The second list was by far the easier of the two.
He’s a liar, she wrote.
And a criminal, of unknown sort.
He has enemies, also of unknown sort. Possibly dangerous.
He’s bedded half the ladies of the ton.
Well, that was hyperbole. Setting aside all the young girls and elderly matrons … and taking into account the sheer difficulties of scheduling, and the fact that some never even came to Town … How many garters did it take to span a billiard room, anyway? She crossed through “half” and inked “one-tenth” in its place as an estimate.
It was small consolation.
He’s illegitimate, and of low birth.
She felt horrid even penning that last, but it was an inescapable fact. No one in the ton was under any illusions that the man came from royalty. But they had never truly accepted Julian into their ranks—they’d merely tolerated his shadowy origins, because he was amusing to have around. If the particulars of Julian’s childhood and social ascendancy were ever made common knowledge, he would be cut by most good families. If she were linked with him, Lily would be cut as well. She would like to have said that didn’t matter to her—but it might, a little. Her parents and Leo had been so highly respected. She would hate to besmirch their good name.
Neither could Julian’s history of poverty be overlooked. Not because it lowered him in Lily’s estimation, but because he seemed so unlikely to ever forget it himself.
She looked at the list, and even with all those items, it felt far too short. She could have listed each instance of deceit, named each of his lovers … In the end, she added one more line:
Untold secrets yet to be revealed. Most likely unpleasant.
Now she turned her attention to the other column. Her quill hovered over the page. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to begin. It was more that once she’d begun, she doubted she would be able to stop. She couldn’t possibly write down every occasion on which he’d made her smile or laugh or reconsider her opinions, feel comforted or confident. And then there were other sensations, ones too indecent to be penned.
I love him, she wrote. Because she did. With every day that passed, she grew more certain, more aware of what had been there all along. After a moment, she added, And I believe he may love me.
She stared at the word, love. Four rather unassuming letters, for such a vast, boundless thing. But did love balance the ledger? She wasn’t sure. Poetry would argue that love conquers all. And perhaps it did, at the outset. But in the long-term accounting, Lily knew it didn’t always tally that way.
Julian understood love. He wasn’t some lackwit rake, perpetually groping for acceptance in a woman’s bosom because as a child he’d been denied a mother’s affection. No, he knew very well what love was—what it could mean to a person—and with his looks, intelligence, and charm, he surely would have no difficulty finding women to love him. Nevertheless, he’d chosen not to seek that sort of attachment for himself, preferring to chase revenge instead.
Evidently, love hadn’t been enough for Leo, either.
Once again, she succumbed to the temptation and reached for her chatelaine, searching through the keys for the slender finger of brass that opened the locked drawer. She felt guilty every time she fitted the key in the lock—first for spying on something so private, and second because of the heartbreak contained within.
She withdrew the stack of aging correspondence. By now, she was in a fair way of knowing these letters by heart. There was one missive that haunted her in particular—the last in the bundle. She smoothed it with uncertain fingers, and her eyes went to a familiar paragraph.
I’ve been thinking of your eyes a great deal of late, and wondering if you can understand how extraordinary they are. I doubt any looking glass could faithfully reflect their depth. But then, perhaps you can see their true mirror in your sister. I can’t say how much her eyes resemble yours, and I don’t suppose I shall ever have the chance to judge. Such close inspection would require an introduction, and that will never come to pass.
Would she like me, do you think? I know she and I would find at least one thing in common. But I’m teasing now, and that’s not fair.
I’m sorry for the things I said last time.
How I despise even writing those words, “last time.” But it was the last time, wasn’t it? This emptiness inside me tells me so. Curse that sterling sense of honor, so deeply embedded in your soul. Excise it somehow, will you? Then you can come to me.
But then—if you came to me without it, perhaps I would not love you as I do.
And I do. I do. Do not forget.
Every time. This letter brought tears to her eyes, every blessed time.
Her brother had been in love, with someone unsuitable or unattainable, and he’d hidden that love from everyone. Even from her. Somewhere, the author of these letters was grieving, mourning Leo all alone—because her brother hadn’t seen fit to make the introduction. Would he have made the same decisions, if he had known how few his days would be?
What would he advise Lily to do now?
She laughed to herself. Did it even matter what she decided? She might make all the tables and lists she pleased, but if Julian was determined to leave, he would leave. She could throw herself at him shamelessly, make herself utterly vulnerable to public scorn, only to be rewarded with ruination and solitude.
Here was one more item for the ledger. However, Lily wasn’t certain in which column it belonged.
I am afraid of ending up alone.
She’d been insisting for months now that she didn’t want to marry. But the reality of the alternative—decades of spinsterhood—was beginning to firm in her mind, like drying mortar. She could all too easily see herself years in the future, passing day after day in a gray drawing room with a gray-haired companion and a dozen gray cats. Even adding a rainbow-hued parrot, the picture was unbearably grim.
With a brisk shake of her head, she tore the sheet from her ledger and crumpled it into the grate. Really, she could ruminate all she liked. Nothing could be certain until she saw Julian again.
Tomorrow. She would see him tomorrow. The word had little wings, and it beat a joyous rhythm in her chest.
Or, wait—perhaps that was just Tartuffe, fussing on his perch. The bird did make an excellent door knocker. Much more effective than the mirrors had ever been. Lily turned to find Swift standing in the entryway.
The butler bowed. “If you please, my lady. A delivery.”
From behind him, a footman entered bearing a large, rectangular box. Atop the box was a sealed envelope. Lily dismissed the servants with her thanks and reached for the note. She knew it had to be from Julian. She hadn’t seen him since that morning in the coffeehouse, but he’d been sending little missives every day. That first afternoon, he’d sent a note asking after her health. She’d replied with assurances and asked for the same in kind. He sent them the following morning, along with an inquiry as to the color of her gown for the assembly. She wrote him she had not decided yet but would keep him informed when she did. And on and on, the notes went to and fro, addressing everything but matters of true consequence. He might as well have signed them all, “Your besotted correspondent, Julian.”
Then yesterday, Amelia and the Duke of Morland had come to call, professing a wish to help her practice dancing. Lily had no doubt that they came at Julian’s prodding. She would have been hard pressed to say which had been more awkward—dancing with the taciturn, imposing duke, or dancing with the pregnant Amelia taking the gentleman’s part. But despite the discomfort, Lily had practiced, and industriously so. There was pride at stake.
And now, it would seem Julian had progressed from sending her notes and visitors to sending her gifts. For a man so determined not to woo her, his behavior was curious indeed.
She opened the envelope first and found a neatly ordered list, divided in two columns. In general appearance, it was uncomfortably similar to the paper she’d just tossed into the fire. Her heart skipped a beat. Upon perusing it, however, she learned it was not a list of Arguments For or Against anything—but rather a list of dances in the first column, and on the other side, a list of names. A quick scan revealed them to belong to quite wealthy, mostly titled, and entirely eligible gentlemen. With a few notable exceptions. Near the end, Morland’s name was listed next to a waltz, and Amelia’s older brother Laurent, the Earl of Beauvale, was down for the opening quadrille.
One name was noticeably missing from the list. Julian’s.
Frowning, she opened and read aloud the note he had enclosed. Silly, perhaps, reading aloud for no one’s ears—not even her own. But she liked the feel of his words on her tongue.
“‘Dear Lily, as promised, I have learned the list of dances for Lord and Lady Ainsley’s assembly. I have also taken the liberty of engaging your partners in advance.’” She muttered to herself, “Yes, a liberty indeed. How very generous of you, Julian.” She returned to the letter. “‘As for the contents of the package, I trust you will know for whom they are intended. For fear of offending propriety, I dare not send the gift direct.’”
Now this was a true mystery. What could he mean? Lily untied the twine binding the package and removed the top of the box. In it, she found a cloud of white tissue and a small note card that read,
With apologies. No ermine was in stock.
She lifted from the box a heavy winter cloak. The black wool was of the finest quality, soft as kittens to the touch. The entire garment was lined in velvet, and the collar was edged with sable. It was a cloak fit for—not a queen, perhaps, but a well-heeled member of her court—and its proportions were far and away too large for Lily’s frame.
Smiling to herself, she flung the cloak over her arms and went in search of her housekeeper. “Holling,” she sang out down the corridor. “I believe you have an admirer.”
Chapter Fourteen
Julian prepared for the ball in the same way a pugilist prepared for a prizefight. He rested well, ate well, marshaled his powers of concentration. He readied his jabs and his evasive maneuvers. Tonight was the night he learned the truth—the truth of his enemy, the truth of Leo’s death. Anticipation resonated in his bones. By God, he was ready to deal some blows.
But first, there would be dancing. Merriment before the fall. By the time he arrived at Lord and Lady Ainsley’s assembly (late, of course; it would not do to be punctual), he’d amassed a long mental list of activities designed to help him avoid standing about, gawping at Lily.
The problem was, he had a difficult time finding any gamblers eager for a brisk game of dice, or gentlemen desiring a good, lengthy chat on the aesthetic merits of Covent Garden’s newest Parisian actress. Because, it seemed, every other man at the assembly was perfectly happy to stand about, gawping at Lily.
Within five minutes of entering the assembly rooms, Julian admitted defeat and joined them.
She looked astoundingly well tonight. To Julian, she looked well every night, but on this particular occasion, she’d attained a new pinnacle of elegance. Her gown of shimmering bronze moiré wasn’t the most au courant, nor the most expensive in the room. The simple upsweep of her dark, thick locks wasn’t a new or innovative coiffure. And she did have a few true contenders for the honor of loveliest lady in attendance. But those ladies could go stew in their own beauty. All eyes were on Lily, and her name was on every tongue. In the gentlemen, she inspired open admiration. In the ladies, she inspired rumor and envy. As he passed one knot of besotted young bucks, Julian felt sure he heard her inspiring some shockingly bad poetry.
Julian, on the other hand, could not credit her with any particular inspiration. In fact, he blamed Lily for his difficulty with respiration.
She took his breath away. Oh, she eventually let him have it back, because she was hardly a thief. But she made him work for it, Lily did. To have her within his line of view was to feel the simple act of drawing air had suddenly become a privilege, rather than an instinctive act.
