Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

H e didn’t mean it, of course.

Lillian reminded herself of this as the swirl of congratulations, astonishment, and demands for answers rose around them. Westrop held her hand as if they were an affectionate couple in truth. She was much too limp to pull away, and more importantly, were he not holding onto her, the bones of her knees might dissolve. The top of her head had already fizzed away, her thoughts champagne bubbles floating around the chandelier over their heads.

Hester, at her side as the crowd of well-wishers pushed forward, continued to suck on pastilles. Her eyes lit with excitement—Hester loved drama—but Lillian also knew that her cousin would take in the heightened emotions and in short order become nervous and agitated. They couldn’t stay here long, but with a wall of curious guests hemming them in like stiles in a pasture, she didn’t see a path to escape.

“Westrop! Didn’t even know you were on the hunt for a shackle. Could have turned out any one of my gels for you, had you asked.”

Lillian tried to place the older man. Aunt Giles knew her noble families down to the third generation, but Aunt Giles was in the card room. They’d be sure to hear her screech of horror when she learned what Lillian had done.

A lady wearing a jeweled turban and a court-length train on her gown sniffed. “Don’t be rude, Highcastle. We’re to congratulate the young couple.” Her lips thinned as she surveyed Lillian. “You’re the one staying at Gower House?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Highcastle. A duchess had addressed her. Lillian mentally pinched herself. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother.

Which wouldn’t be until who knows when. They’d likely stay at Stonehenge until the first frost, and when they returned, her parents would be too busy cataloguing their finds and preparing their notes to take any interest in Lillian’s social escapades in London.

“Give over, Medora.” Lillian found herself pinned by the sharp stare of Lady Cranbury, ancient and vastly terrifying, a woman who had ruled her corner of London’s haut ton since well before Lillian was born. Probably since before Lillian’s mother was born.

“You’re Lloyd’s niece,” Lady Cranbury said, raking Lillian from head to toe with her gaze.

“Grandniece, yes, milady.” Lillian tried to recall Lady Cranbury’s rank—earl’s wife? Baron’s? If a knight, of which order? She never knew how deep to curtsy. Besides, with Westrop holding her, she’d pull his arm down with her and tilt them both off balance. She chose instead to dip her chin in courteous acknowledgment.

“And your parents are the ones who play about in old ruins.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Well.” Lady Cranbury’s sniff was much like Lady Highcastle’s. There must be a distinct whiff ladies of high society employed to express their disdain. Westrop’s wife would need to know that sniff, were he to become the marquess. A marchioness would need to know a great many things.

Lillian’s chest cramped, the pastille burning its way down her gullet.

“That explains it. All you antiquarians run in the same train, don’t you?” Lady Cranbury said to Westrop.

“I have not yet met her parents, madame. Miss Gower captivated me solely on her own merit,” Westrop replied.

The lady’s gaze swung back and forth between them, like St. George’s dragon, deciding which challenger she would first annihilate with her fiery breath.

“I wasn’t aware you were courting her,” Lady Cranbury said, apparently outraged that Westrop could have been wooing without her permission.

“It was quite sudden,” Lillian managed. “A surprise even to us.”

Westrop glanced at her, a slant to his eyes, and Lillian read him again: a flash of humor at her jab, and a flash of worry. That she would betray him? His fingers tightened around hers. She liked that far more than she ought to.

“Have you set a date, then?”

“We’ve yet to work out the details,” Westrop said in a silky tone. “You must allow me a moment to simply savor my good fortune, madame.”

Lady Cranbury sniffed again. “I don’t see a fortune in that family,” she said, but the rest of her complaints were to be aired elsewhere as Ponsonby senior elbowed her way into the group, her face as tight as if she’d been stuck by a pin.

“Mr. Westrop. I hope you know that my Empyrea was simply lost in this grand house when she wandered into the library. You won’t take it against us for interrupting your—suit.”

Her baleful glance made Lillian’s stomach knot further. She knew .

Mrs. Ponsonby knew Westrop’s mother had been about to trap him with a staged betrothal, and she knew Westrop had ducked beneath the harness and outmaneuvered her.

“We accept your apologies, madame. And your felicitations,” Westrop said.

“Oh, of course. Felicitations, I’m sure.”

Empyrea, following her mother’s lead, stared at Lillian. Her expression of sheer puzzlement was one Lillian had been familiar with all her life: what was this thing doing here? No fashion, no address, no family, no fortune, no beauty of face to recommend her, and a figure decidedly opposite the svelte silhouette now in vogue—how had she snagged the interest of a marquess-in-waiting?

“Lillian Tiamat Ovidia Gower.” Aunt Giles sailed into view like a Spanish galleon dominating the horizon. “ What ridiculous tales have you been spreading?”

She halted, and Lillian stifled a laugh at her aunt’s expression as she comprehended the situation: Westrop at Lillian’s side, well-wishers surrounding them, Lady Mary still at the front of the room, stabbing Lillian with a burning stare. Aunt’s gaze fell to their clasped hands and her mouth hinged open.

“I beg your pardon that, as Lillian’s chaperone, I did not ask your permission,” Westrop said. His tone was cordial, his words measured. He was a match for this more than preposterous situation. Lillian wondered what, if anything, could overset him.

She also guessed that he didn’t know her aunt’s name, or their precise relationship, but he was hazarding a guess. The man was perceptive, unlike the ordinary examples of his sex.

Lillian was accustomed to being overlooked, like a potted plant or pillar that was part of the garden scenery. When Westrop gazed down at her with a fond expression, however, she felt the exact opposite of overlooked. She felt seen .

As if he might detect every flaw, every crack showing the strong emotion roiling beneath her pleasant facade. She had gambled her reputation, her entire future on this man—and why? Because he looked at her with a plea in those gray-green eyes, and she let the rope settle about her neck like a lamb led to slaughter.

“I suppose you also think it strange I did not ask her parents’ permission either,” he continued. “I admit to having been a bit—swept off my feet.”

Now, that was doing it too brown. Lillian cast him a quelling look.

No, fond; she must appear fond to keep up the ruse. “That is true for the both of us, sir.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up, and that emerald light flashed in his eyes. He was a man of sense, for all that he’d just done something desperate. She could trust him.

Lillian had learned to rely on no one but herself.

“Hester.” Aunt turned to her daughter. “Tell me what has been transpiring here.”

Hester put a hand over her belly and blew out a puff of air. “Oof. I ate too many pastilles, and now I feel sick.”

Aunt whirled back to Lillian. “We must depart at once. And you might explain yourself in the carriage.”

“I can drive Miss Gower home, madame.” Westrop held her hand as if, once he let go, the ruse would be broken and his shield would drop, leaving him defenseless. He shot Lillian a questioning look. “We have one or two things to talk about.”

She frowned, nodding. Like why he had chosen her to spike his mother’s matrimonial wheels, and what on earth they were to do next.

Whatever he was about, it wasn’t an interest in Lillian’s own person. She mustn’t be fooled into thinking this was about her. He simply needed another body beside his under the testudo, the turtle-like shield wall the Romans used to defend their foot soldiers. He wanted someone else in his castle during the siege.

“Lil. I don’t feel right,” Hester complained.

“I’m coming, Hex.” Lillian held Westrop’s eyes, communicating her intent. I’m leaving. You’re on your own. Yes, there is some explaining to do .

He lifted her hand to his lips again. “I shall call upon you tomorrow, then. At Gower House.”

He’d been paying attention. He was paying too much attention now, catching the way her eyes flared and her breath hitched when he leaned close. He smelled of citron and olive with a hint of tobacco as an undernote. Lillian adored olives. She’d eat them with every meal and tea were she allowed.

“Till tomorrow, sir,” she said. How demure should an affianced bride be? Ought she flirt? Flutter her eyelashes? Sigh wistfully? If she’d spent more time reading romantic novels instead of classical histories, she’d know how to behave in a convincing manner after suddenly becoming affianced.

To a very attractive, well-dressed, extremely nice-smelling, completely baffling man.

It oughtn’t feel like a tug beneath her skin to walk away from him, yet it did.

“I don’t know what could have come over you,” Aunt Giles exclaimed once they were safely in her uncle’s carriage, a coach of truly antique distinction that ever smelled of horse, old leather, and, no matter what Lillian did to freshen the upholstery, mildew. “I hardly know what to think! What on earth did you do to wrangle an offer from Westrop?”

Lillian leaned her head back against the leather. Hester held her hand, clutching it in a far less affectionate but no less desperate manner than Westrop had. This was Lillian’s lot in life: to hold other people up. She waved her fan to give Hester air.

Her stomach refused to unclench. Of course, her aunt would not be amazed, or approving, or appreciative. There was no possible scenario in which Lillian might have attracted Westrop on her own merits, ergo, there was some logic that could explain this outrageous circumstance. Aunt knew this, and Lillian knew this, too.

“I went to the library, like I told you, Aunt. I found an interesting book. The next thing I knew, Westrop walked in. His mother found us conversing. I suppose she thought it unseemly that we had been alone together, so he felt obliged to propose.”

Aunt Giles pounced. “I never would have thought you so clever, Lillian. He’ll be the heir of Waringford! Well done, child. Oh, finely done. And here I thought you and your books were going to be the death of me.”

“I’m not going to hold him to it, Aunt,” Lillian said with a sigh. “I refuse to marry a man who offers for me on any basis other than affection.”

“If that isn’t the most absurd thing I ever heard.” Even in the shadowed confines of the coach, Lillian detected exasperation in her aunt’s stare. “You most certainly will not decline the hand of a Westrop. As if you’ll get a better offer.” They pondered this a moment, then her aunt went ahead and said what they were both thinking. “As if you’ll receive any offer.”

Lillian lifted her head. She didn’t know where this streak of rebellion reared from; she never talked back. “It could happen, Aunt. Some distant day, in some better, kinder world, a man could be moved to offer for me out of admiration alone.”

Aunt Giles had clearly noted and adopted the disapproving-lady-of-quality sniff. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, we might as well give him to Hester. What do you think, my lamb? Would you like to marry the big, handsome, well-connected, possibly very rich Mr. Westrop?”

Hester shook her head, a twist to her mouth. “Where’s that chamber pot Uncle keeps under the cushion? Those pastilles are coming straight back up.”