‘Lily, stop playing with Pygmalion and come greet your brother.’ Lily’s father, Sir Timothy’s, deep voice carried over the noise as he and Lily’s mother descended to greet their only son. As always, his dark jacket was dusted with yellow pollen. Woe to those who were made to sneeze by flowers—the Rutherfords had lost more than one maid to the affliction.
‘I will as soon as I get my paintbrush back,’ Lily insisted.
‘Lily, let the dog be, he isn’t doing any harm,’ Lily’s mother added before turning her attention to Laurus.
Lily grabbed the end of the paintbrush and began to tug. Her mother might not care about marking the plaster, but Lily did.
‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance?’ a male voice offered as Lily continued her tug of war with Pygmalion.
‘No, I have him.’ The dog’s little jaws were no match for Lily’s determination and she tugged the paintbrush from Pygmalion’s mouth. It came free so fast, it sent her stumbling back. She whirled, trying to reclaim her balance, only to hit the hard chest of a man with the soft end of the brush. It left a wide, red streak across the camel-coloured coat.
‘Oh, Laurus, I’m so sorry.’ She reached out to wipe off the spot, then froze. This was not Laurus, or Edgar, or Charles, but none other than Gregor St James, Viscount Marbrook.
She snatched back her hand, waiting for his green eyes, a shade more like grass in a meadow than the dark holly leaves decorating the family portraits, to turn as cold as they had in the ballroom four years ago. In the expanding silence, every humiliation she’d experienced as she’d sat on the dance floor rubbing her sore ankle with everyone staring at her except Lord Marbrook, who’d refused to even acknowledge her, filled her again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she squeaked, horrified at the stain and appearing in front of him in her old smock and dress. This wasn’t how she wanted to meet this man again. Curse Laurus for bringing him here.
She pulled the smock from her shoulders and draped it over one arm, squaring herself to face Lord Marbrook and daring him to cast whatever insults he wanted at her. She wasn’t the same Lily he’d so publicly disdained in London and she’d make him see it.
He slipped a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the stain, regarding her with more humour than horror. ‘It’s all right. I’ve never much cared for this coat anyway.’
Lily’s chin dropped in shock. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lord Marbrook was making a joke. Apparently, so did everyone else for the entrance hall grew quiet. Even the twins ceased their chatter, sensing the adults’ astonishment, even if they didn’t comprehend the reason for it.
Lord Marbrook folded the linen square and tucked it back in his pocket, drawing Lily’s attention to the increased width of his chest and shoulders. The candles in the chandelier overhead brought out the strands of red in his dark hair which was cut short in the Roman style. A slight curl made it wave instead of fall over his forehead, captivating her as much as the height and muscle he’d gained since she’d last seen him. His face was more angular than before and graced with a seriousness which seemed to deepen the faint lines at the corners of his mouth and harden the set of his chin. She didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. It’d been the same at the wedding ball when she’d glanced past her cousins to watch him with his brother, mother and father. While his family had sneered at the guests, he’d watched the celebration with the longing of a child pressing his nose against a bakery window.
Then, when he’d slipped away from his family, she’d followed him. Having heard so much of him from Laurus, she’d felt bold enough to approach him, her heart fluttering when he’d asked her to join him on the bench in the alcove. While they’d sat there, he’d told her how his father had purchased a commission for him and was sending him off to France because he wasn’t the heir, only the disappointing second son who’d failed to comprehend the importance of the Marbrook name. His revelation had increased the darkness which had tightened his angular jaw and hardened his green eyes, revealing the depth of his pain. She’d comforted him in his distress, thinking such intimacy made them friends. She’d been horribly mistaken.
‘I see Lily has painted you.’ Laurus laughed, breaking the silence. ‘It’s only fitting since she’s painted everyone else in the family.’
Laurus’s joke brought the merriment back to the greeting and soon the twins were talking in their loud voices, imploring Daisy to try one of their sweets. She ignored them, staring up at Lord Marbrook in near adoration as he spoke to Rose, then pestering him with questions about his journey. She wasn’t the only one troubling him with unchecked excitement. Pygmalion stood on his hind legs and scratched at Lord Marbrook’s riding boots, fighting for the Viscount’s attention as much as Daisy.
‘Pygmalion, get down,’ Lily demanded, wishing someone would show some sense of decorum, but like her family, the dog ignored her entreaty to behave.
Lord Marbrook picked up the dog and tucked him under his arm as though he were a riding crop and not a usually nippy terrier. ‘Is he yours?’
Lily gaped at him, as did the entire room. ‘No, he’s my aunt’s.’
‘Am I not allowed to touch him?’ Lord Marbrook ran his hand over the dog’s head and down its back. The dog closed its eyes in delight, his tongue hanging out of his red-stained muzzle.
‘No one is,’ Laurus explained with some of the same wonder as Lily. ‘Even Aunt Alice can’t pick him up without risking losing a finger.’
‘It’s a season of miracles with even the most ferocious beast living in love and peace with its fellow creature,’ Sir Timothy announced in a voice better suited to the family chapel than the hall, though he had to nearly yell to be heard over the noise of the twins, and Edgar and Charles debating the merits of their own pointers.
Lord Marbrook’s opinion of the chaos surrounding him was difficult to gauge. He didn’t sneer as Squire Pettigrew did whenever he visited, but stood with Pygmalion tucked under his arm, a reserve worthy of a king masking his thoughts. Whatever his opinion, and Lily was sure it wasn’t good, when he left here he’d probably tell everyone in London of the coarseness of the Rutherfords, and Lily in particular. It would set the tongues wagging against her and her family all over again. Everyone else might not care what society said about them, but Lily did.
‘I’m so glad you could join us for Christmas,’ Lily’s mother offered in a calm voice, as though nothing, not a houseful of guests or a viscount with a stained coat holding a vicious little terrier, could ruffle her. Lily wished she possessed her mother’s poise. It would make living in the bedlam of Helkirk Place much easier.
‘It’s I who am grateful for your warm invitation, Lady Rutherford,’ Lord Marbrook responded with all the manners expected of a viscount.
‘I’m sure such feelings won’t last long,’ Lily murmured much louder than intended, hazarding a frown from her father.
‘What do you mean, girl?’ he demanded.
If she hadn’t wanted to slip away unnoticed before, she did now.
Laurus dropped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘What she means is, Lord Marbrook will regret it when I insist he join in our celebration of the Lord of Misrule. You will help us, won’t you, Marbrook?’
Lily imagined the old viscount, if he were here to see this, would clutch his cap in horror at a mere baronet’s son addressing a peer in such a manner. If Lord Marbrook minded, it was impossible to tell for very little in his expression changed as he answered.
‘I’ll gladly help you.’
Lily imagined he didn’t share Laurus’s excitement for the coming festivities and she wondered how her good-natured