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“Oh?” Gideon replied distantly. Lily was laughing now; he watched her toss her head and tap young Willett on the arm with her fan. The lad was red-faced with pleasure.

“And Constance will give birth to His Majesty’s bastard child come autumn.”

“Very good, Laurie, very good,” Gideon said absently.

“Gideon,” Kilmartin said sharply.

Gideon turned on him and frowned. “Need you take that tone, Laurie? What the devil is the matter?”

“You’ve not heard a word I said.”

“I’ve heard a few. Lily is popular, blah blah blah.”

“It’s time to further refine our strategy, Gideon, if you’d like to secure your engagement to Constance before the end of the season, and perhaps even win a pound or two from the betting books at White’s while you’re at it. I
know
you could use a pound or two.”

Constance? Where
was
Constance? Gideon looked about for her.

Her found her across the room… watching him… watching Lily.

Gideon smiled at her encouragingly; Constance promptly outdid him with a smile as hard and bright as a string of diamonds. It irritated him a little, a new sensation where Constance was concerned: must she always best everyone at
everything
? But she was her usual breathtaking self tonight: draped in gold-trimmed white, her hair intricately curled and piled high to show her long smooth neck to its best advantage. He glanced almost imperceptibly lower and—

Good heavens. Intriguing long shadows moved beneath her very sheer dress, and—well, if he was not mistaken, Constance had completely forsaken a petticoat.

The evening instantly took on a decidedly more interesting cast. Perhaps Constance harbored hidden…
depths
. For she’d been known to be daring, but never… provocative.

“But Gideon, this is perhaps the best bit of news of all,” Kilmartin continued breathlessly. “A group at White’s ranked the young ladies of the
ton
this season… and our Lily is first! Constance is second. Word got out, of course, as word will. I must admit that I helped a little to make sure that word got out.”

Ah
. Gideon sighed inwardly. Forsaking a petticoat was merely Constance’s way of escalating her game. And yet— and this cheered him—the very absence of a petticoat meant Constance believed there
was
a game. “Next to Newgate, I would imagine ‘second’ would be Constance’s least favorite place to be,” he said wryly.

“I think Jarvis is making a serious run for Lily, Gideon. He’s certainly been attentive.”

“
What
?” Gideon rounded on Kilmartin, who took a step back. “Has sense completely deserted the
ton
? She cannot have fooled
everyone
so easily.”

“Calm yourself, old man. You’re missing the point. Lily
is
quite a marvel—she’s doing a smashing job, you can’t deny it. And with Jarvis out of the way, and Constance wearing nearly transparent clothes to impress you, I imagine you’ll be ensconced in the Treasury and calling the Marquis Shawcross ‘Papa’ in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Go on. Take a twirl about the dance floor with Constance. I imagine that gossamer gown will improve your mood.”

Several admirers now ringed Lily; poor Willett was forced to compete for her attention. Gideon eyed them discreetly, to see if any of her conversational companions would begin to pat their pockets in bemusement, having just noticed they were missing a watch. But no, all of Lily’s conversation partners displayed a uniformity of expression: captivated.

As if to compare, Gideon glanced again at Constance. She was watching Lily, too, and he was startled to find her wearing a tremendously unappealing expression—one that bordered on the sour. It was gone in an instant, as if it had merely been the product of shifting shadows.

Lord Stanley, darkly handsome, was leaning over Lily now. Gideon watched, tensing, as the man moved slowly closer to her, and closer still, until his lips were hovering near her ear. And then Stanley curled his white-gloved hand over Lily’s wrist, and his lips moved, murmuring something.

Lily’s head jerked upward, her complexion crimson, her spine rigid. She gave her wrist a little tug. Stanley held her fast.

Later Gideon couldn’t recall the steps he took toward them; one moment he was observing from a small distance, the next he was standing over them. Their heads, Stanley’s and Lily’s, turned up to him; Stanley’s sullen and intent, Lily’s uncertain and fiercely angry.

“Unhand her, Stanley. Now.” Gideon’s voice, low and lethal, silenced every man in the perimeter of the settee as effectively as a fired musket.

Stanley’s eyes flew wide; an unpleasant smile cut across his face. His hand remained on Lily’s wrist.

“Gideon.” He thought he heard a man’s voice, a quiet warning. But Gideon was focused on the hand gripping Lily. He forced his own hands to remain uncurled; he was afraid his fist would launch of its own accord.

“I’m a dead shot, Stanley,” Gideon said mildly instead. “Care to test me?”

“Gideon.”

The voice finally penetrated the static of rage in Gideon’s mind. He turned; a pale Kilmartin stood next to him.

“You don’t
do
that anymore, Gideon,” Kilmartin said quietly.

Stanley’s hand flew from Lily’s wrist; he stood abruptly.

He was pale now, too. As was every man in the perimeter of the settee.

“My apologies for any offense I may have caused, Miss Masters, Mr. Cole,” Stanley said coldly. He bowed, a shallow insolent bend, and strode quickly away. Lily absently rubbed at her wrist and stared up into Gideon’s face, her eyes wide and hot with lingering outrage.

A waltz struck up; swarms of dancers moved in pairs toward the floor, oblivious to the little drama that had just taken place over the settee.

Gideon took a deep breath. “You’re all right, Miss Masters?”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Cole.” Her eyes locked with his.

Gideon turned away from her swiftly. Had he really nearly called a man out for touching a pickpocket’s wrist? Had he really nearly lost all control?

“Pity Constance didn’t witness that, Gideon. You’d have increased your appeal a thousandfold,” Kilmartin murmured to him. It sounded like a jest, but Kilmartin’s voice wasn’t entirely steady. “Perhaps the blokes at White’s will help to spread the word.”

“All part of the charade, Laurie.” He gave Kilmartin a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but in truth, Gideon was a bit shaken, too.

He looked at Lily as though she was a stranger. And she gazed back at him until an uneasy Willett gently reminded her she’d promised him this waltz.

Gideon bowed and went to Constance; with some relief, he led her in all her golden magnificence to the dance floor. There was little danger of calling anyone out over Constance. No one would have dared touch Constance.

* * *

“So, Constance, how has life treated you since last we met?” Remnants of rage clung to him; the waltz with Constance would shake them off, he decided.

“Since yesterday evening, you mean?” She smiled, acknowledging his mild teasing. “Splendidly, as usual. For one, my new horse arrived in London—Papa bought it especially for me from a breeder in the country. And I’ve decided to hold a dinner party—my aunt will be there, of course, since Mama and Papa are in the country. I thought I’d invite—”

“Constance, your new horse—what is its name?”

Constance blinked. “My horse, Gideon? It’s a bay mare. It cost a fortune, too, Papa said. Its sire was a—”

“But what do you
call
her? What is her
name
?” The question, for some reason, struck Gideon as urgent.

Constance had begun to look uncomfortable. “It’s a
horse
, Gideon, not a person. It doesn’t require a name. I call it…
my horse
.” Constance had clearly begun to find the conversation a little troubling.

“For example,
my
horse, Constance,” Gideon continued doggedly—he’d begun to use his barrister voice—“is named Horatio. I named him after Nelson, you know. Because he’s a valiant sort of horse. A big brown fellow. Suppose horses, like people, required baptizing and registering in the public record.
What then would you name your horse
?” His voice had definitely gone up in volume.

Constance’s mouth dropped open; she stared at him as if he’d sprouted another eye. He couldn’t blame her, really. But it just, somehow, seemed imperative to know. Who
was
Constance? What did she think about? What
would
she name a horse?

She closed her mouth, finally, and pressed her lips together tightly, thinking.
Thinking of what
? Gideon wondered desperately.
What does she really think about anything
?

“Oh, let’s talk of other things, shall we?” Constance cajoled. She gave a nervous little laugh.

She’d decided to placate him. He stifled a sigh.

“Well, then. How about a favorite color? Do you have a favorite color, Constance?”

“My goodness, Gideon, I think you’ve been spending too much time in the courtroom. You’ve begun to speak only in questions. No matter: I can answer that one for you. It’s blue.”

Gideon pounced on this information eagerly. “Why blue?”

“Because it looks very well on me!” She sounded triumphant.

Well, of course.

He could have asked: Which blue? The blue of a summer sky? The blue-green of the ocean? The blue of the sky at midnight? The blue of bluebells? But suddenly it had stopped mattering. He felt defeated.

What was the
matter
with him?

“You’re right, Constance. Blue does look very well on you.” Gideon gave her a smile, the kind she had come to expect from him, and Constance looked relieved. “As does the dress you’re wearing,” he added. “It’s quite spectacular.” She smiled, as content again as a baby freshly fed on mama’s milk.

“Now, about my dinner party, Gideon… I shall invite Lord Kilmartin, of course, and Lady Anne Clapham, because we must have both—”

“And Kilmartin’s cousin,” Gideon suggested nonchalantly. “Miss Lily Masters.”

There was an almost undetectable pause. “Naturally,” Constance said evenly. “I’ll have Miss Masters. And we’ll have cards; perhaps some dancing…”

And so Gideon learned all about Constance’s dinner party as they finished their waltz. But he couldn’t help but notice that it never once occurred to her to ask him if
he
had a favorite color.

Lily was more at home in crowds than in the rambling fields of Aster Park; still, she was small and she was surrounded by an awful lot of people, most of whom had been strenuously dancing and sweating. And
the jewels
… it was difficult not to view accessorized people the way she had viewed them for years… like trees ripe for the plucking. She needed a little air.

A Lord Something-or-Other escorted her from the dance floor back to where Kilmartin and Lady Clapham stood, but she was able to duck away from them before they saw or acknowledged her return. Fortunately, there was an empty space on her dance card; she had lied, sweetly of course, and told a number of admirers she had promised that particular waltz to someone. To
herself
, was the truth.

She wove her way through the crowd toward the double doors that opened onto Lady Delloway’s balcony, aware of eyes on her the entire time. Admiring eyes, for the most part, and speculative, too; she resisted the urge to shrug them off and scurry out of view as quickly as possible. She’d never before
wanted
to be seen; being seen was a definite liability for a pickpocket. But now… in order for Gideon Cole’s plan to work, everyone needed to know who Lily Masters was. So she glided like a swan, and took the stares. For Gideon.

For Gideon, who had nearly called a man out… simply because another man had touched her. More specifically, touched her and then murmured an astonishing suggestion in her ear. It hadn’t been anything Lily hadn’t heard before in St. Giles; in other circumstances, she would have dispatched Stanley with a knee or elbow. But in a London ballroom… well, she supposed that’s why young ladies needed men about—to shoot men who made untoward suggestions, Lily thought wryly. Seemed excessive, but then everything about the
ton
was excessive.

That murderous look in Gideon’s eye had seemed authentic enough, however. She should know: she’d seen it before, when he’d closed his own wrist over her hand the day she’d tried to steal his watch. And truth be told, it had been a trifle thrilling: before Gideon Cole, no one had ever come to her rescue. For any reason.

But Gideon had his hand on Constance’s back right now, the music sweeping them along in circles. Constance would be close enough to
smell
him, to see the one or two gray hairs sneaking into his red-kissed dark hair. Lily had seen them when she had combed her fingers up through his hair… in the garden… right before his mouth had covered hers…

Oh, for God’s sake
, she told herself sternly. There really was no point in tormenting herself over a moment that could simply never recur.

She reached the double doors at last and inhaled; the smell of horse dung and dirt and coal fires and swarming humans rose up to her from the street.
Ah, London
. She took great breaths of it.

A giddy female voice wafted out to where she stood.

“Meggie, Meggie! I danced a reel with him! With Mr. Cole!”

“Oh, then he must have actually
touched
you! And yet you haven’t yet swooned,” her friend teased.

Lily peeked into the room; a group of girls, all in light-colored muslin, had clustered near the door. She’d met most of them, she was certain, briefly; the names all seemed to end with an “ee” sound. Mary? Meggy? Polly?

“Yes! As a matter of fact, he touched me right
here”
the girl called Meggie said proudly. She stretched out her hand, and her friends gathered around her, giggling and pretending to make a great fuss over the hand in question.

“He’s so
heavenly
,” one of them sighed.

“Oh, yes,
heavenly
,” several of them echoed.

Good God
. Well, Gideon
was
heavenly, but how could any man bear up under this kind of adulation without becoming insufferable? Not that Gideon Cole
couldn’t
be insufferable…