He was watching her, trying hard to conceal an irritation that showed clearly in his eyes, while Charlie, conversely, looked enchanted.
‘Very pretty indeed. And how may I help, Miss Pevensey?’ the younger man asked smoothly, clearly gratified by her attentions.
She pouted in mock admonishment. ‘Why, sir, the Major will not deign to dance with me, and you are almost as neglectful! You have been here all night and you have not yet asked me!’ Blushing prettily, she swept her luxurious lashes down until they touched her cheeks. ‘I know you will forgive me, my lord—though it should be your place to ask. But I am so excited by my new shoes—I cannot wait another minute to try them out.’ She smiled winningly at him. ‘You could assist me greatly by asking me to stand up with you.’
‘Well, I had indeed come over with the intention to see if you would do me the honour,’ the young man said, smiling at Lily. ‘If the Major does not object.’
‘On the contrary. Miss Pevensey was just looking for a dance partner and, as I cannot oblige…’ Major Westhaven inclined his head to Lily. ‘A pleasure to have met you, Miss Pevensey,’ he said softly, in tones so sardonic Lily felt her blood rise.
‘The pleasure was all mine, my lord,’ she said, voice every bit as chilling as his. ‘You will be the darling of the whole town in no time with such manners.’
His eyes met hers, and she saw a flash of tightly controlled anger in their stony depths. Lily raised her chin. She was not some pup of a soldier, his to discipline on the field. She was a lady who had been treated very shoddily by a stranger who seemed to think his looks alone were enough to get by in the drawing rooms of the ton.
He said nothing, only bowed and turned away.
He was not quite out of earshot when she turned to Denham, furious. ‘What an awful man!’ She cared not whether he heard—and, sure enough, her heated retort must have reached his ears, for she saw his shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. Triumphant, she fixed the amused-looking dandy before her with a dazzling smile.
‘Come, Lord Denham, let us dance.’
Lily danced until her annoyance at Major Westhaven faded, swept away on a tide of smiling faces and soothing music. At last, feet aching but temper much improved, she sought refuge on a well-padded chaise longue, placed beside the open French windows where a gentle breeze from the terrace cooled her wonderfully.
The smell of cigar smoke reached her as she reclined, mingling with low male voices outside. Glancing out past the gently blowing lace curtains that hid her from their view, Lily saw the boyishly good-looking face of Charlie Denham, hair ruffled from dancing, looking pleased with himself as he always did at such events and—in fact—in general. His companions, a group of five or so men, were similarly dishevelled. All but one—tall, devilishly handsome and still immaculately turned out, Major Westhaven was leaning nonchalantly against the stone balustrade. With a twist of annoyance at the sight of him, Lily was about to rise to her feet and seek rest elsewhere when she heard her name. Instinctively, she drew further back behind the curtain, its sheer folds allowing her to see the men while shielding her from their view. Not that they were concerned with anything but their conversation—of which she was the topic, it seemed.
‘Miss Pevensey is lovely tonight,’ Denham was saying, in tones of appreciation that made Lily’s flesh creep. ‘As always.’
There were several murmurs of agreement, but nothing from the Major, gazing out across the gardens as if such a topic did not interest him. Denham smiled. ‘You were unimpressed by the beautiful Liliana, Major?’
Laconically, the older man turned his attention back to the group. ‘Not at all. She is indeed lovely.’ Blue plumes rose from his cigar into the night air as Daniel Westhaven arched a wry eyebrow. ‘Have your eye on her, do you, Denham?’
Charlie laughed, and to Lily’s ears he sounded a little uncomfortable. Surely the Major must know that he would never seriously court any but a rich woman? ‘Would not any man? She’s penniless, of course, but she’s from good stock.’
Something must have been betrayed in the Major’s face at closer quarters than Lily could see for, sounding amused, Charles asked, ‘Not your type, eh? You want a woman who’ll what—converse with you? Is that what you learned fighting the rebels, Major? Personally, I’d thank the Lord for a wife like Liliana Pevensey to keep my house, warm my bed and host my parties. When I want conversation I’ll go to my club.’
Major Westhaven smiled tightly, irritation sketched in the clean lines of his stance. He did not take kindly, it seemed, to the subtle mockery of his peers. ‘It appears I am in the minority. Apparently beautiful and vacant is what the men of the ton want these days, for she seems to have all of you enthralled.’
Lily, frozen to the spot, felt the colour rise in her cheeks. She could see only his profile now, looking out towards the garden.
Beautiful and vacant.
Had she imagined that? A little shudder passed through her. Beautiful she had been called before—men said it to her all the time—Major Westhaven himself had said it not two hours ago! But it was usually accompanied by sparkling, or gay, or even effervescent…
But vacant?
Humiliation burned up her spine, making her shiver all over again, bringing tears to her eyes. Vacant could not be flattering, not by anyone’s standards. And the other men had hardly tripped over themselves to defend her there.
She tried hard to swallow and found she could not quite manage it.
Desperately she tried to talk some sense into herself, to redress the damage those words had done, sinking into her flesh like so many barbs.
After her parents died, her life had been filled with misery and loneliness, especially when Robbie had left for his faraway war, and she had never felt at home anywhere since. She had wanted nothing more than to hide from the world, immersed in the comforting routines of running her aunt’s house—keeping her mind off the uncertainty of her future, trusting always that her brother would return. But he had not—and she had come to realise that no one would take care of her if she did not take care of herself.
She had been unable—and unwilling—to make her début when planned, due to the mourning that followed Robbie’s death. But she had finally come out last Season, at her aunt’s urging. As a débutante last year, she had assumed that other girls received more attention than herself because she was somewhat older; but she had soon come to see that the others made themselves alluring to men by dampening their own wits—by simpering, giggling and flirting their way into the affections of men like Charles Denham.
So at the start of this Season, by now quite alone in the world but determined not to be beaten, she had made a choice.
She needed to marry or become destitute, so she had determined that she, too, could find a husband this way. She had transformed herself—become lovely, carefree Liliana Pevensey, her slender waist, golden curls, graceful carriage and elegant neck the subject of many a compliment by various gentlemen who barely remembered making her acquaintance the year before. She had laughed and danced as if she lived for nothing else, and tried desperately to forget how her heart bled beneath her homemade gowns.
A year ago the very idea of playing such a role would have been abhorrent to her; she knew that her brother would not recognise her if he saw her this way—would very likely despise what she had become.
But he was dead, and this was how she must survive. She was careful to always be chatty at parties, eager