Lillian Rowe knew good and well that Nicholas couldn’t dance a decent reel if the fates of England and France depended on him. That had to be why she had dragged him out to the dance floor for the second reel at the soiree that evening.
Perhaps if he were a little better of a dancer, he might have taken more enjoyment in his partner’s loveliness. He wasn’t certain whether Lillian had bought new dresses this Season or not, but the gown she had chosen was resplendent violet muslin.
“That’s backwards,” Lillian said in a mocking voice as Nicholas took yet another misstep. She had always been the more agile of the two of them on the dance floor, and he had on occasion even been jealous of her nimble feet.
“Perhaps you should allow me to retire from the dance floor. I’m rather better at drinking.”
“Nonsense,” Lillian said. “I remember a night when Lady Andrews held you captive for no fewer than three minuets with her daughter.”
“Why do you remember these things?” Nicholas said. “I do my best to forget them, and just when I think I’ve succeeded you remind me.”
“I think it gives you some perspective on life.” Lillian curtsied before him as the reel came to an end. “There are much less pleasant things you could be doing besides dancing with me.”
“Undoubtedly,” Nicholas said. “I simply fail to see why you insist on drawing my attention to them.”
“Don’t be obstinate.” Lillian walked with him to the side of the room, toward a servant who was carrying a tray of drinks. “Or you’ll wind up an old maid like me.”
“I don’t believe for a moment you’ll be an old maid,” Nicholas said. “You’re probably just as eager to avoid the gaze of the matrons as I am.”
“Well, I am,” Lillian said with a sad look on her face. “But perhaps for a slightly different reason than you are.”
Nicholas supposed he ought to let her get back to her duty to her family. She did eventually need to find a husband, and his persistent presence at her side was no doubt intimidating to many potential suitors.
But then he thought of the prospect of attending things without Lillian. Her companionship had truly enlivened the Season for him, and her brilliant conversation could sustain his interest better than the attentions of the rest of the ladies in London.
“Oh, would you look at that,” he said in a low voice to Lillian, fixing his gaze on a pair of old matrons who had, when they were young, been the very paragon of strictness and ill temper. Age had not improved their looks. Indeed, they stalked along the walls of the ballroom like caricatures of death itself.
“I’d rather not,” Lillian said. “If you look too long, they can tell you’re afraid.”
Her gaze had turned to another woman stalking toward them. Her aunt, as Nicholas recalled.
“Oh, dear, I suppose she’s about to steal you.”
“She may borrow me, I suppose,” Lillian said with a frown. “Hopefully it won’t be permanent.”
****
Once Lillian was away from him, Nicholas found that the party wasn’t quite as engaging as it had been when he was lost in conversation with her. He found himself killing time, dancing with a couple of married women and indulging in a glass, or perhaps two. It was excellent sweet wine.
Nicholas had to smile that she, too, found the evening somewhat dampened by the parting of their company. Though Lillian was just as staunchly polite as he was under duress, he knew what a counterfeit smile looked like.
He knew how to recognize the growing cloud of anxiety upon Lillian’s fair face. When they’d been young, she’d had a way of slowly stiffening like a drop of candle wax upon a cold table. Then she’d disappear entirely to the gardens or to the portrait gallery or to the nearest convenient balcony.
Perhaps Lillian’s fretting about finding a husband was not so baseless after all. It had nothing to do with her possession of charm. Charm she had in abundance, and wit, and a subtle kind of beauty about her lovely face.
Nicholas found himself taken aback by his own thoughts. His momentary fixation with Lillian’s keen blue eyes, and the gentle curve of her lips, was unexpected. When had he begun to realize how beautiful his childhood friend had become? When had his appreciation for her charms developed this new dimension?
It mattered not, Nicholas decided. Sooner or later, some worthy gentleman was going to realize that Lillian’s beauty had only gone so long unnoticed because of his own stupidity. What did it matter if she was shy? He could count more than one man who had gone to great lengths to woo one of the grand dames of the ton, only to find that her gregarious nature made marriage a miserable prison to her. And when marriage seemed a prison, who could blame a wife for attempting to break free?
Now and then, while older women whisked her about the room as one leads a balking horse through a stable yard, Lillian would catch his eye, and the two of them would share a secret grimace that tempted Nicholas to laugh unfashionably loud. It was if they were children again, waiting for the grown-up dullness of the soiree to end so they could return to their games in the kitchens.
When at last Lillian did return to him, it was after a period of some time when he’d been completely unable to find her in the crowd. He expected Lillian had simply reached her limit where exposure to a party was concerned. Perhaps she still had her unique ability to disappear completely and remain un-found for as long as she wanted.
“There you are,” Nicholas said as she appeared at his side with a glass of wine in hand. “I was beginning to think you’d been captured by the French.”
She raised her eyebrows, and took a sip of her drink. “I’m joining them, actually. I was just in a wardrobe chatting with a spy on the fine details of my compensation.”
“Oh, a spy?” Nicholas grinned. “Was the man single?”
“You know, I asked him that, and he disappeared in a puff of smoke.” Lillian shook her head, with a look of exaggerated resignation upon her face. “They keep doing that.”
“Has it occurred to you that if you spoke this way to other guests at this affair, they might actually delight in conversing with you?” Nicholas sipped his own drink.
“You’re one step ahead of yourself,” Lillian said. “I’m still trying to get my head around the notion of speaking to people at all.”
“What? You can’t decide that you’re a sorceress again and start casting spells upon perfect strangers?” Nicholas had to chuckle at the memory of one of Lillian’s more outgoing evenings. An acquaintance had returned from India with a sari cloth of exquisite design, which six-year-old Lillian had promptly decided was the magical cape of Morgan Le Fay.
“Actually, that might improve my prospects,” Lillian said. “But you must also play along that I’ve turned you into a frog.”
“Ah, a conversation starter.” Nicholas nodded. “I suppose people would become suspicious if you introduced me as your familiar.”
“People are already suspicious of you,” Lillian said with a teasing smile. “Prissy Hanger is here, by the way.”
“Speaking of embarrassing old memories.” Nicholas felt unwelcome warmth beginning in his ears and spreading to his cheeks. “Has she seen me?”
“You’re just as bad as you were when you were twelve.” Lillian leaned in close to mock him in a deep falsetto. “Oh Lillie, I shall die of a broken heart if she does not write me back, and you shall have to write my eulogy.”
“You do me wrong,” Nicholas said. “If I were in that position today, knowing what I do now about all the parties involved, I would never, ever have declared that you should write my eulogy.”
Lillian erupted audibly in laughter, only barely managing to stifle a squeal with her sleeve. “I would have done a fabulous job, knowing as I do all of your most embarrassing secrets, better than anyone else in Britain.”
“At this rate, it’s you and I who ought to be married.” Nicholas had been laughing, so he hadn’t realized how grave the words sounded until they had already spilled from his mouth. Rather like tea all over his mother’s lap, come to think of it. He felt awkward, so put his glass to his lips.
But Lillian’s face showed only playful mirth. “Oh, Your Grace. You are a vicious tease. I cannot envision a more dull marriage. Why, the two of us are such fast friends it has spoiled all possibility of romance between us. Marriage requires far more than the plain bonds of friendship.”
“It’s Nicholas to you.” His warning tone was belied by a smile that he couldn’t seem to stifle in Lillian’s presence. “And I’ll have you know I’ve encountered many fine people in marriages founded upon less substantial stuff than friendship.”