Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

H e wouldn’t seek her out. Lillian told herself not to be a widgeon.

Mr. Westrop was only being gallant in the moment. She had extricated him from a touchy situation; he was relieved, which accounted for the intent way he had regarded her face. And, even more intently, her bodice.

He had been impressed by the breasts, but they, and she, would be forgotten the moment she departed the room.

It was too bad of her to venture to the library in the first place, located on the floor holding the family chambers. But the Marquess of Waringford had been on the subscriber’s list for a folio copy of the Forsters’ volume on the botanical specimens they’d discovered in Australia. And when Lady Mary sent invitations to a soiree at Westrop House, where the family resided when in town, the temptation had been too strong to resist.

She couldn’t regret her foray. Mr. Westrop, with his well-fitting coat and his fascinating sketches of barrows, was the most intriguing man she’d met all season.

Lillian floated through the public rooms in search of her cousin, pretending she wasn’t watching for someone else. Lady Mary had opened the entire first floor to guests, the dining room devoted to cards, the drawing room to music. The double staircase in the foyer spiraled up from the entrance hall below, built on the grand scale of earlier centuries, a monument to how long the Westrops had been a family of note. No doubt every girl in these luxurious rooms had been assembled in hopes of interesting the new marquess-to-be.

Good heavens—the thought stung like a bee, slowing her feet—Aunt Giles couldn’t be reaching that high, could she? Hester, like Lillian, was only the grandniece of a baronet. It would be like a duke marrying a vicar’s daughter. Or an earl marrying a milliner.

Aunt Giles sat behind a card table in the dining room, playing quadrille. Everything about her, including the ostrich plume in her cap, frowned in disapproval as she spotted Lillian. It must be hoped her aunt wasn’t losing money, as standing Aunt Giles’ gambling debts made Sir Lloyd cross, more cross than when Lillian’s father requested funds for archaeological expeditions.

The refreshments table bore platters of almond pralines and bonbons. Lillian let a coffee-cream bonbon dissolve in her mouth as she surveyed the room. Hester wouldn’t be here unless ordered; she bored quickly of card games, unable to keep straight the most basic rules, though she would play nine men’s morris for hours if Lillian complied.

One of those Gowers ? There was no mistaking the emerald light that sprang up in his silver eyes. But what possible interest could Westrop have in Lillian?

None. He was not looking for her, nor she for him. At any rate, he was not occupying the small hall at the top of the stairs, where a Louis XV giltwood sofa stood between two short pillars holding the busts of ancient Roman orators and knots of people stood caught up in conversation, flirtation, or debate. Hester wasn’t in the hall, either.

Above the sofa, a florid oil painting depicted a nearly naked man in a vaguely classical setting menacing a pale woman whose breasts spilled from her gown. The rape of Tamar or Lucretia or some other poor terrorized woman. Lillian moved her gaze away. Best not to wonder if Mr. Westrop looked like that beneath his beautifully tailored coat and cream-colored breeches.

Hester stood at the back of the parlor that had been turned into a music room, browsing a tray of refreshments on a sideboard lacquered in silver. The raspberry pastilles had acquired companions of chocolate, almond, and lemon. Her cousin and pastilles both; Lillian headed her way.

“I don’t suppose you know what this one is?”

Hester held out a purplish red pastille. Her cousin dispensed with conversational gambits she found pointless, such as greetings, common courtesies, and idle questions about one’s health, family, or the weather.

“I should guess barberry. It may be tart, Hex.”

Hester popped the treat in her mouth, waited a moment, then puckered her lips with a scowl. “Sour. Try one.”

Lillian laughed. “Oh my, this is terrible. Try it,” she teased.

“What? What did I say?”

“Nothing. You’re a darling. I will try the sour, but only because I plan to have three chocolates next.” Aunt Giles could neither see nor scold, and the sweet would tame Lillian’s belly. Her encounter with Mr. Westrop had set off some jangling of nerves with which she was unfamiliar.

Lillian was the steady one among the Gower women. Aunt Giles frequently suffered nervous prostration; Lillian’s mother, Alida, was prone to flights of fancy; and Hester, though placid as a sheep, could not be relied upon. Lillian was the one her mother called upon if a worker had jumbled the archaeological tools in their box, the one her aunt turned to if a member of the staff was being pert. Lillian was the only person Sir Lloyd trusted to handle his library.

“Well, don’t eat them before I get to try one of each,” Hester said.

Hester didn’t mean to be catty; she didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She was seventeen, five years younger than Lillian, and had the body of a developed woman, but her intellect was approximately that of a child of six.

Lillian did not think her cousin’s mind would ever mature to match her physical age, but she wasn’t allowed to discuss it with anyone, because Aunt Giles pretended her daughter was like every other young English debutante. Lillian’s mother was not around often enough to really know Hester, and Hester had not discerned any lack in herself. The one benefit of being left out of her parents’ expedition to Stonehenge—the only reason Lillian hadn’t made an unholy fuss, or hired her own transport to the site after her parents left her behind—was knowing that, in London, she could help Hester navigate the social currents that were utterly foreign waters to her.

The singer concluded her piece and Lady Mary shooed her away, claiming the space between the sash windows that looked out onto the square. The performer, pale and slim as a catkin in her white dress, slouched to the side with a sulky expression, but did not wander far. Every eye on the room turned toward their hostess, or rather, her companion, for her son stood beside her.

He looked a coffee cream bonbon himself in his dark cloth cutaway coat. The tails shaped his lean form, the row of bronze buttons down the front adding breath to his chest beneath the embroidered waistcoat. His cravat was not so high that one could miss the strong jut of his jaw, but the cascade of white ruffles on his shirt added a soft touch to the smart attire. His dark brown hair was wavy and tousled. Either he’d run a hand through it, or he’d spent an hour with his valet and curl papers to achieve the à la Titus style.

His expression was markedly flat, but Lillian sensed a leashed temper in the set of his mouth. His gaze swept the room as if he were a predator marking his competitors. Or a hawk seeking a way out of the mews.

Studying Mr. Westrop, Lillian missed the opening of Lady Mary’s speech. It held a note of triumph.

“—after a long, very long wait, I am so pleased to announce that my son, Gideon, has finally affixed his affections?—”

He winced. He didn’t like the name Gideon.

“—a match that will bring both of our families great joy, as she is a young lady of impeccable reputation, greatly admired by her peers?—”

His eyes narrowed into slits and his jaw tensed. He was furious. Lillian paused with the pastille in her hand, her stomach a covey of pheasants taking flight. How, in the brief time since she’d left the library, had he become betrothed?

“—as well as her mother being a great personal friend of mine,” Lady Mary went on, enjoying the rapt attention of her audience. She was either unaware or uncaring of her son’s reaction, the lowering of his dark brows, the tight line of his lips. His sharp gaze landed to the left of her, and Lillian turned to look.

Near the doorway, Mrs. Ponsonby fairly shivered with joy, a triumphant anticipation overtaking her face. Beside her, Miss Ponsonby looked first annoyed, then alarmed, and then, as the direction of Lady Mary’s speech became clear, victory shone over her features.

“—and the delightful young lady is none other than?—”

“Madame.” Westrop stopped his mother with a hand on her wrist. Madame , not mother. “I don’t suppose you will let me have the floor?”

Her ladyship’s look of confusion would have been comical if Lillian didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that she was pitching her son into a trap. Mrs. Ponsonby squeaked, pressing forward, the feather in her headdress atremble.

Mr. Westrop cleared his throat. “I have, indeed, this very evening, made an offer to the young lady of my choice.”

His roving gaze landed on Lillian and paused there long enough that the curious eyes of every other person in the room turned to Lillian, too.

Her throat went dry. She couldn’t stand here holding a pastille going sticky in her glove. Not knowing what else to do, she popped it in her mouth, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. Had he wanted Miss Ponsonby and Lillian had gotten in the way? But why was he looking at her like this? His expression was bland, courteous, but behind it, Lillian detected misery. And a plea.

“In fact, I have just come from speaking with her in the library.” He swallowed.

Lillian’s mouth puckered as the barberry juice hit her tongue.

Lady Mary burbled. “You did—” She cut off her cry when her son lifted his hand.

“I made my offer then, but she has not yet given her answer.”

“Who?” Lady Mary demanded.

His gaze didn’t lift from Lillian. He was indeed a hawk, and she the hare frozen by his gaze. Her mouth, and her stomach, turned inside out.

“Miss Gower?” he called, and her name rang like a bell through the room.

A screech echoed in Lillian’s ears, and she hoped it wasn’t her making such a sound. She swallowed the pastille, a sour path scorching through her insides. “I beg your pardon?”

He held her gaze steadily, and she saw his desperation writ clear. He was begging.

“Would you do me the honor—the very great honor—of accepting my suit?”

She stood frozen as he moved toward her and the crowd parted, their wondering eyes moving from him to her and back again. It was a large room, but he’d crossed it before Lillian could fit two thoughts together. All that filled her vision was the plea in his eyes.

“I’ve surprised you, I know.” He reached her. He was quite tall. He lifted her hand, sticky with the sugar coating of the pastille, and placed a kiss on the back of her glove. The print of his mouth scorched like a cooking fire.

“Miss Gower. I would have chosen more discreet circumstances, but now we all must know your answer. Will you knit your life to mine and make me the happiest of men?”

It was a trick. She saw it now. The teeth of the man trap were descending about him, and he wanted to bring her between him and descending annihilation. He was drowning, and she held the rope that could save him.

He squeezed her fingers. His grip was tight, yet oddly, he did not hurt her. It was a trap. If she stepped into the noose with him, everything she wanted for her future might disappear.

And yet, with him holding her hand, she was certain she would be safe.

She could read his eyes. Trust me . Help me , his eyes said.

That was her lot, was it not? Lillian the helper. Lillian the soother. Lillian the calm and steady. Lillian, the eye of the storm, who sacrificed what she needed so another might have their wish.

“Very well.” The words emerged a whisper around the pinch in her mouth. The knot in her stomach might never unravel. “Yes, Mr. Westrop, I suppose I’ll marry you.”