The Lily Brand (10 page)

Knee breeches.
Troy snorted. He felt like a fop. Yet his valet had insisted on this attire, especially since Troy had neither voucher nor ticket that would grant him entrance to the innermost haven of London society. If his master should fail, the trusty valet had said, it should at least not be due to faulty attire.

Troy gritted his teeth. He would
not
fail. Rather more forcefully than intended, he rapped his walking stick against the door. Another thing that his valet had provided him with: a ridiculous golden-knobbed walking stick and an even more ridiculous-looking hat, which was high enough to make even the people of Babylon jealous.

The door opened and a small, wiry man peered up at him. “Good evening, my lord.”

Troy lifted his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile. “Good evening… Willis, isn’t it?”

“Your ticket, my lord?”

“My ticket.” Troy sighed and scratched his head. With great show he bent forward and whispered: “I am afraid, sir, that I do not have a ticket.”

Almack’s Cerberus regarded him stoically. “Then I cannot let you in, my lord.”

“But I am properly clothed,” Troy protested. “See? Knee breeches!” He wriggled a stockinged leg. “You cannot turn me away because of that as you did with Wellington.”

Willis cocked his head to the side and blinked. He very much gave the appearance of a man faced with a lunatic straight out of Bedlam. “But Wellington, my lord, had a ticket.”

Troy gave another tragic sigh and looked up and down the street. For the moment there was no carriage in sight. With a lightning-quick move he had grabbed the other man’s collar. “See, Willis, the thing is this: I’ve been to France, I fought against Napoleon, and believe me, most of the times, it was not a picnic. So now that I want to go up to that ballroom, do you really think you could stop me?”

“My lord!” the unfortunate Willis choked.

“Good. I don’t think so either.” Smiling gently, Troy released the doorman, patted his shoulder and stepped around him. Swinging his walking stick in the fashion of a Lord Dudlin, Troy walked up to the great staircase inside. As if struck by an afterthought, he turned around one last time. “Oh, and Willis, if you value your life, you won’t breathe a word of this incident to anybody.”

Then Troy smiled and nodded and proceeded to hurry up the stairs. For all that Willis had looked as if he had been struck by thunder, Troy did not believe the doorman’s silence would last long—even with all the ridiculous threats he had uttered.

Merde!
Two men he had threatened with strangling that day. If he needed any further proof that the war, the prison, and the events thereafter had made him into a barbarian, this was it.

At the top of the stairs another dilemma faced Troy: He had not been to the cloakroom. But he could not possibly walk into a ballroom with a walking stick and a funny hat. Well, he didn’t like the hat anyway. So he whipped it off his head and let it fly into the shadows of the landing. The walking stick followed suit—and good riddance to it, too.

Pasting an amiable smile on his face, Troy sauntered through the open doors into the noise and heat of the ballroom. The orchestra musicians on the small balcony played away on their instruments as if their lives depended on it, while the half-naked Greek statues along the walls watched stoically. And held candelabras. And wore something that looked suspiciously like nightcaps.

Heavens!
Troy suppressed a shudder and scanned the assembled personages. Not surprisingly, the gentlemen looked all the same: bored expressions and coats with batwinged tails. This season’s debutantes—

“Lord Ravenhurst! What a nice surprise!” Lady Jersey, clad in Turkey red, sailed toward him.

Trust the society queen to hone in on him even before he had quite crossed the threshold to her kingdom! His hands spasmed into fists before he forced himself into a relaxed attitude.

“Madam.” He bowed low. “Good evening.” Smiling, he looked her in the eye and added: “Lady Sefton was kind enough to give me a voucher on short notice so that I might see the hallowed halls of Almack’s for myself. I guess she pitied me, for I limped rather prettily.” He winked at her.

“You sly young fox!” Lady Jersey smacked his arm with her closed fan. “I have not seen the slightest hint of a limp as you walked in right now.”

He chuckled deep in his throat. “If you would prefer me to limp…”

“Oh, no you don’t. After all we want to see you dance, my lord.” She looked around. “Shall I introduce you to some of the young ladies?”

Troy bowed some more. “It would be my pleasure.” He hesitated for a moment. Then he plunged on before an enraged Willis could come storming up the stairs. “But since Lady Lillian Abberley collapsed in a dead faint at my feet yesterday evening—as I am sure you have heard—I wish to inquire after her health first. Is she here tonight?”

Lady Jersey fiddled with her fan. “A very shocking incident, my lord,” she said confidentially. “It was all over town this morning. The poor dear must have overtaxed herself at the waltz.”

Troy showed her a smile full of flashing teeth. “Indeed. And imagine how shocking it was for me to find myself with Lady Lillian sprawled on the floor at my feet. So I am sure you understand how urgently I would like to see for myself that she has not taken any permanent harm from the experience. Is she not here tonight?”

“Oh yes, she is.” Lady Jersey pouted prettily and airily waved her hand in the direction of the dance floor. “Dancing with Lord Shipsey.”

“Thank you, madam.” Troy bowed once more. “Most obliged. Would you reserve a dance for me later this evening?”

Appeased, Lady Jersey gave him a simpering smile, which she probably considered girlish, and rapped her fan on his arm again. “You
are
a sly young fox, my lord. I will see you later, then.” With that she strutted away to sharpen her claws on some other unfortunate victim.

Shaking his head, Troy walked on, brushing through the throng of guests until he had a full view of the dance floor. Almost immediately, he found the woman he had come looking for, the woman whose image had been seared into his brain just like—

His right hand strayed under the lapels of his coat and splayed over his heart, his fingers clutching at his waistcoat, where underneath the cloth her lily marred his skin. Breathing became difficult as if unseen fists squeezed his lungs.

He saw her following the steps of a country dance, linking arms or hands with the poor fool of her dancing partner. A white dress billowed around her, virginal white. White as cream spread on pale skin.

His stomach heaved.

Troy closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
This will not do.
He forced himself to relax, to let his arms hang loosely at his sides.

But at the same time as air filled his lungs, wild, hot anger swept over him and washed away the last remnants of rational thought and reason. How he lusted to revenge himself, to revenge the destruction of his manhood by the brand that had seared her mark into his skin.

When he opened his eyes again, the edges of his vision seemed shrouded in a red haze. His heart beat loud and fast.

He strode forward, yet carefully so as not to break the pattern of the dance. Up the long row of dancers he marched, until he saw her head spin around, saw the color leaving her face.

He stepped between her and her dance partner, a young, young fool just like Alex. “Good evening, madam. I need to talk to you.” He half turned to throw the other man a grim look. “Will you excuse us, my lord?”

Without waiting for an answer, he gripped her arm just above the elbow, digging his fingers into the silk of her long glove. Her flesh was soft under his fingers. So pliable that he would surely leave bruises on her skin.

He walked away with her, and even though the young fool behind him gaped and gaped just like Alex had done, the pattern of the dance was not destroyed. The music played on, and he marched her right through the rows of astonished people waiting at the edge of the dance floor.

At one point he thought he heard her ask: “What do you want of me?” Oh, yes, how well he remembered that voice, that cool, clipped voice.

Oui,
maman
.

His fingers closed tighter around her arm until he could feel the solidity of the bone beneath the flesh. He strode on into the room where the refreshments were served and out into the servants’ hallway. There he propelled her into the shadows under the stairs.

She fell against the wall, but straightened quickly, rubbing her arm. “What do you want of me?” she asked again.

“As I said,” he drawled. “I want to talk to you.” When she would have stepped away from him, he backed her against the wall. Shoved his face into hers. His lips lifted in a snarl. “The world is a small place, is it not,
Lady
Lillian?”

“What do you want of me?” Her voice was soft. Oh, a man could be deceived by that voice alone. She stared at him, her eyes two shimmering pools in the shadows. But he remembered their color, cold and gray as steel and watching, always watching…

He slapped his hand against the wall beside her face, wanting her to flinch. Wanting to break that stare. Wanting the satisfaction of her fear.
Her
fear.

Yet she neither flinched nor blinked.

She just watched and watched and watched, as if she were still the one holding the whip and he the dog on the leash.

Fury raced through his veins like molten fire. His hands closed on her shoulders, crushing the bones, and his thumbs slid to the hollow at the base of her throat. “You will stay away from my cousin!” he snarled into her face. “Stay away from Alex!”

Her pulse hammered against his fingertips, but it was not enough. Not near enough. He wanted to dominate her, just as he had been dominated. Wanted to taste her fear.

It would taste sweet on his lips.

Sweet enough to wash away the bitter taste of remembered humiliation.

He leaned forward, using his whole weight to press her against the wall. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, and he pressed harder until they were flat and crushed.

But still she stared and stared and did not utter a word.

“You bitch!” he spat. “You will stay away from Alex!”

He slammed his knee between her legs, pushed his thigh against the juncture of her thighs,
hard
. He wanted to hurt her as he had been hurt. His mouth crashed down on hers, squashing her lips against her teeth until he could taste blood. Sweet, coppery blood.

His fingers left her throat. Dimly he registered the sounds of ripping material before his hands filled with soft flesh and squeezed. God, so tightly.

Fury pounded against his temples, and his ears were filled with the roaring of his own blood. Roaring for revenge. “Bitch!” he panted. “Bitch!”

More ripping material. Fabric that bit into his hand.

He pushed his knee higher, making her stand on tiptoe, helpless, while his fingers ravaged her flesh.

Oh yes, she would feel his dominance, his power his…

“
My lord!
”

The shocked cry cut through the red haze that enshrouded his senses. Slowly, he turned his head. Slowly, his eyes focused on shocked faces.

“’Tis the one!” Willis pointed an accusatory finger at him. “’Tis is the one who went up without a voucher!”

Slowly, Troy stepped away from the woman and turned his body fully toward the people who stood and stared at him. Willis wore an expression of outraged indignation. Lady Sefton, whose husband was also a member of White’s, looked sincerely shocked and sad, while Lady Jersey’s eyes glinted as if with secret enjoyment of the situation. The third lady present, Lord Wishart’s widow, had turned pasty white.

He took a step forward. And another. Into the light.

Their eyes darted past him. Four loud gasps filled the hallway.

He threw a look over his shoulder into the shadows. To the woman’s pale breasts, which bore the marks of his fingers. The blood on her lips and chin seemed almost black.

“Lillian. Oh, my dear, my dear…” Lady Wishart rushed forward, shouldering past him. Lady Jersey, by contrast, produced a high-pitched yell, before she artfully fainted into Willis’s waiting arms.

Troy straightened his cravat and walked away without another look. He did not retrieve either his hat or walking stick.

Chapter 6

The only sounds that filled the room were the soft clicks of silver cutlery on china as Lillian and her grandfather took their breakfast in silence. She winced slightly whenever she took a sip of tea and the hot liquid flowed over the cut in her upper lip.

Suddenly hurried steps sounded outside in the hallway. The door burst open. With heaving bosom, Aunt Louisa stood on the threshold, a newspaper clutched to her heart. “It’s in the papers!” she cried. “The whole story!” She stormed into the room, wringing her hands. “Whatever shall we do now? She is ruined!
Ruined!
After all our work and efforts!” With a look of utter exhaustion she sank into the nearest chair and fanned herself with the folded newspaper. “Heavens! Heavens!”

“Calm yourself, Louisa,” the Marquis of Larkmoor said sternly.

“How should I? Whatever shall we do now? That… that
scoundrel
! He must marry you! I shall insist on it! How very vexing this all is! Why haven’t you called for help, Lillian?” She turned a baleful eye toward her niece.

Yet Nanette, who had followed Aunt Louisa into the room, shook her head. “It would not have changed the result.”

“Oh well, then Papa could have shot him dead with a clear conscience. But now….” Aunt Louisa groaned. She raised the hand with the newspaper and shook her fist. “That woman! Sarah Sophia Fane, all high and mighty! She is a real gossip monger, she is! Couldn’t get the story into the papers quick enough! As if her family were all pure and innocent! Her own mother ran away with that Lord Westmoreland, I tell you. Got married in Gretna Green.
That
was a scandal, if I may say so. But now, she surely will be the first to cancel our invitation to her soirée next week. Oh dear, oh dear! Whatever shall we do?” She turned toward her father. “You have to call him out, naturally. You have to insist that he marry our Lillian. The scoundrel! I wouldn’t have thought it of him. No, I would not.”