Eight

George eased back in his carriage’s squabs and watched the wet blur of buildings and pedestrians passing outside his window. The beautiful afternoon had ended in abysmal gray rain. He had remained out as long as possible, keeping himself away from her because he knew any conversation between them would flame up like a match to dry straw. He had forced himself to concentrate on the business at hand, because in any idle moment, Lilith came to his thoughts. Yet all day, he turned at the sound of hurried footsteps, thinking his footman had come rushing with news of some Lilith-related disaster which required his immediate attention.

But he had received no word. He hoped a minor miracle had occurred and that the warnings he had issued to Lilith that morning managed to keep her in check for the entire day. But he wasn’t an optimistic man. He had a niggling fear that Lilith was waiting, biding her time for some enormous revenge that probably involved destroying the Stamp Duty Extension Bill, not to mention his family’s honor.

He circled his hat in his hands, feeling both dread and anticipation as the carriage rambled into Grosvenor Square. Parliament had run until seven. He had just enough time to check Lilith’s progress and then he could safely remove himself to another insipid musical evening.

Firm, he thought as the carriage halted. I will be firm, calm, and fair. He would not let Lilith’s outrageous behavior provoke him and suck him into her little games.

As he stepped over the threshold into his home, his gut tightened, his jaw clenched, steeling for an epic battle of wills. But something was different about his home. Everything appeared in shipshape, gleaming precision, but the atmosphere felt light and relaxed.

As the footman removed his coat, hat, and gloves, female laughter rang out from the parlor. Penelope’s laughter. A sound he hadn’t heard in years. He edged quietly toward the parlor like some stealthy thief, afraid his presence would shatter the moment.

The door was open and Lilith, dressed in her blue floral robe—the one he remembered from that notorious night of the pillow fight—reclined on the sofa, holding a small square of paper before her. On the carpet, a bottle of wine and a glass rested atop the books he had asked her to study. Penelope sat on the opposite sofa, holding her wine, her other hand pressed to her giggling lips. The light from the lamps and fire bathed the ladies in hues of gold.

Lilith glanced up, catching him staring. Her expression faltered. He stiffened, waiting for the gentle glow in her eyes to turn to a dangerous glitter. Yet a small, welcoming smile curved her lips. “Good evening, Lord Marylewick. Did you enjoy a fruitful day in Parliament? How is that bill coming along?”

He stepped forward, feeling the pull of her magnetism, then stopped. Why was she being nice? What was her game?

“Have you completed your tasks?” he asked in a firm tone, determined not to give her an inch.

“I have completed your entire list for today.” She drew the page from the side table and held it up. “I’ve checked off each item: modiste, millinery, shoes—ah, but we added bookshop, print shop, and confectionery—I appended those at the bottom. Now Lady Fenmore is tutoring me in etiquette. We’ve even made a game of it. Care to play?” She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa.

Who was this woman who outwardly resembled Lilith? “I don’t think—”

“Do play, Brother,” Penelope implored. “It’s great fun.”

With his sister, who had been so listless for months, who hadn’t responded to any of his attempts to cheer her or let him inside her thoughts, now smiling, he couldn’t refuse.

“Maybe for a few minutes.” He took the seat Lilith offered. “I must leave shortly.”

“You must select a question.” Lilith picked up a stack of tiny squares of paper. She leaned in, close enough for him to smell her musk perfume. His pulse quickened.

“But don’t look at the back, for it has the answer,” Penelope cautioned.

“That’s right.” Lilith wagged her finger. “No cheating.”

He cautiously picked a piece of paper so as to avoid any accusations of duplicity. A strange sensation, like painless, hot electricity radiated out from where their fingers met.

“You read it,” he said, handing it to Lilith. He sat back in the cushion and tapped his fingers on the armrest.

“This is a very serious etiquette question indeed.” Lilith’s face grew grave.

A tiny giggle burst from Penelope, but she quickly composed herself again.

“You are at a dinner party,” Lilith began in a somber voice. “And you can’t help but notice that the gentleman or, in your case, the lady across from you is exceedingly handsome. How do you signal to her that you desire to rendezvous on the dance floor later?” Both women dissolved into giggles.

“What?” he cried. “This wasn’t in the books I gave you!”

“We found those books rather antiquated,” Lilith explained. “So we purchased The Lonely Suitor’s Guide to the Romantic Arts, or How To Get Married Within a Year—A Comprehensive Guide to All Areas of Flirtation Including Handkerchiefs, Parasols, Rings, Flowers, Gloves, Linens, and Utensils. George, I didn’t realize people flirted with their utensils. How could I have missed it all these years? I wonder if a man has been secretly signaling that he loves me and all the while I thought he was bathing his parsnip in cream. Have you ever flirted with your spoon or linen?”

He was about to say something censorious about mocking his instructions when his sister helpfully supplied, “Oh, George doesn’t flirt with his spoon or anything.”

He was torn. Which did he want more? For Lilith to obey his dictates or not to think he was a flat. All the while, Lilith waited.

“I see you don’t know the answer,” she said, as if she expected as much. “Now you must—”

“When I want to rendezvous with a ravishing lady on the dance floor,” he said, “I draw my linen slowly through my hand as if I were caressing her as we dance.”

Lilith’s mouth dropped. She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe he was capable of anything romantic. He winked at her to further discombobulate her.

“Lord Marylewick, you’re right!” She gave his arm a gentle swat. “Have you read The Lonely Suitor’s Guide?”

“I have not.” He edged even closer. The phrase moth to a flame echoed faintly in his head. “These things come naturally to me. For instance, when I want to rendezvous in a quiet garden or elsewhere, I place my spoon atop my knife. Maybe give them a little rub together.” He couldn’t deny that how he used his fingers to illustrate might be deemed impertinent, but he enjoyed seeing how her blush and fluster erased the usual wry gleam in her eyes.

“George!” Penelope cried. “You’re horrid. Lilith isn’t married. You shouldn’t say such things.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Dahlgren,” he said, but felt no contriteness. After all, she had asked him to play. Maybe it wasn’t so amusing when she couldn’t control the game. “What is my prize for my table-flirting prowess?”

Lilith was still blushing as she reached over to open the box on the table. “You get a toffee.” She held the little confection in her palm. “Penelope and I must drink from our wine, because you answered the question correctly.”

“Wait a minute!” Realization dawned on him. “You’ve entangled my sister in some drinking game worthy of a gin palace?”

This was too much. He should have known Lilith would have no compunction about manipulating Penelope, turning her into a pawn in their greater battle. He should never have left them alone. Good God, was he going to have to cancel every engagement he had for the next few days and watch Lilith like a nursemaid?

“You were to study proper etiquette,” he barked. “Not enlist my unsuspecting sister in making a mockery of my orders. I’m trying to help you.”

Penelope’s happy expression fell. “But it was…was my idea. I didn’t know…I thought…I’m sorry.” She bit her lip. “It seemed like a fun idea at the time.”

George felt like the lowest cur. Penelope was finally laughing for the first time in years, and he had to ruin it by harsh remarks intended for Lilith.

“I’m very sorry,” his sister pleaded. “Please forgiv—”

“Well, I’m not sorry.” Lilith rose from the sofa. “It’s a brilliant game. In fact, I challenge Lord Marylewick to play.”

A word he never thought to associate with Lilith came to his mind: gratitude. She always fought even if the battles were foolish and unwinnable. He remembered her childhood tantrums when his father and uncle called her an unmanageable termagant. But this time she fought to vindicate his sister.

“I’m raising the stakes,” Lilith continued. “We will not use The Lonely Suitor’s Guide because Lord Marylewick disapproves of it and finds it a dead bore, being such an accomplished flirt. No, the questions shall come from the books he so kindly ordered me to study. Lord Marylewick will choose the questions and I will answer. Did you not say you would check my progress?”

George glanced at Penelope. Her face was pale, her eyes moist and glassy. “I did,” he agreed.

“For every question I get right, Lord Marylewick must drink. However, we will not use the watered-down elderberry wine Penelope wisely suggested for our previous game. For as she aptly pointed out, it’s rather unbecoming for ladies to become tipsy or, heaven forbid, bosky. No, no. For this game, we will have a more manly drink suitable for our manly marquess.” She walked to the side table and picked up the crystal decanter. “Brandy. Hard, teeth-clenching, burn-your-mouth brandy.” She arched a brow, daring him.

“You just stated that it’s unbecoming to be foxed,” he said. “You don’t even follow your own wise counsel.”

“But you see, Lord Marylewick,” Lilith said, setting the bottle and tumbler on the table beside him, “I don’t intend to drink. I shall sit here all proper and virtuous. See if I don’t. Ask me a question.”

He didn’t approve, but held his tongue. Very well, then. No doubt a few sips of brandy in and she would be pleading for mercy. He poured a generous amount of brandy into the tumbler, enough to make Lilith regret her decision, and then opened the top book on the stack, What Every Young Lady of Quality Should Know Upon Entering into Society and Marriage: A Guide to Gentle Breeding, and began to scan the lines. The first chapters were prudish ranting on duty and modesty. Around page fifteen he almost picked up the tumbler of brandy for relief when the author finally decided to write something of concrete value. “Ha! What is the standard hour for luncheon?”

“The standard hour for luncheon. Ah, I must think.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. “Ooh, what is it? What is it? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“Of course it is. You don’t know, do you?”

“Wait, I remember now.” She snapped her fingers and a cool smirk lifted her lip. “Two o’clock in the summer, half past one in the winter, and always one o’clock in the country. Am I correct?” She held up the glass. Her dancing dark eyes were hypnotic over the rim.

“Yes,” he admitted. In fact, Lilith was more thorough than the book, but he wouldn’t tell her so. He couldn’t cede any territory to his brandy-pouring enemy.

“So drink,” she said. “No, no, not a tiny sip. The entire glass. Toss it back the way they do in the gin palaces where the etiquette drinking game is all the rage.”

He had poured the glass, he had asked the question, there was nothing to do but take his medicine. The rush of liquid burned going down his throat, but for some reason, he enjoyed the pain. It was primal and heady. His blood rushed as he gnashed his teeth. Lilith retrieved his empty glass from his fingers. He tried to ignore the electric tingle where their skin touched.

“Another question, please.” She refilled the glass.

He loosened his tie. “What time of year do country balls begin?” She wouldn’t know this one. She’d lived in boarding schools or London for her entire life.

“When hunting begins in November, and they continue until Lent. Members of the aristocracy—that’s you, Lord Marylewick, and your blue-blooded partner—safely stay at the top of the ballroom, whereas I, a member of the great unwashed, loiter about the bottom. And no invitations are necessary, but in certain circumstances you may require a voucher.” Lilith tapped the glass with her finger. “I do believe you must drink again, Lord Marylewick.”

What had he done? He steeled himself and gulped fast. No more burning in his throat, but his head was feeling lighter when he asked the next question. “What does a young lady—for instance, say you, if you behaved properly—do after every dance?”

She refilled the glass and handed it to him. “If, for some mad reason, I choose to behave properly, I would return to my chaperone.” She stifled a feigned yawn. “Really, George, this is hardly challenging. For God’s sake, don’t bore me.”

Penelope chuckled, color returning to her face.

Why did he think this would teach her a lesson? And he didn’t need to learn the lesson of too much brandy yet again. He had to switch to more advanced etiquette studies before he was foxed out of his wits. He set What Every Young Lady of Quality Should Know aside and picked up Letters to a Debutante and New Wife on the Subject of Correct Social Usage and Good Form. But it was useless. Lilith made mockery of that and dissected The Deportment of Proper Young Ladies in Society and Abroad. Could he have conducted his exams at Oxford with such precision and thoroughness?

Seven questions later, Lilith held the decanter, threatening to pour more of that devil’s brew. The words in the books were swimming about the page and Lilith’s smile and hypnotic eyes were doing things they shouldn’t be doing to his male parts.

“Shall I pour or do you surrender?” She let a tiny drop of brandy venom fall and pool on the bottom of the glass. His gut turned.

“No more, no more,” he begged.

“Then say, ‘Miss Dahlgren, you are the all-knowing goddess of etiquette. I humbly beseech your forgiveness that I should have doubted your social brilliance.’”

He would never utter such nonsense nor could he come up with a clever retort. A wave of brandy-induced lightness crested over his brain. “Ugh. I think I need some coffee and a sandwich.”

“Good heavens, are you foxed?” Lilith scooted down to the end of the sofa and flicked her fingers in a shooing motion. “Stay away from me, you black rake. I am a well-behaved lady. Lord Marylewick would be furious if he knew I associated with low drunks. Penelope, call the butler and have this louse tossed into the street.”

“I have met the devil and he is a woman,” he moaned. “Penelope, my dearest, beloved sister, take compassion upon me and please ring the bell for a pot of coffee and a sandwich. I have a musical murder to attend this evening.”

“Musical murder?” Lilith asked. “Are you going to bludgeon someone to death with a French horn?”

“A musical party,” Penelope explained as she crossed the room to the bellpull. “George despises musical parties and calls them musical murders of Bach, Haydn, and such.”

“I don’t despise musical parties,” he protested. “In fact, there is nothing I enjoy more than a good musical party.” He pressed his hand to his temples, trying to stop the sensation of a rolling sea in his head. “And therein lies the problem.”

“Then why not stay home with us?” Lilith said, surprising him. She nestled into the cushion, her blue floral robe flowing about her. With the fire behind her, her hair gleamed like reddish copper and dots of light shone in her cocoa eyes. “We shall have our own musical evening. Penelope, you play and sing so beautifully. What do you say?”

Penelope answered something, but George didn’t hear because he continued to study Lilith. Something was missing from the lovely picture she made. The composition wasn’t correct. There needed to be an object on the side table, maybe a lamp with copper fixtures, casting an orange glow to balance the left side of the would-be painting.

“George? George?” Lilith was saying, her voice seeming to be miles away. “Stop staring at me in that faraway manner and answer.”

He bolted up in his seat, embarrassed to be caught gawking.

“We are asking you a question,” Lilith continued. “Will you stay home and join us for our own domestic musical murder? Penelope says you’ve been looking tired lately and should rest. And I say you won’t do Parliament any good if you show up bosky. No one likes to be romanced by a drunk, politically or otherwise. It’s against all proper etiquette. And as you know, I am the all-knowing goddess of the subject.”

“Then why don’t you apply it?” he barked out of his own frustration and then instantly regretted it when Lilith’s mouth fell open.

“George!” Penelope cried. The drowsy, lulling magic of the moment was seeping away again.

Damn Lilith serving him brandy and being so lovely, laughing, and taunting. And damn him for getting lost in her beauty again.

He rushed to salvage the old feeling. “Please forgive me, Miss Dahlgren. I am too bosky if I’m being rude to my sister and cousin. It wouldn’t do to appear in public.” What was he saying? He had made promises to converse with a certain MP tonight. He had confirmed his presence with hostesses. He had a responsibility to appear. He wouldn’t say anything at the moment, but in half an hour or so, he would quietly steal away after sobering up.

Lilith linked her arm through his and smiled. Beneath the thin silk of her robe, he could feel the soft mound of her breast. Was she not wearing a corset again? He decided not to make a point of it but instead enjoy the pleasing sensation of her body brushing against his as they walked arm-in-arm to the music room.