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“Where did you learn to play cards so well, Miss Masters?”

Lily had arrived in Lord Lindsey’s rooms to find him wrapped in a handsome dressing gown, sitting up at the table. Cards had been dealt, little sandwiches were stacked on a plate next to a pot of tea… and all the softly glowing candles had been snuffed. The curtains were pulled open a civilized degree, letting in a pleasant beam of light, rather than the torrent Lily had unleashed yesterday. She smiled at the compromise.

“Are you sure it is my skillful play, Lord Lindsey, or are you allowing me to win…
again
?” She was two pounds closer to freedom.

Lord Lindsey laughed. “Minx! Anyhow, I promise you, today I am
trying
to win, but you are besting me. And I am no amateur at cards, I will have you know. With whom do you play at home?”

“Well, I play a good deal with my neighbor Fanny, for she’s time enough between custom—” She caught herself just in time and looked up at Lord Lindsey swiftly. He was watching her alertly, but not
too
alertly; he merely seemed interested in what she had to say. “For she has plenty of time, as… as her children are grown.”

The lie came easily, and it sounded natural even to Lily’s ears.
Lying, stealing
—
Mama would be so proud
.

Thankfully, Lord Lindsey merely nodded and selected another card. “And what else are you doing to pass the time here at Aster Park, Miss Masters?”

Lily thought of the odious little brown book. “Reading.”

“
Reading
?” Lord Lindsey sounded appalled. “A young girl like you, on days as bright as this one? Surely you should be about visiting the neighbors, or going on long walks to see some ruin?”

“I’ve… I’ve not the clothing for visiting quite yet, Lord Lindsey. Though I am to see the dressmaker this afternoon.”

“Oh, quite right. Forgive me, child. ‘Unfortunate carriage accident, ’ and all. You look quite presentable to me even in that great sack of a gown, but then what does an old man know? So what is it you are reading?”

The title of the book was burned on Lily’s brain. “The book is called
Instances of Ill Manners to be Carefully Avoided by Youth of Both Sexes
. I discovered it in my rooms, and found it quite… interesting. I could not put it down.”
Forbidden
to put it down, more accurately, she thought resentfully.

Lord Lindsey lowered his chin and lifted his brows at her in deep, skeptical silence.

Lily selected a card of her own. “The book is inscribed, ‘
Property of Gideon Cole
. ’” Her nonchalance was masterfully feigned.

“Oh.
That
book.” Lord Lindsey sat back for a moment, looking grim and reflective. “Before Gideon lost his parents—my brother Alistair was Gideon’s father—he was an impulsive boy, more than a little headstrong, always in motion, always up to some mischief. But then his parents died… and, well, he somehow got hold of that little book, and I aver, he attended it with more devotion than our own curate attends the Bible. And, well, I don’t suppose you can argue with the results. He’s done very well for himself.”

But oddly, Lord Lindsey looked more wistful than proud as he said it.

Lily recalled Gideon’s dark eyes snapping with passion, his hand flailing the air for emphasis this afternoon.
It’s
very
important, Miss Masters
, he had said, exasperated with her.

But a little green shoot of sympathy poked its head up through her resentment. Sympathy for a high-spirited boy who had lost his parents and had turned to a book of rules to make sense of a world gone suddenly and painfully senseless. Lily could have told the young Gideon that planning was futile, that no set of rules could keep the whims of fate at bay. She had learned to live by one rule only:
There is only today
.

It had served her reasonably well… up until the moment she had arrived at Aster Park.

“But why
you’d
want to read that book is beyond me, Miss Masters,” the baron continued. “I would think it would quite ruin
you.”

“Quite,” she agreed darkly.

“And, oh, now see, you’ve won again. I
am
losing my touch.”

“You were telling a story, Lord Lindsey. You were merely distracted.”

“Ah, so that is your strategy, is it, Miss Masters? To distract me?”

“You are clever to catch me out, Lord Lindsey.” She demurely lifted her teacup to her lips.

He laughed again. “So tell me, Lily, are you going to marry your cousin?”

Lily choked on her sip of tea, and settled the cup back down on its saucer a little roughly; porcelain rang against porcelain. “I… I beg your pardon?”

Lord Lindsey chuckled, pleased with himself. “Ah, you see, you are not the only one with the power to startle. Perhaps you
should
marry Kilmartin. He’s a good sort. Not terribly interesting, but then he’s rich, so he doesn’t have to be. He would be kind to you. Perhaps you’d do him some good.”

Lily wasn’t certain whether she should be amused or appalled. “No, sir, Lord Kilmartin and I have no plans to marry.”

“No? Have you any sweethearts, Lily? Oh, look, you’ve gone pink, a minx like yourself, I’m surprised at it. No matter: you will find a sweetheart in London. Or rather, they will find you, I am most certain of it. You’d likely do Gideon some good as well, but his sights are fixed on that big blonde daughter of a marquis, and perhaps it’s just as well. It would be an excellent match for him.”

You’ve no idea just how fixed
, Lily wanted to say. The reminder of the specific reason for her presence at Aster Park darkened her mood. She raked her winnings toward her.
Three pounds closer to freedom
.

Mrs. Plunkett appeared in the doorway of the room. “Miss Masters, the dressmaker is here to see you.”

“Well, if you must have new gowns, Lily, I suppose you must. Until tomorrow?” The baron looked hopeful.

Lily’s cheeks warmed with pleasure. “Of course, Lord Lindsey.”

The baron pushed his chair back and levered himself upright, and then, slowly and rustily, he bent into a handsome bow.

Lily was suddenly grateful she could offer him a perfect curtsy in return.

Chapter Seven

Madame Sabine Marceau’s face was pure Plantagenet: long and oval, prominent-nosed, as time-honored and English as the Tower of London. Her figure, on the other hand, was all modern elegance. Her walking dress, a tawny jaconet, was puffed at the shoulders and snug in the arm and flounced at the hem; a tiny tasteful bustle bulged behind. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and meticulously curled, and a perfect little straw bonnet, heavy with silk flowers, cupped her head.

The dressmaker whipped the bonnet off and tossed it onto a little chair.

“Oh, thank
goodness
you are pretty!” were her first words to Lily. “ ‘Tis so unutterably dull to dress the plain ones.”

Well, that was two “pretty”s in as many days, Lily thought. Perhaps it was true. “
Am
I pretty?”

Madame Marceau patted Lily’s cheek with a gloved hand. “
Aren’t
you a funny little thing! ‘Am I
pretty?’”
she mimicked, and laughed merrily.

Lily tried with some difficulty not to distort her countenance into an irritated frown. Laughter did
not
answer her question. She suspected she was
St. Giles
pretty—but then again, after enough gin,
everyone
in St. Giles was pretty— and perhaps she was pretty enough for Lord Lindsey, whose eyesight seemed sharp enough for a man his age.

But was she
London
pretty? Was she…
Gideon Cole
pretty?

Gideon had used that grand word—“beautiful”—to describe Lady Constance Clary. Lily would have preferred to be beautiful. But she had too much pride to press Madame Marceau for clarification.

She shivered in her overlarge borrowed shift while the dressmaker circled her like a bird of prey, clucking and mumbling things under her breath like “yes, yes, of course” and “probably not” and “hmmm.”

“You’ve a lovely trim figure and even a bosom, Miss Masters, so we needn’t use padding. And you’ve coloring to treasure—that hair, those eyes. I can
do
something with you, yes I can,” Madame Marceau crowed triumphantly. Briskly—Madame Marceau was nothing if not brisk—she stretched a tape measure over and around various parts of Lily’s body, so matter-of-factly that Lily didn’t have time to consider whether she might be embarrassed to stand in her shift before a complete stranger.

Madame Marceau stood back and assessed her. “We should probably go light on the flounces, since you’re so slight, but we’ll use tucks and embroidery to splendid effect, a little tidy vandyking, too, I think. Ruffs are all the thing for day dresses, you know, and all the rage in Paris, but they might swallow your little neck up—perhaps we can get away with just a frilled shirt-habit.”

Madame Marceau might as well have been speaking Chinese. “Of course. Tidy vandyking and frilled shirt-habits,” Lily agreed ironically.

The modiste arched a brow. “I’ll explain all about vandyking, Miss Masters, and the rest, when your clothing arrives, for you’ll most certainly need to know those sorts of things. Oh, yes. I can see it now: patent net over a pale blue slip—I have the perfect satin for it, too—caught up in puffs at the hem, a simple sleeve. And a low neck, to show off that lovely bosom. Has he given you pearls yet?”

Lily was astounded. “
Pearls
?”

“You are fortunate, indeed, Miss Masters, to have a protector as kind as Mr. Cole. And he has
taste
as well.”

“
Protector
?” Lily repeated incredulously. “
Kind
?”

“Are you just learning the English language, Miss Masters? You’re sounding a bit like a parrot. You needn’t be shy about it with me. He’s just the most beautiful-looking man, isn’t he? If anyone deserves to take his ease with a woman, I would say Mr. Cole does. And you’re an interesting choice.”

Take his ease with a woman
. Lily almost smiled. What a pretty phrase for it. But then, because her bloody fertile imagination sprouted anything planted in it, an explicit image blossomed: Gideon Cole, his long body leaning over her, his hot eyes holding her motionless. His arm slowly curling around her waist, his lips lowering, lowering, and then…

Touching her lips. Opening against them…

Lily threw an imaginary elbow into the image; it dissolved. But traces of it lingered in her warm cheeks and weakened limbs, like an illness.

“But… but… I am Miss Lily Masters of Sussex. I am Lord Kilmartin’s cousin,” she recited weakly.

“Of course you are, dear.” Madame Marceau gave her another little pat and rolled her eyes. “That’s what he told me as well. Never you mind. You should be proud, as he’s a very fine, hardworking barrister. He has helped many a penniless sort and gets nothing out of it, as far as I can see.”

“He gets to win,” Lily muttered. “He gets
that
out of it. He very much enjoys
winning.”

“Oh, and win he does. You should see him at it, Miss Masters,” Madame Marceau continued with relish. “So tall and well-spoken, standing up there in front of the court, eating his opponents alive. He won a case for my cousin, and I fair swooned watching him.”

Lily didn’t want to imagine it, but it was far too easy: Gideon’s speaking eyes fixed on the court, a strategic devastating smile or two, his resonant voice raised in demand or dropped in silky persuasion—the opposition would never have a prayer.

Madame Marceau was still talking. “He would be a wealthier man today if he didn’t take on cases like mine,” she declared. “And I am happy to be of assistance to him, for he very likely cannot afford to dress you himself. Let alone your sister. You’ll have your new things in a week or so; I’ll set my girls upon the job.”

Alice, too
? And more slow reluctant warmth rayed through her. He’d thought of Alice, too. How long had it been since
anyone
had given special thought to the two of them?

“I cannot wait to see you in satin and velvet,” Madame Marceau continued. “Can you picture it? Or a white muslin walking dress, a row of gathered crepe across the bodice—” She dropped her hands on Lily’s shoulders and turned her toward the mirror.

Lily only saw the same girl she’d seen in the mirror over her dressing table; her tiny gold freckles conspicuous against her pale skin.
She looks more frightened than I feel
, Lily thought, bemused.
But perhaps I am more frightened than I know
. Of what? Not of clothes, certainly.

Perhaps of Gideon Cole and this… this treacherous
weakening
.

“He suggested sea greens and blues and golds,” Madame Marceau murmured, “and I do believe he is right, but perhaps some white as well. Yes. You’ll be quite striking in white.”

An odd pang took Lily, and her breath caught. Had Gideon Cole really thought about her in terms of color-thought of her eyes, her skin, her hair?

Madame Marceau whisked her businesslike gaze up and down Lily’s length. “You’ll need bonnets and slippers and gloves and half-boots, too, of course. I’ll see to it. Mr. Cole took my case when I’d nothing to offer him, and then he requested my assistance with outfitting you, Miss Masters. He knows full well what that will mean to me—very likely an increase in business, once the
ton
gets a look at you. He’s a rare man, Miss Masters. Now lift your arms straight out, please.”

Greens and blues and golds
. Absently, Lily lifted her arms; Madame Marceau snaked the tape about her limbs.

“Please do not move, Miss Masters, or I may inadvertently stick you with a pin.”

Lily would have welcomed a pin stick. Anything to shake her from the peculiar torpor brought on by all this thinking about Gideon Cole.

“Turn toward me, my dear. And do hold still.”

And Lily, who two days ago had taken orders from no one, turned and allowed Madame Marceau to take her measurements. Because, God help her, she
wanted
to be dressed in greens and blues and golds.

Bloody hell
, where again was the ballroom? Lily began to run, but then remembered a lady wasn’t
supposed
to run, and slowed her pace. Her slippers clacked a guilty tattoo across the marble:
I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late
.