11. Chapter 11- Lily
“Ididn’t see that fellow again all evening,” Margaret whispered the next afternoon. “And believe me, I was looking.”
Lily gave a noncommittal hum and smoothed her light blue day dress for the hundredth time before tsking herself and determining to hold still. She was not the only one of her sisters who seemed a bit twitchy, though Lily supposed they could all be excused for their nerves.
When the porcelain mantel clock proclaimed that it was ten minutes to visiting hours, they’d all assembled. They’d walked into the front parlor in a grim, silent line, and then exposed their private hopes by sitting on separate sofas, leaving plenty of room for visitors.
Only Margaret had chosen to share, taking the far end of the sofa on which Lily tried her best not to fidget.
They sat at whispering distance. Lily wished her sister had chosen an armchair across the room.
It was going to be difficult enough to deal with Lord Hayes—Bradford—without Margaret overhearing every word.
“And what of you?” In Lily’s angst, the question came out sharper than she’d meant it to.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. “What of me?”
Lily gave an apologetic smile. “I fear I’m quite overwrought. This entire thing is nerve-wracking.”
“I can only imagine.” Margaret nodded, smiling. “But I’m sure you’ll do very well.”
Lily’s forehead creased. “What do you mean you can only imagine? You’re to receive callers, too.”
Margaret flapped a careless hand. “Oh, of course, hypothetically. But less so in the practical sense.”
“Margaret Constance Preston. Do you think?—”
Lily was interrupted by the appearance of their butler. “His Grace, the Duke of Ettrick, to see Miss Margaret Preston.”
Margaret gave a quiet gasp as a large, handsome man walked through the archway to the parlor. Lily recognized him—it was the dark-haired man she’d seen studying Margaret the night before.
Lily blinked. It was good that William had designed the parlor to have high ceilings and towering doorways, as the man was well over six feet. Last night, she’d overheard several ladies whispering about the duke while she’d been hiding behind a pillar, trying to avoid Lord Rigsby.
“He is exceedingly handsome, is he not?” one of the ladies had murmured.
“If that and his title were all he possessed, he could still have the pick of any unattached lady in the room.”
“Several of the married ones, too, I’d imagine,” another said.
There was the swat of a folded fan hitting something. “What a shocking thing to say.”
“Spare me your fake outrage—I want to hear more about the duke.”
“Rumor has it, he has upwards of twenty thousand a year.”
“Surely not that much!”
“I hear he owns half of Scotland.”
“Though doubtless he has a house in town, too, with that income.”
“Over on Berkeley Square.”
“That’s good. I shouldn’t like to be that far away from London,” she said.
“As if he’d choose you!” another said.
Lily had wrinkled her nose—she was glad this was not her circle of friends, if they spoke to one another with such careless disregard for the others’ feelings.
“It’s a shame one can hardly understand the fellow.”
“As handsome as he is, I hardly think talking will be necessary,” another had murmured.
The grouping of young misses predictably dissolved into a fit of giggles that made Lily wonder whether someone had spiked the punch, after all.
But now the Duke of Ettrick was in their very house, bearing down on Margaret with a gleam in his eye that Lily could only describe as focused.
She didn’t have long to study the awkwardness of the introduction, as the butler promptly announced, “Lord Rutheridge to see Miss Claire Preston. Lord Hayes to see Miss Lily Preston.”
Lily took a fortifying breath and stood as Lord Hayes entered just behind Claire’s guest. Bradford, she corrected herself again. Unlike the others who’d plowed forward toward their feminine targets, Bradford paused just inside the threshold and scanned the room.
Lily liked that about him, she realized—that he took his time and didn’t rush.
It was an unhurried, patient kind of look, the kind that came with the quiet confidence of having several years’ advantage over the other gentlemen present.
And drat it if Lily didn’t notice and find it exceedingly attractive—a highly confusing notion.
Although Lily had realized that Bradford was handsome the moment she laid eyes on him all those months ago in Northumberland, at the time, it had been an innocent appraisal.
It was the same kind of acknowledgement she might have made of a nice sofa or an excellent pair of drapes—a cursory appreciation for an item of quality make.
For as she was his governess, Bradford’s handsomeness could mean nothing more to Lily than that of a nicely built chair did.
But now, what were they to each other? A former governess and her employer? A charlatan and her victim? Or something else altogether? All of Lily’s whirling thoughts inexorably pulled her to the same Charybdis at the bottom of her mind—why on earth was Bradford here?
She’d spent all night trying to ascertain his motives—the smudges beneath her eyes attested to it.
Even Mabel, her maid, had tutted at her appearance and declared it must have been all the excitement.
Lily didn’t have the heart to tell her it was sheer terror, not anticipation for the Season, that had kept her awake.
Bradford raised his eyebrow and smirked at her. “Good afternoon, Lily.”
She started. Though she’d risen to greet him, she hadn’t registered that he now stood before her. He plucked her hand from where it hung limply at her side and pressed it soundly to his lips. The warm breath that gusted over her lace-gloved knuckles spoke of barely concealed amusement.
Was he laughing at her?
Lily frowned and was determined to ask him such plainly, but the butler announced, “Lord Anderson, Lord Shaw, and Mr. Chapman to see Miss Lily Preston.”
Bradford grumbled something under his breath that might have been “too pretty for your own good.”
Lily frowned sharply at him; he arched an insouciant eyebrow in reply.
What on earth was his game? Didn’t he know how stressful this was for her, having him here, wondering if he would expose her at any given moment?
As they stared at each other—her frowning and Bradford seemingly studying her, something like realization passed over his features, softening the mocking lilt of his lips. But there was no time to address it, for the other gentlemen were approaching.
From the corner of her eye, Lily saw Margaret stand suddenly and relocate to a pair of chairs near the window.
The Duke of Ettrick quickly followed. Lily would have to ask Margaret more about her acquaintance with the gentleman later.
There was only half a moment for a passing thought in that direction before three gentlemen bowed lowly in front of Lily, one at a time.
Lord Anderson was tall, with a simpering smile and curling blonde hair that refused to stay in arrangement.
Lily had danced with him the night before.
Though he’d started the evening with his hair carefully combed with pomade, by the end, the product had conceded the fight and he’d been left with a puff of nearly white curls that had bounced right along with his steps to the daring Gallopade.
Lord Shaw was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, with tanned skin and a capable air that reminded Lily vaguely of her brother William.
Mr. Chapman had been introduced to Lily toward the end of the previous evening when she’d already been quite overwhelmed by the crowds.
She barely remembered him. He was of medium height and build, untitled but rumored to be very wealthy indeed.
Lily greeted them each with warm politeness as she’d been taught—a difficult task with Bradford watching. It became even more difficult to focus once he sat next to her, close enough that his knee nearly brushed the edge of her satin skirts.
Lily was grateful for the momentary reprieve as the gentlemen took their seats—Lord Shaw to Lily’s left, the other two in the chairs facing her. The men greeted each other and made small talk while Lily did her social duty and poured tea, offering them each cream and sugar in turn.
But alas, it was eventually time to start speaking, and Lily’s hands trembled so badly that she dared not pick up her teacup, lest it rattle against the saucer.
She pressed her fingertips together demurely in her lap until the bottom hand was quite pinched.
The sensation helped her nerves, but not by much.
Lily wasn’t ignorant of the deep irony of the situation. She’d been given beauty that men greatly admired, along with a dislike for being looked at by more than two people at once, if she didn’t know them well. Her family didn’t count, neither did the servants or long-time family friends.
But strangers. Male strangers, especially. And here were three of them, each smiling and staring and expecting Lily to say something clever. All she could manage was a stupid, insipid sort of smile while her mind whirred.
Did she know how to make conversation? She was certain she’d done so before. It was difficult to believe when she didn’t even remember how to speak at the moment.
The time stretched, growing more awkward by the moment—at least by Lily’s imagination. She was aware that all of the men were looking at her, but she felt Bradford’s attention the most keenly.
He studied her carefully for several moments. Then he turned and said, “Lord Shaw, are you a military man?”
Despite their tense, unfinished business, Lily had the wild urge to kiss Bradford full on the mouth for starting a conversation.
Lord Shaw nodded. “I’m always curious to know which arm of the military someone suspects.”
On a wild impulse, Lily blurted, “The navy.”
There. Huzzah! She’d said something.
Lord Shaw dipped his chin and smiled. “How did you know?”
Lily smiled wanly. “A lucky guess, I suppose.”