I’m Only Wicked with You by Julie Anne Long

Peace was restored, after a fashion. Relief made the sitting room somewhat celebratory after a brilliant dinner of lamb in mint, artichoke soup, cheese and salad, peas and onions in butter sauce, and blancmange—all of which taxed the boarding house budget a little but which served the dual purposes of rubbing in the earl’s transgression ever so slightly and making nearly everyone exquisitely happy and full.

Except Lillias.

Hugh had observed this from the moment he’d returned from Dover. Everyone else in her family ate with great enthusiasm. She ate begrudgingly, as though it was a duty. Just enough to ensure survival. It puzzled him. She struck him as someone disinclined to reject a sensual pleasure if one was available, and if ever a sensual pleasure existed, it was Helga’s cooking.

Tonight she wore blue silk and sported a matching pair of pale blue shadows beneath her eyes.

She’d likely been awake all night.

This was both irritating and satisfying.

Because he had indeed thought about her all damned night. It had been disorienting, as though he’d done the night backwards: a dream first—because that’s how those minutes on the roof seemed to him—then sleep. Before he slept he was surprised to find himself gripping the counterpane on either side of him, as though he was lifting her down from the ladder again.

All of his senses had echoed with an outraged disbelief that he’d actually released her instead of sliding his hands up her night rail.

He’d spent a few minutes torturing himself into a full body sweat by imagining what would have happened next if he’d done just that. But that rooftop encounter left him echoing with a peculiar resonant ache he didn’t know how to name. He only knew it had something to do with how it felt to watch her look out across the dark, gritty London view and the vast sky with hungry joy, as if she wanted to swallow it whole.

He supposed he was glad he’d been there to witness it.

And to see her safely down.

And surely there was relief in knowing that he’d as much as told her there would be no seduction. The fact that he could get those words out through the clamoring lust reassured him that he was the one in control after all, regardless of how she played havoc with his senses.

His profound instinct for self-preservation had gotten him through a war. He was satisfied it would get him through Lady Lillias Vaughn, too.

Happily fed, the guests convened in the drawing room and claimed chairs and settees. St. John leaned against the mantel. A lively discussion was immediately underway about whether a game of Faro—so daring!—or spillikins ought to be got up or whether they ought to launch into reading about Odysseus or some other story. Delacorte suddenly said, “I’ve an idea—Cassidy should tell the story of his hound and the bear.”

“Oh, are these more friends of yours, Mr. Cassidy?” the countess wanted to know. “I’m jesting,” she added at once.

She was catching on.

He smiled at her.

“Oh, go on, do it, Cassidy,” Delacorte insisted. “We need a little violence and heroism now and then to offset all the embroidery and knitting and whatnot.”

The women scoffed good-naturedly at him, but this was undoubtedly true. And Hugh knew it. Too much civilization wasn’t good for a man.

“Very well.” Hugh leaned back in his chair. “I’ll do my masculine duty. Gather round, ladies and gentlemen.”

Chairs, and bright, expectant expressions, were turned toward Hugh.

He gave a dramatic throat clear. “I once had a fine bloodhound named Tuesday, for the day of the week she was born. My Uncle Liam gave her to me for my sixteenth birthday—he traded furs to get her for me, because a hound was what I wanted more than anything else in the world. That dog was the best gift and the best friend I ever had. She was smarter than most humans and more loyal to boot, and was she ever a character, just like my Uncle Liam.”

“Dogs make me sneeze,” Lady Claire said sadly.

“That is a tragedy, indeed,” Hugh said somberly. “Well, Tuesday and I were out walking through the woods on a beautiful day, tracking deer. And for dogs, you know, smells are a whole other world and language. Through smell, they learn and understand and communicate things that we just can’t. Walking in the woods for them is like walking into a whole library of books. I loved watching her just . . . savor the world . . . when were out together.”

He realized that he’d inadvertently said this almost directly to Lillias. He’d sought her out, as if she was the light he was reading by.

Who was listening, as raptly as she’d gazed across London last night.

“I lost sight of Tuesday briefly that day, but usually she always ran back to me every minute or so. Then . . . then I heard her barking. A different bark. She sounded . . . terrified and furious. And, well, I went running.” He paused. His voice went somber. “And that bear was going for her.”

He didn’t actually like to recount the story, but then again he did: it was an instant where everything could have gone terribly wrong. And yet it was proof that he could navigate chaos and violence and emerge triumphant.

The room was very quiet.

“I screamed and roared at that bear like I was the devil himself. But I couldn’t get off a shot because it was happening so fast, and they were tussling. There was an equal chance I’d shoot Tuesday. So I just went in there and with every ounce of strength I had, I kicked that bear. It was like kicking a wall.”

He paused.

“And then the bear came for me.”

Not a person in the room was breathing.

“Before I knew it I was on my back and I could see her jaws and feel her breath and see the shine on her teeth and the rage in her eyes. She was going in for the kill.”

Dot made a whimpering sound and bit her knuckles.

“I don’t know where I got the strength. Or the knowledge. I wasn’t going to die that day and neither was Tuesday. I remember hurling my fist like a madman into that bear’s eyes and twisting so that I could fling her off and somehow . . . I did. I saw sky again and in two seconds I was able to stand and grab my gun.”

He paused again. Mr. Cassidy did indeed have a flair for storytelling.

“I hope that bear is a rug on your floor now, Mr. Cassidy,” the earl said. Sounding subdued, almost tentative. And very impressed.

“Well, the thing is . . . bears don’t attack unless they’re threatened. She had cubs and she was protecting her own. Baby bears. You all can understand that, yes? I wasn’t after bear meat that day and there was no reason for her cubs to die.

“I was able to fire a shot in the air to get that bear off running. And that gave me enough time to get out of there with Tuesday in my arms. We were both bleeding and battered. I didn’t feel a thing until we were back at the house. We took a few weeks to recuperate. Tuesday had some gashes. And I sport a couple of scars from that encounter. I think her tooth might have grazed me. I don’t remember. But this is a memento.”

He pointed to the crescent-shaped scar below his lip.

Everyone gave him the tribute of a moment of dumbstruck, starry-eyed, reflective silence.

“We always knew you were a hero, Mr. Cassidy,” said Mrs. Hardy, sounding satisfied, which was a compliment indeed, as she was married to a hero.

“‘A tooth might have grazed me,’” Delacorte quoted slowly, admiringly. “Didn’t I tell you it was a great story!”

Everyone nodded.

“All that for a dog . . .” the earl repeated musingly. “Bravo, sir.”

“Tuesday was my responsibility, sir, and all I knew was that if I had to, I was going to go down trying to save her. No matter what, I . . . I take care of my own.”

He realized he’d directed this to Lillias. Primarily, or so he told himself, because he could feel her eyes upon him. He was suddenly certain he’d be able to sense the quality of her gaze even if they were separated by a crowd of hundreds, the way he was able to detect a shift in the wind. He deliberately, with an effort at nonchalance, turned his head and pretended to study the wallpaper.

Everyone sat in happy, quiet contentment for a time, as one does to let a good story settle in. Presently, knitting and embroidery was taken up and Mrs. Pariseau reached for the Faro box.

“All right,” she said happily. “Who would like to—”

“I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” St. John howled.

Mrs. Pariseau gave a little shriek and she and the countess clapped their hands over their hearts. Dot nearly fell out of her chair.

All the men stiffened, poised to leap in case he needed pouncing upon.

St. John took a gulping breath.

He took another.

“Mr. Delacorte,” he said firmly, his voice creaking from strain.

Confused eyebrows joined the startled expressions. If they’d been accepting wagers on what St. John was about to say, everyone would have lost.

Delacorte looked up at him, expectantly.

“Will you please . . .”

Everyone pitched forward a little in suspense.

“. . . teach me how to play chess.”

It was safe to say it ranked among the most surprising things said yet at The Grand Palace on the Thames.

Delacorte studied St. John thoughtfully, sternly.

Then slowly, his face split into an expansive grin and he swept an arm toward the chair across from him.

St. John staggered over and settled in.

“I’ve been so bored,” he half croaked.

“There, there,” Delacorte said briskly as he set up the board.

It took a moment for everyone’s heart to settle to its usual rhythms. Between the bear story and St. John’s outburst, everyone’s emotions had taken a vigorous buffeting on a full stomach, and it grew quiet.

“If he thinks standing there is humbling, just wait until Delacorte makes hay of him,” Hugh murmured to Bolt, who grinned.

Mrs. Pariseau cleared her throat. “Well, perhaps we ought to finish reading—”

A vigorous rapping echoed through the foyer.

“Oh, the door!” Dot leaped up.

Until they hired a footman or two, Dot was charged with answering the door, and it was her very favorite responsibility—and she hoped it would remain her responsibility, even when (or perhaps if) they hired a suitable fellow or two. Discovering who had knocked held all the anticipatory thrill of opening a gift. A new guest? A drama? The King of England? All three of those things had appeared on the other side of the door at The Grand Palace on the Thames at one time or another.

And she was an absolute savant at describing to Angelique and Delilah the people on the other side, in her own singular way. She had not yet been wrong.

They heard some murmured words.

Angelique and Delilah exchanged an anticipatory glance.

They heard the door close with a satisfying clunk (it was a nice heavy door).

But then they heard only one set of footsteps returning. It was, in fact, not so much a step as a shuffle.

Presently, a bouquet of roses entered the room on a pair of legs. Or that’s what it looked like to the already startled people seated.

It was in fact Dot, holding a great urn, from which brilliant plump roses on long stems burst forth.

Dot peered from behind them. “They’re for Lady Lillias. A footman had them sent over from your townhouse.”

Hugh stopped pulling air. He in fact went motionless.

All heads whipped toward Lillias. Everyone was simply vibrating with curiosity.

Lillias was staring at them as if someone had instead brought her heads on pikes. “Oh God. Not more of them. How did they know to send them here?” She sounded aghast.

But also—astoundingly—a little bored.

As though roses that cost a fortune were simply her queenly due.

The colors and shapes of the room were suddenly too bright and distinct. A lot of emotions were waiting to have a go at Hugh; all of his muscles tensed as though he could forestall the need to feel them by refusing to take a deep breath.

“Ohhh, Lillias, who sent them?” Claire asked eagerly.

“Yes, tell us who!” Mrs. Pariseau leaned forward. “Oh my, they’re so lovely!”

“There’s a little message with them,” Dot said. She attempted to shift the roses into the crook of her arm so she could hand over to Lillias the little crumpled sheet of foolscap clutched in her fist.

It proved too complex of a maneuver. The foolscap made a break for it, and when she attempted to snatch it up, she accidentally created the perfect updraft and sent it flying through the air instead. It fluttered like a drunken bird in flight, glanced off of Delacorte’s reaching fingertips, and drifted down, down, down.

Right onto the little table in front of Hugh, as if it was a falcon he’d called from the sky.

He stared down at it for a moment. His ears were ringing.

“Read it, Mr. Cassidy,” Claire begged him.

He levered his head up and looked square at Lillias. Her chin was up a little too high; the cant of it was officially arrogant. But her eyes were wary and ever-so-slightly beseeching and her jaw was tense.

Everything about her expression begged him not to read it.

And that decided it.

Hugh picked it up casually.

He did. Out loud, slowly, his inflection ironic, with the oddest sensation that he was reading it over his own shoulder:

A humble gift for a maiden fair

Perhaps you’ll tuck one in your hair

Or press one to your rosy lips

Or caress one with your fingertips

I shall see myself forever bless’d

If you’d hold a petal to your breast

And if you should choose to love me best

Peter, Lord Eshling

Hugh found he could not look up from the foolscap. All of his limbs felt odd and stiff, as if he was suddenly coated in frost. A sort of cold, caustic hilarity had taken up simmering in his gut. He could very nearly taste it in his throat. Finally he levered his head slowly and stared, with coldly amused irony, at Lillias.

Two hot pink circles of color sat high on her cheeks. She returned his gaze stonily.

“What rot,” she said, irritably.

The funny part—well, there were two funny parts—was that he resented that the poem was competent. He didn’t think he’d be able to come up with lines that rhymed like that in a million years.

The other funny part was that he felt like a fool.

But why on earth should he? He had no real stake in this.

Or in her. He was a man who’d survived things which by rights ought to have killed him, including war, a bear attack, and Delacorte’s gastric emissions. And yet he’d been lying awake in what he’d believed to be unique sensual torment, while it was now becoming clear that, in all likelihood, a whole ton full of bloods were lashed to proverbial masts when it came to Lady Lillias Vaughn.

And who but a fool does that?

He at once vividly recalled that little snippet of gossip Delacorte had read to him from a greasy newspaper. A dispatch from another world entirely. He ought to have taken it as a warning.

I’m not completely naive, she’d said last night.

He still couldn’t feel his limbs.

Or get a proper breath.

“Well, I thought it wasn’t half bad. One could almost set that to music,” Delacorte said. “It has a bit of a nice ring to it.”

“Oh, everyone wants to marry Lillias,” St. John said on a yawn. “Don’t you get about one proposal a week?” He aimed this question at his sister.

“They’re not real proposals. It’s meant to be amusing. For the men, that is.” Lillias had gone white. She looked for some reason nearly furious.

“There’s a club at White’s. With its own betting book. You can’t join it unless you’ve sent roses to Lillias,” St. John expounded.

“That’s ridiculous.”Lillias was aghast, for whom this was clearly news.

“That’s precisely what I told them,” St. John said, with the sincerity of a sibling.

“It’s like a forest in the foyer most days with all the bouquets for Lillias,” her mother added happily. “It smells heavenly, most days.”

“It’s not,” Lillias retorted tautly. “And it doesn’t.”

“Don’t be modest, dear. You’ve been the belle of the ton and it’s a memory that will last a lifetime. You’ll tell your grandchildren about it,” her father said comfortably.

“I won’t.” Lillias’s voice had gained an octave. She sounded increasingly panicked.

“Lillias is going to marry a duke or some such,” Claire said proudly. “I thought she would marry Gilly, he’s so nice and he’s going to be an earl and all, but he’s probably going to marry—”

“CLAIRE,” Lillias said sharply. With something so akin to anguish Hugh’s heart jolted.

Claire clapped her mouth closed, good and startled.

“Well, it will be someone like Giles,” the earl said jocularly. “It’s what one does, isn’t it, when one is a fine clever girl with a pedigree stretching back to the Conqueror? You’ll marry an heir of some sort. She can have her pick of them. After all, a dog doesn’t marry a cat.”

It wasn’t the most accurate comparison, but his point was made: there was the aristocracy. And then there was everybody else. He wasn’t even being ironic or pompous.

Lillias didn’t quite close her eyes. But she’d gone still again. There was a rather internal look to her as though she wished to be invisible. Hugh couldn’t bear to look at her in that moment. He looked down instead, as if an explanation for all the things he felt in this moment could be found between the lines of that odious poem.

The “everybody else” in the room struggled not to exchange looks. But it was, typically, simply how things were, mostly without question.

“Perhaps cats don’t marry dogs,” Mr. Delacorte said reasonably, “but I know a fellow who once saw a lion and a tiger making lo—”

If Delacorte were a dartboard and eyes were darts he’d be bristling, such were the warning glares sent his way. He was stared into silence.

The silence lasted a tick or two.

“Well, how do you suppose mules are made?” Delacorte stubbornly, and a little more quietly, pressed.

“How are they made?” Claire wondered.

The dart glares aimed at Delacorte strengthened. All apart from Lady Vaughn, who closed her eyes, perhaps at last giving up.

Claire looked at him expectantly.

“A horse proposes to a donkey, and they get married and have a family and that’s a mule,” Delacorte said kindly.

“I’m fifteen, not eleven,” Claire muttered.

“I should love to go to a donkey wedding,” Dot breathed.

“Thank you for bringing them in, Dot. It was very kind of you. But would you please take them away?” Lillias had recovered her composure, and her voice was cool and polite. Hugh had to admire that self-possession. She was a lot of things, but she wasn’t fragile. “Perhaps you can spread them about the rooms here at The Grand Palace on the Thames.”

Hugh stood then, slowly and casually, as if to stretch his legs.

Lillias watched him rise, her gaze every bit as tethered to him as his was to her, apparently.

He delivered the poem to her table. He laid it gently down before her. “Doubtless you’ll want a souvenir, Lady Lillias,” he said evenly.

She stared at it. She began to look up at him, but he’d already turned his back, and his back was all she was to see for the rest of the evening.

“I think Faro would be grand,” he said to Mrs. Pariseau as he resumed his seat. As though nothing at all of note had just happened. As though Lady Lillias Vaughn had never arrived at The Grand Palace on the Thames. As though he’d never speak to her again.