“With such beauty on my arm, I’m sure I will,” I said, watching Lady Lillian’s profile for her reaction to my compliment.
“Such a kind gentleman to notice.” Lady Tapper put her hand to her heart, a catch in her voice.
I suppressed a rush of shame. From what my mother said, Lady Lillian was a spinster. Lady Tapper thought I was here to court her daughter. If she knew the truth, she would have never invited me into her home.
“His Grace paid you a compliment, Lillian,” Lady Tapper said.
“Thank you,” Lady Lillian echoed in a breathy whisper.
The butler opened the door, inviting in some much-needed air. I guided her down the stairs to the street. It was a quiet morning, with few equipages on the road. It had rained overnight, and shallow puddles rested in the dips in the cobblestone. I maneuvered her around them, my mind swirling with how I would address the upcoming conversation.
My companion followed my lead but kept her eyes glued ahead, never looking at me. Given the circumstances, it might disgust her to be in my company. Very few people were accepting of my tastes in lovers. Ironic, since a lot of the men in my circle were queer.
Trees lined the park’s walkways. In the middle of the green, a maid and toddler played on a blanket. The cherubic baby laughed, the sound somewhat soothing to my jangled nerves. I glanced at Lady Lillian to see the corners of her mouth tilted upward, her profile to me.
I dropped my hold on her arm as we fell into step, the strain between us palpable. “The baby seems very happy,” I said.
She nodded, and her smile faltered. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The time was at hand, and I could either act the coward and run or stand my ground. I inhaled a deep breath and reached into my pocket to fetch her page. “I found this in my garden. I believe it belongs to you.”
One slim hand reached out and took the folded sheet. She opened it, her steps faltering. “Yes, it belongs to me.”
“You are an author?” I asked, unsure how to steer the conversation into unchartered waters. I wanted to be direct and ask her outright what she saw. It wasn’t precisely a genteel topic of discussion, though. She was skittish, and I couldn’t take the chance that she’d bolt.
“I wish to be, yes.” She picked up the pace again, this time lengthening her stride. Color dotted her cheeks, and a tick formed under the pale skin of her jaw.
“From the title, it appears you have written a gothic novel. I enjoy reading.” I had an extensive library of books, from the classics to some rather raunchy tomes I purchased at underground bookstores in London. One publisher in particular specialized in books that appealed to my queer side.
“I mean, Ihavewritten a book, but I’m not published. Therefore I’m not an author just yet.” The timbre of her words was soft and breathy. Maybe it was nerves, or it might have been her natural voice. “But I’ll be soon. I just have to write a few new scenes.”
“That is excellent news.” Perhaps I could help her in that arena if she promised to remain mute about what she saw.
“No, it isn’t.” She bit her bottom lip and turned grave eyes to mine. “Mr. Moran wishes for me to write material that I’m not familiar with.”
“Moran, as in T.J. Moran?” The cogs in my mind spun faster, and I had to choose my words with care.
“You have heard of him?” she asked with a hopeful gaze, her voice picking up strength in her excitement.
“Yes, I have several works from his publications. Forgive my boldness, but the things he publishes are not suitable for an innocent like you to read, let alone write. However did you become acquainted with him?” Lady Lillian was turning out to be a surprise. Whether it was good or bad was left to be determined.
“I sent out twenty-nine inquiries, and he was the only positive response. I visited him yesterday after, well, after ... and he told me I had potential, but he wouldn’t publish me unless, well, unless I added new material.” If it were possible, her face turned a vivid shade of pink.
“After you what?” I asked, desperate to hear her say the quiet part out loud.
Silence followed my question. She linked her fingers in front of her, the rigidity back in her frame. Birds chirped from the branch above, and a squirrel darted from behind a tree. Life was going on all around us, yet my world hinged on her answer.
“After I dropped the paper from the balcony. I’m sorry.” She brought her hand up and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I did not intend to snoop. I ... I saw you sculpting, then I saw him, and I ... oh my goodness, I ... I ...” Hysterical laughter shook her entire body, and she buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to spy on you,” she got out between guffaws.
I stood next to her on the walk and waited for her to compose herself. The maid who accompanied us gave me a questioning look, but I merely shook my head to indicate her services were not needed.
After a few minutes, Lady Lillian squared her shoulders and tilted her head back. The motion jutted her small breasts out, and they strained against the fabric of her jacket and shirtwaist. With a sigh, she righted herself. “Pray forgive my outburst. The situation from start to finish has been absurd.”
It could mean prison or scandal for Gavin and me. “I know you are shocked, but I beg you to keep what you saw between us.”
She squared her shoulders with a perceptible shudder, the internal struggle visible in her tense frame. “I’ll agree to your request, but I require something in exchange.”
Anger began to simmer inside my chest, and a biting resentment surged through me as the implications of her statement took root in my mind. I clenched my fingers in the soft leather of my gloves, willing my voice to remain calm. “Do you intend to blackmail me into marriage or some other arrangement?”
