At the rate she was weeping today, the broadsheets would need to find a way to describe how well her red, puffy eyes suited her complexion and her ballgown. She dabbed. “Thank you so much.” Her voice was thick. “I don’t deserve it. I’m so sorry about . . . I apologize for . . .” She closed her eyes and took a long, long breath.
Then opened them and said, “I don’tknowmyself anymore.” She confided this almost wildly, on a cracked, amazed whisper. Half to herself, half to Delilah and Angelique.
The ladies exchanged a glance.
“We’ve come to suspect that knowing oneself is the work of a lifetime,” Delilah said gently. “And this might not be reassuring at the moment, but you might in fact become a stranger to yourself a few more times over the years.”
“Men are often useful when it comes to helping women discover themselves,” Angelique added wryly. She didn’t add, “sometimes by showing you what youdon’twant.” “We think we have a sense of you, Lady Lillias... and we think you’ll be equal to anything life sends your way.”
What had Hugh said about these two ladies? That they had guts and wits and resourcefulness to spare. He admired them immensely. She understood fully why now.
“Mr. Cassidy is a good man,” Delilah said cheerfully, so as not to make Lillias weep more. “And we wish you joy.”
Simple words. They often sounded so rote: “We wish you joy.”
She could sense that these two ladies had learned about joy the hard way, and so knew precisely whatthey were wishing her. Which made it feel like a benediction.
And God only knew she could use one.
She’d remained in her suite the entire next day. She’d ordered a bath and languished in it until she was thoroughly pink and scented and her mother fussed at her to hurry. She’d nibbled on a little bread and cheese at some point near noon, and bolted a few cups of tea, but she’d taken no actual dinner.
As a result, by the time they were to depart for the ball, Lillias didn’t feel quite sober. But not in a pleasant way. Her head in fact felt light as a blown dandelion perched upon her shoulders, apt to float away if she were jarred slightly. She half wished it would. No one would expect a headless woman to go to the Landover Ball with her brand new American fiancé.
She hadn’t seen Hugh since the proposal on stage.
And suddenly there he was in the foyer of The Grand Palace on the Thames, gleaming from a fresh shave and wearing evening clothes, a black coat that fit him like a pelt, a soft cravat pillowing the hard angles of his jaw, a waistcoat striped in gray and blue. He looked almost criminally fine. Otherworldly. Like a god who had suddenly materialized beneath the chandelier to drag her underground.
Unreasonably, she found she was a little relieved that he was near, as though life itself revealed itself to have a broken rung and he stood ready to swing her safely down.
His face was somber as he looked at her. He said nothing.
But then there appeared on his lips the beginning of a smile, which spread slowly and became crooked and rueful and almost reluctant. He gave his head a slight, slow, disbelieving shake.
It might have been the most explicit compliment she’d ever received.
The backs of her arms went hot.
She deserved it. She’d seen herself in the mirror before she’d come down the stairs. Worthy of head turns, perhaps a gasp or two. She’d fastened a small, simple diamond hung on a fine gold chain at her throat; Claire had helped her put her hair up, and with curling tongs they’d coaxed two loosely spiraling curls to trace her cheekbones. Those were her only adornments, unless one included her little reticule. Everyone in thetonhad looked forward to seeing what she intended to wear. They were unprepared, she thought, for what she intended to bring.
But neither of them spoke.
What would she say? “How have you been since I was pressed up against your erection?” “How does it feel to act as though your life hasn’t been utterly ruined?” “Are you furious?” “Do you hate me?” “Do you want me?”
He was clearly as tense as she was, and as full of unspoken things. She warranted the inside of his head buzzed with the same questions.
Althoughhehadn’t had two entire months to dread this particular night.
Her mother and father looked handsome indeed together, as they always did. Her mother was inlong-sleeved dark green and pewter silk, and her father in a waistcoat striped in dark green. They’d adopted a brisk, rather serious “let’s get on with it, then” air. Neither one of them was prepared to jolly Hugh or Lillias just yet.
They bundled into the waiting carriage. St. John would make his own way, as there was only room for four inside, and Claire was left to listen to Mrs. Pariseau readThe Ghost in the Atticin the sitting room.
Horses and carriages stretched for what seemed nearly a mile before the Landover house. Atop them, coachmen and footmen passed flasks and shouted merrily to each other, and the horses nickered, shifted their feet, and lifted their tails and made liquid and solid deposits liberally and often. It was the typical dangerous little maze that led to any ball, and it could and did ruin dresses.
But just as he’d lifted her from the ladder the other night, Hugh reached up, fitted his hands about her waist and settled her and her hem down well out of harm’s way.
“Thank you,” she said almost shyly. The first words she’d said directly to him all evening.
“Always at your service,” he said, touching his hat.
