The Wallflower Duchess. Liz Tyner
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can’t believe you forgot the soirée,’ Edge said.
‘Nor can I.’
No flicker of irritation. Perhaps Gaunt did think he’d forgotten.
Edge took the comb and did another run through his hair, then set the comb on the edge of the tabletop, absently letting it fall to the floor. When he stood, he picked up the dry cloth on the table, brushed it at his cheek, wadded it into a ball and tossed it over the soap pot. On the way out, he glanced at Gaunt’s expression. Calmness rested in his eyes.
The Duke paused outside the door, shutting it, but then he stopped and opened it quietly. Gaunt retrieved the comb, putting it in the spot it belonged. Then retrieved the flannel and his cheeks puffed. He wrung the cloth once, and then again, and again, as if it were—perhaps, a neck. Then he precisely smoothed it before returning it to the exact spot Edge preferred.
Pulling the door softly shut behind him, Edgeworth paused. The towel had not been wet, but if it had been his neck, he wouldn’t be going to the soirée.
* * *
Lily walked to Abigail’s room and peered in. Her sister had the face of her mother, a perfect heart shape, and her father’s fair colouring and blonde hair.
Lily supposed her colouring came from her true father. At the one time she’d seen the blacksmith, she’d not been aware that men could pass their resemblance on to their children. She was thankful for that.
Her mother had jerked Lily’s hand forward, pulling her into the invisible wall of heat and charred odours which separated the shop from the alive world. A blacksmith had appeared, standing like a gruff ogre at a fire where his next meal could be roasted—or a fire where a little girl who’d stepped too near could be tossed.
His eyes couldn’t have been gleaming red-hot—he was human—but in her memory he’d had red eyes, blocks of huge teeth and his wet hair had spiked down the sides of his face into points.
When the stories in the newspaper were published about her birth and she fully considered what that really meant, she’d shuddered. Fortune had plucked her into a princess world where even her maid hummed. Being illegitimate wasn’t nearly so bad as the thought of how different life would have been with the man whose walls hung dark with long pinchers.
She’d only had the one nightmare where he’d grabbed her with the pinchers and tossed her into the flames, laughing and telling her she didn’t belong in the rich man’s world. She belonged in the coals.
Now, Lily appraised her sister, thankful for the brightness Abigail brought into the world.
‘You look like a princess.’ Lily leaned around the doorway.
‘I feel like one, too.’
Lily smiled and left, moving down the stairs to the ballroom. Tonight, instead of frowning at any man who stood too close to Abigail, she would smile and step into the shadows.
She took a breath before she walked into the ballroom, the scent of the specially ordered candles wafting through the air. She fluffed out the capped sleeves of her gown. The dress was three Seasons old, but the embroidery on the bodice and hem had taken a seamstress months and months to complete.
She paused when she took in the broad shoulders and firm stance of Edgeworth. The man to the left was taller. The one to the right had a merry face and narrow frame. Edgeworth was not above average in height and features, except for his shoulders and eyes.
Everyone noticed him, even if the ladies were cautious about it. No one wanted to anger Edgeworth. Even her. Usually.
But she had once borrowed his book when he’d left it outside on the bench. She’d known he was returning for it. She’d known—and she’d darted upstairs, nearly biting her tongue in half when she’d stumbled on the steps, then she’d rushed into Abigail’s room to watch the events next door unfold. The hedge around the bench hadn’t been so big then and she’d stood at the window, waiting.
He’d returned and stared at the empty spot.
Then he’d looked up. She’d held the book against the glass.
Edgeworth had pointed to the bench and she’d seen the set of his shoulders.
He’d moved one step in her direction. He’d waggled a finger. He wasn’t smiling as she’d thought he might. One hand was at his side and clenched.
She’d put the book down because she couldn’t manage a book the size of a chair seat and the window at the same time.
She’d pulled open the window, lifted the book and then held the volume in both hands and released it flat. Then she’d jumped back inside, shut the window and stepped from sight.
The rest of the day she’d expected to be summoned for punishment, but no one had mentioned it. Her father would never have forgiven her. A common girl did not irritate a duke’s son.
And then he’d left that second book out and she’d taken it, knowing he left it for her. She’d laughed when she’d seen the title. She’d never read it, but still, she’d placed it in her father’s library and it had made her smile when she walked by and thought of him leaving it for her to find.
She’d intended to tell him later that she’d burned it, but she’d forgotten about mentioning it the next time she saw him. She’d been too excited, telling him that her mother had decided to leave London. She’d not be pulled back and forth between her two parents’ homes any longer. She and Abigail would stay behind.
She wondered why she noticed so much of Edgeworth. She always had. But she supposed it was just because she’d known him her whole life.
Now, he glanced around the room at the soirée and his eyes didn’t stop on her. They didn’t even pause. Her stomach jolted. She knew, without any doubt, that even though he’d not looked at her, he’d seen her. He’d seen her just as clearly as he had on the day he’d glared up and into the window, staring because she’d taken his book.
His eyes reminded her of the story of the man who captured the sun’s rays and reflected them on to boats to light them afire—only Edgeworth’s flares were blue. It was mesmerising, the way he used them, almost like a knight might flash a sword tip in a certain direction, ready to slice someone in two.
Pretending not to be aware of him, she moved to the lemonade table. She kept her back to the men so she would not be tempted to watch Edgeworth. Music from the quartet drifted over her, and she smiled. The night would be perfect for Abigail.
‘Miss Hightower.’ She could not help herself from turning towards the words right behind her shoulder and the voice she instantly recognised. The voice sounded in direct opposition to his eyes. Perhaps, she thought, that was what made him fascinate her. Cool eyes. Warm voice, at least some of the time.
He reached around her, keeping his balance and not touching her, and lifted a glass to her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said, tone low and attention safely on the lemonade. She looked up for a brief second, taking care not to linger.
He reached out, touching her elbow. ‘Would you like to dance?’
‘No.’ She looked at her feet and admitted, ‘My slippers pinch.’ But something was different. Something about him, and she couldn’t figure out what. Dancing with him—it almost seemed too close. Not that it ever had before. And he’d not asked her sister to dance first, she was certain of that.
‘You shouldn’t wear something painful,’ he said, looking in the direction of her feet.
‘That’s part of why I detest these events.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I don’t detest them, I didn’t mean that.’ She did. An interloper. One step above a governess—only she knew some of the governesses had a better lineage than she did. One had once told her that. A pang of guilt burned in Lily’s stomach. She’d not so innocently told her mother what the woman had said and the woman had been sent on her way.
Now