“As heartless as I sound, we must get ready and return you to Bond Street before anyone is the wiser.” Even as he said the words, his body demanded he hold her prisoner, keep her in his bed.
“I suppose you’re correct,” Liliah remarked, and slowly sat up, then paused, glancing to her belly. “Why?”
Lucas pulled on his breeches. “So there will be no child.”
Liliah blushed then nodded.
“I’ll assist you.” With gentle motions, Lucas helped Liliah not only clean herself, but tenderly buttoned her dress. When he finished, he placed the slightest kiss to her neck, lingering in the moment, wanting more yet utterly afraid of wanting more.
“Thank you.” Liliah glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze warmly. “I’m sure I’ll never quite recover.”
Lucas chuckled, yet it was a sad sound to his ears. “I should hope not, Liliah.” He watched as she walked to the mirror and tidied her hair. In short order they were walking down the servants’ back stairs, toward a hack that he’d requested arrive around that time. As Liliah strode to the carriage, Lucas kept her arm firmly upon his, selfishly wanting the last few moments of their encounter. As she stepped up into the carriage, she met his gaze. “I’m a woman of my word. You need not concern yourself with my sharing information about your club . . . Luc.”
Lucas nodded. “Thank you.”
“In that, I do fear that you’ve given me far more than I’ve given you,” she added, then sat back in the carriage.
“I rather think the opposite, Liliah. Farewell.” He tapped on the carriage wall and it lurched forward, rolling down the street.
Lucas watched till it was out of sight, then returned to his residence, his body satisfied yet his mind utterly restless.
He had the strong suspicion that Lady Liliah was not going to be easy to forget.
And that scared him more than the devil.
Because in his experience, of the two evils, women were far more dangerous than hell itself.
Chapter Nineteen
Liliah leaned back against her carriage as she ignored the glare from her sister.
“I still don’t believe that you were lost.”
Liliah sighed. “You are free to believe whatever you wish.”
Samantha huffed, but didn’t reply. After Liliah had returned from Luc’s residence, she had made her way back to the modiste’s shop, only to run into her sister and Sarah. They, of course, had been concerned when she hadn’t returned, but she’d simply lied and said she’d been lost.
Samantha was already in a vexed mood because of her fitting, and she wasn’t inclined to believe, or forgive, Liliah’s tardiness.
Liliah attempted to take the attention off of herself. “What do you think I should wear to the rout tomorrow night?” Yet even as she tried for a lighthearted approach, her stomach clenched in dread. It would be the first ball where it would be announced and become common knowledge that she was betrothed to Meyer. At least now she had experienced the physical act of love, but the elation and excitement she’d experienced were fading. Rather she found herself unsettled and rather depressed.
It was like experiencing heaven, and then realizing it was only for a few moments and you had to live out the rest of your life without experiencing it again.
It had been magical, truly the stuff of fairy tales. Yet rather than feel satisfied with the experience, she feared it would only create a hunger she didn’t know how to fill.
Especially married to Meyer.
Her brilliant plans were coming to naught.
Samantha’s voice interrupted her musings. “You can’t exactly wear black, though it would be appropriate.”
Liliah cracked a smile and giggled. “I don’t see that going over well.”
“No, and I’m assuming since Father wished to speak with you, that he announced your betrothal in the Times?”
“Yes.”
“Then more’s the pity you can’t wear black—you, Meyer, and Rebecca.”
“How true.” Liliah shifted to the side as the carriage hit a bump. “The Winharts’ ball will at least be diverting; they usually employ some sort of entertainment with the dancing. I shall focus on that.”
“A wise idea,” Samantha remarked.
As they approached home, Liliah was pleased to have an evening to herself without any plans. Heaven only knew she would have more than enough to deal with tomorrow—but for tonight, she simply wanted to remember.
As she alighted from the carriage, she quickly made haste to her room, dismissing Sarah from any assistance, and promptly lay on her bed. An amused smile teased her lips and she touched them delicately, wondering if they would ever recover from Luc’s sweet assault.
Rolling off the bed, she walked to the mirror and studied herself. Though it was almost imperceptible, she could see a difference—it was in her eyes. There was awareness, a knowledge that hid within their green depths that wasn’t there earlier.
She touched her face, then traced her lips. Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to the memories. Her heart pounded an excited rhythm as she remembered the feel of his skin on hers, the strong muscles of his back as he arched into her, the way he spoke her name . . . it was the highlight of her existence.
She was afraid it might also be her undoing.
For how did one survive the experience of making love and know it was once again out of reach?
Yet, even as she considered her words, she wondered: Was it the act, or was it Luc?
Her heart whispered the truth to her, even as she tried to silence it.
She had no idea that inviting ruin would not only compromise her body—but her heart as well.
Liliah sighed, knowing that any answers she sought wouldn’t be given this evening. And she refused to feel sorry for herself. She chose to remember that she was given exactly what she asked for, and in that, it had to be enough.
So that night as she lay down to sleep, Liliah decided that if she had to live with Meyer as a husband in name only, then it wouldn’t be so terrible if Luc was the one who loved her in her dreams.
That could hardly be sinful; rather she looked upon it as a gift. And she drifted off to sleep with Luc’s name on her lips.
That very same name was on her lips the next morning, and throughout the day as she readied for the Winharts’ ball. It became her touchstone, her safe place as the world spun out of her control. She had refused to look at the announcement in the Times, and she refused to dwell on the affirmation of the betrothal at the ball. Instead she allowed her memories to soothe her. Yet she soon discovered that memories were not enough.
Even when she told herself repeatedly that they had to be.
She focused on the scent of Luc, as Sarah coiffed her hair.
She remembered the sensation of his fingers brushing her skin, as Sarah helped her don her gown.
She remembered the way he spoke her name, as her father demanded she be at the carriage by eight p.m. sharp.
And she focused on the memory of Luc’s smile as she stared at the passing town as they made their way to the Winharts’ residence.
The stone estate boasted thousands of candles illuminating the entrance, all dancing in the soft breeze. Liliah was enchanted. Even given the miserable circumstances that awaited her within, she chose to find joy in the middle of it. As she strode into the ballroom, she noted the stares of several ladies and the whispers that followed—certainly affirming the announcement in the Times. They would all see a smart match, an ideal situation—they would also be utterly wrong.
Liliah lifted her chin as she walked around the ballroom, searching, yet hesitant to find Meyer or Rebecca. How miserable. Her two best friends were no longer a source of delight and joy, but a reminder of pain and sorrow. The delight of the candlelight faded quickly, leaving Liliah in a thick, dark cloud of her own misery. Her father had quickly abandoned her for the faro table, where he’d speak of politics all evening, and for once, Liliah felt very alone.
; A tear pricked her eye and she willed it to stay. She refused to feel sorry for herself, it would do no good. Angrily, she squared her shoulders and determined to meet her fate head-on, not shrink away as if defeated.
Liliah took a deep breath and determined to find her friends, and somehow mend the friendship. It was possible, was it not?
Rebecca walked into the ballroom then, and Liliah started toward her. When Rebecca met her gaze, indecision, hurt, and anger flashed across her face and she turned away.
Liliah paused, then all but charged toward her friend.
As she grew closer, she called out politely, “Rebecca?”
But her friend ignored her.
“Please?” Liliah asked, then relaxed slightly when Rebecca paused and turned. Her eyes were cloudy with frustration and pain.
Liliah took a few steps and nodded toward a more private area of the ballroom. Rebecca nodded and they found relative privacy.
“I will not take Meyer from you. He will remain yours, even if I must bear his name. I’ll not bear his heart, or his children. You must understand that.” Liliah took Rebecca’s hands and squeezed them.
Rebecca closed her eyes. “I thank you for that, but is it wrong for that to not be enough?” She opened her eyes. “When you love someone, as I love Meyer, it is not enough to just own their heart—I wish to own every part of him. To know that it is my face that he will wake up to. That it is my name that changes to his, that it is my body that will bear his children—mine alone. I find I cannot even stomach the idea of sharing even the smallest part of him.” Rebecca glanced down, a tear rolling down her face.
Liliah sighed. “I don’t want to lose you, Rebecca. You are one of my dearest friends, and I fear that this whole problem is not only robbing us of our future, but of our friendship as well.”
“Liliah . . .” Rebecca released her hands. “That is a problem I know no solution to, because I don’t want to lose your friendship either, but nor can I stand by when you marry the man I love. Please don’t ask this of me.” Rebecca gave her head a small shake and walked away into the ballroom, leaving Liliah even more distraught than before.
For truly, what hope had she left?
None.
Meyer would come to resent her—in fact probably already did.
Rebecca couldn’t remain her friend.
Nor could she change the announcement or her father’s will.
Liliah blew out a sobering breath, collecting her emotions and forcing them into submission. As she walked into the throng of people, she wished Luc would attend. It was a pointless hope, their agreement had been satisfied, yet hope had never been rational, had it?
While she didn’t see Luc, she did spot Meyer, his father ever vigilant behind him, and Lady Rebecca watching from a distance. Thankfully the first waltz wasn’t expected for a while, yet that didn’t stop the dread from pooling in her belly. It wasn’t as if it changed anything, the announcement in the Times had already sealed the deal, but it was more the idea that every dance she danced with Meyer was one that Rebecca wouldn’t have, and so Liliah had the sense that she was slowly stealing her friend’s most prized possession: Meyer’s time and attention.
Even if he was loath to give it to her.
Liliah took a flute of champagne and walked about the room, studying the décor and doing her best to ignore the chatter about her. And in far too little time, the strains of the first waltz rose, and Liliah sighed and looked up. Sure enough, Meyer was approaching her, his expression ever grim. How long had it been since she’d seen her friend smile? Far too long. It was as if his strained expression were frozen, unable to alter or change. Liliah breathed deep and extended her hand wordlessly as he offered his arm. As he led them into the swirling dance, Liliah met his gaze. “What is becoming of us?”
Meyer’s expression pinched and he glanced away. “I’ve heard that life is what you make of it, yet, Liliah, I find I have not the strength of character to find the hope in our circumstance. As such, I fear I’m an abominable friend. For that I apologize.” Meyer met her gaze once more, sincerity echoing in his eyes.
“I don’t want to lose you, or Rebecca, and I feel as if I’m fighting a battle that’s been ordained for me to lose,” Liliah whispered, twirling and stepping back into the frame of Meyer’s arms.
“I feel utterly the same, my friend. But let us converse on a brighter topic, shall we? Enough of the self-pity, let us delight in conversation as we once did.” Meyer put on a brave smile, and Liliah felt her lips twitch in response.
“Very well, what did you have in mind?”
Meyer glanced to the dancers, then back. “Your admirer isn’t present. Is there a reason for that?”
Liliah’s face burned at the thought of Luc, and all the wicked sensations her body felt as echoes of yesterday’s events. “I did not expect him tonight.”
“Ah, so you know of whom I speak?” Meyer asked with a hint of smugness in his tone.
“Of course.” Liliah resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “But I wouldn’t call him an admirer, rather . . .” Liliah searched for the correct and proper word. Because all she could think of was a more scandalous description. She settled for, “An acquaintance.”
Meyer arched a brow in an expression of disbelief. “My dear, Heightfield isn’t known for his acquaintances with women . . . rather his penchant for knowing them”—Meyer cleared his throat—“well.”
Liliah bit her lip and glanced away, yet even as he said it a white-hot jealousy seared her veins. She didn’t want to think of Luc sharing himself with any other—not that she had any claim. It was utterly irrational, yet present nonetheless.
“Your face bears an odd expression,” Meyer commented.
“It’s an odd comment to a lady,” Liliah retorted, but softened her words with a smile.
“Interesting,” was all the response Meyer gave.
Liliah studied him. “What are you thinking, for your expression is quite smug.”
Meyer shrugged slightly as the song ended, not answering.
“Utterly irritating,” Liliah huffed as he led her from the dance floor. Meyer chuckled in response, and bowed to take his leave.
Liliah watched him retreat, narrowing her eyes. The music began again, and rather than allow another partner to seek her out for the dance, she strode to a more quiet location in the ballroom. The potted plants in the corner kept several wallflower ladies company, and Liliah took a vacant seat. Several of the young ladies watched her with open interest—Liliah had never been amongst their ranks. Rather, as the daughter of a duke, she had far too many suitors—till recently. But she refused to think on it—instead she found rest in solitude. There would be another waltz, and no doubt there would be more conversations with her father, but for now, this stolen moment of peace was enough.
It had to be.
Chapter Twenty
Lucas studied the gentry as they walked into the main entrance of the club. The rout at the Winharts’ was certainly winding down and the need to fulfill their more wicked natures was surfacing as the elite members of Temptation came to feed their desires. Lucas glanced at his pocket watch; it was nearly four in the morning, but the party would easily continue past daylight. As he moved from the balcony of the estate, he took the back stairs to the main level. He scanned the ballroom, where he noted that every courtesan was in place, along with the tables perfectly set for the many games that would feed or starve men’s fortunes.
He tugged on his collar, then cleared his throat. Passing the ballroom, he ran into Ramsey.
“Bankroll is set, and I must say that so far the gentlemen are placing quite substantial bets on one event in particular.” Ramsey arched a brow. His penchant for numbers made him the logical choice for overseeing the bank and betting aspects of the club.
“Oh? And what event is that? Pistols at dawn for some poor idiot?” Lucas snapped, his lack of patience bleeding through. Though he knew it had nothing to do with Ramsey.
Rather, i
t had everything to do with that bloody chit who haunted him day and night.
It had only been a day, yet he couldn’t purge her from his mind.
“No need to snap at me, old man. I just remember you and Heathcliff mentioning some innocent deb’s name, and she came up in the betting book tonight.”
Lucas fixated his gaze on Ramsey. “What did you say?”
“Nothing as of yet, for fear of your damn aggression. What is your problem tonight? You’re like a caged tiger.” Ramsey crossed his arms, his spectacles making his eyes appear overly large as he studied his friend.
“Forgive me,” Lucas ground out.
“I didn’t need you to grovel, just back off a bit,” Ramsey replied. “It would seem that the Duke of Chatterwood, bloody pain in the arse—his daughter is betrothed to Greywick’s son. It’s all quite common if you ask me, yet the gentlemen are betting large sums against one another that the marriage will or won’t take place. I tell you, Greywick himself bet that the match will be made, and in two weeks, no less. Which, of course, is likely to be true—given he’s the father and all. Can’t say why anyone would bet against him.” Ramsey shook his head. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Last week, Lord Hawthorne placed a bet on whether it would rain for six days in a row. Bloody asinine.”
“You don’t say.” Lucas clipped the words, jealousy pounding through him like a wild and irrational beast. Even though he knew that a marriage to Meyer would be in name only, he loathed the idea of her belonging to the man.
“Indeed. Shockley placed a few thousand pounds on the betrothal going to hell before the altar, and from there it spun out of control like mad.”
“Greywick placed a bet.” Lucas tilted his head slightly, studying his friend, his mind coming back into clarity from the jealous haze.
“Indeed.”
“Of what amount?”
“It was large, substantially so. Ten thousand pounds.” Ramsey whispered the words, likely in reverence for such a mammoth sum.
“Dear Lord.” Lucas frowned. “Is he good for it?” It was a logical question. How often had a lord over-betted his worth and ended up not only penniless but in debt?
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