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Think of Constance
, he ordered himself. Golden, confident Constance, who had skin as firm and warm as a peach and who took the dance floor with the majesty of one of Nelson’s tall ships and was the daughter of a marquis. How did Constance look at him when they danced the waltz? And how did he look at Constance?

“Regard your partner with… polite interest,” he told Lily. This was true, he admitted to himself with some surprise; this
was
the expression with which Constance regarded him, and with which he typically regarded Constance. “Smile, but not too frequently. Never frown, unless you’re gravely insulted, which, I might add, is not likely to happen in a London ballroom. And always,” he said, smiling down at her softly, “look up at your partner, and not down at your feet, the way you are now.”

“Good God, Cole, are you ever going to dance?” Kilmartin called over to them grumpily. “My fingers have frozen in the shape of this waltz.”

“Sorry, Laurie. Follow me, Lily. Yes, I know you prefer not to follow anyone,” he added wryly, “but I must lead you. It is simply how things are done. Do you think you can do it?”

Lily’s chin went up.

“Begin the waltz, Laurie,” Gideon called over to Kilmartin.

Kilmartin’s fingers fell against the keys, and a slow French waltz, sweeping and stately, took shape. Gideon took a tentative step into the music; Lily moved with him stiffly. It was a bit like trying to drag something up from the bottom of the Thames.

“Step and
glide
, Lily.”

She followed; still, it was more of a haul than a glide. For such a slight girl, she had remarkable powers of resistance.

He couldn’t continue towing her about the floor. How to explain the movement of the waltz to her… ? “Miss Masters, pretend you are… a bird. And the music is a current of air. And I am the wings you use to just… sail over it.”

It sounded absurd even to him, but Lily looked up at him, surprised, a small pleased smile curving her lips. She closed her eyes briefly.

When she opened them again, she was like air in his arms.

Step… and glide. Step… and glide. One, two, three… One, two, three… One, two, three…

Effortlessly, united in breathless surprise, they eased into the slow circles required of the waltz. And in moments, Gideon felt exempt from gravity.

“Oh.” Lily laughed up at him, her face radiant, embarrassment forgotten. “This is lovely! It
is
like flying.”

Gideon laughed, too, giddy; dancing with Lily was like… dancing with music itself.

Eyes locked, they spun about the room in mutual, precarious wonder, as if they had each been given a new set of wings to play with and feared they would soon be taken away.
This
, Gideon thought, astounded, looking down into Lily’s glowing face.
This is what a waltz is supposed to feel like. I understand it now
.

And then a realization tore the breath violently from him:
This is what
everything
should feel like
.

He stopped abruptly, stunned, and shook free of her hand. Lily stumbled in surprise.

“I’ve an appointment, Laurie.” Gideon raised his voice so Kilmartin could hear. “Sorry, old man, must have forgotten. Tomorrow, then?”

The waltz jangled to a messy halt mid-measure. Kilmartin swiveled, startled, to stare at Gideon.

Gideon strode to the doorway. He paused when he reached it and pulled his grandfather’s watch from his pocket; he hefted it thoughtfully in his hand. And he waited for Lily’s eyes to go to it, waited, deliberately, for the sparkle in them to fade to bleakness.

“Just wanted to be certain it was still there, Miss Masters.”

He strode out of the ballroom.

Chapter Ten

Blindly, Gideon strode down the hall; he could hear his boot heels striking hard on the marble floors, but he had no sense of his surroundings; clocks and portraits and vases and sconces passed in a blur. He wasn’t fleeing, he told himself. But he could not seem to stop moving. This hot jagged thing he took in with every breath… it wasn’t rage, exactly. Or rather it
was
, but it was mostly about… betrayal.

Of whom?

Of myself.

Oh, he had asked for it, hadn’t he? He had no one to blame but himself, and this infuriated him.

He had lived his life according to a Master Plan, and he had always assumed this plan would make him happy. He had excelled as a student, as a soldier, as a barrister, and he had thought this was happiness. He had danced with Constance Clary, the daughter of a marquis, and he had thought this was happiness. He would inherit his uncle’s beautiful property, and he had thought this was happiness.

But he now knew the truth: the only pure happiness he had ever known had been crystallized in a single moment in his uncle’s ballroom, in the arms of Lily Masters. And it could—
she
could—never have anything to do with his future.

He had brought this unspeakable cruelty upon himself.

He seemed to be heading in the direction of the main entrance. He thought he passed a servant; he had a general impression of a woman, mouth agape and eyes wide with alarm.
Good God, what must my expression be
? Murderous was his guess.

And then he collided with Gregson, who was holding a wrapped parcel in his hand.

“What the bloody hell is
that
?” Gideon snapped.

If Gregson thought this degree of passion about a mere package was excessive, it didn’t show on his face.

“A package arrived for Lord Lindsey, sir.”

Gideon snatched it from Gregson. “ ‘McBride’s Apothecary, ’” he read aloud from the package.
McBride
? Who was he to Lily?

It didn’t matter. More to the point, it
couldn’t
matter. Gideon closed his eyes briefly against a wash of desolation.

He opened them to see Gregson watching him, his brow furrowed in deep concern.

“Sir?”

“I’m all right, Gregson.” His voice betrayed otherwise. “I’ll take the package to my uncle. Thank you. And I apologize for snapping at you.”

“
Did
you snap, sir?”

Gideon almost smiled.

Lily and Kilmartin remained frozen in stunned silence for a moment or so, staring at the doorway through which Gideon had practically stormed.

“He’s a… passionate sort,” Kilmartin finally ventured, an attempt to explain his friend’s appalling behavior. “Driven. Subject to the occasional mood.” He frowned a little. “More subject than usual, it seems.”

Lily’s face still felt hot from Gideon’s pointed cruelty and abrupt abandonment. He had touched her, she had circled the room in his arms, and her very
blood
had rejoiced:
at last, at last, at last
. And now it still heated her veins, flushed her skin, as if enraged his hands were no longer upon her.

“How do you
stand
him?” she blurted.

“Gideon?” Kilmartin sounded surprised, and then sat back, reflecting, and shook his head. “Oh, I suppose it’s because he’s never boring. He’s a… brilliant chap. A thinker. Exceedingly loyal. Kind to a fault. Well, usually,” he added, somewhat sheepishly. “But where you are concerned, Miss Masters…” He paused, looking puzzled for a moment, and then shrugged and pushed himself away from the pianoforte and stood. “I suppose I can stand Gideon mainly because… well, Gideon Cole is perhaps the most innately decent man I’ve ever met. It often causes problems for him, but there you have it.”

Lily knew it to be true; she
felt
it to be true. But as Kilmartin said: where
she
was concerned…

Kilmartin was watching her; bless him, he looked concerned for her. Lily smiled weakly. “I’m sure he thinks the same of you.”

Kilmartin gazed reflectively toward the doorway through which Gideon had disappeared. “I would like very much for Gideon to be happy. I just wish… I wish I knew for certain what it was that would make him…”

He trailed off and shook his head, and then turned to Lily again and smiled reassuringly. Kilmartin’s was not an extraordinary face—but it was growing strangely dear. “You’re not a bad sort, either, Miss Masters,” he said. “Now, I best go see if I can find him. I imagine you can call this time your own, if you like.”

He bowed to her, she curtsied in return, and Kilmartin left her alone in the ballroom.

Fresh air should cool her flaming cheeks and clear her mind of Gideon Cole, Lily decided. If fresh air couldn’t, then nothing could.

Well, she suspected
nothing
could, but cool air would feel lovely, anyhow.

She wasn’t due to play cards with Lord Lindsey for another few hours or so. Today Alice had been excited about visiting the pigs: Lily thought she might like to see them, too, not to mention her sister.
However
, Lily thought, looking down at her lovely new dress and her gloved hands,
I probably shouldn’t wear a white ball gown to visit pigs
. She’d best choose something else from the bizarre wealth of dresses that hung in her wardrobe.

She peeked into it, feeling a little like a servant intruding upon grand visitors. Walking dresses. Ball dresses. Dining dresses. Morning dresses. And things to cover them up— pelisses, shawls, aprons.

Perhaps, Lily thought, there should be dresses simply for sitting. Or for thinking. Perhaps there should be a
reading
dress. She almost laughed at the thought. Perhaps she should start a fashion, like that paragon Lady Constance Clary.
She starts fashions and ends them
, Gideon had said of Constance. As though this were an accomplishment akin to building Brighton Pavilion.

She managed to undo the tiny buttons on the back of her dress without any assistance—their tricky location posed no challenge whatsoever for the deft fingers of a pickpocket. She selected a dress—
Which one is the pig dress
? she wondered half whimsically. The one she chose was a soft shade of brown, trimmed with a minimum of fripperies, and it demurely covered up every bit of her.

There. And now, if she could find her way about London and about this great house, she could certainly find her way to Aster Park’s outbuildings and to the pigs.

She found her sister perched on the edge of a pen, gazing down at an enormous sow and a collection of piglets jostling for teats. Alice’s own dress appeared to be trimmed in about two inches of muck, and she looked every bit as happy as the pigs.

A grime-coated man stood nearby, watching and listening to Alice, who never seemed to need people to talk much. Fortunately, people often seemed content just to listen to Alice.

“Hello, goose! I thought I’d join you here this morning. How do you like the pigs?”

“Lily! Aren’t they
lovely
? I’ve named all of them: that’s Daisy, Phillip, Margaret, Fanny—she’s the loud one—and Lily. I named Lily after you.”

Lily looked down at her namesake; the pink of the piglet’s skin showed through her coarse white piggy hair, and she had black spots on her rump and bristly pale eyelashes. She was very handsome, as piglets go, and she was winning the battle for a teat, Lily noted with satisfaction. “I’m flattered, Alice. They
are
lovely.”

“And soon they will all be dinner,” Alice said stoically.

Lily blinked. She glanced up at the grubby man standing nearby; his eyes were glinting with amusement. “Yes… well…”

“But then again, I
like
dinner. And that’s just what life is like here on the farm.” Alice sounded sage. “Every animal has a role to play.”

Lily fought a laugh. “You’ve learned a good deal about farming, then, have you?”

“Oh, yes. Boone and Dawson—Lily, this is Dawson—” —the grubby man nodded to Lily; Lily nodded back— “think I might make a very good farmer one day. I’m a quick learner, they say,” she added proudly.

“You always have been.” She tugged Alice’s braid.

But her smile faded as a realization intruded. This new ambition of Alice’s was a far cry from girlish dreaming of grand houses and shoes. Alice had begun thinking of an actual, practical future. She would return to St. Giles with visions of pigs in her head.

And there were no pigs or peacocks in St. Giles. No acres upon acres of green lawns and tall spreading trees, no lakes or fountains.
No matter what I’ve told her, she will blame me when we leave
.

Standing over the pigs, the realization she’d been holding at bay charged her: damn him, but Gideon Cole was right; he’d always been right. He’d only been trying to make her see.

That she could not stay in St. Giles forever. Not for her sake or Alice’s.

She held still, gathered her courage, and let her largest fear crash over her:
What will become of us
?

What was she suited
for
, anyway? A lodging house owner, a prostitute? An apothecary, a fence? She’d arrived at Aster Park a patchwork creature, half lady, half urchin… all pride. But what had the previous week made of her?

Lily had begun to suspect she’d be a creature divided her whole life: divided between gentility and the streets, between desperation to flee so she could call her days, her life, her own again…

And between wanting to stay, no matter what he did or said, to see how this particular story ended.

Gideon found Uncle Edward in bed, but the curtains were pulled open and a bar of sunlight fell across his legs, and there was evidence that he’d been up and about. An easel was set up in the corner; a palette stiff with dried paint lay next to it. A half-finished view of Aster Park as viewed through his window sprawled on the canvas. Uncle Edward had at one time dabbled in watercolors; today, it seemed, he was taking advantage of the sunlight to explore it again.

Lord Lindsey looked up from the book he was reading. It was Lily’s
Encyclopedia of Natural History
, Gideon noted, fanned open to a page about antelopes.

“Oh, it’s you, Gideon. Do come in.” His voice was distracted; Lord Lindsey barely lifted his head from the book. Apparently he found antelopes captivating.

“You needn’t sound so
enthusiastic
, Uncle Edward.”