To Lillian it seemed as if going to the theater had a certain stimulating effect on her aunt, and she nearly smiled when she heard her grandfather’s snort behind her. Yet Aunt Louisa carried on, lost in memories of bygone Seasons. “And the elegant Apollo on the roof sank into the sea of flames and was seen nevermore. Very tragic, very tragic that. What a fate for a god! Even for one who was just cast in bronze.” She sadly shook her head. “And that just after Covent Garden had burnt down in the year before.”
“A dreadful story,” the Viscount Perrin said wistfully as if he had seen the blaze reflected on London’s sky himself. He offered a slice of orange to Aunt Louisa.
“Ahhh, Covent Garden…” The orange slice disappeared into Aunt Louisa’s mouth, and she munched and swallowed thoughtfully. “Master Betty had his debut there, if I remember correctly. Have you heard of Master Betty, my dear?” She turned to look at her niece.
Lillian shook her head.
“An excellent actor,” the viscount remarked. “Especially for so young a boy. He was but a boy, Lady Lillian, when he first appeared on a London stage in… in…”
Aunt Louisa clicked her tongue. “In 1804. Twelve years ago, in the middle of winter. We would not have been in Town that winter if it had not been for William Betty.”
Lillian stared at the young man who sat beside her peeling oranges. He made such an effort to appear all wise and manly, when he could not have been more than a mere boy himself, back in 1804. His slender, graceful fingers made quick work of the oranges. Clever fingers, yet carefully groomed and manicured, they showed no traces of hard labor, and the skin was smooth and white as fresh milk. Lillian imagined his body, the skin pale and unblemished. Smooth, without marks.
No brands.
No scars.
Such an innocent body.
Vividly she remembered another body, another man, tall and lean, but all innocence ripped away, the scorched lily on his chest—
Lillian shook her head to chase the unwanted memory away.
The past is gone
. She folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling.
It is all over.
Aunt Louisa frowned. “Master Betty. They were all wild for that snooty boy. Even my Lord Wishart.” The frown deepened. “
Especially
Wishart. How he would dart backstage to see the boy rubbed down by his father! As if he did not have sons of his own, Wishart. His behavior was rather embarrassing to watch, especially for a wife, if I may say so. But then, he had always been a bit soft in his head, my Wishart. Which is what probably got him killed in the first place.” She flipped her fan shut in order to poke it into Perrin’s padded waistcoat. “
You
know one end of a gun from the other, do you?”
“Madam!” Clearly affronted, Perrin squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I might not have fought against the Frenchmen, but believe me, I am well renowned for my sportsmanship!”
“What a relief to know,” Lillian’s grandfather said in a low tone, which seemed meant for Lillian’s ears alone. Turning around, she caught his wink. He bent forward and murmured, “Can always bring you home some game, the boy. It’s very reassuring to know you won’t starve.” His clear green eyes twinkled merrily.
Lillian’s lips lifted in a shy smile for the man who had been a quiet, benevolent presence in the background during the last few months. He had called in the teachers and Aunt Louisa, had ordered a new wardrobe to be made for his granddaughter, and had remained in his library for most of the time. And yet, he now did not seem to like the thought of parting with Lillian.
Smiling, the Marquis of Larkmoor took his granddaughter’s hand and blew a kiss on its back. “Have I already told you, my dear, that you’ve got your grandmother’s eyes?” He patted her hand. “A fine woman, your grandmother. A very fine woman.” His voice took on a mellow tone. He squeezed Lillian’s fingers, and the warmth of his hand seeped through her gloves to warm the skin below.
As she sat there in the stuffy theater box, looking at her grandfather while her aunt and her suitor discussed guns and the advantages of good fencing skills, a spark, a feeling of belonging ignited in Lillian. The tiny warmth settled in her heart and started to thaw the ice within.
Lillian glanced at Alexander Markham, Viscount Perrin, at his sweet, rosy face, the blond locks that curled around his head like those of the angel she had seen in her mother’s prayer book a long time ago. With her forefinger she traced the painted plates of the fan he had given her.
A sweet man, a good man, with innocent skin of milk.
And when, in his conversation with Aunt Louisa, his eyes suddenly darted to Lillian, she gave him, too, a shy smile and watched how warmth suffused his face.
~*~
And so, like butterflies, they fluttered on, from soirée to concert, from theater to ball. The Viscount Perrin became a steady companion, forever sending Lillian tokens of his devotion—flowers, sweets and fruit, the latest print from Ackermann’s or a slim volume of poetry. By the end of March, Lillian had three of these, and as they sat in the Amphitheater one evening, he pressed her gloved hand, intertwining his fingers with hers while the thunder of the horses’ hooves reverberated through the round.
The pleasure gardens were not yet opened, but he joined Lillian and Aunt Louisa on their daily morning drive around Hyde Park, a stately figure on horseback, thighs pressed around the sides of his raven-black horse. Lillian liked looking at him then, when the wind ruffled his blond curls and the sky seemed to be mirrored in his round blue eyes.
By the beginning of April he had kissed Lillian’s gloved hand on two occasions, and Aunt Louisa had allowed him to dance the waltz with her niece. Sometimes on the ballroom floor, Lillian would then feel his gloved fingers gently caressing the exposed skin of her shoulders and upper back, a quick, light brush of silk. But she had to force a smile then, for, all at once, his arms around her felt like the bars of a cage. And she would remember another night, another man, and the pressure of the arms around her, imprisoning her…
She would remember the play of candlelight over bronzed skin, over the mark shaped like a rose, over the red droplets blooming on the linen.
Blood shows so well on white
.
She would have to reach for the chill gathering in the corners of the room then, would have to cloak herself with cold. Slowly, the spark of warmth inside her, which had kindled that night in the theater, faded and died.
Still, she smiled on, smiled until her cheeks hurt, smiled when his mother and younger sisters were introduced to her, giggling girls not yet old enough to be out, but happy to pursue those pleasures of London that were open to them; smiled when his grandmother came for tea, a stately woman, demanding respect and watching Lillian with sharp eyes like those of an eagle. His family was drawing in, examining the girl their heir might want to bring home—like a cow from the market.
They were subtle about it, for sure; nevertheless images of a prison at the end of the world rose before Lillian’s inner eye. The stench of unwashed bodies. The rustling of filthy rushes and the clinking of chains.
The sight of Camille’s cold, hard eyes sliding over man after man.
And still, Lillian smiled on, smiled even though she thought that the skin of her face must surely crack; smiled when his breath touched her cheek as he whirled her around and around the room in three-four time.
The past is over… over…
“You look so lovely tonight,” he whispered to her. “So lovely.” His fingers clenched around her hand, almost painfully.
Perhaps he would ask her tonight. Aunt Louisa had said that it was to be expected any day now, and Nanette had laid her hand against Lillian’s cheek. “
Mon petit
chou-chou
,” she had said, “
oh, mon petit
chou-chou
.” And her eyes had been swimming in tears, happy tears, that she had seen her charge through all misfortunes to bring her to this, to
this
, to be the Right Honorable the Viscountess Perrin.
A silk-clad finger traced the curve of her neck and shoulder. “So very lovely. I—” His throat worked; fire raced up from underneath his white cravat.
Lillian stared at that bit of starched white linen and willed herself not to flinch under his touch.
The past is over.
“I wish I were a poet.” Perrin’s breath, warm and moist, touched her ear, his voice hoarse. “So that I might write poems in your praise.” The candlelight danced over his blond curls in three-four time, transforming them into spun gold. His voice sank to a breathless whisper. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…’”
She recalled hot, moist breath touching her skin alongside hands, large hands, arranging her limbs…
Lillian swayed against the arms currently around her. She seemed to float, weightless, and her ears filled with the roaring of her blood, which shut out the noise of the ballroom.
“Lady Lillian?
Lady Lillian?
”
Lillian blinked.
Round eyes hovered in front of her face like shiny blue marbles. A frown marred the line of his smooth forehead. “Are you all right, Lady Lillian?”
She straightened her back and forced another smile onto her stiff lips. “I am fine, thank you. Just—”
“How very inconsiderate of me.” Perrin led her to the side of the dance floor. “To force two of these exhausting waltzes on you. I am sorry, most sorry. Shall I get you some refreshments?” Without waiting for her answer, he led her on, hooking her hand in the crook of his elbow and pressing her arm against his side. Lillian had no choice but to follow, while the other couples swirled on with the music.
“Have I already told you that my cousin has arrived in London?” Perrin made a slight bow to an acquaintance he had spotted among the ball guests, before he turned his attention back to Lillian. “Will you do me the honor of letting me introduce him to you? He promised that he would be here this evening. He runs late, I gather. You must not hold it against him, though.” Solicitously he saw to it that she would not stumble over the threshold of the refreshments room.
Lillian’s gaze was caught by the black dragons that curled threateningly across the bright red wallpaper and chased each other on the Chinese lanterns on the lacquered side tables. The feet of these were formed like the paws of a lion, with sharp golden claws that might tear through a man’s flesh and bone.
The past is over.
From the bowls and cups and pots on the main table, the smell of coffee and beef soup rose to mingle sickeningly with the scent of the ball guests’ various sweetwaters.
“He still tires easily, I believe,” Perrin continued, his voice full of importance. “And he has not yet regained his old strength. So you will not hold it against him, will you?”
“Of course not,” Lillian murmured, without knowing whom he was talking about. She yearned for the cool, fresh night air, for a place of quiet and solitude.
Perrin guided her to an empty chair of black wood. “Please sit down. I will get you something to drink and you will feel much better, soon.” With that, he hurried away.
While she waited for him, Lillian watched the coming and going of the people around her, who sipped wine and talked and laughed, talked and laughed and—
“Here you are.” Perrin held out a glass of sparkling red wine to her. “Try this. It will revive you.”
The thin, elegant stem of the glass felt cool in Lillian’s ginger grip, a fragile thing, so easy to break, to destroy, to shatter into a million pieces…
Lillian took a deep breath and let the coolness of the glass soothe her. She took a tentative sip of the chilled wine, the bubbles tickling her nose. She would have preferred lemonade made of sour limes without any trace of sweetness.
“You might think it strange,” Perrin said, “that I would wish to introduce my cousin to you. I love him like a brother, you must know. He is one of my best friends.”
Lillian took another sip, welcomed the coolness that washed down her throat. “I see,” she said softly. But how could she? She had never had any brothers or sisters or friends. Just Nanette. Nanette had always been there.
Perrin’s eyes shone merrily. “We grew up together, my coz and I.” And how much effort he took to sound like a fashionable gentleman, a man of the world. “A fine pair of rascals we were! Rambling around the Ravenhurst estate, full of boyish mischief and pranks.”
“So you are of the same age?” Lillian forced herself to show some interest in what he told her.
“Oh no, he is five years my senior—but what a fine big brother he would have made! I followed him everywhere…”
Like a puppy, a lap dog,
Lillian added silently.
“…admired him ardently. He was the hero of my boyhood.”
Another sip of ruby-red wine. It almost looked like blood, Lillian found. She twirled the liquid in her glass, stared at the tiny red waves.
“I would want my future…” The hectic blotches lit up his cheeks once more. “…my… I would want you to know…” He squirmed, his eyes darted away, this way and that. Then suddenly they fastened on something beyond Lillian’s shoulder. His face broke into a relieved smile. He straightened his posture. “And here he is. As promised.” He waved, an enthusiastic young man, full of eagerness to please. “Troy! Over here!”
Lillian watched the glow spreading over his whole face, and for a moment she felt something like envy. That he had
this
. In the next moment, though, she stood and smiled prettily and turned toward the man who had just entered the refreshments room. Black dragons curled on the walls on each side of him as he strode toward them, tall and broad-shouldered, as graceful as a big cat.
Lillian smiled and smiled as the candlelight kindled fires in a shock of auburn hair, fashionably tousled. Smiled as familiar cornflower-blue eyes turned on her, as recognition flared and kindled hatred, twisting his strong-boned face into an ugly mask.
Beaming, Perrin turned to her. “Lady Lillian, may I present my cousin, Murgatroyd Sacheverell, fifth Earl of Ravenhurst.”
Lillian smiled and smiled, even as her glass shattered on the floor, spilling wine everywhere, ruby-red droplets blooming on polished wood just like blood would do. She smiled as the floor rose to meet her, as darkness held out its arms and swallowed her up.