Page 68

Lily was waiting in the little drawing room down the hall, while First John stood guard at the door.

Soon, she would be leaving. But she refused to dwell on that fact, instead keeping her focus on the news sheets that had been brought in. As she turned a page, a print slipped loose and drifted like a falling leaf, coming to rest on the carpet.

Setting the papers aside, Lily leaned forward to retrieve it just as Wesley entered, carrying a tea tray with careful dignity.

“Wesley! You read my mind.”

The footman’s face creased into a warm smile. “I wanted to serve you tea before you left, milady. I …” He stopped short, and Lily sensed the farewell hovering unsaid, as if it had proven too personal to utter aloud.

She smiled at him gently. “You brew excellent tea. When the new housekeeper begins work at the end of the week, you must ensure she learns how to do it correctly for when I return.”

“Thank you, milady.”

He stepped forward and set the tray on the nearby table. Lily sat back on the settee, still holding the print she had picked up. One glance at it and a laugh escaped her lips. It was a caricature of the peers in their coronation attire, absurd striped trunk hose and ballooning breeches rendered in the most unflattering light. A gaggle of spindly legs marched awkwardly across the scene like marionettes in a farce.

Wesley paused, uncertain whether she was laughing or had gone quite mad.

“It is the coronation attire,” she explained, holding up the image for him to see. “My family was thoroughly entertained when my father descended the stairs dressed just like this. Lord Saunton insists the King orchestrated the whole affair as an elaborate jest to make the entire peerage look ridiculous.”

Wesley tilted his head to better view the print, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It was difficult not to react when I saw the baron.”

Her heart stuttered mid-beat, and her breath stalled. But outwardly, Lily allowed no reaction to break across her features.

When I saw the baron?

She gave another light laugh—too quick—and shifted her gaze toward the door, eyes flicking to where John remained posted.

“Quite absurd!” she said, rising in one graceful motion. She moved toward the door, her steps measured though her nerves prickled beneath the surface. From the corner of her eye, she caught Wesley’s sudden tension—his attention fixed, not on the caricature, but on her.

Time seemed to slow. He realized what he had said. And he realized he had just revealed far too much.

She stepped faster.

Wesley darted forward.

“JO—”

It was too late. He had seized her by the waist, dragging her backward against his body. One arm crossed her chest and rose higher, pressing uncomfortably beneath her chin as he lifted her off the ground. The strength in Wesley’s hold was shocking, coiled like iron beneath his livery, unforgiving and cold.

First John had spun at her shout of alarm, charging into the small drawing room.

“STOP!”

The command rang out with the force of a musket blast, echoing through the tension like the crack of thunder. First John froze at the threshold.

“I will break her neck like kindling if you take another step.”

Lily gasped, her hands flying up to claw at the crushing pressure beneath her jaw.

“Cannot … breathe,” she rasped, vision beginning to narrow. Her lungs screamed for air, her limbs flailing in protest. The pressure eased, just slightly, and she drew in a shuddering gasp as her toes brushed the ground. He was lowering her, but the threat remained. His arm held firm, angled tight across her, his breath grazing the crown of her head.

She felt him leaning forward, and the dread deepened in her stomach.

First John stood braced at the ready, his body coiled to act, but he could not.

“Back up. Out the door,” Wesley commanded, his tone void of warmth.

Whatever First John read in his eyes must have convinced him, because he slowly stepped back into the hall.