Chapter 31
AUGUST
Dawn found me in town. Each step away from the house should have cleared my head, but instead, her words followed me into the morning—quiet, steady, cutting through the frost.
You’re at war with yourself, she’d said. And she was right.
That was two days ago. Two days of avoiding her, and I still couldn't shake it.
Lily Whitmore had a way of dismantling me with nothing more than observation.
The way she’d spoken of the Weavers, calm and certain, like she already knew how the story ended.
The way her eyes had burned in the Bodleian, reverent and hungry, as if history itself might reach back and touch her.
The way she’d faced me—every argument, every truth I thought I’d buried—until there was nowhere left for me to hide.
Most people I interrogated bent beneath the weight of fear. She debated.
Most people I intimidated looked away. She met my eyes and refused to blink.
Most people saw a hunter, a weapon. She saw the man who had forgotten how to be anything else.
That was what haunted me—not her beauty, though it was undeniable. Not her mystery, though it gnawed at me. But the way she looked at me as if there was still a choice left to make. As if the man buried beneath the armor might still be worth saving.
And I was falling for her because of it.
I had filled my days with patrols and pointless errands, anything to keep from being near her. But the Pemberton dinner loomed, and my father’s command had been clear—bring her. Which meant I had to prepare her.
The briefings were their own kind of torment.
Sitting across from her in my study, going over her fabricated history—Adeline’s cousin from the countryside, visiting Oxford to see the libraries.
Teaching her which names to drop, which subjects to avoid, which lies to perfect.
She learned with frightening ease, absorbing deception as if it were a language she’d always known.
She never mentioned what had happened between us, and neither did I. But it lived there in the silence between words, in the glances that lingered a heartbeat too long, in the quiet tension neither of us could quite disguise.
By the end, I knew her false life like a prayer I’d been forced to memorize. I could anticipate her questions before she asked them. I could feel her gaze even with my back turned. She was woven through me—in my thoughts, in my breath, in the quiet ache that wouldn’t let go.
The woman was going to get me killed. Because I cared. Despite all the reasons not to, despite my father, my duty, and the beliefs I was raised to hold—I cared about her. And that made her the most dangerous thing I'd ever faced.
I found her standing in the foyer, her fingers flexing at her sides, nails digging into the soft fabric of her skirts.
The dress fit her exactly as I'd known it would.
Deep emerald green, the fabric clinging to her waist before flaring out in soft, fluid waves.
It was elegant—far too elegant for a woman who wasn't meant to be seen.
And yet, every damn inch of her demanded to be seen.
Gold embroidery caught the sconces' flicker, glowing as she moved, satin whispering along the floor.
Her hair had been pinned back at the sides, though a few rebellious strands had slipped free and framed her face in soft waves.
Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine for the evening, even if she didn't know it yet.
She looked up as I descended the stairs, and something flickered across her face—recognition, awareness, then something harder. Colder.
“You planned this,” she said flatly.
It wasn't a question.
I took the last few steps slowly, letting my gaze travel over her.
“You look stunning.”
“Don't.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like—” She stopped herself, jaw clenching. “You've avoided me for three days. Barely looked at me during those briefings. And now you're standing there looking at me like—”
Again, she stopped. Like I wanted to kiss her again. Like I regretted stopping. Like I was fighting the pull in my bones not to close the distance between us.
“Like what?” I asked quietly.
“Like nothing happened. Like you didn't kiss me and then run.”
There it was. The accusation I'd been avoiding for three days.
“I didn't run.”
“You left without a word.”
“I left before I did something I couldn't take back.”
“You mean something MORE you couldn't take back?” Her eyes blazed. “Because that kiss seemed pretty irreversible to me.”
She was right. And she was furious. And somehow that made her even more dangerous.
“Lily—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “You don't get to do this. You don't get to kiss me, call me 'everything you shouldn't want,' avoid me for three days, and then show up here acting like we're—like this is—” She gestured between us, frustrated.
“Like what?”
“I don't know!” The words escaped before she could stop them. “That's the problem, August. I don't know what this is. What you want. What any of this means.”
The vulnerability in that admission cut deeper than any accusation could have. I stepped closer. She didn't back away.
“I want you to come to this dinner,” I said quietly. “I want you on my arm when we walk in. I want my father to see—”
“See what?” she cut in. “That you've tamed the suspicious historian? That you've got it all under control?”
“That you're mine.” The words slipped out before I could stop them—raw. Honest. Dangerous.
Her breath caught.
“I mean, just for tonight,” I added quickly, trying to recover. “You're my partner for the evening. And I would look a fool if I'd shown up to the Pembertons' unaccompanied.”
“Your partner. Is that what I am?”
“It’s just a role.”
“And tomorrow?”
I had no answer for that. She watched me, waiting, and when I didn't respond, something in her expression shifted. Hardened.
“Right.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Well then. Shall we go perform for your father?”
The bitterness in her tone made my chest tighten. But she was already reaching for her cloak, already moving toward the door, already putting that careful distance back between us. I'd hurt her. Again. And this time, I couldn't even pretend I didn't know why.
The ballroom glittered like a cage made of light. Crystal sconces refracted flame into gold shards that danced across marble floors. Perfume and politics hung thick in the air. Lily’s gaze sweeping across the room with the awe of someone seeing history alive.
“It's beautiful,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“You sound surprised.”
“I've read about events like this. Studied them. But seeing it. . .” Her fingers tightened on my arm. “It's different when you're in it.”
I guided her deeper into the crowd, noting the way heads turned as we passed. Curious glances. Speculative whispers. The arrival of August Hawthorne with an unfamiliar woman would fuel gossip for weeks.
“They're staring,” she said quietly.
“Let them.”
“Easy for you to say. You're used to this.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I'm just trying not to say something that gets me labeled as dangerously educated or suspiciously well-informed.”
The casual way she said it—dry, almost amused—made me want to laugh. Or kiss her. Or both.
“Then perhaps focus less on looking fascinated by the chandeliers and more on looking bored by the conversation.”
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp. “I am fascinated by the chandeliers. Do you know how rare it is to see original gaslight fixtures from this period in working condition?”
“Lily.”
“Fine.” She schooled her expression into something more neutral, though I could see the effort it took. “But if someone starts discussing the historical context of the current political climate, I'm not responsible for what happens.”
“If someone discusses politics,” I said carefully, “you smile politely and defer to the men in the room. As we practiced.”
That earned me a look that could have melted steel.
“Right. Because heaven forbid a woman have opinions about anything more complex than embroidery.”
“Not because you're a woman. Because you're supposed to be a country cousin with limited education and no dangerous ideas about social reform.”
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Unremarkable. Forgettable. I remember.”
“Except you're on my arm, which makes you neither.” Her fingers dug into my arm. “My father will want to know who you are. Where you're from.”
“Your father.” Her voice was carefully neutral. “Will he be here tonight?”
“He's already here somewhere.” I scanned the room but didn't see him yet. “Which means we have perhaps thirty minutes to establish you as my utterly boring, perfectly appropriate companion before he decides to interrogate you himself.”
“Boring and appropriate.” Her mouth twisted. “That's going to be a challenge.”
“For you? Undoubtedly.” Despite it all, I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Well then.” She lifted her chin, that stubborn tilt I was beginning to recognize. “Let's go be devastatingly boring together.”
Adeline spotted us first, an amused smirk curving her lips as she leaned back in her chair. “Well, well. Look who decided to grace us with their presence.”
Garrick glanced up, his gaze flickering between me and Lily. “You look lovely, Miss Whitmore.”
Lily inclined her head. “Thank you.”
Adeline gestured toward an empty chair. “Sit. You're making us look bad, standing there all regal.”
Lily took the seat across from Adeline. I settled beside her, resting an arm over the back of my chair.
“Enjoying yourselves?” I asked.
Adeline shrugged, taking a slow sip from her glass. “It was dull until now.”
I let the conversation drift, half-listening to Garrick's commentary on the other guests while watching Lily from the corner of my eye. She was taking everything in—the music, the dancers, the clusters of conversation—with that same quiet intensity she'd had in the Bodleian.
After a few minutes, I leaned closer. “A dance, Lily.”