How to Impress a Marquess Page 8

  “My improvement!” She rattled the paper in the air—written proof that she wasn’t good enough for the Maryles. Yet she was no longer a hurt, turned-away child but a woman with her own mind and sense of worth. “George, this is insulting!”

  Penelope’s jaw dropped. No one was supposed to speak harshly to George. “Now, Lilith…”

  “Insulting, assuming, and ridiculous,” Lilith expounded.

  George calmly sliced into a mushroom. “If you desire to attend the house party, then you shall adhere to those items.”

  Ah yes, that stupid house party that she’d used against George yesterday. “I may have been rather hasty on that point. And coming to stay here, for that matter.”

  His face jerked up. “What do you mean? Where else would you go? Who would take you in?”

  That was the heart of the problem. “I know of s-several colonies where artists—”

  “If you care to see a penny of your monies, you will not set foot in an artist colony.” He was on his feet again. Cordlike tendons bulged on his neck. “I’m tired of your antics, Lilith,” he thundered. “You shall attend the house party, and you shall behave like a proper lady for its duration.”

  Penelope flinched. Lilith narrowed her eyes. This was the unyielding, arrogant George—a typical Maryle silverback ape—to which she was accustomed. Now that he had entrapped her in his home, he assumed he could do what he may with her. Just like the sultan.

  She knew better than to get in a shouting match. She would plan her escape later when she could think. For now, she needed to buy a little time.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Marylewick,” she said sweetly, gazing up at him, pouting her lips. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I especially love item four, Ensure that Miss Dahlgren only consumes appropriate literature and art. I’m certain I’m the way I am because of all the bad art I’ve consumed.”

  He studied her, his eyes suspicious slits. “You will not distract me from the issue at hand. I am not a tyrant, but you will not listen to reason. You don’t know what is good for you. You have proven that over and over.”

  “I’m such a mindless little thing.” Lilith directed a giggle at Penelope, who appeared to be relaxing now that no one was shouting and all the women had returned to their proper submissive places.

  George continued to stare suspiciously. Lilith continued to smile sweetly.

  “I’m going to the club early to converse with the Prime Minister,” he said slowly. “You will don proper clothes and meet Penelope in the garden for calisthenics. Afterwards, when the shops open, she will assist you in having gowns made—I have given Penelope a description of the types of gowns I find acceptable.”

  “You don’t dictate how I dress.”

  He raked her up and down. “I must, if this is your idea of appropriate attire. No, aside from unbecomingly popping at the seams, your current gowns are the wrong color and fit. Then in the afternoon, you shall review the books before you. I shall check your progress upon returning from Parliament. If you give Penelope any difficulty, a footman will be dispatched to me, and I shall deal with you personally.”

  “Personally?” Lilith arched a brow. “What are you going to do if I misbehave? Spank me? Maybe a little whack with the pillow?”

  He opened his mouth, but thought better of whatever words he was about to utter. A beat passed before he spoke again in a measured manner. “I’m not going to play your games, Lilith. I’m not your frog. There is no golden ball. I did not advance your money to pay for your late rent. I paid for it out of my own funds. You are indebted to me for sixty-five pounds.”

  Hang Edgar and Frances for leaving her! Hang her mother for marrying into the Maryle family, and hang Lilith for allowing herself to come under George’s control again. She blinked back the tears daring to form in her eyes. That hideous tyrant would not see her cry again. He would not enjoy that luxury.

  “A proper, respectable gentleman courts a well-behaved lady,” he prattled on. “That is the way of the world. And the only way you will receive your trust money is if you marry according to my approval. Many eligible gentlemen will attend the house party. I suggest you follow my counsel or…” He opened his palms.

  “Or?” she spat.

  “Beg on the street. Now eat your breakfast. You need regular, nourishing meals.” He signaled to a footman, who rushed forward to help Lilith into her chair.

  The sultan must die, Muse! Not Colette.

  Lilith jammed her fork into a poached egg. Colette will plunge her knife into the sultan’s heart, piercing it like an egg yolk, his lifeblood spewing forth.

  * * *

  George stalked from the dining room and ordered his hat, gloves, and coat. He could see the terror in the footman’s eyes and he realized how harsh he sounded—like his father.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  He peered back at the dining room. He hadn’t intended to be so severe, but she had dared to appear in that flimsy nightgown that silhouetted her luscious contours to mock him. He had been up most of the night worrying and writing out her plan of improvement. He had panicked when she said she didn’t care to attend the house party. Typical Lilith behavior. Yesterday, she was aflame to go. But now that London society waited with bated breath for this house party because she was attending, she casually tossed the party aside.

  Yet was he making her pay for his own frustration? He remembered the pain in her eyes when she realized her cousins had left her. No doubt learning she had been excluded from the house party for years had hurt. She was orphaned again, drifting, scared, and trying to survive, a bit like Colette but with sharp claws and a vicious tongue.

  He considered returning to the dining room and explaining his intentions more calmly. But Lilith would only mock him if he showed weakness. She needed to learn the harsh lesson of responsibility that he had fortunately gained at a tender age. “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” his father oft said. George would never physically hurt Lilith. Or any lady or child, for that matter, but he wouldn’t spare Lilith the painful rod of his censure if it helped her.

  He turned and headed out the door.

  * * *

  Lilith stood in the tiny courtyard, hefting a metal hoop over her head, and pondering which artist colony might take her in, how many pages she needed to write to earn sixty-five pounds, and ways to have Colette kill the sultan.

  Across from her, Lady Fenmore lifted a matching metal hoop. Her stiff smile appeared tabbed on like a cut-out doll’s. The two ladies had enjoyed a strained relationship since Lilith, in one of her childhood tantrums, cut off several of Penelope’s beautiful spiral curls after Penelope refused to let Lilith play with her pristine doll collection. “You will ruin them like you ruin everything,” Penelope had sniped, prompting Lilith to reach for the clippers.

  Penelope leaned her hoop to the left. “To the left, back to the center, now to the right,” she ordered like a soft-spoken drill sergeant, seemingly unaware of all the stable hands peering around the corner to enjoy the spectacle. “Do try to straighten your posture, Lilith. Turn your head to gaze up and keep your limbs slightly apart.”

  Lilith couldn’t bend, much less breathe, in her corset. “I feel like a yogi from India.”

  “A yogi?”

  “A person who ponders the meaning of life while assuming different positions with his body.”

  Penelope wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know if George thinks you should say such things.”

  Lilith raised her hoop. Given her emotional instability at the moment, she opted to change the subject before she blew up in fury over the subject of George’s censorship. “Why are you not residing at your husband’s London home?”

  Penelope’s brow creased, but her smile remained intact. “Lord Fenmore is at his hunting lodge. My husband loves horses and hunting. Always hunting.”

  “I didn’t think it was h
unting season.”

  A cloud passed across her eyes. “I just adore my brother,” she said, steering the conversation away from her husband. “He requires a lady to keep his home. He unselfishly puts everyone else’s needs first. Now bend to the left.”

  “A regular Atlas.”

  “Atlas?”

  “The Greek god carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Lilith lowered her hoop to demonstrate.

  “I don’t know if George thinks you should say such things.”

  “I don’t care what people think I should do or say,” Lilith replied, no longer able to hold her tongue.

  Penelope flinched as though free will were a terrifying concept. Hers was a flat world and ships that ventured too far fell off the edge. “Ladies should always seek to please their brothers or parents or…or…husbands in all matters.”

  “What if your husband, brothers, or parents are cruel monsters?”

  Penelope’s eyes turned hot. “I hope you aren’t suggesting my brother is a cruel monster. He only wants what’s best for you. He’s so caring. You know nothing about him.”

  Lilith, who was bending to the right, burst out in incredulous laughter, causing her to lose balance. Her staystrings popped as she fell to the ground and the giant ring crashed upon her. Penelope gazed down with a smug expression that said See what happens when you say terrible things about Lord Marylewick.

  Seven

  With this auspicious beginning to Lilith’s education, she could only assume the trip to the clothing shop would be disastrous. George sent his carriage to drive the ladies about. Heaven forbid they should rub shoulders with the great unwashed.

  Madame Courtemanche’s shop exuded wealth. Delicate fabrics and handmade lace were draped in the front window amid gold-framed paintings of gowns adorned with intricate ruffles, bustles, trains, and pleats.

  Lady Fenmore allowed the footman to help her down without looking back at Lilith. If she did, she would surely see the panic seizing Lilith’s features.

  Once on the pavement, Lilith reached for Penelope’s elbow. “I’m sorry, Lady Fenmore, but I— I can’t, that is, I don’t have enough funds for this modiste.”

  Why did admitting poverty feel like a crime?

  “My brother will pay,” Penelope replied and entered the establishment as the footman held the door.

  “But—”

  Penelope couldn’t hear Lilith anymore. She was being greeted by a fashionable woman with a lovely French accent.

  “But I don’t want to be further beholden to George,” Lilith whispered to no one.

  Nor did she desire to become further entrenched in that ridiculous house party. She nervously entered the shop’s lush parlor of mahogany furniture and white, lace-trimmed cushions.

  Penelope made a curt introduction of the ladies.

  “Your cousin is a beauty.” Madame Courtemanche curtsied. “I shall make a gown worthy of her.” She clapped her hands and a young seamstress appeared from the back rooms. “Bring the English fashion book,” she ordered in French, which, if Lilith translated correctly from the subtle inflection, meant Bring the uninspired fashion book. Madame reverted to English and gestured to the sofa. “Please, please, sit down, my ladies.”

  Penelope took a seat on the edge of the cushion, her expansive bustle commanding a great deal of space. Lilith edged in beside her. The modiste chose the wing chair on the other side of a low marble table.

  “Now, what lovely creations shall I make for you? Morning dress? Walking dress?” She leaned in to Lilith. “A ravishing ball gown to make a certain gentleman fall madly in love?” She shifted her gaze to Penelope. “You remember the gown I made for your debut ball? Did not Lord Fenmore fall in love that night?”

  Penelope didn’t respond, but opened her reticule and retrieved several folded pages. George’s list for Lilith’s education rested on the top. Lilith fought the urge to tear it into tiny strips useful only for bum fodder.

  Penelope shifted the pages, handing several to Madame.“My brother sketched pictures of what he thinks are appropriate gowns for Miss Dahlgren.”

  What?

  “Such magnificent pictures,” Madame Courtemanche commented. “If I may—”

  “P-pardon me,” Lilith cried. “Did you say that Lord Marylewick sketched these?”

  Penelope looked at Lilith as though she had lost her senses. “Of course,” she said, and then returned her attention to the modiste. “His instructions were that the gowns should be made in shades of soft gold, reds, or browns. Also, if you could—”

  “Pardon me again,” Lilith cut in. “May I see them? The sketches. Please.”

  Lilith’s fingers shook as she took the offered pages. She gasped. The images were fast renderings, but the style and the composition were exquisite. The top sketch displayed Lilith seated in a chair and wearing a simple yet elegant ball gown. Her hand dangled casually off the armrest and her head was slightly raised, a smile blossoming on her lips. The illustration below featured Lilith standing with her hands resting on a table behind her, thereby pushing up her breasts. Her hair was piled high, accentuating the long line of her neck. The sheer silk gown he had created flowed like smooth water over her curves. Her eyes had been drawn slightly downcast, a modest touch to a rather provocative image.

  “And you said Lord Marylewick—your brother George—sketched these,” Lilith broke into the conversation between Penelope and Madame Courtemanche. “Using his own hands and a pencil?”

  “Yes,” Penelope affirmed, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted again.

  “These could be the work of Edgar Degas,” Lilith marveled aloud.

  “Who?” Penelope asked.

  “Edgar Degas?” cried the modiste. “J’adore Edgar Degas!”

  “Me too,” Lilith said. “I saw his work at the Impressionist Exhibitions in Paris last summer.”

  “I was there, as well! How sad that we missed each other.”

  Lilith and Madame laughed, each recognizing a kindred spirit. Penelope eyed the two ladies nervously and then tried to nibble on a fingernail through her glove.

  The young seamstress returned, bearing the fashion book.

  Madame Courtemanche waved her off. “No, no, this will never do. Please bring the French magazine.” Her eyes glittered. “Those designs will better suit my fashionable guest.”

  The modiste was overjoyed to have a client who appreciated the more modern fashions. She carried on in fast-flowing French. Lilith did her best to keep up as she was being measured and various silks held to her face. Penelope added nothing to the conversation except to say what George would or would not approve of and to please remain true to the sketches.

  Lilith wished she could steal the pictures and examine them in solitary silence. She still couldn’t believe George—overbearing, dry George—drew them. That he was capable of such imagination or beauty. He must answer for this artistic side he hid. What else had he drawn? Did he paint? Where did he keep his art? Her heart raced so fast that perspiration broke out around her temples. Good heavens, she hadn’t time to worry about such trivial things as gowns when a great mystery demanded to be solved.

  She was bereft when the sketches were taken to the back rooms to be used as references by the seamstresses. Despite George’s claim that she had posed for paintings, she truly hadn’t. In fact, these were the only sketches ever made of her.

  As the ladies rose to leave, Penelope casually asked that the gowns be ready in two days. Lilith thought that wasn’t enough time. The poor seamstresses.

  “Of course,” Madame Courtemanche said without a beat. “The gowns will be delivered. My girls and I will make the final fittings at your home, if your ladyship agrees.”

  Penelope nodded and then the modiste kissed Lilith warmly on both cheeks. “Au revoir. I shall make inspired creations for you. Edgar Degas with fabric.
You will adore.”

  Penelope stared on, her expression unreadable.

  When they stepped onto the pavement, Lilith was dying to ask Penelope about the sketches. She thought she would ease into casual conversation before she peppered Penelope with questions.

  “Madame Courtemanche is a fascinating lady,” Lilith said. “Did she really make your debut gowns?” Penelope had made quite a societal splash with her debut, and Lilith assumed it would be a pleasing subject.

  “Yes,” Penelope replied and glanced away. So much for a cozy tête-à-tête. But Lilith couldn’t give up. She spied a confectionery shop down the street. Toffee! That’s what she needed to butter up the conversation.

  “Please excuse me for a small moment.” Lilith left Penelope with the footman and dashed along the walk to the confectioner’s. Three minutes later she emerged with a box filled with tiny paradises. She gave two toffees, as well as several pence, to a hungry child under the shop window and hurried to catch up with Penelope. “These are little pieces of heaven. You put them in your mouth and they melt into something sugary and magical. Here, have one. Penelope? Penelope?”

  Penelope stared across the street, her eyes large, mouth gaping, and hands clenched as if witnessing some bloody horror. Was there an accident? Were people hurt? A dozen or so dreadful images flooded Lilith’s overactive imagination as she followed the line of Penelope’s gaze. A beautiful woman in a vivid yellow gown smiled intimately at the man whose elbow she clutched as he opened the door to their pied-à-terre. Just another garish actress and her benefactor. An everyday sight in London. Lilith released a relieved breath. No one was bleeding in the street. Then the man turned and gestured for his little yellow lovebird to enter. Beneath his top hat Lilith recognized the features of Lord Fenmore, Penelope’s husband!

  Without thinking, Lilith shouted, “You blossoming arse!”

  The only weapon she possessed was a box of toffee. She threw it, raining toffee onto the street. “You bloody, blossoming bumhole.”