She smoothed the edge of the veil and the view of black covering her eyes shot into his body, the same as another brush with death. Darkness choked him at the thought of her not being in his life.
Lily moved away, walking towards the door. The air stirred and a light floral scent swirled around him.
The whiff of the perfume jarred him to his boots. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of something to say.
He kept from moving forward. He’d thought himself delirious after he’d been burned and when he recovered he’d shoved the memory aside, not wanting to accept that his mind had been so addled.
But it hadn’t been an angel sitting at his bedside. He knew the second the trace of flowers touched his nose that Lily had been in his sickroom, comforting his mother.
He slightly remembered his mother leaning over his form in bed and wishing him a happy birthday and dripping a tear on his face and then smudging it off and bursting into loud sobs and running from the room.
Foxworthy had spoken from somewhere in the chamber and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because Edge’s brother had three sons to pass the title to.
Anger had blasted over his last embers of life, giving him strength to move his hand. He was going to do one last thing and then die.
He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.
He’d squeezed the fingers twice.
The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.
‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.
The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.
He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.
She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.
‘Gaunt.’ Edgeworth stepped from the window when his valet entered. ‘Are my things prepared?’
‘Your Grace?’ Gaunt tilted his head forward in question.
‘For my neighbour’s little...’ he waved his hand in a circular motion and sat at his dressing mirror, pleased that his face had regained the look of health ‘...soirée. Surely you have my clothes ready.’ Keeping his eyes on the mirror, Edge asked. ‘You do have my clothing ready. You have not forgotten?’
‘Um, yes, Your Grace. Of course.’ Gaunt stepped away, feet brisk.
Edgeworth didn’t move. In one brief moment, he’d seen Gaunt’s eyes reflected in the mirror. Even as he answered with the usual unruffled respect, the valet’s eyes had briefly looked heavenward. Exasperated.
Edgeworth stared at the looking glass. Gaunt had been Edgeworth’s only valet—ever. And the servant never forgot a—Edgeworth thought back. He’d not told Gaunt of the soirée. No. He had no memory of mentioning it. He’d been busy catching up with all the duties that had fallen by the wayside while he recovered and he’d been planning his proposal. But it didn’t matter. Gaunt was always prepared.
When Gaunt returned, he had the same stoic expression as always—except for the few moments before when he’d not known himself observed. Now Gaunt whipped things about just as if he’d been told earlier of their need. Warm water appeared. Clothes were readied. Shaving was quickly accomplished, with the little splash of the scent which Gaunt said was nasturtiums and Edgeworth suspected was merely an ordinary shaving soap put in an expensive container.
Edgeworth gave a final perusal of himself, though he knew the valet would have alerted him to any flaw.
‘I can’t believe you forgot the soirée,’ Edge said.
‘Nor can I.’
No flicker of irritation. Perhaps Gaunt did think he’d forgotten.
Edge took the comb and did another run through his hair, then set the comb on the edge of the tabletop, absently letting it fall to the floor. When he stood, he picked up the dry cloth on the table, brushed it at his cheek, wadded it into a ball and tossed it over the soap pot. On the way out, he glanced at Gaunt’s expression. Calmness rested in his eyes.
The Duke paused outside the door, shutting it, but then he stopped and opened it quietly. Gaunt retrieved the comb, putting it in the spot it belonged. Then retrieved the flannel and his cheeks puffed. He wrung the cloth once, and then again, and again, as if it were—perhaps, a neck. Then he precisely smoothed it before returning it to the exact spot Edge preferred.
Pulling the door softly shut behind him, Edgeworth paused. The towel had not been wet, but if it had been his neck, he wouldn’t be going to the soirée.
* * *
Lily walked to Abigail’s room and peered in. Her sister had the face of her mother, a perfect heart shape, and her father’s fair colouring and blonde hair.
Lily supposed her colouring came from her true father. At the one time she’d seen the blacksmith, she’d not been aware that men could pass their resemblance on to their children. She was thankful for that.
Her mother had jerked Lily’s hand forward, pulling her into the invisible wall of heat and charred odours which separated the shop from the alive world. A blacksmith had appeared, standing like a gruff ogre at a fire where his next meal could be roasted—or a fire where a little girl who’d stepped too near could be tossed.
His eyes couldn’t have been gleaming red-hot—he was human—but in her memory he’d had red eyes, blocks of huge teeth and his wet hair had spiked down the sides of his face into points.
When the stories in the newspaper were published about her birth and she fully considered what that really meant, she’d shuddered. Fortune had plucked her into a princess world where even her maid hummed. Being illegitimate wasn’t nearly so bad as the thought of how different life would have been with the man whose walls hung dark with long pinchers.
She’d only had the one nightmare where he’d grabbed her with the pinchers and tossed her into the flames, laughing and telling her she didn’t belong in the rich man’s world. She belonged in the coals.
Now, Lily appraised her sister, thankful for the brightness Abigail brought into the world.
‘You look like a
