Twelve

George was informed that the guests had begun to arrive an hour later. He straightened his waistcoat, smoothed his coat sleeves, and headed down to the great hall, feeling very much like a condemned inmate going to the scaffold.

He found his mother waiting in the hall like some version of a queen receiving her court. Penelope appeared distraught as she lurked in their mother’s shadow. Across the hall, Beatrice traced her fingers along the leaves of a planted palm.

“Where is Miss Dahlgren?” George asked, turning about.

“She’s probably off somewhere distracted by the colorful circus in her mind,” his mother said. “Now let us be content. We are so content.” She sang the last word. “Penelope, dearest, remove that sour frown or you’ll get unsightly wrinkles. Beatrice, my darling girl, what are you doing over there by that plant? Why, no one can see you behind the foliage.”

“This tropical plant appears to be blighted by a fungus or, perhaps, tiny insects.” Beatrice turned a leaf. “Perhaps this is a new ailment from its nonnative environment? I wonder how I might get a proper specimen to study?”

“My darling, darling, darling,” Lady Marylewick chimed. “Remember, delicate female conversation. The guests are arriving and I don’t want to hear any more unbecoming, unladylike talk.”

The bright, lovely fascination on Beatrice’s features drained away. “I’m so sorry! I will be better. I will.”

Before George could intercede, the front door opened. Mr. Pomfret strolled in a few feet ahead of his wife and daughter. George pretended not to notice Mrs. Pomfret discreetly fussing over her daughter’s gown.

“Ah, Lord Marylewick, a fine day to begin your house party,” Mr. Pomfret said congenially. He wore a plaid coat and trousers. His hair and whiskers were ruffled from the journey, yet this didn’t bother the plain-spoken, unaffected gentleman.

His wife lacked all her husband’s easiness. Her clothes were a little more adorned than was tasteful, and her ornate hair and hint of cosmetics gave the impression of someone who tried too hard. “Tyburn Hall is more magnificent than ever I imagined, Your Grace,” she said, confusing his title. She performed an affected curtsy. “Is there a more superior home in England, my dear Cecelia?” She gave her daughter a tiny tug, pulling her forward.

“Y-yes, er, I mean no.” Miss Pomfret performed a stiff curtsy, her hands trembling with nervousness. She broke out in a ferocious blush when he bowed in return and mentioned how delighted he was that she could attend.

Lady Marylewick further undid the poor young lady by gracing her with a compliment. “Such charming conversation,” she said to the girl who had only stammered a few words.

Mrs. Pomfret seized upon the praise for her daughter. “Thank you, thank you, Your Grace. Miss Cecelia is exceedingly charming in conversation. Everyone says that they can’t wait to converse with her.” Her eyes flickered to George. “No doubt she will not be charming us with her conversation much longer. A gentleman will pluck her away now that she is out of the schoolroom.”

“A lucky gentleman, indeed,” George managed. All he could think was she wasn’t near the woman Lilith was. Why was he comparing her to Lilith?

“Come, my dears,” said Mr. Pomfret, realizing his wife teetered dangerously close to impropriety.

After they passed out of earshot, George’s mother leaned in. “What a delightful mother. Not a hint of vulgarity or ambition.”

“Mama,” he growled under this breath.

Where was Lilith? Should he be relieved that she had chosen not to appear? Was he looking a gift horse in the mouth?

More guests began streaming in. Some were bachelors, whose eyes roamed around the hall, no doubt searching for the elusive Lilith Dahlgren they had heard so much about. Others were families of MPs or important political figures toting a decked-out, nervous daughter, granddaughter, or young female relative of marriageable age. Upon greeting each young lady, his mother would utter vicious little compliments such as “what a darling complexion” about the poor pimple-faced girl or “a delicate figure” about the young lady filling out her dress.

George was ready to walk out the door, shout To hell with extending the Stamp Duty Extension Bill, unhitch a horse, and ride away.

And where the bloody hell was Lilith?

The elderly Lord Harrowsby shuffled in, hunched over his cane. A serious young man attended him. Deaf in one ear, Lord Harrowsby spoke to everyone as if they were standing yards away. “Well, my boy, I almost lost my poor life on your roads. They get worse every year. Now I feel my gout coming on again.” He jerked his head toward the man behind him. “I bring my physician along since that bout of painful indigestion after the Lord Chancellor’s dinner party. Have a weak liver, you see. Vinegary wine brings it on every time. You never know what people are going to serve you.”

“How’s that weak liver, my lord?” an amused male voice said. “Still has you in the dumps?” In swaggered Lord Charles, with his father behind him.

Charles’s eyes scanned the grand hall before lighting back on George and his mother. “Lady Marylewick, you are still the most beautiful lady in London after all these years. Pardon me, I forget we are in the country now. And how could I after bouncing and bumping about those potted roads? I positively feel my gout coming on.”

“That’s what I was telling him,” cried Lord Harrowsby, not perceiving the joke was on him.

“Were you, now?” Lord Charles replied in all seriousness, except for his eyes, which were aglitter as when he was at Eton, enjoying the casual torment of another boy.

George made a point to keep his fists from clenching. “I shall send my man to see about the roads,” he replied civilly.

“Do that, my good man.” Charles edged closer to George as his father greeted Lady Marylewick and Penelope. “Where is she? Where have you hidden her? Are we playing hide and seek?”

“I assure you that Miss Dahlgren will come down shortly.”

“How she taunts me,” he mock-cried to the heavens. “All day I dream of—” He faltered. The cynical, bemused expression evaporated from his face. A low hush blew through the room, all eyes turning up to gaze at an elegant young lady dressed in pale gold standing on the stairs. A hot, dizzying wave rushed through George’s head. In his mind, he saw her as a picture, all dazzling gold, red, and light.

* * *

Lilith cursed herself for being late. Even after she dressed, she had paced the room. Her mission had been simple: get George to see his art and then go on about her life. See how wonderful you were before you turned into a flaming arse? she would say to him. See how your life could have been? Very well, then. There is nothing more for me to do. Ta-ta. Using her feminine wiles, she had gotten him to promise. That had been child’s play.

The problem was hers. When she had looked at him this morning, she didn’t see the George she expected. She saw George and lovely blue robin eggs. And when he kissed her breasts and his body reacted to hers, he was George and lovely light dancing on the water. Now as he glanced up at her on the stairs, she had to grab the banister else she might go tumbling down, head over heels. She had always known George was handsome in an empirical, cold, assessing way. George is handsome, and isn’t that a lovely rug. What a fine view from this window, and, by the by, George is handsome. His beauty assaulted all her senses.

She kept her head high and feigned the strength and confidence she didn’t feel, as she had learned to do during those first excruciating days at a new school. She forced herself not to look at George but at Lord Charles, who gazed at her with a predatory gleam. She stifled a groan behind a gracious smile and swept forward to greet the duke.

“How wonderful to see you again, Your Grace.” She curtsied. “And Lord Charles.” Lilith tried to keep from peeking at George, else he would flood her senses once more. Nonetheless, her skin tingled at his proximity as if he was touching her all over.

Lady Marylewick gave her little laugh. “I didn’t realize you were already acquainted with His Grace.” The edges of her smile hardened.

“I attended school with his lordship’s daughter,” Lilith explained, in the gracious tones befitting a hostess. “Did you not bring her?” she asked the duke. “How I would have loved to have shared a little tête-à-tête.”

“She was loath to leave my grandson,” replied the duke. “He is almost half a year now, but she refuses to part from him.”

“Of course she would be,” she said. “A devoted mother. And Lord Charles, you look to be in fine spirits. I hope the journey from London wasn’t too taxing.”

“Like traveling on a cloud.” Charles gave George a sideways glance, as though sharing a private joke.

A few more pleasantries managed to slip past before Lady Marylewick retook control of the conversation, at which time the duke noticed an acquaintance entering the parlor and excused himself.

Charles remained, taking Lilith by the arm. “I must talk to you,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Of the most serious nature.”

She wanted to resist, but she had to be careful. George needed the man’s vote. She allowed him to escort her to a corner of the hall, partially concealed by a black and gold Greek vase hoisted on a pedestal.

“Lord Charles, whatever is troubling you?”

“That you are magnificent. A fine performance. Brava, my dear.”

“Performance?” She had been lured away so that Charles could flirt! Now all she could do was patiently endure it until she could manufacture what looked to be a natural break in the conversation. She missed her old rag-mannered world where she could say Go to Hades, Lord Charles. Now she felt she was balancing on a spider’s thread.

“Yes, England’s most gracious hostess, and most beautiful, if I may boldly add.”

“Lady Marylewick is the hostess. I’m merely a family member.”

“Are you really a Maryle?” He leaned closer. “I prefer the Dahlgren. Exciting and enticing.”

She edged back, but smiled so she wouldn’t give offense. “Be careful, Lord Charles. You might be straying into territory others would call impertinent.”

“I can’t afford not to be. I must act boldly and swiftly. Look around, Miss Dahlgren, all eyes are on you, except for Lord Marylewick, the old boy, who prefers those proper, simpering, witless types. Ah, see now how this one curtsies before him, a shy, blushing, vacant young thing.”

Lilith glanced over her shoulder. Another family had entered the hall, this one escorting a lovely daughter in a trim blue gown, her brunette hair falling in glossy spiral curls. She blushed when George greeted her. Lilith felt a nasty pang of jealousy as she watched the girl, but she kept her features cool. She knew Lord Charles, who only played the charming fool, watched for any twitch in her visage, anything he could use to dig into her.

“That particular female specimen is Lady Cornelia,” he said. “This season’s forerunner in the marital race for Lord Marylewick.”

It seemed so obvious now, yet why did the knowledge suddenly strike her with such brutal force: of course every young lady of quality would be angling for George. The blinding light of the title marquess outshone the numerous deficiencies of his unyielding personality.

Why did this bother her? Who George courted shouldn’t be a concern of hers, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to stomp across the room and shout Just so we are clear on the facts of the matter, he kissed me on my breast.

“Now I have made you quite society’s darling to get you invited to this little party and keep me entertained,” explained Charles. “By Jove, I could not fathom a week of George’s dull political romancing.”

“This was all your little game? Why?”

“Do you not know?” He flashed an intimate smile as he set his elbow against the wall and rested his temple in his hand. “Can you not venture a guess?”

She remembered how George said that Charles had tormented him at school. She could see maliciousness lurking about the edges of his blond, wholesome face. The word “dangerous” drifted through her mind. “Someone to share your deep profound love of poetry?”

He tossed back his head. “Precisely.” His face sharpened. “Ah, and here is Lord Fenmore now. I think a charming little family drama is in the brewing. Better than anything Drury Lane can offer. Shall we watch?”

She spun around. Penelope’s husband ambled into the hall, carefree, roguish, as if the world were a big jolly toy for his amusement. Once he had been the type of young man to set girls’ hearts aflutter. No doubt in his mind he still saw himself as that wild, carefree buck, but his exterior didn’t match anymore. His fast living was beginning to show; his once chiseled, handsome features were bloated and lined.

Lady Marylewick greeted him by saying, “Lord Fenmore, has Penelope been so naughty as to desert you?”

“Lady Fenmore has been a naughty lady indeed.” He chuckled, amused at his pathetic joke.

Penelope glanced at Lilith. She could see the distress beneath her cousin’s composure.

Lilith didn’t bother to make her excuses to Charles but swooped in. As she approached, Fenmore’s gaze raked over her body in a way that made her feel squeamish. Poor Penelope.

“Greetings, Cousin Lilith,” he said. “I can’t venture too far in London these last few days without hearing your name.”

Lilith made a point of not returning his smile. “How charming to see you again. I do not believe we’ve spoken since the occasion of your wedding.” She rested her hand on Penelope’s arm. “Dearest Lady Fenmore, I suddenly feel absolutely ill. Pray, let us sit in the parlor.”

Lilith pulled Penelope away.

“I hate him,” Penelope whispered. “And Mama is cruel. Why must she be so? I can’t bear this house party, I can’t. Don’t tell George I said that.”

“Don’t think about Fenmore or your mother. If you get upset, find me. We’ll get through this house party in Hades together.”

Penelope’s lips trembled, her eyes turned wet. Lilith panicked. She leapt at the first outrageous thing she could think of to shock Penelope from her anxious thoughts before they overtook her.

“Let us imagine that every person at this party is naked,” Lilith suggested. “Now, take these young men congregating about the mantel. Who do you think is the most handsome without his clothes? I daresay the one with the blue plaid waistcoat, but of course he’s not wearing it in my overactive imagination.” Lilith was lying. The only naked man filling her mind’s eye was George, all rippled with muscles and his sex exposed like Michelangelo’s David. The effect her vivid musing had on her body was rather disconcerting.

Penelope giggled. “Lilith, you’re terrible.”

“But in the most delightful way. Oh, look, Beatrice is approaching. Now we must behave ourselves.”

“Beatrice, dear, did you ever learn what fungus or insect blighted the palm?” Penelope inquired. Lilith had no idea what she meant.

“Lady Marylewick thinks it unladylike,” replied Beatrice, her eyes darting nervously between Lilith and Penelope.

“Pooh!” cried Penelope. “It’s very ladylike. Don’t you dare let Mama tell you how to think or live!”

Lilith’s jaw dropped, shocked to hear such open rebellion from Penelope. Then she broke into chuckles. Maybe there was hope yet. More people gathered about, wanting to share in their infectious laughter. Soon Lilith basked in the energy of the crowd, learning about the guests and hearing their stories. Every so often, she would glance about to find George studying her with his deep gray eyes. She would feel a little light-headed and quickly turn away for fear he possessed an amazing power to know her privates were wet and throbbing for him, only to find Charles or Fenmore also staring at her. That stopped that bothersome bodily throbbing quite nicely.

* * *

After tea, the guests began returning to their rooms to rest and then dress for the evening.

Lilith’s mind was whirling and she needed some time to write and straighten out her tangle of emotions concerning George. She was turning a corner in the maze of corridors connecting the various wings of Tyburn when a powerful hand reached out of the shadows, grabbed her elbow, and snatched her into a room. Her first thought was Lord Charles or Fenmore. Those horses’ backsides! She kicked her assailant hard in the shin. But as her foot connected with bone, the clove and pine scent of George filled her nose. Oh no!

“Good God, Lilith!” He groaned. “Why did you do that?”

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I thought…I thought you were someone else.”

“I feel sorry for that someone else if this how you treat them. Have you practiced that?”

“Yes, and other more painful kicks to strategic male regions.” She found that George had abducted her to a small, paneled study. Glass cases adorned the walls but the shelves were empty except for a few knickknacks. A reading chair was pushed near the fireplace.

“I merely wanted to talk to you.” He rubbed his shin. “I hope that doesn’t warrant a kick in my strategic male regions.”

“Not for you, George. Perhaps other men. Come.” She supported George to the chair. Shadows had formed under his eyes and he appeared pale in the dim light. She wanted to reach up and ruffle his hair until it fell over his forehead. Then he would fit into any Paris salon, just another angst-ridden romantic artist. She knelt and began to massage his wounded calf through his trousers. The feel of his muscles did interesting things to her feminine regions.

“You look tired,” she said.

“That dam—hanged bill. And Mama. And Penelope. And please stop soothing my leg. It isn’t…it isn’t proper.”

They had gone well past the line of proper on several occasions, so why stop now? She continued to rub. “Does it make you feel better?”

“That’s immaterial. Many improper things make me feel better.” When she didn’t stop, he seized her hand and locked her wayward fingers between his. “I wanted to tell you that you were brilliant today. Thank you for helping Penelope. She… She won’t confide in me. You have become such close friends these last few days.”

Lilith studied their interlocked hands. “She’s miserable. Her husband strays.”

He released a long stream of breath. “I suspected as much.”

“Why did you let her marry him? Was it the title, the old family, or the appalling lack of morals and human kindness?”

“She was in love with him. Father had just died and Mother was pushing the match.” He released her hand. “I— I made a mistake.” His words were labored, as if he had trouble admitting fallibility.

She wished she could tell him in that breezy, congenial manner not to worry, that we all make mistakes; the broken window could be replaced, an apology could undo the unintended insult. But this was no simple mistake.

“Anyway, I wanted to thank you,” he continued. “You were wonderful today. Why can’t you be like this always?”

She looked at him askew. “Like what?”

“Kind, welcoming, joyful, thoughtful, and—”

“My goodness, are you complimenting me?”

“Yes, and I would have continued had you not interrupted me.”

She opened her palms. “George, I am like this always. Well, I admit I tolerated some behavior today that I wouldn’t on another occasion. It’s just around you…I’m all defensiveness, anger, and hurt.”

He shifted forward in his chair. “Then what can I do, what can I say? How do I… How do I take the hurt or anger away to make this part of you stay?”

She didn’t know why, but tears welled. Why was she crying? She had to turn her head and blink them away before he noticed.

“I-I must go.” She tried to cover her lapse with a weak joke. “It would be unseemly if we were caught together. That roguish Lilith Dahlgren has tarnished many a man’s sterling reputation.” She hurried to the door before more embarrassing tears formed.

“Lilith,” he called quietly. His voice sounded like a summer shower on a window.

She turned.

“I won’t make a mistake with your husband,” he said. “I will find you loyalty and kindness. And a home. Where…where you won’t feel hurt or anger.”

Oh, hang the tears forming in her eyes again. “Don’t forget your promise to meet me in the attics,” she whispered and fled.