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“I don’t know much of poetry. Though I’ve a book of Shakespeare’s works.”

Gideon smiled faintly, and then he tilted his head back, his eyes on the shadowy ceiling; the firelight gilding his throat. “
‘The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction, robs the vast sea
… ’” he murmured.

Lily’s heart gave an astonished kick. Hearing those familiar words in this place, in his voice… She waited. But he didn’t seem inclined to continue.

“‘…
The moon’s an arrant thief, and her pale fire she snatches from the sun
… ’” she encouraged softly. She could have recited the rest to him, but she wanted to hear it in his voice.

Instead Gideon slowly lowered his head and regarded her wonderingly. “You know it.”

Lily nodded.

“It’s beautiful,” Gideon admitted after a brief silence. He sounded almost… shy.

Lily hated to ruin the moment for him, but she couldn’t resist an opportunity to make a point. “And it’s all about how everything is a
thief.”

Startled, Gideon laughed, and she laughed, too, because she couldn’t help it: he had a wonderful laugh. It was full of the boy he must have been, and she wished he didn’t ration it the way he seemed to. Their eyes met again; faint smiles curved both of their mouths, and Lily could think of nothing to say.

And then, as if freed by the laughter and darkness and firelight, Gideon’s gaze began, gradually, to lower. It followed the length of Lily’s bare throat, went to the loosed hair spilling over her chest, dropped to her waist, where a cord wrapped twice around her closed her robe. Slowly, slowly, his eyes traveled the curve of her hips, down her thighs, down her calves, to where her bare feet touched the floor. A most deliberate and thorough and unsubtle perusal.

And as surely as if his open hand were skimming over her bare skin, gooseflesh rose beneath Lily’s robe; her skin felt stung with heat, her breath came short. Again, that sense of lamplight blooming below her belly, fanning out in her veins.

And he was only
looking
at her.

I’m out of my depth with this man.

He’d pulled at her like a swift current from the moment he’d locked his hand around her wrist on Bond Street. And Gideon Cole was not a Nick, who could be kissed out of curiosity and pushed away and forgotten. If Gideon Cole were to deign to reach for her now, she knew there would be no knees or elbows. She would come to him. And promptly be swept under. It was terrifying, really, how quickly pride and reason had deferred to the urges of her body.

Gideon returned his eyes to her face, his expression again decidedly unreadable. And now Lily understood: Gideon Cole’s thoughts were most active when his expression was least readable.

There was a story in her French book: a man and a woman made love as they watched one another in a mirror, mindless with pleasure. And Lily thought…
I would love to see Gideon Cole’s face when he makes love… to be the person who makes his eyes change… who makes him lose himself in pleasure…

Gideon drew in a long breath. “Miss Masters. I think you should return to your chambers now.”

His tone acknowledged a danger to them both.

And wordlessly, in silent agreement, Lily spun about and padded quickly out of the library.

Chapter Eight

When Lily finally slept, strange dreams beset her: Gideon Cole was preparing potions behind McBride’s counter while Lily attempted to sell him his own watch: “Five shillings,” she demanded of him. He smiled at her; one of his teeth was missing. “Give us a kiss, luv,” the dream Gideon purred. She was just leaning forward to oblige him when—

“Lily, wake up!” Alice was tugging at her arm, and Mrs. Plunkett was tapping at the door. Groggily, Lily pushed her limbs into her robe and staggered to the door.

Mrs. Plunkett was on the other side of it, and, wordlessly, the housekeeper handed over a tray of breakfast, a note… and an intriguing paper-wrapped bundle. Lily looked up into her face quizzically, but if she thought she’d find any clues there, she was sadly mistaken.

The housekeeper led a skipping Miss Alice away, and Lily tucked her hair behind her ear and sat down on the bed to read her note.

LM
—
Here is your schedule for the day:

10: 00 Deportment

11:30 Conversation

1: 00 Picnic

A picnic?

3: 00 Cards with Lord Lindsey

4: 30 Dancing

6: 00 Dining

Yes, Miss Masters, you will accompany me on a picnic. You will learn today that some people do walk simply for the pleasure of it.
—
GC

P. S. Do be careful, or Willoughby may replace Mr. Darcy in your dreams.

Her heart tripping oddly, Lily tore open the paper to discover a book and… a pair of thick, soft, wool… stockings?

Sense and Sensibility
, the book was called. By the same author who had brought Mr. Darcy into her life. And Lily smiled slowly, a lovely warmth heating her cheeks.

But… stockings?

And then she recalled: last night, in the library—she had attempted to warm her feet by rubbing one against the other.

He sees everything.

And all at once, elation and a delicious, tingling sort of terror made a wishbone of her, and the book and stockings might well have been rubies for how she felt about them. Two gifts. Two unmistakable, no doubt deliberate, reminders of a few minutes of intimacy shared in a firelit library. Could it be, for the first time in her life, she was being… wooed?

To what purpose?

Lily was not entirely naive: she
did
know that gentlemen did not take proper young ladies on picnics unchaperoned. But perhaps gentlemen took
pickpockets
on picnics.

And what, then, did gentlemen do?

In truth, though her mother would hardly approve, she couldn’t wait to find out.

Kilmartin had risen late, so Gideon decided to breakfast alone, attended by nothing but the clear morning sunlight flooding into the dining room, the near-silent to-ing and fro-ing of servants, and the pleasant hum of his thoughts. A small stack of correspondence lay next to his plate; the handwriting on one letter made him tear it open immediately.

I must confess I’m now a little afraid, Gideon
, it said.
But please don’t say anything to Uncle Edward. I’m sure everything will be all right
.

A cold hand closed over Gideon’s heart.

Of course, in the way of all the Cole women—of all Coles, with their accursed pride and mordant humor—she’d concluded,
Then again, if I can endure you, I suppose I can endure anyone
.

It was signed,
Yours affectionately, Helen
.

Her letters had contained hints over the past few months, hints only a brother could interpret. He’d had suspicions ever since his last visit to her; he’d never voiced them to a soul, not even to Kilmartin.

But not once, not even when she was a child, had Helen admitted to being frightened. Of
anything
.

It was an affliction, the Cole family pride. It had enabled Helen and his mother to keep their heads up when their fortunes came crashing ignominiously down; it prevented Helen and Gideon from ever asking for help.

But now… an urgency pressed down on Gideon’s chest.
Perhaps I’ll come when you have your own home, Gideon
, Helen had told him last time he saw her.
But I don’t think I can face Uncle Edward
.

He placed his fork neatly next to his plate; his appetite had fled.
I’m trying, Helen
. The letter drooped in his hand; he stared unseeingly over the dining room table.

What kind of man was he if he couldn’t protect the people he loved?

10: 00 Deportment

 

“No, no,
no.”
Gideon Cole seemed infected with urgency this morning; he paced the plush little blue room like a tiger incredulous at being caged. “Take smaller steps, Miss Masters. Stand upright, but not
bolt
upright. And please,
please
do something about that chin. You look as though you intend to throw your fists, or spit.”

Lily paused amidst the sea of blue and stared at him with astonishment, resentment burgeoning. What on
earth
had happened to the soft-eyed man who’d spouted poetry and undressed her thoroughly with his eyes and sent her stockings and a book? Perhaps she
had
dreamed him. Nothing about Gideon’s demeanor this morning suggested he’d be receptive to thanks for his gifts, or to any kind of acknowledgment of… whatever it was that had begun in the library. He was remote and impatient and infuriatingly focused on the matter at hand.

“Perhaps we should put a book on her head?” Kilmartin suggested. “It worked for my sister.”

“I know where
I’d
like to put a bloody book,” Lily said meaningfully.

Gideon’s sense of whimsy was conspicuously absent today. “And it’s
that
, Miss Masters. That’s precisely the sort of thing you must
never
say. Need I remind you of our mission and your
eighteen-pound
debt? Lady Constance Clary is a lady personified; your demeanor absolutely must not excite comment, unless it is of the complimentary sort.”

Kilmartin eyed Gideon critically from his perch on the settee. “Gideon, you seem to be in a… mood.”

Gideon stopped pacing for a moment and took a deep breath; he dropped his head briefly and exhaled. When he lifted his face again, some of the tension had left it. “Please forgive me.” The words were stiff but sincere. “There’s much on my mind.” He included Lily in the apology with a sweep of his dark eyes.

“Work and Constance,” Kilmartin guessed.

Gideon paused. “Of course. Work and Constance.”

No, it’s something else
, Lily thought suddenly, with a pang of intrigue. That little pause, the almost imperceptible tightening of his features, told her that.
Something else is troubling him
.

“Miss Masters,” Gideon continued in a more reasonable tone, turning to her, “we are no longer disputing that you were… shall we say… gently reared. But you seem to have acquired a habit of using… certain words and… well,
expressions
… and these will quite expose you as a fraud if you use them in the
ton
. A well-bred young lady would not use these words—certainly, Lady Constance Clary doesn’t use these words—and they would not slip out of her even if a cannonball were dropped upon her toe.”

“Barnacle scraping time,” Kilmartin said cheerily.

“Certain words, Mr. Cole?” Lily’s expression went somber and she cast her gaze heavenward, as though considering the concept. “Do you mean, I should not say, for example, ‘Mr. Cole, you are a bloody whoreson’?” She turned wide eager eyes on him, as though seeking approbation.

From somewhere behind Gideon, the settee creaked as Kilmartin shifted uneasily.

“Or…” Lily continued musingly, when Gideon remained ominously silent, “perhaps I should not say, ‘Mr. Cole, you’re a tyrannical bast—’”

“Miss Masters?” Gideon’s voice was mild.

“Yes, Mr. Cole?”

“Are you quite through?”

She sighed. “I suppose so.”

But he was smiling a little now. And Lily realized that she had been trying to make him smile, to soften that taut expression on his face.

“Close your mouth, Kilmartin,” Gideon added. Behind him, Kilmartin clapped his dropped jaw shut.

“See what you’ve done to poor Kilmartin, Miss Masters? You’ve quite shocked him speechless.”

“Those words come in useful in St. Giles,” she muttered.

“And you must never, never,
never
men—”

“—tion St. Giles. All right, all right,
all right
. What
does
one do if a cannonball drops upon one’s toe?”

“Scream?” Kilmartin suggested from the depths of the settee. “Yes, perhaps a scream, just a scream.”

And suddenly, Lily was a little tempted to test the appropriateness of a “scream, just a scream.” And damned if Gideon’s eyes weren’t now glinting with amusement, as though her thoughts were written all over her face.

“If you feel a temptation to use the word ‘bloody, ’ Miss Masters, might I suggest you replace it with the word ‘goodness’?”

“Hasn’t quite the same punch as ‘bloody, ’ I know,” Kilmartin commiserated with her. “But it’s what’s required of young ladies.”

Lily was beginning to feel a reluctant sympathy for all the young ladies of the
ton
. Perhaps she should start a fashion in
swearing
.

11: 30 Conversation

 

Analysis of the word “bloody” quite naturally led to the conversation lesson. The three of them remained in the blue room, Mrs. Plunkett brought in some tea, and Kilmartin only put up a token struggle when he was requested once again to perform the part of Lady Constance Clary. Lily suspected he was perversely enjoying lampooning the woman. Gideon, it was understood, would once again play Lady Anne Clapham. It seemed only fair.

Lily doubted Lady Anne Clapham paced rooms as much as Gideon seemed to.

She took her seat next to Kilmartin on the settee. Her back straight but not too straight, her expression sweetly welcoming, she turned to him and prepared to be bemused yet again by the habits of the
ton
.

“Miss Masters, you must tell me something.” Lord Kilmartin, aka Lady Clary, leaned toward Lily confidingly. ‘What do you think of Lady Clapham?“

Lily glanced at Gideon, aka Lady Clapham. “She is a perfect bast—”

“
Miss
Masters…” The two words from Gideon were a warning delivered on a sigh.

Lily bit back a smile and began again. “She’s a decent sort.”

Gideon held up a hand. “Miss Masters, when someone like Lady Clary asks you a question like that, the proper response is ‘agreeable. ’ It is a safe word. A genteel word. A ladylike word. For if Lady Clary ever were to ask you such a question about Lady Clapham, she is fishing for gossip or hoping to lure you into saying something appalling she can repeat later, thus slurring both you
and
Lady Clapham.”