Chapter 6
“You are staring, old friend.” Edward materialized at Hugo’s elbow with two glasses of champagne.
“I am surveying the room.” Hugo accepted the glass without looking at it. “It is what one does at these events.”
“You are surveying one very specific part of the room.” Edward followed Hugo’s gaze across the Whitmore ballroom to where Lady Lily stood beside her mother.
Her hair was swept up in a simple arrangement threaded with seed pearls. Her gown was a deep emerald green that turned her eyes to something luminous and alluring.
She laughed at something Lady Brimsey said, and the sound carried across the crowd like a note struck on crystal.
Hugo’s chest constricted. It was a physical thing, sudden and unwelcome, a tightening beneath his ribs that spread heat up through his throat and back down into his stomach. His pulse kicked. His fingers curled around the stem of the champagne glass.
He had seen beautiful women before. He had bedded them, charmed them, then forgotten them by breakfast. Beauty was currency in his world, spent and replenished without a second thought.
But Lady Lily was not simply beautiful. She was vivid.
She occupied space the way a flame occupied a room, drawing every eye without trying, and when she turned her head and caught the light, something in his gut clenched with a ferocity that made him want to set down the glass and leave the building.
He did not leave the building. He drank his champagne.
“Shall we?” Edward gestured toward the women.
Hugo crossed the ballroom and extended his hand to Lily. She placed her gloved fingers against his palm, and even through two layers of fabric, the contact registered in his blood like a match struck in a dark room.
“My betrothed.” He raised her hand to his lips and held her gaze. “You look extraordinary this evening.”
“You say that at every event.”
“And I mean it at every event.”
Something softened behind her eyes but it vanished quickly. He filed it.
They moved through the ballroom together, and within minutes, the questions began.
A ruddy-faced baron named Crowell was the first to test the waters. He clasped Hugo’s hand and grinned with the conspiratorial warmth of a man who believed they shared a secret.
“Your Grace. Well done, I must say. The pamphlet hinted at clandestine meetings, and here you are, engaged. Were you sneaking out to see each other, then? A bit of moonlit romance before the announcement?”
Hugo felt Lily tense against his arm. He kept his expression pleasant.
“I am afraid the pamphlet was nothing but speculation, Crowell. I have been calling on the Readthorpes at Brimsey House, in full view of Lord and Lady Brimsey, as convention requires.” He paused, letting the words settle.
“I would not dream of compromising my fiancée’s reputation by conducting a courtship in the shadows. She deserves better than that.”
The rebuke was gentle, but it landed. Crowell’s grin faltered, and he cleared his throat.
“Of course. Naturally. Congratulations to you both.”
He retreated. Lily’s grip on Hugo’s arm loosened by a fraction.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“For what?”
“For not letting him turn our engagement into a bawdy anecdote.”
Hugo glanced down at her. “That is the purpose of this arrangement, is it not? To control the narrative.”
“It is. I simply did not expect you to be so good at it.”
“You wound me, Lady Lily. I am good at everything.”
Her mouth twitched. She looked away before he could see whether it became a smile.
They circled the room. Hugo navigated the congratulations with the ease of long practice, steering each exchange toward the version of events they needed Society to believe.
Lily’s sister was his friend’s wife. For that reason, he had been calling at Brimsey House. The courtship had been conducted with propriety. The engagement was the natural conclusion of a private attachment that the pamphlet had prematurely and inaccurately exposed.
Near the terrace doors, a woman in a gown of deep burgundy stepped into their path.
“Your Grace.” Lady Stapleton dipped into a curtsy that lingered a beat too long, her dark eyes sweeping over Hugo with an appreciation that was barely concealed beneath the veneer of politeness.
She was handsome in the sharp, angular way of women who understood that beauty was a weapon and wielded it accordingly.
Her daughter, Miss Stapleton, stood half a step behind. She watched Lady Lily with an attention that felt less like curiosity and more like measurement.
“Lady Stapleton. Miss Stapleton.” Hugo bowed. “A pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. And Lady Lily.” She turned to Lily with a smile that displayed every tooth. “What a thrilling engagement. The ton has talked of little else.”
“You are too kind, Lady Stapleton.”
“Not at all. I was just telling Beatrice how surprised we were by the announcement. Pleasantly surprised, of course.” Her gaze flicked between Hugo and Lily with the practiced subtlety of a woman cataloging weaknesses. “One never quite knows where the heart will lead, does one?”
“Indeed, one does not,” Hugo said, and placed his hand over Lily’s on his arm in a gesture that was equal parts affection and territory.
“Well. We must not keep you from your evening.” Lady Stapleton inclined her head. “Come, Beatrice.”
Mother and daughter moved away. Hugo watched them make a direct line toward the cluster of guests near the refreshment table, where Lord Wilfrey stood with a glass of wine.
Lady Stapleton’s approach was seamless, and within moments, Miss Stapleton was positioned at Wilfrey’s side, her head tilted at precisely the angle that suggested both deference and interest.
Lady Lily had noticed. He could feel it in the way her fingers pressed into his forearm.
“Interesting,” Hugo murmured.
Lily said nothing. Her jaw tightened.
Before he could pursue the observation, a gentleman Hugo recognized as Lord Marcus Gould approached with the eager stride of a man who smelled gossip and could not resist chasing it.
“Lady Lily.” Gould bowed with a flourish. “I must say, the engagement was quite the surprise. Especially given the circumstances of the pamphlet. Tell me, was there any truth to the claims? Clandestine meetings and all that?”
Hugo opened his mouth to redirect, but Lily was faster.
“The pamphlet was a forgery, my lord. A malicious fabrication printed by someone too cowardly to attach their own name to it. If you are asking whether I was sneaking about in the dark with the Duke of Thornwaite, the answer is no. I was at home, reading, which is how I spend most of my evenings, because unlike the author of that wretched sheet, I have better things to do with my time than manufacture lies about people I have never met.”
Gould blinked. His mouth opened and closed twice. He managed a strangled “Quite so” and retreated with the haste of a man who had reached into a hedgerow and found a snake.
Hugo waited until Gould was out of earshot. Then he steered Lily toward a quieter alcove near the windows, where the candlelight was dimmer, and the nearest guests were absorbed in their own conversations.
“That was impressive,” he said.
Lily’s chin lifted. “Thank you.”
“It was not a compliment.” He kept his voice low. “You proved yourself clever, Lady Lily. You also made that man determined to avoid you for the rest of his natural life.”
The satisfaction drained from her expression. Something rawer took its place, a flicker of uncertainty that she masked almost immediately, but not before he caught it.
“He was being impertinent.”
“He was. And you eviscerated him for it.” Hugo held her gaze. “In a court of law, your response would have been magnificent. In a ballroom, it was a disaster. You humiliated a man in public, and men who have been humiliated do not forget. They do not forgive. And they talk.”
Lily’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He watched the conflict work behind her eyes, pride warring with the recognition that he was right.
“Then what should I have said?”
Hugo glanced around. The alcove was secluded enough. He turned back to her and crossed his arms.
“Lesson one. How to disagree with a man without making him feel as though he has been struck.”
“I did not strike him.”
“You did worse. You made him feel foolish, and a foolish man is a dangerous man.” He squared his shoulders. “I am Gould. I have just asked you a rude, invasive question about the pamphlet. Show me what you should have done.”
Lily stared at him. “You want me to practice on you?”
“I want you to learn.” He arranged his features into an expression of pompous curiosity. “Lady Lily, was there any truth to the pamphlet? Clandestine meetings and all that?”
“The pamphlet was a forgery, and I would prefer not to discuss it.”
“Better. But too blunt. You have shut the door in his face, and now he will spend the rest of the evening wondering what you are hiding. Try again. Give him something to chew on. Redirect. Make him feel as though he has gotten more than he deserves.”
She drew a breath. “My lord, you are kind to inquire. The pamphlet was a misunderstanding, but I confess I am flattered that anyone found my life interesting enough to write about. Now tell me, I understand your daughter is out this Season. She must be enjoying the festivities.”
Hugo tilted his head. “Better. Much better. You acknowledged his question, deflected with humor, and then handed him his favorite subject: himself. A man who is talking about his own family is a man who has forgotten what he came to ask.” He paused. “But your posture is wrong.”
“My posture?” She asked, looking down at her stance in confusion.
“Your shoulders are squared, your chin is lifted, and your hands are clasped in front of you like a governess about to deliver a reprimand.” He glanced over her shoulder. The nearest guests remained occupied. He stepped closer. “Drop your shoulders.”
She hesitated, then let them fall.
“Softer. Not defeated. Relaxed.” He moved to her side, close enough that his voice would not carry. “Tilt your head when you ask a question. Not like a puppy. Like a woman who finds the answer genuinely interesting.”
“I do not find Lord Gould genuinely interesting.”
“Then pretend. That is the entire point.” He studied the line of her neck, the way the candlelight caught the pearls threaded through her hair and made himself focus.
“When you redirect the conversation, keep your shoulders open. It signals that you are inviting him to continue, not dismissing him.”
“This is absurd,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“This is how the game is played.” He lowered his voice. “Let us try again. I am going to say something deliberately provoking, and you are going to respond without drawing blood.”
He stepped back into position and adopted Gould’s expression.
“Lady Lily, I must confess, I was astonished by the engagement. The Duke of Thornwaite is a man of considerable experience, and you are, well, rather bookish, are you not? An unusual pairing, to say the least.”
Lily’s eyes flashed. He saw the retort form on her tongue, saw her jaw tighten with the effort of biting it back. Her hands curled at her sides. For a moment, he thought she would fail again.
Then she tilted her head. The tension left her shoulders. A small, warm smile curved her lips, and when she spoke, her voice carried a softness that he had never heard from her before.
“How perceptive of you, Lord Gould. I suppose we are an unusual pairing. But then, the Duke has always been full of surprises.” She let the smile reach her eyes. “As have I.”
Hugo held the pose for a beat. Then he let Lord Gould fall away and looked at her as himself.
“Well done.”
Something sparked in her expression. Not the defensive sharpness he was accustomed to, but something warmer. He saw pleasure behind her eyes, but then, it was quickly suppressed.
“It felt dishonest.”
“It felt strategic. There is a difference.” He stepped closer, checking over her shoulder that no one watched. “One more correction.”
He reached out and touched two fingers to the underside of her chin. The contact was featherlight, barely a graze, but Lily went utterly still. He tilted her chin up by a fraction of an inch.
“When you deliver the final line,” he said, and his voice came low enough that it was meant for her alone, “look him in the eye. Not with defiance. With warmth. As though you are letting him in on a secret that only the two of you share.”
Her breath shallowed. He could see it in the rise and fall of her chest. The green of her irises was darker this close, ringed with gold, and for a moment the ballroom, the lesson, the performance all fell away, and there was nothing but the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips and the silence that stretched between them like a held breath.
He dropped his hand.
“Like that,” he said.
Lily blinked. She stepped back, and the rigidness returned to her posture like armor being buckled into place.
Her cheeks heated. “I was practicing the technique.”
“Of course you were.”
“I was.”
“I said of course.” He let the corner of his mouth lift. “You are a very dedicated student, Lady Lily.”
“And you are a very presumptuous teacher.”
“Guilty.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the party before someone notices we have been whispering in an alcove?”
She placed her hand on his arm, in the exact, perfect, subtle way she should. But when her fingers settled against his sleeve, they trembled.
Hugo pretended not to notice.
He was getting particularly good at pretending not to notice things about Lily Readthorpe. The way her laughter sounded across a crowded room. The way she smelled of rosewater and old books. The way her pulse raced when he stood too close, and the way his own matched it beat for beat.
He was getting incredibly good at pretending and unbelievably bad at believing the deception.