by Liz Tyner
But Lily didn’t feel controlled. Life surrounded her. Looking at Edgeworth made her feel safe, wrapped in security, and alive.
She rotated in his arms and now she faced him. ‘It is freezing.’ But it wasn’t really. Not when he was near.
He released her, then took her hand and draped it over his arm in the same way he would have led her into a dance at a soirée.
He took her inside his house.
The warmth of his home flowed over her and she imagined it hers, and walking into it with him as her husband. A small lamp sat on a table, giving enough light so that she could see him. Even now, she couldn’t read his thoughts or even imagine them. His eyes guarded him, she realised. One could hardly look into them when he had that cold, ducal stare he usually had. The stare that warned a person to tread lightly. Only he didn’t have it now. She couldn’t even remember how many days since she’d seen it.
Perhaps she was good for him and he realised it.
‘Andrew and Bea are going to Drury Lane tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We could go with them. She could be your chaperon.’
‘Beatrice?’ She’d never thought of Beatrice as quite suitable for a chaperon. ‘Didn’t she attack someone’s carriage with a parasol once?’
‘It was her parasol and her carriage. When it broke, she took her husband’s cane to it. She shouldn’t have done that.’
‘You think she’s a suitable chaperon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Going to the theatre with the three of you would be the same as a—an announcement of sorts?’
‘Oh?’ His brows popped up in a way that told her how well he understood that.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What concerns you?’
The words couldn’t make him understand. Beatrice had had a bad marriage once. At the time, she’d been constantly talked about. The thought of Beatrice’s escapades reminded her of the way love could take over a person and turn them into frozen glass that could shatter so easily, or into water so hot the bubbles turned into steam and nothingness.
But his gaze softened her; it didn’t spear. She didn’t feel unsteady—just stronger as if she could gain strength from him. This wasn’t the same volatile union her mother warned her about. Yet a duchess? Oh, it would be grand, but it would be difficult, too.
But she could confide in him.
‘The eyes on me,’ she said. ‘People would be watching everything I said. Everything I did. I hate that. I hate even being at the dances and moving across the dance floor and most of the time I know no one is watching, except my partner. And he doesn’t care if I make a mistake, but I don’t like it.’
‘You could have a dancing tutor.’
She moved to the side and rubbed her hands over her arms. ‘It’s not the dancing. It’s the eyes watching to pick me to pieces. The voices of other people. Mother’s friends would sit hours—days—discussing everyone else. Laughing. No one did well enough for their spiteful stories. I’ve already been mentioned in the rubbish Sophia published.’ She stopped rubbing her arms. ‘The words feel like they’re branding marks on the skin in a way you can’t feel it, but which sears into you just the same.’
‘Some people are like that—even if you stand at the corner, they will tear you apart anyway. You may as well do what you wish.’
‘I like being alone. I do like it.’
‘Not always. As a duchess you’ll learn to be comfortable with others. After a time, the people you’re around will often be the same ones and you’ll form close friendships.’
He took the lock of her hair that had escaped her bun and twisted it around his finger, then pulled free and continued, outlining her chin and barely touching her throat, tracing her collarbone, but staying over her spencer, stopping at the shoulder and letting his hand fall away. He made it so hard for her to think.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I never have been able to feel comfortable when eyes are watching me.’
‘You didn’t have any trouble trying to catch my attention when we were young. And I’m sure I stared blades at you.’
‘I wanted you to play,’ she said, touching his collar. ‘Another person for our games. You did look so—miserable. Abigail and I had each other. You never played with your brothers that I saw. If you joined our games, you could have been the pirate we captured.’
‘You wanted a victim.’
‘Yes.’ She heard the laughter in her voice. ‘It would have evened the odds somewhat. The two of us against you. I was bigger than Abigail. I had to lose on purpose. With you, we could have gone all out to defeat you and you might have lost. I was fine with that.’
‘I would lose on purpose for you.’ He reached to interlace their fingers on both hands, then he raised them high and stepped backwards, and backwards, and landed against the wall, their clasp still joined. He gave a tug and she tumbled against him, raising their joined hands.
‘See, you’ve captured me. I surrender.’ He bent forward, breath touching her cheek. ‘You may claim your kiss now.’
She did. A peck. Nothing more than a dart to his lips.
Her spirits lifted. Unburdened. ‘I don’t think it would bother me to dance again,’ she said. ‘If you were my partner.’
Standing near him, she felt she didn’t care what anyone ever said, or wrote about her. She’d finally put the past behind her. The mistakes that guided her didn’t matter any more after being in Edge’s arms.
‘I will be,’ he said. ‘I think we should practise now.’
His hands fell from hers and rested on her waist. ‘Miss Lily, may I have this dance? Or better yet, a kiss?’
His lips touched hers, and she tasted him. His strength surrounded her and she fell against him—safe, knowing he would catch her.
* * *
Abigail flittered around Lily, working again with a strand of her sister’s hair. When she reached for the perfume bottle, Lily held out her hand. ‘No more.’
‘I only put the barest drop on you.’
‘Yes. And I love it. But I don’t want to choke the horses when I walk by the carriages or smell like a cheap woman.’
Abigail sniffed the air, then moved closer, still sniffing.
‘You don’t smell cheap,’ Abigail said. ‘You smell quite costly.’
Lily slapped her away.
‘My sister.’ Abigail’s eyes glanced to the ceiling and then her gaze floated back to Lily. ‘The wallflower Duchess.’
Lily stood, turning, the skirt of the dress twirling around her feet. ‘It’s not being a wallflower when you’re observing other people. I prefer to be at the side.’
‘You do?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I thought about it a lot lately. I like to watch others. I really don’t like them watching me. Standing at Edge’s side, I won’t be alone.’
She wanted to be with the Duke. Was happy to be with him. She couldn’t keep the smile from her face. The only time her happiness faltered was when she remembered the tale of his half-brother being published, but he’d put that behind him. Lily forced herself not to think of it.
She could imagine the Duke standing beside her. His shoulders twice the width of hers, and standing just enough taller. His eyes would be distancing ice, but she would know the softness of them. With him at her side, stalwart, strong and an iron duke in his own way, she didn’t need to even think about anything but his presence.
He would ask her again to marry. She was certain. And she would say yes.
Happy shudders bubbling about inside, she pulled on the gloves. She had her opera glasses, a fan and, of course, her handkerchief. But she wouldn’t need it tonight.
Edge waited in the sitting room with her father. He rose—the contrast of his gold-silk waistcoat against the black of his coat and blue of his eyes causing her to forget everything in th
e world but him.
She doubted the carriage wheels would even touch the ground on the way to the theatre. She felt like a duchess and it wasn’t the heaviness she’d expected, but light and grand. Her corset ties didn’t feel tight and her shoes felt feather-light.
She looked at Edge and she could tell he’d just shaved. A duke and he’d just shaved for an evening out with her.
Her father had insisted on attending and, deep inside, she suspected it had to do with investments, but she didn’t care.
They walked to the ducal carriage and she stepped inside.
As they rode along the Duke’s appearance must have affected her father as he sat stiff backed in the carriage, his neck high and a serene smile on his face except when he gave Edgeworth approving smiles.
The carriage moved slowly, avoiding every single bump in the road. She didn’t know or care if she imagined the smoothness or it was real, because the night was the most perfect of her life.
She alighted from the carriage, her hand resting in Edgeworth’s and then he tucked her hand over his arm. If she’d not been watching close, she wouldn’t have seen the merest wink before the emotionless façade took over his face again.
They were almost at his private box when a voice dripping with a throaty charm called out, ‘Edgeworth.’
He stopped and Lily’s eyes rested on Genevieve. Genevieve, and her heart-shaped face and heart-shaped mouth, and the disheartening misfortune of being widowed at the age of twenty-four.
‘Edge,’ she said again, walking towards him as if he’d not heard the first time and turned in her direction. She’d called him by the same name his family and closest friends used.
Her ruby bracelet slid up her glove when she raised her hand, reaching out to brush his arm before her hand slid back to her side. Genevieve’s face remained animated when she took in Lily and her father, the dark eyes showing large against the perfect complexion.
‘Genevieve,’ he said, turning to include Lily and her father in the conversation. When Edgeworth moved his head in Genevieve’s direction, Lily watched his face. She wished she hadn’t. He greeted his former mistress with a whimsical smile Lily hadn’t seen before. Years fell away from his face and reminded her of the boy she’d seen in the garden.
Then the eyes shuttered again, the Duke returned and he greeted the man with Genevieve.
And there was no wall for Lily to stand against to make herself invisible. The man with Genevieve was introduced. Lily saw the barest recognition in his eyes the moment the man connected her name to Lily’s family heritage.
‘The younger Miss Hightower?’ he asked.
‘The elder.’ The words flowed easily from her lips. She’d said them before.
‘My elder daughter,’ her father inserted. She felt him step closer. ‘I’ve never attended the theatre with her and I decided it was time. I work too much.’
‘Don’t we all,’ the man with Genevieve said. ‘But she insists I take her out.’ He gave a sideways glance at Genevieve and her cheeks reddened.
Again her glove moved and the bracelet sparkled. ‘You insisted you wanted to take me to the theatre tonight.’ She tucked her hand around his arm. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Of course. Of course.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘I always insist I want to do exactly what you want to do.’ He included the men in his half-smile, half-jab at himself. ‘Well, we must be moving along. Want to take our seats before the play starts.’
In the brief moment when Genevieve said goodbye to Edgeworth and walked away, the muscles at his mouth relaxed and his eyes softened again.
‘Genevieve Carson. Her father and I purchased some property together once. Good man,’ her father said. ‘Head for finances. Lives in Nottingham now, I believe.’
‘Leicester,’ Edge corrected.
Lily’s corset ties bit at her waist and she tried to match the easy strides of Edgeworth and her father.
‘Bad when her husband died,’ Lily’s father said. ‘Though he was quite sickly when they married, and couldn’t rub two pence together without losing one. You remember him, don’t you, Your Grace?’
‘Yes.’
Lily ignored the pain her slippers caused. Irritated that she’d chosen them. Wishing her father would speak of something else, and unable to stop him because she wanted to hear every word.
‘If she married him for his funds, she was sadly misled.’
‘No. She didn’t,’ Edge said.
Her father paused, eyes wide. ‘You knew them well?’
‘Well enough.’
‘The man she’s with now, though, I would recommend him.’
Lily knew what that meant.
Edge didn’t speak.
She examined his face, trying to gauge his thoughts, but she wasted her time. Another man called out to him and he turned, giving greetings. Everyone knew Edgeworth. Everyone.
Lily tried to push the insecurity aside.
She had no true claim to Edge and no claim at all on his previous actions. Genevieve was his mistress. Was. The past. It didn’t matter. Edge was at her side.
The past didn’t matter at all. Her slippers mattered. They made her feel too tall and too wobbly. She should have worn something flatter. Something that helped her hide just a bit more.
Edge talked with the man, and then with someone else who wanted a moment of his time.
Lily moved a half-step back, keeping her gaze level and eyes serene, and wishing for all the world she’d worn something more comfortable. She felt as if she was wearing another woman’s clothing. She shouldn’t have worn the new dress. She should have stuck with something plainer.
The man mentioned meeting Edge again for a chance to win back the losses of their card game.
Edge nodded, ever polite, and when the talk ended, they moved to the box.
Beatrice was already seated, but she jumped up when they entered and her eyes welcomed Lily.
‘Lily,’ Beatrice called out. Her voice could crack glass, eggshells and possibly the inner workings of an ear. Her arms stretched to include Lily and her father. ‘So happy to see you.’ Beatrice didn’t just rush to them, her movement exploded inside the box, like the fluttering of dozens of birds’ wings moving as one flock.
Andrew stood, a bemused smile flitting across his lips.
Lily didn’t have to look out over the theatre to see necks craning and eyes examining, but this time she could disappear behind the flurry of Beatrice.
After greeting them, Andrew spoke softly to his brother. ‘If I’d known you were going to be here, Your Grace, I might have chosen another night.’
‘Andrew.’ Beatrice slapped at her husband’s arm. ‘I told you he invited us.’
‘That you did,’ Andrew said, laughter infusing his voice. ‘I thought it a clever ruse on his part to make sure our paths didn’t cross.’
‘It was,’ the Duke answered, sending a nod of acknowledgement to his brother. He spoke in a tone which barely carried. ‘I thought you’d be certain to avoid tonight if I let you know I planned to attend.’
Andrew laughed, giving a brief bow of surrender, and Beatrice rolled her eyes. She turned to Lily. The observers’ attention stayed focused on Beatrice and even across the theatre, patrons stilled.
Beatrice’s words wouldn’t have carried beyond the five people. ‘If the brothers ever speak kindly to each other, they’re angry. Watch out for that.’
Relieved laughter bubbled from Lily.
Then Beatrice turned around with a flourish and wiggled into her seat at the front of the box, leaning forward to wave to a lady wearing an oversized plume in her hat. ‘I wonder where she found that,’ Beatrice said, speaking to herself. ‘I must find out later. It’s adorable.’
‘You didn’t bring Mother?’ Edge asked his brother.
‘Mother?’ the Duke asked, his brows up.
‘Certainly.’ Beatrice wiggled around in the seat again so she could wave at someone else. Her eyes remained on the audience. ‘Your mother has a natural talent for art.’
Andrew looked at his brother and his shoulders quirked in question, letting him know this was the first he’d heard of their mother’s skill.
‘Isn’t this a lovely night?’ Beatrice absorbed the attention from the other theatre patrons, taking it in the way glass absorbed the sun’s rays.
‘Absolutely,’ Andrew said.
Beatrice turned to Lily, speaking quietly while they were taking their places. ‘He says that all the time. It means, Whatever you say, Beatrice. Or, I really wasn’t listening. Or...’ She turned to him. ‘An agreement on enlarging the sitting room.’
He groaned. ‘Absolutely.’
Beatrice looked across and called out to another patron, smile beaming, waving, ‘Agatha...’
Andrew’s head tilted down, hiding his expression, but Lily saw the smile.
The Duke took in a breath, but didn’t speak. He sat beside Lily.
Beatrice spoke without moving her lips. ‘Everyone’s going to be talking about this. Oh, my. Oh, my. Edgeworth was at the theatre with a woman of marriageable age...’
‘I’m aware.’ The Duke’s voice barely reached Lily’s ears.
‘Oh, I bet you are,’ Beatrice said. She looked at Lily. ‘Andrew and His Grace—’ her brows bumped on the word ‘—are very stuffy.’ Then she whispered, ‘Don’t let that naked portrait you’ve heard about fool you. Andrew didn’t really pose for it.’ She clucked her tongue.
‘I hope they mention my hair.’ Beatrice might have been talking to her husband. ‘I had to sit an hour to get it curled just so.’ She patted the ringlets hanging around her face. ‘It’s natural, but not quite this natural.’
Without turning her head, Lily looked in the Duke’s direction while Bea continued describing the moments of hair preparation.