for I am an intrepid detective.”

  Blooming Hades! Lord Charles’s little political maneuver was insidious. He knew full well that Lilith wasn’t invited, and he subtly moved his bishop and knights, boxing in George’s king.

  Lilith couldn’t go to the house party. He hadn’t properly educated her yet. In her current feral state, she was capable of single-handedly destroying the entire Tory party’s agenda, not to mention killing his mother.

  George had to be subtle, protect his king with the few pawns he had left. “I’m afraid that Miss Dahlgren has a prior en—”

  “Why, of course I shall be there!” Lilith cried. “After all, it’s the annual Marylewick house party and family is family. I take my familial obligations very seriously,” she assured Lord Charles. “I should never want a Maryle member to feel shunned by me. How it would break my heart.” George received a hurt flash of her eyes.

  “It shall be a fine party,” the duke said. “Come, let us walk and enjoy the day. You look anxious, Lord Marylewick. You are far too serious, my boy. It will do you a world of wonder to relax in God’s creation, listening to the birds chirping and bees buzzing.”

  If the birds chirped and bees buzzed, George didn’t hear them. The duke immediately dove into a deep political conversation about the war in Afghanistan, which George, and Samuel Johnson, would hardly define as relaxing. Behind him, Lilith and Charles were engaged in violent flirtation.

  If Charles had been George’s son, he would be mortified by his offspring’s outrageous conduct. The duke only laughed indulgently and waxed about the short, bright days of youth. Whenever George tried politely to check her behavior, Lilith would say something such as, “Lord Marylewick, you are a darlingly old-fashioned chaperone,” or “Yes, Papa, dearest.” The duke would chuckle.

  The small, private path turned out to be a tiny tributary trickling to hell. It merged into a larger lane that was clogged by the cream of society out sunning themselves. The duke was knee-deep in a discussion of the proposed rectification of a boundary between Greece and Turkey, leaving George no room to wedge in a polite How interesting, but we really must be going. Stuck in the conversational mud, he was powerless to stop Lord Charles from dragging Lilith into the crowd. She glanced back at George, and her smile widened to its full gravitational force. He knew she was putting on a little production to vex him. A tiny revenge. She turned around and allowed Lord Charles to present her.

  She was all “How enchanted to meet you,” “What a stunning gown,” “I attended school with your daughter. Such a kind girl. How is she doing? A new baby? You must be very proud,” and “Why yes, I shall be at the Marylewick house party. How lovely that we should meet again.” All the while, Charles kept a possessive hand on her shoulder, as if having finally met her, he was determined to keep her captive.

  When His Grace finally paused a moment to rub his whiskers and contemplate the tariffs on New South Wales, George dove into the conversational hole. “Thank you for suggesting the stroll. I say, listening to the chirping birds truly relaxes the soul. Unfortunately, I have some papers to read over before attending Parliament. I’m afraid I must whisk my cousin away.”

  “A high-spirited filly, that one.” The duke gazed to where his son had wrapped Lilith’s hand around his elbow. “But she’ll make a fine lady when she’s tamed.”

  Lilith would most certainly be tamed and not by Lord Charles. George would be the one to “bleed her wild heart dry” and “destroy her gentle, yearning soul.”

  The duke turned to George. “I look forward to your house party and meeting the charming Miss Dahlgren again.”

  George bowed and muttered a nicety to excuse himself, instead of the curse he wanted to utter.

  His plans to polish up Lilith over the course of a few months and quietly pop her off had exploded. He plunged into the crowd to fish her out before she could make any more of a mockery of him. It was no easy task. He had to answer as to where he had been hiding her all these years. And yes, she was a dear lady. And so very charming.

  “Enough of this little show,” he hissed in her ear when he finally reached her.

  He managed to untangle her from Charles and forcibly escort her away until he had put a safe distance between her and her impassioned suitor.

  “You did that on purpose,” he accused.

  “Did what?” she asked, so innocently. “Martyr myself for your political career? Really, you should be grateful. A tiny ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be out of order.”

  “You did no such thing. You’re angry because…” He faltered. Admitting the truth was too damning.

  She stopped and faced him. “What reason would I have to be angry? That you’ve ejected me from my home? Or the little annual Marylewick house party to which annually I wasn’t invited? In fact, I hadn’t even heard of it. You said you were my family, but we are not related after all. Stop pretending.”

  “Did you not once say—no, shout is the better word—that Tybur
n was the tenth circle of hell—that Dante had forgotten one? I hope you are quite satisfied with yourself. And don’t think of displaying yourself as boldly as you did with Lord Charles ever again.”

  “Why? Am I too lowly for him? Could you not believe that I, Lilith Dahlgren, supposedly devoid of all proper manners, could win the admiration of a duke’s son?”

  “I have no doubt in the powers of your charm when properly directed. But the simple truth is that Lord Charles is neither kind nor loyal, although he may give you an impressive home.”

  “Really? What terrible thing has he done?”

  She searched his face. He heated under her scrutiny. “He…he made sport of me.”

  “In Parliament? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

  “No, at Eton.” He couldn’t explain the humiliation of having books hidden so Charles and the band of school boys who orbited him could delight in knowing George received the paddle, hearing snide little ditties made up about him echoing in the corridors, or wiping dog defecation from his bedcovers. Those episodes really shouldn’t matter almost twenty years later. He shouldn’t still think of them.

  “Eton! George, people change from when they were twelve,” she said, as if he were an idiot.

  “Truly? Because you’re still as unmanageable and hard-headed!” he fired back out of frustration.

  She flinched. “I—I don’t want to talk to you for a while,” she said slowly. “You’ve hurt my feelings.”

  She spun on her heel and walked away—her shoulders drooping. Her gown was so tight that it formed tight creases along her back. She appeared frail and sad. He wanted to run to her and assure her that he would make everything well. But he checked himself.

  Then she peered over her shoulder at him. The sunlight formed a halo of light around her, like a medieval painting of the Madonna. The beauty flooded his senses and he hastened toward her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why, but when I’m with you, I’m—”

  “A consummate arse!”

  “I would say unbending and prone to anger in certain situations.”

  A burst of laughter shook her body. “Certain situations?”

  “You’re not innocent either. And historically, you have never liked Tyburn—”

  “Historically, it’s been made abundantly clear to me that I was never wanted at Tyburn.”

  George couldn’t refute the hard truth. So he said nothing. Words didn’t seem to be helping their situation.

  “I’m so tired,” she said, finally. She closed her eyes and somehow all her wild, magnetic energy drained away. It was like watching a play end, the audience leave, the usher snuff the lamps, leaving an empty theatre and a bare set. “I want to go home.” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “But I don’t have one anymore.”

  Five

  Lilith didn’t speak to George for the remainder of the walk to Half Moon Street. She turned over all that had occurred, as if by mental force she might make it unhappen. Frances and Edgar, whom she loved and trusted, had deserted her. Her heart hurt as it had when her mother explained that Lilith couldn’t stay with her any longer because Mama had a new family. Lilith had told George that people changed from when they were twelve, because she wanted to mock him. But inside she still felt like a scared child, only now she was better at concealing her fears and hurt.

  At home—or what once was her home—the wagon was gone from the door and the neighbors had returned to their houses. All the large pieces of furniture had been restored, but the candlesticks, silver, gewgaws, and Edgar’s own paintings were missing. No laughter or energy infused the house. The rooms were like cold corpses.

  “I had told my groom to return in two hours,” George said. “We have but a few minutes left. I shall have your personal items fetched in the morning. Can I assist you in packing anything you need for this evening?”

  “No!”

  He raised a brow at the violence of her reply.

  She couldn’t allow him in her room with all her beloved books and personal possessions, including the portfolio containing the vile words she had scribed about him. She couldn’t let him see her. The real her. “I, um, need to pack for my feminine ailment.”

  “Ailment? Are you ill? Shall I take you to a physician?”

  Was the man that obtuse?

  “My monthly feminine ailment.”

  “Oh.” That properly scared him. His face and neck turned scarlet. “Oh,” he said again. He backed toward the door. “I had no idea—I mean, not that I should have known.” His skin tone continued to creep across the red color spectrum. “I’ll…I’ll wait outside.” He hurried away.

  She slowly mounted the stairs. In her chamber, her belongings were back in their proper places, neater than she had left them this morning. Soon they would be packed up again. Another hope dashed and another unknown future looming. She had loved living here. She’d had so much hope that she had finally broken from her past.

  She sank into her desk chair, hung her head in her hands, and broke into tears. For tonight, she would go to George’s home. She could sort out her life in the morning and make her escape. She just didn’t have the strength at the moment.

  She wept until she heard the carriage draw up and George’s rich voice booming her name and carrying on about needing to attend Parliament. She drew her portmanteau from her trunk—the one that had been with her through four different boarding schools, two finishing schools, and across the channel last summer with Frances and Edgar. She nestled her locked portfolio and Keats’s poems inside. With tear-blurred vision, she pulled two gowns, three chemises, fresh pantalets, and stockings from her clothes press. She folded them together and placed them on top of the book. Then she added her toothbrush, paste, hairbrush, and a tin of hairpins. Despite what George thought, she required very little. She could hear him pacing about below, no doubt growing impatient. She had far exceeded her allocated fifteen-minute appointment.

  At her door, she turned back and gazed once more at the chamber where she had spent so many beautiful hours lost in the imaginary world of Colette and Sultan Murada. She whispered the final lines of Tennyson’s poem Break, Break, Break. “‘But the tender grace of a day that is dead / Will never come back to me.’”

  * * *

  Lilith adored walking about the city, rubbing elbows with its inhabitants. The rush of the metropolis exhilarated her. She delighted in mounting the top of the omnibus and gazing up at the buildings as the cumbersome vehicle lumbered through the streets. However, George wheeled about London in a lonely bubble of glass and luxury. Being inside it made her feel even sadder, as if she had been plucked from her colorful life and put in a sealed, hermetic bottle.

  As she gazed out the window, her eyes burning and head aching from lack of sleep, her thoughts tangled up. Her own life fused with Colette’s.

  The sultan, having finally captured Colette, bound her with silken sashes. She was his slave to do with as he pleased.

  “You shall eat proper meals,” he growled in menacing tones. His brows drew down in a hawkish manner. “You’ll receive plenty of sleep each night and do calisthenics each morning.”

  A shiver ran down Colette’s back at his unsavory demands. He may be the master of her body now, but her spirit would soar free from its bodily cage.

  “Are you even paying attention?” the sultan demanded.

  Colette answered in a broken whisper, “Ahhbuhh,” and bowed her head.

  “What? You’re not making sense,” the sultan spat. “This illustrates my point. You’ve beaten your wings to exhaustion because you’ve had no proper guidance. Well, that has changed.”

  He seized her elbow as the carriage rolled to a stop. She tried to protest his brutal treatment, but his retinue descended upon her, ripping her from the carriage. His enormous tent was ablaze with torches.

  “Show
her to the parlor.” His powerful voice thundered in her ears.

  Colette was taken inside the tent, ordered to wait upon plush cushions for her master’s cruel bidding, and asked if she required “a spot of tea or a biscuit.”

  She tried to speak but her lips wouldn’t move. Her eyelids were closing fast. The sultan must have poisoned her. She fought to remain conscious.

  She heard a female voice behind the tent door. “Lilith is staying with us! No, no. What will Mother say?”

  Ah, yes, Lady Marylewick, that beautiful, perfect valide sultan—queen of the harem.

  “Hush, my dear Penelope, she will hear you,” the sultan barked.

  Penelope, Lady Fenmore? Why was the sultan’s sister with him and not with the harem of her husband? Those were Colette’s last thoughts before being carried away in the swift, black undertow of sleep.

  * * *

  George entered the parlor to inform Lilith of her waiting bedchamber. He found her collapsed on a sofa, sound asleep. Her hat had toppled from her head, freeing her auburn hair. Her lashes cast shadows on her face. A beautiful sleeping tigress. He knelt beside her and studied the lines and planes of her face. Her symmetry.

  She hummed and shifted onto her side.

  “Miss Dahlgren,” he whispered. He rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Lilith.”

  She clasped his hand, slid it under her cheek and cuddled around his arm. Warmth flowed from her body into his.

  The clock on the mantel chimed five. Parliament had begun. Outside, the long shadows of the afternoon were beacons of the coming gloaming. After Parliament, he had several balls to attend. Today’s adventure had set him behind in his estate work. He had a multitude of reasons to hurry on, but he couldn’t stop gazing at the picture she made and enjoying the tingle of his skin where it touched hers. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She drew up her legs and snuggled even closer. “So tired,” she mumbled and rubbed her cheek against his arm, as if settling into a pillow.