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“No, sir.” She lowered herself slowly to the pianoforte bench and stared down. All those keys, all those songs waiting to spring from them. How could she touch only a few? How did any composer ever decide which ones to include in a song?

Lily tentatively positioned her fingers over middle C, closed her eyes, struck two notes. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands, but her fingers seemed to grow shy and lose their way, so she looked up again and let them do what they wanted to do. Little by little, a halting tune comprised half of wrong notes emerged.

She stopped and stared wonderingly up at Mr. Paul, awed by her own music.

Mr. Paul, that kind man, smiled at her. “I recognize the song, believe it or not, Miss Masters. ‘It’s The Dew on the White Rose.’  It’s a lullaby, of sorts. Shall we practice it?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

“All right. Why don’t we begin again?”

“Why don’t we?” Lily agreed happily.

He hovered at the edge of the doorway for a long while, watching her. He watched her through her first attempt at the song, and the second, and the third. He watched her laugh delightedly at her mistakes, and turn her shining face up at Mr. Paul, asking for guidance.

And really, Gideon decided as he watched her, he could watch Lily do anything at all, for hours on end. Picking her teeth, perhaps. Reading a book. Eating. With both hands, even.

Familiar acts are made beautiful through love.

He reared back from the thought as though it were a rat that had suddenly scurried across his feet. Who had said that? Some bloody poet, probably. He really needed to stop reading poetry; it would rot his mind, and a barrister needed a sharp mind.

Thanks to McBride’s elixir, pain still played tympani on his temples, and truth be told, the pianoforte music was killing him. His uncle, damn the man, seemed almost entirely unaffected, apart from an expressed desire to sleep away the day. If anything, he seemed even more cheerful than usual. Poor Kilmartin, on the other hand, was still casting his accounts in a chamber pot upstairs. Both he and Kilmartin would be useless to anyone today. Gideon wanted strong tea and a dark room.

But this morning, he’d been alert enough to dash a note off to Mr. Paul, a respected local music teacher. The inspiration had been there for some time now; McBride’s elixir had presented the opportunity.

And after a little more thought, he’d decided to engage Mr. Paul’s services to play waltzes. Kilmartin, Gideon decided, could dance with Lily, and Gideon would… well, he’d do something else during that time.

For he didn’t dare touch her again.

When the endlessly patient Mr. Paul took his leave of her, Lily was faced with another luxurious stretch of time to herself, so she decided to visit the library once again. She approached it cautiously, lest she find Gideon Cole in there.

He wasn’t. But she felt his presence as strongly as if he actually were. Her eyes landed on the chair nearest the fire; her memories filled it with him reciting Shakespeare by firelight, his eyes tracing the length of her and going unreadable again.

She tried to cram the disparate things she felt for Gideon into the scratchy hair shirt of cynicism:
It’s simple, Lily. He simply wants to get his hands on you, have his way with you, and his precious pride can’t bear the very idea of wanting a
pickpocket
from St. Giles. That’s all
.

But they were too large and shining and nebulous, all the things she felt. They slid right out of that hair shirt, because it was like trying to dress a ray of light.

He’d sent her a book and stockings and a pianoforte teacher.

I’m not sure why I care, Miss Masters. But I do.

Lily shook her head, sending these thoughts scattering, and settled into the chair; she could smell him faintly on it, and she closed her eyes, imagining, for a moment, it was indeed Gideon: his arms would close around her, she would arc her head back so his lips could reach her throat, so his hands could reach down to her—

Really
. She often regretted ever reading that little French book, for the stories returned to her constantly now, feeding her already roaring imagination like shreds of hay.

She opened her eyes again and noticed the thick book resting on the little table next to the chair:
Elements of English Law
. It gapped a little in the middle; Gideon had tucked something there to hold his place, no doubt. Perhaps he’d been reading up on pickpockets. She almost smiled, and then she began to worry a little that it might be true, so she pulled the book open to the marked page.

But it wasn’t the page he’d marked that was interesting. It was the marker he’d used: a little red book. It was the book he had turned over in his lap the night she’d surprised him in the library, she was certain of it.

The Collected Poems of John Keats.

Imagine
that
. Gideon Cole read poetry and hid it within the pages of the book he probably thought he
ought
to be reading.

Lily tucked her feet up underneath her, opening the little book tenderly, as though she were cracking open his heart. All the pages looked well thumbed; one of them sported a faded reddish stain; port, perhaps. She decided to begin reading there.

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

She read the words aloud, astonished by the feel of them on her tongue, by the music they made. She read on, slowly and solemnly, as though she were reciting a spell that would open up a seam in time through which she could actually see Keats’s Grecian urn.

This is Gideon
, she thought.
Pure beauty hidden among a great heavy book of codes and rules
.

She read the last lines of the poem aloud, softly.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, —that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Lily lowered the book slowly into her lap.
All ye need to know.

He was a capricious, impatient, maddening man who insisted on stifling the best part of himself. Who lived his every moment in preparation for some future day. But as far as she was concerned, Gideon Cole was beauty. And truth. And, at the moment, all she ever wanted or needed to know.

She closed her eyes to shut out everything in the library, to be alone with this awareness. It was like being suspended in a warm, brilliant light, in that place between flight … and falling.

Chapter Twelve

LM
—
Here is your schedule for today
:

10: 30 Dancing

12: 00 Luncheon and cards with Lord Lindsey

1: 30 Deportment

6: 00 Dining and packing for London

The morning will be devoted to the waltz, as previous appointments have interfered with your lessons. The evening will be devoted to packing for our trip to London. Dinner will be taken in our respective quarters.

Lily read the note again. And then realization set in; her hand rose to touch her face in a tiny gesture of joy, of trepidation, of anticipation. They were to waltz all morning.

Gideon’s hand on her waist, his hand covering hers, his eyes warm upon her, his scent surrounding her…

They were to waltz all morning.

* * *

Gideon and Kilmartin were waiting for her in the ballroom, both still a trifle pale and bleary-eyed in the aftermath of the elixir episode.

“Good morning, Miss Masters.”

The voice came from near the pianoforte; Lily turned in surprise to find Mr. Paul.

“Oh! Good morning, Mr. Paul.” She gave him a curtsy.

There was a strangely awkward silence, and then Gideon cleared his throat. “Mr. Paul has been invited to play a variety of waltzes for you this morning. Kilmartin will dance with you today, Miss Masters, as we believe it is beneficial for you to experience a… variety of dancing partners.”

The words knocked the wind from her. “I see,” she said softly, finally.

Gideon took an audible breath, and his words were rushed and nearly toneless, as though he’d rehearsed them. “I have business elsewhere on my uncle’s estate. I shall see you and Lord Kilmartin this afternoon for our…” He glanced at Mr. Paul.

He could hardly call it a “deportment lesson,” Lily thought, in front of someone not privy to their little charade. “I shall see you this afternoon,” he said finally.

Lily found she had nothing to say to that.

Gideon bowed to all of them. He would not meet her eyes as he left the ballroom.

Reeling with hurt, she turned her head away from his retreating back to find Kilmartin’s kind eyes upon her.

“Let’s take a spin, then, shall we, Miss Masters?” he said gently. “But not so fast as usual, perhaps, Mr. Paul. A slow waltz.”

Mr. Paul smiled. “Certainly, Lord Kilmartin.”

“Miss Masters?” Kilmartin extended his arms, inviting her to step near.

She stepped into them, numbly. After all, they were to waltz all morning.

The view of Aster Park from Lord Lindsey’s window now filled the entire canvas. Lily admired it over his shoulder as the baron pondered his next play.

“You’re a bit subdued, child. Dreaming of London, are you?” Lord Lindsey had won the first hand; they were now in the middle of the second. “You are leaving soon, are you not?”

“Tomorrow, Lord Lindsey.”

“Ah. And no doubt you will find more worthy card partners in the
ton.”

“Nonsense. None so worthy as you, Lord Lindsey.”

The baron smiled. “Well, of course not. I was testing you, Lily. You see, I’ve won every hand today.” He sipped at his tea and replaced it in his saucer; porcelain rang against porcelain. It had become a comforting sound now.
Every time I hear it, from now on, I’ll think of Lord Lindsey
.

“I am glad you insisted on our daily games, sir, for you have much sharpened my skills.”

“Oh, I never insisted, Lily, though I
would
have if my nephew hadn’t. He sent you up to me the day after we met. And the next day, and so on.”

“I’m glad he insisted, too, Lord Lindsey.” Her voice had gone thick.

“You’ll get yourself engaged in London, no doubt, child. Will you come again to see me after that?”

She almost didn’t trust herself to speak. “Yes, sir, of course,” she lied softly, finally.

For what was one more lie in the midst of all of the others?

* * *

Lily appeared in the ballroom for her deportment lesson looking subdued, Kilmartin at her side.

How many ways are there for a man to despise himself
? Gideon thought dryly. Infinite, surely. He’d been behaving like a lunatic, warm and playful one moment, all childish fits the next. No wonder she looked subdued.

“Gideon, do you need me for this portion of the lesson? I should like a dark room and a cool rag across my forehead.”

Gideon turned to Kilmartin. Laurie
did
look a trifle green; perhaps spinning about in the waltz had not been the wisest thing for him to do in the wake of the elixir episode. And so Gideon felt guilty about that, as well.

“Well, we can probably do without you, Laurie. I believe we shall simply spend our remaining time on walking, since Miss Masters still holds her head up like a pugilist and tends to flee rather than walk.”

He watched Lily’s chin go up stubbornly at his assessment.
Good
. Stubborn was better than subdued.

“Thank you, Gideon. Don’t forget we are to see Cunnington’s mare this afternoon. I will very likely see you… tomorrow morning, Miss Masters, if not at dinner? For we leave first thing.”

“Very good, then, Lord Kilmartin.” Lily curtsied for Laurie.

And so Gideon was left alone with Lily. They regarded each other for a moment, awkwardly; her chin was still up high. Lord, but her neck was lovely and long, he thought absently, a delicate thing rising up out of her pale gown. Like a swan.

Like a swan!

“Follow me, Miss Masters.” He spun about and all but dashed out the ballroom; he heard Lily’s slippers clacking frantically on the marble behind him. Gideon led her down the stairs and out of the house and into the back garden; he stopped when they reached the fountain and swept an arm toward the three great white swans sailing haughtily in the waters of it.

“Now, see how the swans
glide
, Miss Masters, their necks high and proud, but not
too
high and proud? You can do that. Your chin is always up there, anyhow, high and proud.” He imitated her, stuck his chin skyward. She smiled a little. “Just lower it a notch. The tiniest notch. Give it a try.”

She poked her chin up defiantly, and swept through the grass, the hem of her dress darkening as it touched the dew. “How is this?”

“Hmmm… your shoulders are good, but lower your head just a little bit more and… glide. No, do not scurry. Remember, you’ve nowhere in particular to go, nothing to run from or to, you are… well, pretend you are a queen. There is no need for defiance, for you rule all, you
own
all. And all eyes are upon you.”

Lily gave herself a little shake, as though unraveling a poorly knitted stitch, and recomposed herself. And then… shoulders back, chin ever so slightly up, her hands loose…

She glided. Beautifully. At last.

“That’s it, Lily! Splendid! Like a… queen.”

His voice trailed off. For she did look exactly the way a queen should look, delicate and fiery and proud, the sun turning her dark gold hair into a gleaming coronet.

She stopped gliding. “Was that it?” Hope widened her eyes.

“Yes.” He smiled down at her. “You did it beautifully.” A single hair lay against her neck, a glinting thread; Gideon reached out a hand and idly lifted it up, as if to show it to her. And as he did, his fingers gently brushed against the skin of her throat.

Lily went very still.

Gideon frowned faintly. For a long moment he was dimly aware of other things: the fluttering of the lace at her neckline. A swan fanning its wings in the fountain. The scent of old roses.