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Lily laughed, and Gideon feigned feeling wounded.

“What? What’s so amusing about angel tears?”

“You’ve been at me poetry again, Gideon.”

He went still. “What do you mean?”

“I saw the book you tried to hide from me in the library that night. John Keats. And I read a little. It was wonderful. About an urn, and truth and beauty.”

Gideon smiled a little sheepishly. “I like Keats.”

“When I saw the book, I understood how you… well, ‘
You are a bird’
you said, ‘
and the music is a current of air. And I am the wings you use to sail over it
.’ It was beautiful, Gideon. And it worked, you know. You taught me to waltz with those words.”

Gideon felt shy. “You remember that?”

“I shall never forget it. And then there was, ‘
Pretend you are a willow, bending in the breeze
…’ You’ve a poet in you, Gideon.”

Gideon threw an arm over his eyes and smiled a little pleased, embarrassed smile. “It’s you, Lily. You bring it out in me.”

“Perhaps. But I think it was always in there to be
brought
out. Like my stories.”

“Like your stories,” he repeated softly. He was quiet for a moment. “I love Byron, too. And Wordsworth, though I prefer Byron’s wit.”

“I’ve not read Byron.”

“Oh, you’d like him very much,” Gideon enthused. “Beautiful and passionate and witty. Much like you.”

Lily giggled. He thought perhaps it was his favorite sound in the world.

“I’ll find the book for you in the library,” he added. “We shall read it together. The next time we make love.”

Lily said nothing. He was distantly aware that he had said something that implied a future, but rigorous lovemaking had pummeled from him all ability to control his words.

He could not let her go; the very idea of it now seemed delusional. But would she consent to be his mistress, knowing what her role in his life would be? Furtive visits, stolen time? That he would have children with another woman, with Constance?

And what if Lily became pregnant? An enormous happiness bloomed at the thought. A boy, a girl… it wouldn’t matter. As long as either one of them resembled her.

And yet… what sort of life would that be for a child? And what of Alice? And what sort of man would he be if he supported his mistress and her sister with his wife’s money?

A man like just about any other
, he thought wryly.
An ordinary man
.

Perhaps he
could
be like his uncle. Perhaps he could know passion with one woman, and social acceptance and status and wealth with another. Perhaps he could have a wife
and
a mistress, both of them beautiful and adoring. He would be vastly more fortunate than most men could ever dream of being.

If only he could make Lily understand, and see the wisdom of it. For it was the only way they could be together. And it was unthinkable to him that they should ever be apart. The very idea made his lungs seize with panic.

“You should let me take care of you, Lily.” He held his breath. “There is no shame in allowing someone to take care of you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You’re one to talk,” she murmured.

He gave a short laugh, and yet the moment for him was deadly serious. He was asking her to give up her independence for him.

“Say it, Lily. Say you will allow me to take care of you. Say you will not leave me.” His fingers stroked the inside of her thigh, tracing the tender flesh there; he felt her stir against his hand, her legs falling slightly open, inviting his hand to wander higher, and, against all reason, he felt himself growing hard again. “Say it.” His fingers trailed up her thigh to cup the furred warmth of her; his fingers played lazily in her curls. “Say it.” He was being unfair, he didn’t care.

“All right. Yes.” Her voice was weak, but the words were vow enough to satisfy him.

This hunger for each other… it fed upon itself. It astounded him.

And it exhausted him, frankly. His eyes were growing heavier and heavier, even as his hand wandered over Lily’s soft body.

“You should return to your room,” Lily whispered. Her hand was circling aimlessly over his chest.

“Yes, I should,” he agreed sleepily.

It was the last thing he remembered saying.

Chapter Twenty

Drip, drip, drip.

With the logic of the dream-fogged, Lily decided the sound was water dripping from the eaves of Mrs. Smythe’s lodging house. Had it rained during the night?

Drip, drip, drip.

The sound was
maddening
. She was just reaching for a pillow to cover her head when a whisper rudely shattered what was left of her sleep.

“Lily—the door. Someone is tapping.”

Lily attempted to sit upright, but her limbs were entangled with Gideon’s.

Gideon
. It was his voice waking her, still raspy from sleep.

When she turned anxious eyes toward him, his face softened; he kissed her lips gently, pushing her sleep- and passion-tangled hair away from her face with one hand.

“You’d best answer me door, love,” he whispered.

Her heart leaped.
Love
. It was a casual endearment. The sort of dung all those men in the French book said to me naked women in their beds. And yet…

Tap
,
tap, tap
.

Lily slid out of bed, Gideon’s hand trailing the length of her spine as she did. She scrambled into her night robe and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: hair like an owl’s nest, cheeks and lips flushed from sleep and kissing. She looked a complete wanton. Unless the person outside the other door were a child, they would be left with no doubts as to what sort of activities she’d been engaged in the night before.

Behind her, Gideon ducked under her blankets.

Lily cautiously pulled the door open a few inches and peeked out. Mrs. Plunkett was standing there, as impassive as ever. She was holding a breakfast tray, which, oddly, held two plates of eggs and bread and two cups for tea.

And Mrs. Plunkett knew full well that Alice was sleeping in the nursery.

Lily felt her face burst into flaming embarrassment.

“Good morning, Miss Masters,” Mrs. Plunkett said smoothly, as if she hadn’t been knocking unattended for several minutes at least. And then she raised her voice slightly, as though she wanted to reach the back rows in a great hall. “I thought you might like to know, Miss Masters, that the guests for Mr. Cole’s house party have begun to arrive. A certain
Lady Constance Clary
is instructing our footmen how to unload her trunks. And there are other young ladies, too. I’ve set the maids to preparing the rooms.”

“
Holy
—” the single muffled word came from the direction of Lily’s bed. Mrs. Plunkett’s face revealed nothing, but Lily was certain she was not the least bit fooled.

Gideon had been right about one thing: one could always default to manners in untenable situations. “Thank you, Mrs. Plunkett,” Lily managed to stammer at last, relieving the housekeeper of her tray. “That is… helpful information indeed.” Mrs. Plunkett nodded and dipped a quick little curtsy and plodded off down the hallway.

Lily’s hands were shaking. She backed into her room slowly and closed the door with her hip, and then settled the tray with a rattle on her dressing table.
I can’t look at him. I can’t bear to look at him
. The shame, the sense of betrayal, was so corrosive it nearly made her retch. She stood very still and crossed her arms over her body, an attempt to soothe the pain of it.

And the worst of it was, she had no right to feel this way.

Oh, she was a fool. Two nights before, she had virtually thrown herself upon Gideon, and he had enjoyed her thoroughly, as any sensible man would do. And he had
enjoyed
her knowing Lady Constance Clary, the woman he hoped to make his wife, would be at Aster Park in a few days for a house party.

Would a gentleman have led a lady by the hand into a servant’s room to make passionate love to her? Certainly, if the lady in question was not really a…
lady
. If she were, for instance, a pickpocket from St. Giles instead.

Say it, Lily. Say you’ll stay.

What had she thought? That this was one of her stories? That it would end m the prince marrying the pickpocket? The man wanted a mistress.

“Lily?” Gideon’s voice was low and taut with unease. She heard him slide out of bed, heard the soft rustle of blankets as they crumpled to the floor, heard him pad over to her. His arms went around her gently from behind. She squeezed her eyes closed, a defense against the enveloping musk and warmth of him. Her body, the weak traitor it was, wanted him still.

“Lily, believe me, I completely forgot about the house party. I would give anything for all of them to go home.”

“
All
of them?” Her voice sounded faint and brittle to her own ears.

He said nothing. And his silence went through her like a blade.

“Don’t worry,” she said, as lightly as she could. She felt numb; it amazed her that her heart continued to beat, that she was still able to breathe. She took a step out of his arms, and they fell away from her, stiff as two boards. “I will continue to help you, Gideon. I promised I would, and I meant it.”

She turned to face him then; he too looked as though he had stopped breathing. Like two animals poised to attack, they studied each other wordlessly for a long, awful moment.

And then Gideon bent to collect his trousers. He hurriedly slid into them, jerked his shirt on, plucked up his boots in one hand, and strode toward the door, his movements frenetic.

He paused when he reached it and turned.

“Lily…” It sounded like a plea.

She shook her head gently, refusing to meet his eyes.

A moment later she heard the door shut behind him.

“I would most definitely have this marble removed, and perhaps put in a mosaic instead. This marble is so…
very
dated.” Constance’s voice was lowered, but the acoustics of the great old house were such that it carried up to where Gideon stood on the landing. He paused, wanting to hear more decorating advice from Constance. “As for that clock… it’s simply hideous. And all that dusty velvet-covered furniture. A clean sweep—that’s what this place needs. Bring it up to the first stare of fashion.”

He heard a murmured chorus of female agreement. The handmaidens, no doubt, and possibly Constance’s aunt as well.

It occurred to Gideon suddenly that it was Constance who had always assessed Aster Park with a thief’s eye: for value.

Lily had always eyed it like the treasure it was.

Gideon rubbed his jaw; he’d shaved so quickly it was a wonder he hadn’t severed his head in the process. Although he wasn’t convinced a severed head wouldn’t be preferable to spending several days in a house full of people.

Up the stairs, down two hallways and two doors to the right was a warm bed musky from lovemaking, and with his entire being he longed to return to it. Lily was in that room, dressing; no doubt she would emerge looking as innocent as a flower.

God, but the look on her face this morning
… Later… later he would soothe her wounded pride with kisses. Night could never come soon enough.

He ran his hand over his jaw, testing; it was smooth enough, he supposed. He patted his shirt, making sure it was safely tucked into his trousers, straightened his cravat, and then marched with heavy footfall down the stairs so Constance would hear him approach.

She turned a beaming face up to him.

“Gideon! Thank you
so
much for inviting us.”

“
Us”? I only invited a few of you
. The two other young ladies, each attractive but not
too
attractive, because Constance would never allow it, were wearing concertedly bright expressions. Constance’s aunt, Lady… Musgrove? Mangrove?… hovered behind them, more servant than chaperone.

Lady Anne Clapham, no doubt, would arrive separately.

Lady Clapham had never seemed tempted to orbit Constance.

“Welcome, ladies. Your rooms are being prepared. Perhaps you’d like to take breakfast in the—”

Kilmartin burst into the house just then. “Make way, Gideon, I’ve brought Aunt Hester.”

Sure enough, a steady
thwack thwack thwacking
could be heard through the open door: Aunt Hester’s cane striking the marble steps as she ascended them.

Kilmartin vanished out the door again to escort his aunt. “Step away, youngster, I’m not a cripple!” everyone heard.

Finally Aunt Hester herself appeared in the doorway, looming in black bombazine.

Kilmartin made the introduction. “My aunt, Countess Avery.”

The ladies dipped pretty curtsies, and Aunt Hester studied Constance and her friends for a long silent moment through her quizzing glass.

Then slowly, slowly, in silence still, she lifted her cane. It rose, and rose, trembling in her grip; the eyes of the girls followed it as though they were all little cobras in the throes of mesmerism. And still it rose, until it pointed to about their midsections.

“If any of you so much as
thinks
an improper thought at this house party,” Aunt Hester snarled, “mark my words, you’ll taste this cane!”

The cane wavered in the air for another beat or two. And then Aunt Hester lowered it with a
thunk
and burst into uproarious laughter. “Oh, you should
see
your faces.”

She thumped farther into the house, still laughing delightedly. “Enjoy yourselves, young people. I need a brandy. Where’s that baron? Kilmartin promised me cards and a brandy.”

Gregson magically materialized and escorted Aunt Hester away. The
thunk
of her cane gradually faded off into the bowels of the house.

Kilmartin looked at Gideon and shrugged. “Constance has brought
her
aunt,” Gideon said, meaning, We already have a chaperone.

“And I have brought mine.” Kilmartin grinned at him.

Gideon smiled, shaking his head. He agreed with Lily: she was a little terrifying, but he rather liked Aunt Hester. Ironically, neither of the aunts made appropriate chaperones. Constance’s aunt was too timid; Kilmartin’s too old and frightening and sleepy. It was a veritable recipe for hijinks, if any of the young ladies were so inclined to indulge.