Unknown (21 page)

Kilmartin was silent for so long that Gideon finally looked up in surprise. His friend was studying him, his brow faintly furrowed.

“What?” Gideon said, irritated.

“Do you realize, Gideon…” Kilmartin said slowly, “that you just made the word thief sound like an endearment?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“‘My
dear.’
‘Our
thief, ’
” Kilmartin demonstrated. “Rather like that.”

Startled, Gideon turned quickly away. His entire body was tense, he realized; he unclenched his jaw and uncurled his hands from the fists they’d balled into, rolled his neck to loosen the stiffness.

“You’re drunk, Laurie,” he finally accused, and Kilmartin snorted a soft laugh.

Gideon reached for his port again; the thick sweetness of it made him feel as though he were replenishing his own blood. “And it will of course be our secret that you and I are staying with your aunt to keep an eye on Miss Masters, and not in our own lodgings?”

“Of course.”

“Will Lady Anne Clapham mind you squiring about your ‘cousin’?”

Kilmartin smiled dreamily. “Lady Anne knows how I feel about her. She shall not mind.”

Kilmartin was very irritating, Gideon thought, when he was being dreamy. “Won’t it bother you to deceive her?” he prodded, a bit testily.

“I shall simply tell her the story when we are old and gray, and we’ll share a laugh.” Kilmartin stood suddenly. “Well, I’m for bed. Drink the rest of your port, Gideon. I think you need it.”

Gideon gave him a strained smile. “Good night, Laurie.”

But Kilmartin was wrong; the port was in large part encouraging the urge he surrendered to now. He turned his eyes back to the fire and lost himself in a fantasy that had grown increasingly, uncomfortably, tantalizingly more explicit.

He wished he’d never read that bloody French book.

In his mind, he unwound the tie and nudged the robe from Lily’s shoulders; it sighed to the ground. And there she stood bare, slim white limbs cast in firelight, lips parted with desire; the long shining spill of her hair falling modestly across her breasts, across the crook of her legs, and
that
… well, that would
never
do. And so he reached forward, lifted the silky mass of it in his fingers… and slowly, slowly he knelt before her and pressed his lips against the satin mound of her belly, and then dragged them lower, lower, lower, until his tongue nestled against—

Gideon abruptly threw the rest of his port into the fire, where it hissed and smoked like a demon vanquished.

Chapter Nine

The barnacle scraping and hull polishing continued: deportment and conversation in the morning, reels before dinner to build the appetite, cards with Lord Lindsey midday to break up the lessons. And, though the process certainly wasn’t entirely painless, Lily began to take on the sheen of gentility; it had been there, all along, of course, beneath the barnacles. She could now conduct skillfully vacuous conversations,
eat
rather than devour, and respond to questions about her life in Sussex with some knowledge and a good deal of imaginative embellishment. The quiet of Aster Park seemed less oppressive and alien now; her head didn’t swim in astonishment when her meals were placed in front of her three times a day.

Her curtsies were things of beauty; her walking left Gideon Cole in despair.

And nothing Gideon said, no threats or cajoling or irony, could seem to alter it. Perhaps her walk and the angle of her chin were built into her, she thought, the way her own spine was built into her. She’d presented that theory to him; he’d merely regarded her with a look of mystification and amusement.

During the four nights following their picnic, Lily stared at her ceiling while Alice snored next to her, wondering whether Gideon was stretched out in a chair in front of the fire in the library. So far her courage had failed her, or her judgment had come to her rescue—or perhaps they were working in tandem to preserve her virtue, though this seemed unlikely—but she had not returned to the library.

Yet.

But by her fifth day, when she was five pounds away from freedom, she began losing at cards. In earnest.

“What happened, Miss Masters?” Lord Lindsey asked as she prettily shrugged away another loss. “Have you lost your knack, or have I improved?”

“Surely it’s the latter, Lord Lindsey.”

And Lily would apologize for being such a poor opponent and arrive for her afternoon quadrille lessons with empty hands.

The first two times it happened, Gideon teased her. The third time, he glanced down at her hands… and then into her face…

And then he smiled, that slow, devastating, heart-stopping smile.

He
knew
, the beast.

Madame Marceau swept in with the crispness of a March wind. Servants trailed her carrying trunks and parcels of all shapes and sizes.

“Lily, Lily, Lily! Come! I aver, you will be a swan, and I simply cannot wait to see you in my creations. Off with that old bag of a gown, now! Excuse us,
please.”

She looked down her long nose and delivered this last order to the servants. They deposited their parcels and scurried from the room while Madame Marceau unwrapped each gown reverently, as though she were excavating jewels. She located the gloves and slippers and hats to match, and arranged the ensembles over the chairs and across the settee. And then she stood back, gesturing to it all with a flourish.

Lily gaped: shimmering silks and satins, fine wools and muslins and lawns, evening gowns and walking dresses, kid slippers and gloves and stockings. Much of it in the blues and greens and golds Gideon Cole had suggested, the colors of sea and sky and sun.

Her hands began to tremble at the bounty before her; she hardly dared touch one thread of it. How could she put anything so fine on her
body
? Shouldn’t it be framed and hung on the wall instead? Locked in a closet and counted each night, the way Mrs. Plunkett inventoried the silver plate?

Madame Marceau’s smile grew soft with understanding. “You will more than do them justice, I promise you. This one first, my dear. This style is all the rage in Paris.” She scooped up a gown in an unusual shade of blue satin; it drooped across her arms like a fainting maiden.

“For your first ball. For you will only ever have
one
first ball. Step out of those drawers, now.”

Again, Madame Marceau was so businesslike Lily didn’t think twice about complying with her request. She obediently dropped her drawers and lifted her arms, and Madame Marceau poured the blue gown over her head. It shivered down over her skin, as light and cool as water. The modiste circled her, deftly doing up the laces that closed the back of the dress, and then she plucked up a pair of soft white gloves and pushed them over Lily’s hands one at a time. Finally, startling her, Madame Marceau seized Lily’s heavy hair and skillfully twisted it into a knot, securing it with pins extracted from her pocket. She turned Lily to face the mirror.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Miss Lily Masters,” Madame Marceau demanded. “Tell me you are not a diamond of the first water.”

Lily’s mouth parted, but she could find no words. The creature that gazed back at her from the mirror could not possibly have anything to do with
her
. She saw vivid eyes made brilliant by the exquisite shade of the gown, luminous skin made more luminous still by the gleam of satin. Her delicate features and slim contours were revealed by the lift of her hair, the cut of the dress. Forgetting for a moment she had an audience in Madame Marceau, she reached out a gloved hand and touched a tentative finger to the mirror.

Madame Marceau laughed, pleased with herself. “Perfectly splendid. Fits like a dream. Now off with that dress and on with… What are your plans for this afternoon?”

“Dancing,” Lily said faintly. “I’ve a dancing lesson.”

“This one, then.” The modiste scooped up a white muslin gown that was so fine it looked nearly transparent. The neckline was deep, and tiny buttons closed its back. Satin ribbon in the same pale shade as the dress edged the hem and the waist.

“Mr. Cole will not be able to take his eyes from you.”

Lily flushed. She knew it was futile, knew it was foolish… knew he intended to marry the daughter of a marquis. And yet…
he rarely takes his eyes from me, anyhow. He is always watching, watching
.

1: 00 to 3: 00 The Waltz

 

Lily arrived precisely on the hour; the clock was just striking one. She hovered a moment at the entrance of the doorway, shy in her delicate new dress and soft slippers; the air touched the back of her neck and made her feel exposed and strangely vulnerable. In fact, bereft of the embrace of Mrs. Plunkett’s big borrowed dress, she felt altogether bare.

The mirror in the red room had told her she was beautiful.
Beautiful
. Not just St. Giles pretty. And Madame Marceau had told her she was beautiful.

She would believe she was beautiful when she saw it reflected in Gideon Cole’s eyes.

They were chatting in low voices near the pianoforte, bent over the sheet music; Gideon said something and Kilmartin laughed, and Gideon turned slightly toward the doorway.

And saw her.

Slowly, slowly, he straightened to his full height, and went very still.

Her heart stopped her throat.
He will not be able to take his eyes from you
.

Gideon held her there, suspended in the beam of his eyes, and it seemed to Lily that his entire self was distilled in the fixed heat of his gaze. She could not seem to move or look away from him.

And so I am beautiful.

Lily at last remembered to curtsy. To her undying regret, it seemed to be the thing that enabled Gideon to tear his eyes from her.

Kilmartin was gawking at her, too. “You are… you are looking quite well, Miss Masters. The new gown…” He abandoned gentility for enthusiasm. “Good God, but that new gown suits you, Lily. You’re really very stunning.”

Lily took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Thank you…
Laurie.”
She curtsied to him, too, a beautiful low dipping, a veritable masterpiece of a curtsy.

“All right, Kilmartin, that’s quite enough gaping,”

Gideon said mildly. He had turned and was steadfastly looking away from Lily, fussing with the sheet music perched on the pianoforte. “This afternoon, Miss Masters, you will learn the most important, though simplest, of dances.” He took a deep breath and turned back to her. “The waltz.”

Lily, inevitably, had a question: “Why is it the most important?”

“Perhaps because it is the most… daring, Miss Masters. It was, in fact, once considered quite scandalous. For a waltz requires only two people: a man and a woman who… touch each other throughout the dance, in something like…” He paused awkwardly and cleared his throat. “… Like an embrace.”

Lily regarded him, scarlet. Gideon gazed back at her, eyebrows lifted in challenge.

“I prefer reels,” she announced airily. As though she’d been performing them all of her life.

“Ah. Well, I fear the waltz
does
require a certain amount of grace.” Gideon’s tone was sympathetic. “Rather more than a reel requires. Perhaps if you don’t feel
equal
to it…”

Lily sighed. He knew very well that she understood his stratagem, and yet she still could not resist it. “Very well, Mr. Cole. How does one waltz?”

“First, you must place your hand in mine.” He waved the fingers on his outstretched arm coaxingly.

Lily’s gloved hand rose tentatively to meet his, and he gently folded his fingers around hers.

Gideon looked down. Lily’s head was averted.

“You must step closer to me, Miss Masters.” He said it softly.

“I must?” Two faint words.

“Again, I am afraid so.”

Lily inched forward.

“Closer, Lily,” he murmured.

Lily flushed a deep tortured rose, but obediently inched toward him until they were very nearly touching. The scent of her rose up to him, something subtle and complex, musky and sweet, released by the warmth of her body. He was close enough to hear her quick shallow breaths.

His heart was thudding strangely in his chest, making his own breath come swiftly.

“And now I must place my hand… like so… against your waist.” His voice had gone strangely husky.

Torturously slowly, he moved his hand until it just hovered over the small of her back, just above where her waist flared into her slim hips. Tension vibrated through Lily; he could feel it in the stiffness of her small hand.

At last, he pressed his palm softly against her.

She was so slim; his hand nearly spanned her back. Through the fine fabric of her new dress, even through his glove, he could feel the pearls of her spine and the rise and fall of her rapid breathing, see the gentle curve of her breasts, and for a moment he went still with wonder.

He slowly lowered his head to look at her. Lily’s lashes cast trembling shadows on the curves of her cheeks; the muted light of the ballroom glinted off the down at the tender nape of her neck, off the tiny buttons that closed the back of her dress.

Buttons that could be opened with one skillful flick of a finger.

Desire spiked so suddenly and violently through him he nearly swayed from it.

Gideon stood very still, his breathing quiet and swift, as though the moment itself was a skittish creature that could be frightened away with a sudden move.

He had not been prepared for what it would be like to touch her. To stand this close to her. To take in her scent with every breath.

It was nearly a minute before he could speak.

“Lily.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Look at me.”

She glanced up, and her face was still scarlet, her eyes ever so slightly wary.

Gideon managed to smile slightly. “One does not regard their dancing partner with wariness, Miss Masters.”

“Oh?” The word was a little weak. “How
does
one regard one’s partner?”

Her husky voice was like a soft finger dragged against the short hairs on Gideon’s neck. It inspired a number of dangerous little answers:
With desire
was one of them.
With warmth
was another.