He’s a duke,’ her father said. ‘He is not a waste of your time.’
‘Perhaps we misunderstood His Grace all these years,’ Lily said.
‘Couldn’t have,’ her father said. ‘I saw the book.’
‘What book?’ Abigail asked.
‘The deportment one. The one Abigail put in the library.’
‘I put it there, Father,’ Lily said.
‘What were you doing with Abigail’s book?’
‘Book?’ Abigail’s voice challenged.
‘Edgeworth gave me a book on deportment.’ Lily shrugged the words away.
‘He did?’ Her sister’s head snapped around to Lily and her eyes widened. ‘You never told me.’
‘The note...’ Her father studied her. ‘It was for you, Lily?’
‘I never put any note in a book.’ Abigail’s nose wrinkled. ‘What did it say?’
‘Something about you becoming a duchess,’ he answered.
‘Oh,’ Abigail put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh.’ She looked at Lily and then at her father. Her eyes gleamed with laughter. ‘Lily. Lily’s note.’ She jumped to her feet and leaned over the table. ‘Father.’ She stretched her arm and pointed her finger almost into Lily’s face. Lily batted it away. ‘It was hers.’ She laughed. ‘The Duke. They were whispering in the corner. Foxworthy was trying to distract me and tell me how beautiful I was—right out of the blue. We all know that’s true, but Foxworthy kept saying all his normal balderdash, and all the while Lily and the Duke were nose to nose in the corner. You didn’t notice?’
‘They’ve always—’ He stopped, irritation fading. He tapped his fingertips together, staring at Lily. ‘It was your note.’
‘A jest,’ she said.
‘Well...’ He stood and perused both his daughters. ‘This may change plans for the two of you. But it doesn’t really change mine. I want your fortunes to increase with marriage.’ He rested a hand on the back of a chair. ‘Remember, money can’t buy happiness, but a rich person who is miserable has to work at it.’
He turned. ‘I want Edgeworth for a son-in-law. I don’t care how the two of you sort it out.’
Lily watched him leave the room.
‘So...’ Abigail swooped, laughing. ‘You are all set to steal my beau.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, wishing Abigail would stand still enough to swat. ‘Edgeworth has—had a misunderstanding.’ She couldn’t have so much attention on her. People would sneer. The blacksmith’s daughter who married a duke.
‘Well, I should be upset that he prefers you over me, but I’m really rather relieved. Particularly since I prefer almost everyone over him.’ Abigail grimaced. ‘Edgeworth is a little—I mean, he acts ancient. I prefer someone more lively.’
‘He’s just serious.’
‘Yes. He is,’ Abigail said, leaving. ‘Too serious. Just like you.’ She tapped her finger against her lips. ‘I never noticed that before.’ She turned, her dignity leaving as she called out, ‘Father. Is the note to Lily still there?’ Her voice rose. ‘I must see it.’
Lily clamped her teeth together. Abigail could look all she wanted. The book was now hidden under Lily’s bed and the note had been folded into a bookmark and now resided in a recipe book.
* * *
Standing behind the open curtains in Abigail’s room, she watched for the Duke to step out of his house. The nightly jaunt into the gardens had been a tradition of sorts. His father used to walk out in the evenings and smoke occasionally—and always when Edge was home from his studies. She’d eavesdropped several times, impressed with his father speaking so much. But after a few nights, she’d lost all interest in what a duke should do and how he should do it.
When Edge was injured, she’d known he was very ill, because his forays into the garden had completely stopped. Not once in eleven days had he stepped out.
Now, she waited.
Finally, a lone figure moved into sight. If she’d not been watching for movement, she wouldn’t have seen him in the fading light. He stood, eyes taking in the night. He’d been named well. She’d never seen a lion at night, just the one in the menagerie, but it hadn’t seemed to care who watched it, or what they thought, because it had a powerful build and the force of generations of strength bred into it.
She took a wrap from the dressing chamber and put it around her shoulders, and sat a bonnet on her head, leaving the blue ribbons to flutter.
A flash of memory caused her feet to slow and a pang of guilt to hit her midsection. She’d lived so carefully, avoiding every opportunity to be like her mother.
Before stepping outside, she gave an extra tap to hold her bonnet in place. She paused when the fresh air hit her face. But it was dark enough no one would see her.
She’d had to wait until the sun set because otherwise when she moved forward, she would be in view of all the windows, and it simply could not appear she was engaging in anything of questionable nature. She’d been fortunate with the mourning attire, but one servant had seen her returning to the house and met her with a broom, concerned a stranger was lurking about.
She’d explained that the sun had given her a headache and she’d wanted to shield her face, and she’d donned the darker clothing. That had caused a furrowed brow, but hadn’t been questioned.
If she said she’d suddenly taken an interest in horticulture at night time no one would believe it.
She could not let anyone think she was like her mother, particularly Edgeworth.
Not one word had been mentioned in print about Lily’s family in such a long time and she didn’t want it to change. The words didn’t seem to stick to the people who’d been generations in London, but it landed on her family like the stench in the streets everyone stepped around and it lingered. Everyone thought her father had bought his way into society and, in a sense, he had.
She took in a breath and moved away from the house. Perhaps she was like her mother.
Her footsteps didn’t make noise in the dew-dampened grass. She forced herself to slow, the wafting honeysuckle perfume of the night surrounding her. When her eyes locked on Edgeworth, she could have been the predator.
When he saw her, his shoulders turned while he pulled in a normal intake of breath with the same fluidity. With that movement, their positions reversed. She couldn’t even see into his eyes, but still he mastered the space.
She curtsied, but didn’t lower her head. The bench, hidden in the daylight by the semi-circle of hedge around it, was at her left. Edge had sat there so many times with his books.
Even though she couldn’t see it until she stood near, she moved directly to it and sat.
He
