I’m Only Wicked with You by Julie Anne Long

Lillias hadn’t fully understood until she’d set foot into this house on this night that her expectations for her future had been as much a part of her as her own skeleton. Her entire being had grown around it. It had determined how she viewed and moved through the world, how she expected to be seen, addressed, read about, talked about.

And now that it had been quite shattered and replaced with something entirely new, everything seemed to require an odd new effort. Walking, seeing, speaking.

Her heart was jabbing away at her breastbone.

“Hold your head high,” Hugh murmured. “Assume they already know. We’ll enter as though we’re the King and Queen of England.”

Well, she could do that.

And soon it was clear that he could, too.

Lillias had made enough entrances into enough thronged ballrooms to understand how the glittering congregation could behave like a tide. How one exceptional person could start up a ripple of murmurs and rustles just by gliding through, like a hand over pianoforte keys. She had more than once been that person.

Tonight, that person was Hugh.

It was almost like a dance.

Postures everywhere straightened and male faces grew stern and alert, fans and eyelashes fluttered, kid-clad hands rose to touch a lip, move a curl behind an ear, touch a jaw, a necklace at a throat. Unconsciously or deliberately meant to point out their loveliest features to the man strolling through. If they were birds, Lillias thought, they’d all be singing their hearts out at the glory of the morning, as if he were the sun.

And then she saw the heads actually turn to watch him. Watch them, rather. For they were together, and this would be how they entered ballrooms and other rooms together for the rest of their lives.

The tension in her stomach coiled tighter.

And up the fans went, so gossip could be exchanged behind them.

She nodded and smiled, and her parents nodded and smiled, and Hugh, who knew nobody but the people he’d arrived with, smiled and every now and then, nodded.

It was apparent in the dream-like context of The Grand Palace on the Thames that he was different from other men. In a ballroom crammed with the cream of England’s aristocracy, many of whom had known her since she was born, the contrasts became both heightened and distinct. It was instantly clear he was not of them. He’d been shaped by different forces.

He had the build of someone who’d labored hard and fought hard, who rode and strode over terrain more rugged than England’s soft hills. He had the sensual grace and confidence born of knowing precisely who he was and what he was capable of. His confidence all but preceded him like a tide. One or two men took an unconscious step back.

“You look well together, at least,” her mother said encouragingly. In a tone one might use to praise the quality paste copy of the family jewel.

She wondered if that “at least” would follow her marriage for the rest of her days.

“So do father’s matched bays.”

“And don’t they get us to where we need to go?” her mother enthused ironically. And rather tersely. Her mother was losing patience with her.

Her mother had liked Mr. Cassidy well enough for someone who wasn’t a gentleman, but she was juggling at least a dozen conflicting emotions as she made adjustments to her own dreams, too.

As through a dream, Lillias moved through the elegant crowd, the tension that had been coiling and coiling in her for two months now pulling ever tighter, until she was nauseous with it, and the voices of the room blended into a high whine in her ears. The final seconds of two months of dread seemed to throb in her ears like the boots of a firing squad advancing.

Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

. . . One.

She saw Giles.

A ballroom. A battlefield. Was there a difference, really? The uniforms were different, but that’s precisely what they were, whether they were silk and velvet or wool and stained with blood and gunpowder. They were there to indicate rank and status, to impress and intimidate. There wasn’t a context Hugh couldn’t navigate without some degree of competence. But he was never going to love a ballroom like this. An evening of pianoforte and dancing in a parlor suited him better, not this little jungle of gossip and competition, interrupted now and again by very good music and dancing, both of which he liked.

Hugh was no stranger to preening, and he appreciated the efforts on his behalf, and he smiled. So many lovely women. The young men all had a clean sameness to them. He imagined a hothouse full of them, rising out of rarified earth, their gloves and boots glossy as new leaves.

Suddenly some odd, inner jolt—as distinct as a finger-flick to the back of his neck, a feeling as though a song had come to an abrupt halt in the middle of a waltz—made him turn his head sharply.

Lillias was motionless. Not just motionless; it was as if her entire essence had retreated to the very center of her, as though she yearned to be invisible. He remembered her sitting like that in the drawing room at The Grand Palace on the Thames once or twice. As though she was enduring some private misery.

It would have to be a remarkable circumstance indeed that would make her yearn to be invisible.

Her eyes were fixed on one of the taller blokes.

Hugh narrowed his eyes and assessed him.

Like the others, he was otter-sleek in a lintless black coat, his neat square chin hugged by a cravat tied with what struck Hugh as unnecessary flair. His features were symmetrical. His hair was an artful toss of dark waves. If he had to, Hugh could probably pin him to the ground in less than a minute. Which was frankly the way Hugh assessed every man, even the ones he liked very much. (Delacorte: ten or so seconds, as he would be ticklish. Captain Hardy: a fight to the death. Lucien: would probably have a knife hidden in a convenient place on his person, but he could get the job done in an hour or so. Hugh was younger.)

The gleaming handsome bloke seemed to notice the quality of the attention fixed upon him, because he turned his head like a colt sniffing something dangerous on the wind.

He went still when he saw Lillias.

Anchored by a dimple, his smile began at one corner and spread into a slow curve. His eyes lit like twin sunrises. His teeth, square and blinding as pianoforte keys, appeared. Hugh had never seen such radiant delight.

The color drained from Lillias’s cheeks as swiftly as if someone had pulled a bung.

Seconds later, a smile wobbled fitfully across her lips, as though a drunk puppeteer had gotten hold of their corners.

What the bloody hell was going on?

Hugh reflexively cupped Lillias’s elbow and steadied her, because it seemed only seconds before her knees gave out.

The smiling man’s eyes dropped to that little juncture of Hugh’s hand and Lillias’s elbow, and his face froze.

And then gracefully, leisurely, he separated from his herd of brethren and strode over, aiming like an arrow for Lillias.

He had clearly decided to pretend that Hugh was invisible.

Hugh wished him luck with that. Hugh, who had never been invisible in his life, and who hadn’t been raised on scrupulous English etiquette, still knew a snub when he experienced one. He was darkly amused. He could bide his time.

The man bowed.

Lillias managed to curtsy.

“Lilly. I was so looking forward to seeing you. Mother said a bit of renovation is taking place on your townhouse and you’ve been compelled to repair to a boarding house. It sounds rather colorful.” His voice was so aristocratic.

Lillias seemed mute. That wobbly smile had shrunk, but still qualified as a smile.

“You are well? Your family is well?” the man prompted.

“All well, Giles. Is your family well?”

Ah, Giles, was it?

Where had he heard that name before?

“Mother, Father, Claire, and St. John are all well. Giles, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Hugh Cassidy.”

Giles’s head turned with what appeared to be a great, unnatural effort, as if his entire being was invested in pretending Hugh didn’t exist.

He was forced to confront Hugh and his unblinking gaze.

“Your . . . dancing instructor?” Giles offered what was meant to be a puzzled little smile.

Hugh’s smile was the metaphorical equivalent of a finger drawn over a knife blade to test its sharpness.

He had the satisfaction of seeing Giles blink before he performed an elegant bow. “A pleasure, Lord Bankham. I’ve heard a good deal about you.”

He’d heard absolutely nothing except his name. And now he recalled: Heatherfield.

“An American,” Giles said predictably, because for heaven’s sake, they all did.

“What a fine ear you have for accents, Bankham.”

The two stared at each other.

“Gilly . . .” Lillias cleared her throat. “That is, Giles, Lord Bankham, as we mentioned to you before, has been a family friend since we both were . . . very small.”

“Since you fell into the pond . . .” Giles said, like a prompt to an old and beloved joke.

“. . . and you tried to fish me out . . .” Lillias said weakly, smiling. “But then you . . .”

“. . . fell in, too. And then you . . .”

“. . . accidentally on purpose kicked you. Giles, Mr. Cassidy and I are engaged to be married.”

Hugh saw the moment Giles stopped breathing.

And then Giles blinked as if something had been dashed into his face.

A long, strange moment passed during which Hugh merely observed, and the three of them seemed to be enclosed in a dome of silence while the ballroom full of revelers chattered, flirted, and gossiped behind them.

None of them spoke.

Lillias turned away to look at a cavorting statue, then down at her reticule. Then away again.

As if fantasizing about her escape path if she managed to muster the nerve to run.

“I see,” Lord Bankham finally said.

Which was an odd thing to say for someone who so patently did not see.

But Hugh was beginning to see.

See, but not understand. Suspicion was sprouting like a noxious little weed.

Lillias looked up at Giles, Lord Bankham, and her expression was faintly pleading.

“I’m afraid I don’t . . . that is . . .” Bankham had been badly shaken. “But you never . . .”

Lillias looked down at her shoes again. And this time that’s where her gaze remained.

Whatever the hell was happening here, for his sake and for hers, Hugh was going to need to salvage it in order to forestall gossip.

“We were much thrown together of late during various entertainments. And when you meet the person you hope to spend the rest of your life with, you don’t want to waste another moment.”

Her head came up. As if he’d given her the start of a script she could convincingly follow.

And then she produced a fond smile and aimed it up at Hugh.

Bankham didn’t speak.

He stared at her.

Then back at Hugh.

Then back at Lillias.

“And your . . . father . . . the earl . . . he can’t possibly think . . . that is, Mr. Cassidy is . . .” Giles’s voice wasn’t quite a croak. But there was really no way to finish the sentence that wasn’t astonishingly rude, and Hugh got the sense that nothing but a terrible shock would have caused Giles to stumble down that particular conversational road.

“Father adores Hugh.” Lillias managed to make those three words sound like gospel. Hugh had no illusions about it being for his sake—more on the order of loyalty to her family and her father’s orders—but he was impressed.

Bankham finally was very subdued. He squared his shoulders. “Well,” he said. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Lilly.”

These words were utterly inflectionless. They might be in order, but he didn’t precisely offer them, and Hugh was not included.

“Thank you,” Hugh said pointedly, anyway. “We are very happy indeed, and it’s kind of you to share in our happiness.”

Lillias appeared to be mute. She smiled again, and it was almost convincing. Then looked into the middle distance, where someone was still waving a handkerchief, attempting to get her attention, and then glanced into a nearby mirror, obviously worried that she was invisible. Lillias was staring right through her.

“I’ve yet to enter a similarly happy state,” Giles said carefully. Like a spy delivering a code.

He’d transferred that unblinking gaze to Lillias.

Lillias’s head went up sharply.

She locked eyes with Giles for a moment that was eloquent with . . . something . . . before looking away again.

And Hugh clamped his teeth down on a corrosive suspicion that mingled with quite a few other things he’d rather not examine closely.

“I look forward to coming to know you, Mr. Cassidy,” Giles said suddenly. “In fact, I would be so honored if the two of you—and Lord and Lady Vaughn—should join my parents and me for a picnic tomorrow at Heatherfield in Richmond. Your new mutual happiness would certainly brighten the day, which promises already to be sunny.”

“I am away to Portsmouth the day after tomorrow to meet the Tropica, as my uncle is expected to arrive within a day or so. I would be able to spend a lovely day in Richmond with my fiancée and her dear friends if I set out no later than sunrise the following day.” He smiled pleasantly.

He could not recall the last time Giles had blinked.

Lillias notably did not make haste to accept the picnic invitation.

“Heatherfield is our estate, Mr. Cassidy. You may have heard of it,” Giles said thoughtfully.

“Oh, I have indeed.”

“It will one day be mine, of course.” Giles smiled modestly.

“Fortunate you are, indeed. Land is the ideal asset, Lord Bankham. Unless, of course, the lands are entailed to a title in such a way that an endless amount of money is needed to support them. Then they’ve been known to quite drain the coffers. Best to have a good business head and a reliable source of income. “

Giles was silent. His face hardened speculatively.

“I don’t recognize your tailor, Mr. Cassidy,” he said. “Which strikes me as unusual, as Lillias is usually dressed in the first stare of fashion as such things matter to her.”

Hugh almost laughed. He supposed it was an English aristocrat’s version of drawing a sword.

“Mr. Cassidy’s clothes were lost at sea,” Lillias said suddenly.

Hugh slowly turned to look at Lillias.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment. “In a tragic maritime accident, my clothing was lost at sea. Yet my enthusiasm for this evening and the opportunity to meet you was such that I found the courage to wear this coat.”

Lillias refused to look at him. Her expression had altered somewhat. She knew he was angry. But, if he’d had to guess, she was almost tempted to laugh.

Although, given the mood, it would have been slightly hysterical, if she had.

The three of them stood not speaking at all, but they were being looked at.

And then Lillias said, “Gilly . . . I so looked forward to meeting Lady Harriette this evening. Did she arrive with your family?” It was an attempt at sounding casual.

An epiphany struck Hugh: he knew Lillias. In just a few scant weeks he’d come to know her inflections and the angles of her head and the way her face colored, the way she held herself. He knew when she was proud or angry or curious or vulnerable or bored or full of herself.

So he knew she was lying.

She was not in the least looking forward to meeting this Harriette.

More and more curious.

And less and less pleasant.

And that’s when he noticed that her fingers, tightly clutching her little reticule and fan, were trembling.

“Lady Harriette has unfortunately been detained on her journey here. I’m given to understand a carriage horse threw a shoe and a blacksmith cannot be found for a day or so. She looked forward to the ball and to meeting you, as well. Her absence means I have a waltz going begging on my dance card.”

Lillias was white and wordless. And then a breath shuddered out, as though what she’d just asked had taken all of her courage.

Enough was enough.

“I think Lillias could use some air,” Hugh said firmly. “If you will be so kind as to excuse us? Delighted to meet you, Lord Bankham. I’m certain we’ll become great friends.”

Hugh favored Lord Bankham with a smile of such startling, irresistible warmth and bonhomie that the man’s face split into a smile as of its own accord, while his eyes looked astonished over the behavior of his mouth.

He took Lillias by the elbow and walked her, gently but implacably, toward a set of doors, wide, inset with small panes—leading to the garden, and pushed the door open, onto a veranda. He said not a word.