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“Only a brave hostess holds a garden party this early in the Season,” Emmaline, Countess of Rosecroft, said.

“Or a foolish one,” Lily replied. She was attending the Chuzzleton gathering because Uncle Walter had insisted. Somebody had to show the Ferguson flag, or Mrs. Chuzzleton —who had both eligible sons and a widow’s interest in Uncle Walter’s fortune—would issue invitations until the Thames froze over.

Somewhere on the premises, Oscar was doubtless swilling punch at a great rate, pausing only to flirt with young ladies or dally with a straying wife. Sensible people lingered near the tents in case the clouds that had been threatening all morning decided to water Mrs. Chuzzleton’s flowers.

“A pity the Holland bulbs did not accommodate Mrs. Chuzzleton’s social schedule,” her ladyship said, twirling her parasol.

The countess—who insisted Lily call her Emmie when they were private—had married very much above her station when she’d spoken her vows with Rosecroft. She was thus well outside the circle of ladies who might have known Lily as a girl. Her ladyship was also unlikely to note minor lapses of deportment in a woman all of society thought headed for life on the shelf.

The shelf loomed in Lily’s awareness like a patch of the Promised Land, and she prayed nightly that Uncle Walter’s plans for her included decades of peace and relative independence in obscure spinsterdom.

“The tulips must have been spectacular,” Lily said, though now, past their prime, they looked… pathetic. Stems without flowers, petals rotting on the dirt, leaves soon to follow.

“Shall we see if the buffet has anything to offer?” her ladyship suggested. “I’m not that hungry, but this breeze has become too refreshing.”

The buffet sat beneath a tent at the foot of the garden. “God forbid we should suffer rosy cheeks from an abundance of fresh air.”

The tent would be as stuffy as the garden was chilly, with everybody packed in too closely, speaking too loudly, and discreetly spilling their punch on one another’s slippers when they realized how liberal Mrs. Chuzzleton had been with the sugar.

“Is something amiss, Lily?”

Well, yes. As Rosecroft had handed Lily out of the coach, he’d quietly conveyed that Werther Islington would be taking a repairing lease for the foreseeable future. Lily had no idea what his lordship had been going on about. Islington was a bachelor from a decent family, so he showed up in the predictable locations looking overfed and acting under-couth.

“Do you know a Mr. Werther Islington?”

Her ladyship’s parasol stilled. “He’s friends with Rupert Sharp.”

That explained it. Rupert, who was anything but sharp, had got the benefit of Lily’s insight regarding his marital prospects two years ago, and what young men lacked in brains, they made up for in wounded pride. Uncle had been wroth with her, though Uncle was equally disapproving of Lily’s rare friendly impulses toward the bachelors.

And there was Rupert’s mama, hovering over the sandwich table just inside the tent.

“I’m off to find the ladies’ retiring room,” Lily said. “You needn’t join me. It’s too early for the rakes to be out of bed, and the fortune hunters are all swarming about the free food and drink.”

“True enough. I’ll find Rosecroft, and we can tear ourselves away from this bacchanal despite its endless blandishments.”

“I’ll meet you in the mews. Give me five minutes.”

Five minutes to sit in peace and quiet, while the throbbing in Lily’s head eased and her sense of impatience with a wasted day ebbed. Tomorrow, she would take Bronwyn to meet Daisy, and that—turning a pair of little girls loose in a nursery full of dolls—held far more appeal than any of polite society’s gatherings.

Retiring rooms were usually on the first floor, so inside and up the main stairs Lily went. The staff was doubtless busy with the guests in the garden, and the quiet in the house was welcome.

Seeing neither maid nor footman from whom to ask directions, Lily took the first turning and ran smack into the Earl of Grampion.

“She’s after me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Thank God you found me.”

“Who’s after you?”

“The Humplewit creature,” he said, taking Lily by the hand and leading her along the corridor. “She has eighteen hands, her teeth are filed to sharp points, and her prehensile tongue could reach right into a man’s exchequer, there to secure the contents into her permanent possession.”

Footsteps sounded from the opposite direction.

Grampion pulled Lily into an alcove, where the scent of hyacinths blended with fresh greenery. A replica of the Apollo Belvedere wore a garland of ivy around his shoulders as he peered out into the gardens, the stone embodiment of male perfection.

Grampion was a good deal more interesting.

“Dorie Humplewit is a known flirt,” Lily whispered as the footsteps came closer. “You mustn’t think anything of it.”

“I am a known unwed, titled bachelor. Do you know how easily—?”

“Oh, Gram-pee-un! Gram-peeeeeee-un!” a woman called. “Mustn’t be coy, my lord!”

The earl tugged loose a velvet drape so it shielded one side of the alcove, then wrapped his arms about Lily and turned, putting his back to the corridor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She mustn’t see you.” His hand cradled the back of Lily’s head, and though he’d taken her by surprise, Lily had sense enough to remain in his arms.

Heavenly choruses, he knew how to hold a woman. Everything lined up as nature intended, and Lily nearly screeched with the frustration of not embracing the earl in return. She kept her arms at her sides, lest any part of her be visible from the corridor.

“I know you’re here somewhere,” Lady Humplewit cooed. “No need to be shy, my lord. We’re both adults and know what we’re about.”

Grampion had wrapped one arm about Lily’s waist. The other held her so her forehead rested against his chest. She was entirely supported, entirely hidden from view, and entirely undone.

He pressed closer, so they were both shielded behind the loose drape. Lily breathed in the scent of him—shaving soap that hinted of cedar, lavender from a freshly laundered shirt, a whiff of starch from his cravat, and mint from his toothpowder.

He was particular about his hygiene, and his height came with a good deal of muscle. He was warm too, a lovely pleasure after the chilly garden. Lily relaxed against that warmth as the footsteps faded.

“Thank God,” Grampion muttered.

And still, he did not let Lily go, and neither did she try to leave his embrace.

Lily Ferguson was lovely to hold. The male part of Hessian’s brain, which he’d ceased paying attention to within a year of his marriage, didn’t notice Lily’s curves and softness so much as it consumed them like a beggar devours a feast.

Her shape—diminutive, but unmistakably an adult female in great good health—made a general impression while Hessian reacquainted himself with details of female anatomy long forgotten. The nape of a woman’s neck was exquisitely soft beneath the pad of his thumb, and the back of her head fit his palm as if his hand were made for that purpose.

She could turn slightly and allow a more snug fit of his body to hers, and where his chest was flat, hers was… not.

Soft, full, feminine… Hessian had wrapped the lady close lest his hands wander where they must not.

Lily’s lack of height was a revelation. The first Countess of Grampion had been tall and willowy, exuding an aura of frailty, for all her determination to wed him. Hessian had feared mishandling her and then lost any interest in handling her at all.

He had lost interest in turning Lily Ferguson loose. Small but mighty came to mind, for her shape was quintessentially feminine. She remained quiescent in his embrace as the threat of discovery faded and silence returned.

Hunger was a problem solved with a meal. The feelings plaguing Hessian spoke of deprivation so long entrenched as to wrench normal reactions from his grasp. He wanted to swive Lily Ferguson, and he wanted to hide her away at Grampion Hall through a succession of long, passionate winters.

Which would not do.

Just as he might have let go of her, she hugged him. “You’ve had a fright. Perhaps I underestimate Lady Humplewit’s intentions where you are concerned.”

Lily couldn’t step back because of the wall. Hessian let her go, and rather than drop his gaze to locations a gentleman didn’t study, he put his hands in his pockets and admired Apollo’s toes.

“Lady Humplewit claimed to be in search of diversion, though I suspect becoming my countess would fit that description for her.”

Lily moved away from the wall. “You are not in search of diversion. I like that about you. I’m prone to the same shortcoming.”

Hessian wanted to wrap his arms around her again. “To regard life as a gift to be cherished rather than an endless, privileged boredom to be endured is a shortcoming?”

Lily twined her arm with his. “I suspect we have more than those two options, and we might be able to cherish the gift while occasionally indulging in a morning on a pirate ship.”

Arousal never did much to improve a man’s intelligence, though it could certainly sharpen his senses. “I beg your pardon?”

“Had you forgotten I’m bringing Bronwyn to play with Daisy tomorrow?”

 Holding Lily, Hessian had forgotten where Cumberland was. “I will look forward to your visit.” He’d count the hours. “Shall we return to the garden?”

“Yes, for I must take my leave of our hostess, and you must attach yourself to some old fellow who needs a sympathetic ear regarding his gout. Colonel Dingle is reliably infirm. The widows will avoid his company, and thus you’ll be safe.”

Hessian promenaded along, when he wanted instead to stick his head out the window and shout, I cannot play this role!

Could not dodge widows, dance with debutantes, and deal with society’s expectations for three more months.

Neither, however, could he continue to neglect the earldom’s succession. Worth had put the Kettering finances to rights, more or less, but as Worth had pointed out, even with both brothers applying themselves to the challenge, nothing guaranteed a son would be born.

With only one brother married, the odds of a legitimate heir were halved.

“I must apologize for imposing on your person,” Hessian said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Had we been found conversing alone, gossip would have ensued.”

His capacity for mendacity was growing apace, for he was not in the least sorry to have held Lily Ferguson in his arms.

“Lady Humplewit needs a credible reason to be wandering the corridors of the house alone if she’s to spread gossip about you accosting me. I gather the ladies’ retiring room is not on the first floor?”

“The gentlemen’s retiring room is upstairs, suggesting the ladies’ would be on the ground floor. Lady Humplewit was plainly lying in wait to ambush me.”

She’d nearly succeeded. Hessian had asked if he could be of assistance, and she’d latched on to his arm like a rowan tree sinking roots into the face of a precipice. He’d shaken loose and trotted off ostensibly in search of a housemaid.

And his freedom, of course.

“Too bad you haven’t a sister here to guard your back,” Lily said. “You do have a brother in Town, though.”

“We were estranged for many years, but yes, I have a brother. Worth is disgustingly happy with his lady wife, besotted with his daughter, and I suspect more fond of his dog than he is of me. He’s directed me to find a countess so he might repair to his country estate posthaste. I’m whining.”

Also being honest, because Worth’s leap into the joys of holy matrimony had come just as Hessian had made the effort to repair a familial breach of many years’ standing. That breach was healed—or at least repaired—in part because Worth no longer clung to his status as an earl’s disenchanted younger brother.

Worth had become entirely the creature of his womenfolk, and made it appear like a damned happy fate too.

“You look so severe when you’re lost in thought,” Lily said as they approached the door to the garden. “And yet, I’ve seen you smile.”

“I will smile when I recall the moments spent with you and Apollo in that alcove. You are a good friend, Lily Ferguson. I again apologize for embroiling you in my troubles.”

“No apologies necessary. Prepare to weigh anchor and repel boarders tomorrow at two of the clock, my lord.”

She sailed off in the direction of the tent at the foot of the garden, a small craft of a female sturdy enough to navigate any storm, even as the wind whipped at her skirts and a fine mist began to fall from the sky.

“Why didn’t I kiss him?” Lily could pose that question because Emmaline was a reliable confidante, and Bronwyn had insisted on riding up on the box. With Rosecroft as her de facto papa, Bronwyn had probably charmed the reins away from John Coachman before the carriage had left the mews.

Emmaline drew the shade down on her side of the bench, even though the sun was on Lily’s side. “Maybe you didn’t kiss the earl because you are a lady?”

“Don’t be obtuse. I am the niece of the Honorable Walter Leggett, a woman of mature years. I am not prone to missishness or dithering.” To be held by Grampion had been so… sweet. And frustrating. “I have a normal complement of curiosity, though, and would prefer not to die without having even once kissed a man whom I esteem.”

And desire, of all the inconvenient realizations. 

“You’re prone to common sense, Lily. You can’t go around kissing stray earls and have any sort of reputation left.”

Grampion wasn’t stray, or dashing, or flirtatious. He was the least sentimentally romantic man Lily had encountered in years, and yet, she regretted not sampling his charms.

“The right earls don’t kiss and gossip,” Lily said as the coach rattled around a corner. “I do believe Winnie’s at the ribbons.”

“Her hair will be a fright before we arrive.”

Though Emmaline would have brought a comb and spare hair ribbons. She was so unassuming, so unconcerned with impressing anybody but her husband, that her preparedness for any situation was easy to overlook. She would not have missed an opportunity to share a stolen kiss with a man she fancied though. The countess was as determined as she was quiet.

“Didn’t you ever long to have somebody muss your hair, Emmie? Long for somebody to tempt you from the path of propriety?”

“Yes. That’s why I married Rosecroft.”

The horses slowed to a walk.

“Yes? He mussed your hair, so you gave him your hand?”

“More or less, but if you’d asked me prior to my marriage, I’d have said the view when one strays is so often disappointing.”

Emmaline had been immured in rural Yorkshire prior to her marriage.

“Then one isn’t straying properly.” 

“You’ve done a deal of straying, Lily, to offer that opinion? Perhaps conducted a survey on the topic?” her ladyship asked as the coach rocked to a halt.

“I have been a pattern card of probity.” As far as anybody knows.

The groom opened the door, and Bronwyn peered inside. Though she wasn’t related to Rosecroft, she bore a resemblance to him: swooping brows, snapping eyes, and an air of brisk command, though she was barely of age for the school room.

“We’re here,” she said. “I drove almost all the way, and John Coachman says I’m ready to put the Four-In-Hand Club to shame.”

“Do you suppose you’d hurt their feelings?” the countess asked as the footman handed her down.

“I might hurt their horses’ feelings, if I won all the races,” Bronwyn replied. “I’d be sure to win by only inches.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Lily said, climbing out and taking the girl’s hand. “Miss Daisy hasn’t a pony, so you must not boast of your skill at the ribbons or in the saddle. You wouldn’t want to provoke her to envy.”

Though a little childish jealousy might be a relief from grief and homesickness.

Bronwyn took Emmaline’s hand and tugged both ladies toward the door. “I will be kind to the less fortunate. Her Grace says all ladies are kind to the less fortunate. Miss Daisy hasn’t got a papa or a mama or a pony, and I don’t know what could be less fortunate than that.”

She hasn’t a cat either, though she does command the devotion of at least one earl.

Grampion met them in his library, apparently his favorite place to receive callers. When introductions had been made all around, and Emmaline had ushered the little girls into the garden, Lily was once again left alone with the earl.

Emmaline was something of a strategist too, thank the heavenly powers.

“You’re smiling,” Lily said, though it was the most subdued version of Grampion’s smile she’d seen. “Does that mean you’re recalling a moment shared with me and the Apollo Belvedere?”

The smile became more complicated. “And if I am?”

Lily had done little else besides recall that moment and regret that she’d not made more of it, despite all common sense to the contrary. She drew Grampion away from the French doors, went up on her toes, and kissed him.

Hessian had slept badly. The incident with Lady Humplewit had tempted him to pack up Daisy, his belongings, and his correspondence, and head north at a brisk gallop. Cumberland was breathtaking in any season, but Cumbrian summers were beyond description.

Two thoughts had stopped him from fleeing London, the first being duty.

Always duty. In this case, the duty to notify Worth of his departure meant enduring lectures such as only a happily married younger brother could deliver on the subjects of connubial bliss and the joys of fatherhood.

The second factor discouraging Hessian from tucking tail and decamping for parts north was now kissing him witless.

Lily Ferguson was a puzzle. She marched about, exuding pragmatism and self-possession when, in fact, she was full of passion and contradictions. In the silence of the library, her kiss shouted her desire for him. She melded her body to his—all the best curves in all the best places—and fisted her fingers in his hair.

As if he’d be able to resist her overtures? The last person with whom Hessian had attempted more than a fleeting encounter had been Daisy’s mama, and that had been friendly, a little awkward, and ultimately bewildering.

Lily Ferguson was not bewildered. She was a woman intent on plundering Hess’s self-restraint. She was making excellent progress toward her goal too.

Lily knew what she was about—almost. Her kisses were bold, her grip on Hessian bolder, and yet, he tasted a hint of rage in her ardor. Her kiss communicated desire, but also the loneliness and self-doubt that went with years of not being desired by anybody. Years of making up the numbers, being invited for the sake of courtesy, and being danced with out of politeness.

Hessian well knew the tribulations endured on the margins of polite society, and Lily deserved so much more. He gathered her close, reveling in the abundance of womanliness in his arms. The particular rustle of fabric when she pressed nearer and her soft sigh when she was unapologetically embraced told him she wanted to be not only desired, but also cherished. 

Hessian longed to give her that and more. He started with a soft swipe of his tongue, and Lily startled, then settled in to investigate, reciprocate, and explore.

He stroked his fingers over her nape, and some of her desperation eased. Her first forays into a deeper kiss were tentative, and in his response, Hessian assured her that she could take her time and linger over her discoveries.

As he lingered over his.

Lily used no padding, no excesses of corsetry. She might be wearing a double chemise or jumps instead of stays, her shape was so genuinely evident beneath his hands. Her shoulders, back and arms were sturdy, and the thought of her legs wrapped around Hessian’s flanks…

He eased out of the kiss, but not out of the embrace.

“Why did you stop?” Lily’s question was adorably disgruntled.

“I don’t pretend to know much about children, but I have younger siblings. Worth’s greatest talent growing up was coming upon me when I was most in need of solitude. The children would not abandon us here for long, and I was growing…”

He shifted his hips, enough that Lily would feel the results of their intimacies—a rousing salute to pleasures too long ignored.

“You’re…? From kissing me?”

Lily was delighted with herself, and Hessian was delighted with her too. “I hope you are similarly carried away, else I shall have to reconsider my technique.”

She patted his lapel and stepped aside, studying the shelves to the right. According to Hessian’s organizational scheme, she’d become fascinated with etymological treatises.

“I wanted to kiss you,” she said, taking down a slender red volume.

Hess wanted to nuzzle the place where her neck and shoulder joined. She’d smell good there—good there too—like flowers and mischief. He stared hard at the molding, except smirking Cupids were not the stuff of regained self-control.

“I account myself singularly well favored to have been the recipient of your overtures.”

Lily opened the book, which was written in French. “Does that mean you liked kissing me?”

In the garden, somebody shrieked, a happy noise that suggested happy relationships were blossoming all over the property. And yet, Lily’s question had been genuine rather than coy.

“I like you, Lily Ferguson. For a first effort, I liked our kiss. You needn’t fret that I’ll take you to task for a pleasure about which we both grew enthusiastic.”

“This book on insects is easier to translate than your lordly pronouncements. What do you mean for a first effort you liked our kiss?”

In bed, Lily would be fearless. She wouldn’t ask for what she wanted, she’d demand it and give as good as she got.

Hessian risked repositioning a curl that lay against her neck. “I mean, I’m out of practice. I suspect you are too.”

She paced off, book in hand. “I’m not in the habit of accosting men to kiss them, or for any other purpose. Yesterday surprised me.”

He wanted to chase after her, to get his hands on her, touch her hair, her clothes, her bare skin, and put her hands on him. In defense of his ability to hold a conversation, he withdrew to the hearth and propped an elbow on the mantel.

“You aren’t fond of surprises. Neither am I.” And yet, as the sharp edge of desire faded, heat lingered. Hessian was awake in a way he hadn’t been before Lily had kissed him. His senses were keener, his imagination focused on matters other than correspondence, social invitations, and Daisy’s concerns.

“Surprises can be good,” Lily said, running her finger down a page of French. “You took me in your arms yesterday, so Lady Humplewit wouldn’t see me. You smell of goodness. I can’t think when you put your arms around me.”

Hessian could think—of beds, pillows, naked limbs, and pleasure. “Sometimes, to abandon reason for a moment is a relief. I’d forgotten that. You never used to be able to stand even the sight of a bug, and now the subject appears to fascinate you.”

He’d forgotten so much that was good and sweet.

Lily snapped the book closed. Her stillness vibrated with more unpredictable, interesting questions—and with anxiety?

“I wasn’t able to abide the sight of a bug?”

“I was raised with only one sister, but I suspect few girls enjoy insects. I’m glad you kissed me.” Hessian hoped that was what she needed to hear, because it was the truth. “I enjoyed kissing you. I’ve grown duller than I realized, which was dull indeed, and content in my dullness. Lily, I thank you for… for your interest. You needn’t worry that I’ll develop expectations or spread tales. For a moment, a butterfly lit on my windowsill, and she must be allowed to flutter off and be about her business, if that’s what she wishes. A gentleman never presumes on a lady’s favor.”

Good God, he was making a hash out of what was meant to be a compliment.

Lily clutched the book with a curious desperation. “A butterfly, my lord?”

My lord was not good, but if Hessian took her in his arms again, then the sofa before the hearth would become the scene of a debauch. If Lily were to lie back against the pillows, then Hessian could brace himself—

He studied the spiral staircase, but even those curves were fraught. “My point, madam, is that a stolen moment needn’t become the basis for any worries on your part. I’m not Lady Humplewit, to take advantage of another’s trust.”

Lily turned her back to him, which was no damned help at all. Some of her hair was in a soft, twisty bun, and some of it curled over her shoulder, a perfect metaphor for Hessian’s emotional state. He was half pleased and half embarrassed to have taken liberties with a lady’s person.

Though she’d taken liberties with his person too, and about that he was delighted. He resisted the temptation to adjust his falls, though the nape of Lily’s neck was stirring him in exactly the wrong direction.

He’d taken two steps closer to her when voices on the terrace stopped him.

Lily tossed him the book. He sat and opened it to a random page, the rising evidence of his wayward thoughts hidden behind a chapter titled “Common Butterflies Native to Southern Britain.”

Lily sank into a chair two yards away and folded her hands in her lap just as Daisy, her guest, and Lady Rosecroft came through the French doors.

“The upper side of the male’s wings are the same blue as hyacinths in bloom,” Hessian said. “The underside is a grayish-brown, and red spots adorn his hind wings.” He stared at the book as if reading, though the topic on the page was a biographical sketch of some French lepidopterist. “The markings on the female are less uniform across individuals, but are no less attractive for being more subtle and unique.”

“Thank you,” Lily said. “Your translations are quite enlightening. Bronwyn, is that a grass stain on your pinafore?”

The children chattered, the countess fussed, and Lily did a creditable imitation of a woman slightly bored with a visit that was more charitable than social. Hessian pretended to turn the pages of the book and occasionally volunteered an answer to a childish inquiry. When it was time for the guests to take their leave, he saw them to the door and thanked them cordially for paying a call.

He even invited Miss Bronwyn to come again at the earliest opportunity, and the countess allowed as how that would suit agreeably on Monday next. He bowed them on their way and managed to not kiss Miss Ferguson farewell or even stare at her mouth.

He did, however, admire her retreating form, until Bronwyn turned around and waved farewell to him.