Lord Wilfrey appeared next. He carried his leather case in one hand and his hat in the other.
“Thornwaite.” He extended his hand. “A truly excellent party. The grounds alone were worth the visit. I have made extensive notes on the watershed.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“And the company was…” Wilfrey paused. His gaze drifted toward the corridor, where Lily had not yet appeared. “The company was exceptional.”
Hugo’s stomach tightened, but he kept his expression pleasant. “I am glad to hear it.”
Wilfrey held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, his jaw clenched in a way a man in defeat did.
“Safe travels, Wilfrey.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Wilfrey departed. Hugo exhaled through his teeth and turned to find Edward at his elbow.
“That was painful to watch,” Edward murmured.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You were shaking his hand and smiling as though he had not just spent three days courting your fiancée under your own roof.” Edward crossed his arms. “Your left eye twitched, Hugo. It only does that when you are furious.”
Hugo’s jaw clenched. “My eye did not twitch.”
“It twitched twice. I counted.” Edward clapped his shoulder. “Until next time, friend.”
Edward collected Sophia, who pressed Hugo’s hand and told him the party had been beautiful, and they left through the frontdoors. Hugo stood alone in the entrance hall and listened to the last carriage wheels crunch over gravel, and the house settled into the silence that follows the departure of guests.
Footsteps on the staircase.
Hugo turned.
Lily descended with Lady Oldbarrow half a step behind her. She wore a traveling dress of deep green, her hair pinned beneath a bonnet, her gloves already buttoned.
She looked composed, collected.
Not at all like a woman who had come apart in his arms twelve hours ago with her back against a terrace wall and his name on her lips.
The memory hit him without warning. The taste of her skin. The sound she made when her fingers tightened in his hair. The way her body had gone rigid and then liquid against him, trembling, yielding, and the ragged, broken cry that had escaped her mouth when she shattered.
His pulse kicked. He locked his jaw and forced the memory below the surface.
“Lady Oldbarrow.” He bowed over Margaret’s hand. “I trust the accommodations met your standards.”
The dowager regarded him with narrowed eyes. “The bed was comfortable. The wine was excellent. The company was tolerable.”
“High praise from you, my lady.”
“Do not let it go to your head, Your Grace. It is large enough.”
He turned to Lily.
Color flooded her cheeks the moment their eyes met. She curtsied, a precise, correct dip that kept her gaze fixed somewhere around the level of his cravat.
“Your Grace. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Lady Lily.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. The contact lasted two seconds. Two seconds during which the warmth of her fingers through the thin glove sent a current up his arm and into his chest. The scent of rosewater reached him, and he remembered how that scent had tasted on her neck, on her collarbone, and on the bare skin of her thigh.
