I’m Only Wicked with You by Julie Anne Long

Word certainly spread quickly.

Hugh realized this when he awoke much later than usual to a dark, cold room and the kind of pounding in his skull that made him immediately wish he could twist it off his neck and hurl it out the window. Memory sifted in—the glorious woman and the kind of kiss he’d told himself he’d risk damnation for followed by—surprise!—damnation. Two lives ruined and salvaged in one fell swoop, followed by sympathy whiskey and an Armageddon-like discussion with the Earl of Vaughn.

Surely he’d had a choice in all of it? It was only when he was away from Lillias that he felt he’d had a choice. He was honest enough about that.

How was she faring? He doubted anyone had fed her liquor.

He groaned and steadied his head between his hands.

The fire was all but dead. No steaming coffee or freshly baked scone awaited on a tray next to him.

The maids were punishing him.

Everybody’s dreams had died last night, apparently.

This was when another chilling possibility occurred to him: Would he be evicted from Eden, aka The Grand Palace on the Thames? Certainly his transgression was dramatic enough. The rules allowed for it.

No worries: he was to have a cozy house in Devon, apparently.

The thought wrapped itself around him like leather straps.

He supposed, given the circumstances, he ought not be hungry.

But he was.

And so after a wash and valiant attempt at shaving steadily, he got into his clothes and went down to the dining room. It was empty, given that it was later than the usual breakfast hour. Helga had taken pity. Eggs and kippers and toasted bread, a little cold but he wasn’t fussy, were waiting for him. An entire pot of coffee had been left for him, sympathetically and reproachfully.

It might have been his imagination, but the building seemed hushed. Anticipatory.

It was possible everyone was avoiding him.

Or holding a meeting about him.

And then, sauntering through the foyer, came St. John, holding his coat over one arm and his hat in the other.

They paused to stare at each other.

There was something of his sister in the bones of his face. He had his father’s dark hair and his mother’s blue eyes and likely his sister’s knack for getting heads to pivot in his direction.

“Well, I suppose it’s a fortunate thing for you that you’re bound to be a member of the family, Cassidy. Otherwise I should be obliged to challenge you to a duel.”

“Whereupon I would be obliged to kill you, St. John, and it would be a shame to lay waste to all those female hearts and all your . . . potential,” Hugh said politely.

St. John nodded politely in return. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. Then back at Hugh. “I am quite fond of my sister. I don’t know why.”

It was perhaps about the last thing he expected St. John to say, and it was funny. Hugh might have said it about his own sister.

Hugh smiled faintly. “Good. She is . . . remarkable.” Which was only the truth he was comfortable with saying out loud to her brother.

And it was this thought that brought home the enormity of what he had done. What the two of them had done.

“If you make her unhappy, I will find a way to free her from you.”

A startling, rather ominous bit of gallantry. He issued a sort of half smile and damned if it wasn’t almost convincingly threatening.

But it made Hugh like him better. “I would expect nothing less.”

“I’m glad we’re understood. I think I might like having a brother, even if he’s an American.” St. John leaned forward confidingly and said on a sort of hushed, only partly feigned anguish, “Two sisters is hell.”

He moved on, Hugh staring after him. Then he turned and walked backward a few steps. “See you at the ball. And, oh—you’re going to need better clothes.”

And as he turned to watch St. John going out the door, a dulcet voice came to him from the little reception room. “Good morning, Mr. Cassidy. May we have a word?”

He closed his eyes briefly. Said a silent prayer for strength.

He was a brave man, and as he’d told his friends the night before, he was unafraid to face consequences.

But Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were standing in the little reception room, their faces grave. A beautiful blonde and brunette tribunal.

He entered.

To his surprise, between them they were holding up a coat.

His heart lurched when he thought it might be his own black coat, and then his still-recovering brain realized he was already wearing it.

“If we’d known that’s what you intended to do on that stage, Mr. Cassidy, we might not have been in such a hurry for you to finish building it,” Angelique said.

Delilah appeared to be suppressing mirth.

Hugh smiled weakly.

“We put out word early this morning among tailors known to Lucien and Captain Hardy and were miraculously able to locate an evening coat that might well fit you, with a few alterations. Why don’t you try it on?”

She held it out to him.

He stared at it, dumbstruck. He studied them warily.

“It’s a coat, not a shroud, Mr. Cassidy. And it’s a ball you’re going to with the beautiful daughter of an earl, not a funeral. Though I daresay you’ll look so well in it you could be buried in it.”

He sensed a jest along the lines of, “And isn’t that what’s essentially happening?” would not go over well at the moment. The ice he trod upon was thin.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said humbly. “I do not deserve such kindness.”

“If you’re lucky, life is long, Mr. Cassidy,” said Delilah. “And includes many, many acts.”

He wondered if this was a sly pun about his on-stage clinch.

“And I am . . . so very, very sorry for how it transpired.”

“Anybody would be,” Angelique said gently.

He almost laughed.

He hesitated. Then he asked, “Are you disappointed in me?”

He genuinely liked these women. He held them in the highest esteem. He knew their good opinion was a valuable thing and not easily earned; the notion that they might be thinking he’d abused their kindness and hospitality made his throat feel tight.

“I think we have a sense of you, Mr. Cassidy. And in truth, we are the last people to judge. We will be disappointed if you are unhappy. We’ll be disappointed if Lady Lillias is unhappy. For now, let’s just make sure you have proper evening clothes.”

And so Mrs. Hardy, Mrs. Durand, and Dot pinned him into a new evening coat, and every now and then a pin missed and he was thoroughly jabbed.

He hadn’t felt so loved and utterly chastised all at once since his mother was alive.

“You’re going to marry Mr. Cassidy? You’re so lucky.”

“Claire. For heaven’s sake.” Her mother was startled by her younger daughter’s effusion.

The three of them were at Madame Marceau’s establishment in Bond Street, surrounded by three seamstresses wielding tape, pins, and needles.

“He’s very handsome and kind. And interesting, too.”

“He smiled at you once and these are your conclusions?” Lillias was terse.

“I have eyes and ears. For heaven’s sake,” Claire said, irritably. “I can draw my own conclusions.”

“There are other qualities men ought to have, too, Claire. Good God, have I failed you both?” Her mother muttered this last sentence to the ceiling.

She was not entirely joking.

“I’m not daft, Mama,” Claire said reasonably. “I know he hasn’t a title or anything of the sort. But you’ll have to look at him for the rest of your life and surely handsome counts for a very good deal if that’s the case.”

Her mother closed her eyes and muttered what could either have been a prayer or an oath.

“Don’t worry, Mama, I’m bound to marry a duke.” Claire winked at her sister.

Lillias was not in a mood to reciprocate winks. She had a headache. She had not slept much, if at all, she’d been so rigid and numb with disbelief all night.

And the ball was . . . tomorrow. She was so tired she’d forgotten to calculate the minutes. Shock was a lovely, lovely invention. It kept one from feeling all manner of unpleasant and nuanced things. She couldn’t imagine alcohol doing a better job.

And yet. And yet. Her traitorous body could not but continue to relive what she had become very close to discovering in Hugh’s arms behind the curtain. She’d been so close to something extraordinary.

“And isn’t Gilly getting married soon, too?” Claire continued. “All the gossip in the newspapers seems to be hinting at it. And you’ll see—”

“CLAIRE.”

She wished everyone would stop talking, because all the words about her engagement were like threads thrown over a loom, and the more people talked about it the more tangible it seemed. The more it began to resemble a noose.

Claire was made of sturdy stuff. She never took offense.

“I didn’t know you were in love with Mr. Cassidy,” Claire said shyly, after a long silence.

“I’m not,” she said reflexively. Her throat knotted.

Her mother’s eyes hurled daggers’ worth of warning at Lillias.

“But you were kissing him.” Her sister was puzzled.

“How on earth did you . . .” Her mother was aghast.

“You learn absolutely nothing if you don’t have wonderful hearing. And I have,” Claire said. “I heard all of you talking about it.”

“Well, that is certainly useful to know,” their mother said acidly.

“I kissed him . . . because he is a very fine man,” Lillias said carefully. “And in the moment it seemed like the thing to do.”

Claire looked up at her, a little puzzled, as anyone would be.

And maybe it was because she was tired, and still rather underfed, but tears welled, filled her eyes, and spilled.

Because it was true. All of it. He was handsome (dear God, and how), she had kissed him, she did not love him, he was a fine man. And all of his dreams had come crashing down because they could not keep from kissing each other, and when she stood with her mother and her sister in a dress shop, not kissing him seemed like the easiest thing in the world to do. She had shocked and upset her family, confused Claire. And she would need to face the ton tomorrow with him by her side and see all manner of uncomfortable reactions reflected in the faces of people she had known her entire life, and her pride felt as though a whole layer had been scraped away. Everything hurt.

She stood in the rubble of shattered dreams while dressmakers spoke in hushed tones and tweaked and pinned the gossamer fabric of the little puffed net sleeves.

“Lillias, sweetheart.” Her mother fumbled for a handkerchief. “She’s to be married,” she whispered to the dressmaker.

“Mon dieu, of course. So beautiful. The new brides, they are so emotional. If you could refrain from weeping on your dress, mademoiselle. The velvet about the bodice will stain.”

Somewhat portentously, Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were waiting for them in the now empty reception room when they returned with Lillias’s ball gown. “I wondered if Lady Lillias would join us here for a moment? We won’t be more than a minute or two,” Mrs. Durand said.

“A gift for you,” Mrs. Hardy hastily added, correctly intuiting from Lillias’s expression that she anticipated some of the same iron-fist-in-velvet-glove censure they’d administered to her father (which she admittedly deserved, but didn’t think she could bear).

Her mother and sister slipped discreetly away and left Lillias alone with the proprietresses, who invited her to sit down opposite them on the settee that had once supported, briefly, the bum of King George IV.

“We wanted to give this to you . . . by way of an engagement present.”

Mrs. Durand held out to her a tiny package wrapped in tissue and tied with a blue ribbon.

Lillias hesitated. Then she took it into her hands and gave the little ribbon a tug, and parted the tissue. To discover a lovely little pair of satin garters, trimmed in lace.

She lifted her head. Her throat felt thick. “You are too kind to me after all I’ve . . . after what I’ve . . .”

Angelique was ready with a handkerchief and Lillias accepted it.

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’t know myself 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 you don’t want.” “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 what they 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 the ton had 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.

Although he hadn’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 in long-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 read The Ghost in the Attic in 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.

Which made her smile slightly.

But as they all drew closer to the lights and noise and music and the phalanx of footmen charged with ushering guests inside, her strength nearly failed her.