Tears burned the back of Liliah’s eyes, yet she held them in till she spun on her heel and quit the room, just as the first streams of warm tears spilled down her cheeks.
Surely there had to be another way?
Perhaps there was, but time was running out.
For everyone.
* * *
The Langford rout was buzzing with activity from London society’s most elite, the bon ton. The orchestra’s sweet melody floated through the air, drowning out most of the buzzing hum of voices. The dancers swirled around, a kaleidoscope of pastel colors amidst the gentlemen’s black evening kits. Ostrich and peacock feathers decorated the main banquet table, along with painted silver eggs. But the beauty of the ballroom was lost on Liliah; even the prospect of a treacle tart didn’t boost her mood. She meandered through the crush of humanity, swiping a glass of champagne from a passing footman. Sipping the cool liquid, she savored the bubbles as her gaze sharpened on her target.
Lady Grace—Rebecca—danced gracefully as she took the practiced steps of the quadrille. Rebecca smiled at her partner, and Liliah watched as the poor sop all but melted with admiration. Stifling a giggle, she waited till the dance ended, and made her way toward her friend. As she drew near, Rebecca caught sight and raised a hand in a wave, her overly expressive eyes smiling as wide as her lips.
“Liliah! Did you only just arrive? I was searching for you earlier.” Rebecca reached out and squeezed Liliah’s hand.
“I stalled,” Liliah confessed.
Rebecca’s smile faded, her green eyes no longer bright. “Did it work?”
“No.” Liliah glanced away, not knowing if she could handle the heartbreak that must be evident in Rebecca’s gaze.
“We understood it was a small chance. We must now simply seize every opportunity.” Rebecca spoke with far more control than Liliah expected. As she turned to her friend, she saw a depth of pain, yet a depth of strength in her gaze.
“There’s always hope,” Liliah affirmed, squeezing her friend’s hand.
“Always. And that being said, I must now seize this present opportunity.” Rebecca’s face lit up as only one deeply in love could do, and curtseyed as Meyer approached.
The Baron of Scoffield approached, but Liliah ever knew him as simply Meyer. Their friendship had been immediate and long-standing. Ever since Liliah, Rebecca, and Meyer had snuck away during a fireworks display at Vauxhall Gardens, they had created a special bond of friendship. But over the years, that friendship had shifted into something deeper between Meyer and Rebecca, while Liliah was happy to watch their romance bloom. Meyer’s gaze smoldered as he studied Rebecca, a secretive smile in place. As Liliah turned back to Rebecca, she saw the most delicate blush tint her olive skin. Liliah blushed as well, feeling like an intruder in their private moment. “I’ll just leave you two . . .” She trailed off, walking away as she heard Meyer ask Rebecca for a dance.
Liliah sipped the remaining champagne, watching her friends dance. Their eyes never left each other’s; even if they switched partners for the steps, they always came together, their love apparent for anyone who cared to look.
It was beautiful, and it was for naught.
As the dance ended, the first strains of a waltz soared through the air. What should have been beautiful was poisoned, and her heart felt increasingly heavy as Meyer walked in her direction, his lips a grim line.
He didn’t ask, simply held out his hand, and Liliah placed hers within his grasp, reluctantly following as they took the floor.
“By your expression, I can only assume you had as much progress with your father as I’ve had with mine,” Meyer said, his brown eyes sober as his gaze flickered away—likely looking for Rebecca.
“Your assumption would be correct,” Liliah replied.
Meyer took a deep breath, meeting her gaze. “We’ll figure something out.”
“But Meyer—” Liliah started.
“We will. We just need to bide our time till the opportunity presents itself.” He nodded with a brave confidence in his deep eyes.
“But what if we don’t?” Liliah hated to give voice to her deepest fears, watching as Meyer’s brave façade slowly fractured.
“Liliah, I—I can’t think of that. I’m damned if I do, damned if I do not. I’m sure your father reminded you about my title—”
“And how Lord and Lady Grace wouldn’t consider you without a title . . .”
“Exactly. I have to hold on to hope. But I, I do need to tell you . . . Liliah, if we are forced . . . nothing between us will change.” He lowered his chin, meeting Liliah’s gaze dead on, conveying words he couldn’t speak out loud.
“Thank you,” Liliah replied, feeling relieved. As much as she hated the idea of a platonic marriage, it hurt far worse to think of the betrayal that would haunt them all should Meyer take her to bed. It hurt to think she’d never know physical love, yet what choice did they all have? Should they take that step, Meyer would be thinking of Rebecca during the act, Liliah would know, and would not only be betraying her friend, but how could she not be resentful? Far better for them to simply bide their time till an arrangement could be made—she would simply step aside. Maybe take a lover of her own?
How she hated how complicated her life had become.
Liliah took a deep breath, mindlessly performing the waltz steps. A smile quirked her lips as she had a rather unhelpful—yet still amusing—thought.
“Ah, I know that smile. What is your devious mind thinking?” Meyer asked, raising a dark brow even as he grinned.
Liliah gave him a mock glare. “I’m not devious.”
“You are utterly devious.” Meyer chuckled. “Which makes you a very diverting friend indeed. Now share your thoughts.”
Liliah rolled her eyes. “Such charm. Very well, I was simply thinking how it would be lovely if we could simply make the wedding a masquerade and have Rebecca switch places with me at the last moment! Then you’d marry her rather than me and it would be over and done before they could change it!” She hitched a shoulder at her silly thoughts.
Meyer chuckled. “Devious indeed! Too bad it will not work.” He furrowed a brow and glanced away, as if thinking.
“What is your wicked mind concocting?”
“Nothing of import.” His gaze shifted back to her. “Your mentioning of the masquerade reminded me of an earlier conversation with a chum.”
Liliah grinned. “Is there a masquerade ball being planned?” she asked with barely restrained enthusiasm.
“Indeed, but it is one to which you will not be invited, thank heavens.” He shook his head, grinning, yet his expression was one of relief.
“Why so?”
“It’s not a masquerade for polite society, my dear. And I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”
“A secret? Meyer, you simply must tell me!”
“Heavens no! This is not for your delicate—”
Liliah snorted softly, giving him an exasperated expression, before she slowly grinned.
“Aw hell. I know that smile. Liliah . . .” he warned.
“If you won’t tell me, then I can always ask someone else—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!”
“You know I will.”
“You’re a menace!” Meyer hissed, his expression narrowing as the waltz ended.
“So, you’ll tell me?” Liliah asked, biting her lip with excitement.
Meyer was silent as he led them to a quiet corner of the ballroom, pausing beside a vacant alcove.
“This is a yes!” Liliah answered her question, squeezing his forearm as her hand rested upon it.
“I’m only telling you so that I can properly manage what you hear. Heaven only knows what you’d draw out of an unsuspecting swain. At least I’m immune to your charms and won’t give in to your pleas.”
Liliah almost reminded him that he was doing just that—but held her tongue.
“There is a . . . place.” Meyer spoke in a hushed whisper, and Liliah mo
ved in closer just to hear his words above the floating music. “It’s secretive, selective, and not a place for a gently bred lady, if you gather my meaning.”
Liliah nodded, hanging on every word.
“Only few are accepted as members and it’s quite the thing to be invited. One of my acquaintances was far too drunk the other night and spoke too freely about this secretive club—mentioning a masquerade. That is all.”
Liliah thought over his words, having several questions. “What’s it called?”
Meyer paused, narrowing his eyes. “Temptations,” he added reluctantly.
“And they are having a masquerade?” Liliah asked, a plan forming in her mind, spinning out of control.
“Yes. And that is all you need to know.”
Meyer broke their gaze and looked over his shoulder at the swirling crowd.
“Go to her. We still have one waltz left and then I’ll ask you all the questions you’ll refuse to answer.” She winked, playfully shoving her friend toward the dance floor.
“When you put it that way . . .” He rolled his eyes and walked off toward the crowd.
Liliah thought back over what Meyer had said, considering his words—and what they might mean. A masquerade—inappropriate for ladies.
It sounded like the perfect solution for a lady wishing to be utterly inappropriate. All she had to do was discover the location, steal away, and maybe, just maybe . . . she’d get to experience a bit of life before it was married away. Was that too much to ask? Certainly not, and as long as she knew the name, surely she could discover the location.
For the first time since this whole misbegotten disaster, she felt a shred of hope.
Utterly scandalous hope.
Chapter Two
“Lucas!”
Heathcliff’s booming voice rattled about in Lucas’s head. It had been a long night. Several club members had been removed from the premises, creating a large upheaval in the otherwise smooth production of last night’s events. Tonight would hopefully be less eventful—yet masquerade balls usually presented their own risks—and rewards.
“I’m in here. Bloody hell, what do you want? And can you please keep your voice down?” Lucas’s voice was thick from lack of sleep and parched from too much brandy the night before.
“There you are. You look like hell, get up. Busy day today. Last night was fun, eh? Nothing like a good brawl.” Heathcliff Marston, Viscount Kilpatrick, was a large man, his Scottish brogue as thick as his arms and his smile as broad as his shoulders. A mountain of a man, he was one of Lucas’s two greatest friends, and the largest pain in the arse.
Lucas slowly stood from his position behind his desk. He’d never made it to his rooms last night, simply surrendered to sleep at his study’s wide mahogany desk. His back protested in pain as he stood. Wincing, he groaned. “I’m too bloody young to feel so bloody old.”
“Speak for yourself.” Heathcliff shrugged. Never one to be called by his title, Lucas had grown accustomed to the almost plebian manner of his friend. Most days it was refreshing—today it was annoying.
“Did you want something? Other than to irritate me to death?”
Heathcliff chuckled. “Tempting. But I’m pretty sure the devil can’t die, so I’ll take the second option—yes, I need something.”
“And that is?” Lucas asked, rotating his neck, trying to work the kinks out of it.
“It would seem that . . . well. We have a leak.”
“Leak?” Lucas blinked in confusion. “Damn rain. In the roof?”
“No. As in leak of information. Holy hell, you’re slow this morning.”
Lucas swore under his breath. “Tell me you didn’t say anything to Ramsey.”
“Do I look like an idiot?”
“Ye—”
“I’ll answer that for you. No. I’m damn brilliant and I kept my mouth shut.”
“For once.”
“That and Ramsey would be hotter than Hades about this. You know how he hates anything that whispers the word scandal—”
“Which is the fullest of ironies, that he’s participating in this club.”
“I never said the man made sense.”
“Here, here.” Lucas knocked his fist on the desk. “But the man’s brilliant with numbers—so let’s just keep this bit of information to ourselves. What do you know?”
Heathcliff strode to a chair opposite Lucas’s desk. Sprawling on the piece of furniture, he shrugged. “It would seem that last night several young men asked for entrance. None had paperwork or invitations, and neither were their families on the docket for invitation.”
“Damn.”
“Exactly.”
“And right before the masquerade.”
“This poses a bit of a difficult security threat.” Heathcliff leaned forward. “I think we should simply double the guard in front, and check all vouchers. No one gets in unless they have their golden invitation.”
Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Several gentlemen will not appreciate that. They expect their level of membership to entitle them to—”
“It’s the masquerade.” Heathcliff shrugged. “We simply explain that such an . . . event . . . requires additional security. That way no one is the wiser.”
“Yes. Yes. That might work. It has to. We’ve no other option.”
“See? Problem solved. You’re welcome. Now . . . get dressed. We have work to do and you smell and look like hell.” Heathcliff rose, his loud footsteps echoing as he quit the room.
Lucas watched his retreating back, thankful to have solved the immediate issue. Yet the greater one at hand still plagued him.
Who was leaking the information—and how could it be controlled?
The clock chimed, reminding him of the ungodly hour, and with a groan, he twisted his back once more and then left his study. He ascended the stairs and proceeded to his rooms. “Duff?” he asked as he swung open the large double doors. Moments later his valet approached, a knowing quirk of an eyebrow as he assessed Lucas from head to toe.
“Study again, my lord?”
“Indeed. Now if you’ll help me dress quickly, I’m in dire need of some hot tea.” Lucas started to tug loose his white shirt.
“Of course,” Duff replied, his hands moving far swifter than Lucas’s.
“And you’ve prepared my evening kit for tonight?” Lucas asked as he shrugged into a new shirt.
“Complete with your mask, my lord.”
“Brilliant.” Lucas stifled a yawn. Dear Lord, he should have slept in his bed last night! With the added security this evening, he’d need to be exceptionally vigilant.
After Lucas refreshed his clothing, he gave a quick nod of gratitude to Duff and left for the dining room. Graves, his longtime butler, nodded as Lucas approached. “Everything is as expected.”
Lucas nodded once, then heaved a sigh of deep satisfaction. Familiarity, control, expectation. They were beautiful words, ones that registered a loyalty deep in his very soul. Just like every morning, he walked to his place setting and took a seat. His glass was filled with water, his teacup with tea—two sugars, no milk—and a silver spoon rested upon his saucer. He lifted it and stirred the tea, watching as the steam swirled around his fingertips, warming them. Coddled eggs and three rashers of bacon sat upon a single piece of buttered toast, like every morning. He draped his napkin over his lap and proceeded to break his fast, his mind already spinning with what needed to be accomplished before that evening.
No less than ten minutes later, he was striding back to his study. He had taken a carriage home from the Barrots’ residence, the location of their club, Temptations. The Barrots were long-standing friends who cared little for society’s approval, and deeply adored a good party. They were the souls of discretion, and were the closest thing to family that Lucas had. It was brilliant to have the club at a residence rather than an actual hall. They could control the security, the members, and keep their privacy so much easier than if they had tried to establish the gamb
ling hell somewhere else. As he opened the door to his study, he noted that while he had been breaking his fast, the room had been tidied, the fire built back up, and the used brandy glasses replaced with clean ones.
Damn, he loved efficiency.
He studied the lists of things that needed attending to before the party, and willed himself to have the same efficiency as his staff.
With half the sleep.
But it was true what they said: No rest for the wicked.
And tonight was going to be very wicked indeed.
Chapter Three
Liliah studied the slip of paper in her hand, telling herself to be brave. Because right now, she truly didn’t feel that bravado. The hired hack swayed back and forth as the horses brought her closer and closer to her destination, and with each step she questioned her sanity.
For pity’s sake, she wasn’t even sure this was the correct address!
But desperation was the mother of invention, or stupidity. Perhaps both. And she was certainly feeling both, especially since she’d procured her information from Spencer Holloway. But he was the only friend of Meyer’s who would not only talk but also most likely would have the information needed. All it took was a little batting of her eyes, a slight pop of her hip, and a warm smile, the rest was history.
And now she felt as if she were going to possibly be history as well. Well, at least if she perished, her father and Lord Greywick couldn’t insist Meyer marry her.
She shook her head, astonished at her own melodrama. This was no way to go upon an adventure! Indeed not. Steeling herself against the unknown, she glanced outside at the passing dark London streets. She had expected to be taken to a lesser part of town, yet as the hack continued she noted that they were only several streets away from Mayfair—in a highly affluent residential district. Curiosity melted away her fear and she watched as the road continued to grow increasingly crowded. Thankful she had instructed the hack to drive past the address and then pull over after a few blocks, she watched in earnest as her carriage meandered around a few parked hacks, their drivers all waiting.
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