The Wallflower Duchess. Liz Tyner
‘Remember, money can’t buy happiness, but a rich person who is miserable has to work at it.’
He turned. ‘I want Edgeworth for a son-in-law. I don’t care how the two of you sort it out.’
Lily watched him leave the room.
‘So...’ Abigail swooped, laughing. ‘You are all set to steal my beau.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, wishing Abigail would stand still enough to swat. ‘Edgeworth has—had a misunderstanding.’ She couldn’t have so much attention on her. People would sneer. The blacksmith’s daughter who married a duke.
‘Well, I should be upset that he prefers you over me, but I’m really rather relieved. Particularly since I prefer almost everyone over him.’ Abigail grimaced. ‘Edgeworth is a little—I mean, he acts ancient. I prefer someone more lively.’
‘He’s just serious.’
‘Yes. He is,’ Abigail said, leaving. ‘Too serious. Just like you.’ She tapped her finger against her lips. ‘I never noticed that before.’ She turned, her dignity leaving as she called out, ‘Father. Is the note to Lily still there?’ Her voice rose. ‘I must see it.’
Lily clamped her teeth together. Abigail could look all she wanted. The book was now hidden under Lily’s bed and the note had been folded into a bookmark and now resided in a recipe book.
* * *
Standing behind the open curtains in Abigail’s room, she watched for the Duke to step out of his house. The nightly jaunt into the gardens had been a tradition of sorts. His father used to walk out in the evenings and smoke occasionally—and always when Edge was home from his studies. She’d eavesdropped several times, impressed with his father speaking so much. But after a few nights, she’d lost all interest in what a duke should do and how he should do it.
When Edge was injured, she’d known he was very ill, because his forays into the garden had completely stopped. Not once in eleven days had he stepped out.
Now, she waited.
Finally, a lone figure moved into sight. If she’d not been watching for movement, she wouldn’t have seen him in the fading light. He stood, eyes taking in the night. He’d been named well. She’d never seen a lion at night, just the one in the menagerie, but it hadn’t seemed to care who watched it, or what they thought, because it had a powerful build and the force of generations of strength bred into it.
She took a wrap from the dressing chamber and put it around her shoulders, and sat a bonnet on her head, leaving the blue ribbons to flutter.
A flash of memory caused her feet to slow and a pang of guilt to hit her midsection. She’d lived so carefully, avoiding every opportunity to be like her mother.
Before stepping outside, she gave an extra tap to hold her bonnet in place. She paused when the fresh air hit her face. But it was dark enough no one would see her.
She’d had to wait until the sun set because otherwise when she moved forward, she would be in view of all the windows, and it simply could not appear she was engaging in anything of questionable nature. She’d been fortunate with the mourning attire, but one servant had seen her returning to the house and met her with a broom, concerned a stranger was lurking about.
She’d explained that the sun had given her a headache and she’d wanted to shield her face, and she’d donned the darker clothing. That had caused a furrowed brow, but hadn’t been questioned.
If she said she’d suddenly taken an interest in horticulture at night time no one would believe it.
She could not let anyone think she was like her mother, particularly Edgeworth.
Not one word had been mentioned in print about Lily’s family in such a long time and she didn’t want it to change. The words didn’t seem to stick to the people who’d been generations in London, but it landed on her family like the stench in the streets everyone stepped around and it lingered. Everyone thought her father had bought his way into society and, in a sense, he had.
She took in a breath and moved away from the house. Perhaps she was like her mother.
Her footsteps didn’t make noise in the dew-dampened grass. She forced herself to slow, the wafting honeysuckle perfume of the night surrounding her. When her eyes locked on Edgeworth, she could have been the predator.
When he saw her, his shoulders turned while he pulled in a normal intake of breath with the same fluidity. With that movement, their positions reversed. She couldn’t even see into his eyes, but still he mastered the space.
She curtsied, but didn’t lower her head. The bench, hidden in the daylight by the semi-circle of hedge around it, was at her left. Edge had sat there so many times with his books.
Even though she couldn’t see it until she stood near, she moved directly to it and sat.
He walked to her as if he’d invited her into the garden and had been waiting.
She saw not a man, but a monument to one, carved like the figures that jutted from the towers of some castles to warn intruders. She wanted to tap at the stone, study it, look for divots caused by weather or age, and see how the shape had been formed.
The thought flitted through her mind that if she didn’t speak, he wouldn’t. The ability to outlast another person had been bred into him, perhaps from some warrior grandfather of his.
But she could tell this wasn’t a contest to see who could outlast the other. He merely waited for her.
‘You have to discourage Fox from my sister,’ she spoke quietly. ‘Now she’s enlisted Father in her plans for marriage.’
‘He should take part in his daughters’ futures.’
‘He never did particularly before. But now it’s as if he’s thought of it as business and he’s taking it as seriously as if it’s something on a ledger sheet.’
‘Has my name been put into the accounting?’ he asked.
‘Of course. But now he knows you’re not interested in Abigail.’
‘What did he say about your prospects?’
‘That,’ she said, ‘is immaterial, as I do not have a list for such a thing.’
His breathing tightened. ‘It’s nature to want a person in your life who thinks you above all others and you think above all others. Selfish, perhaps. But nature.’
She ground her teeth against each other and the moment was so silent she could hear the sound from inside her head. ‘If people followed their nature—’
‘Most people do.’
This time she didn’t mind the long silence. His words remained in her thoughts. ‘Do you?’
He could have given a soliloquy in the space before he answered, ‘My nature is precise. Planned.’
‘Methodical?’
The silence fluttered around them again.
‘Your Grace.’ She spoke more softly, taking the bite out of her words.
‘Miss Lily.’ His voice, little more than a whisper, rumbled into the night and had no sting in the words. ‘Speak as you wish. You always have. To me.’
She stood. ‘I don’t particularly care what your cousin does. But I do care if my sister is hurt.’ She moved closer—which would have been improperly close in the daylight, but she needed to see his eyes.
She raised her arm, keeping it close to her body so she wouldn’t nudge him and clicked a fingernail against her incisor. ‘Did you notice he has white teeth?’ The wind fluttered her bonnet and she grasped the untied ribbons with her other hand, holding both in one grasp.
‘Teeth?’ He narrowed his eyes, questioning. ‘I don’t care about Foxworthy’s teeth and