“Not about Devon. About your wallflowers. Lady Abigail?”
“Nothing. Abigail’s father decisively cut off any connection between us. The fathers of the others will likely follow suit should I pursue further friendship.”
If her pulse excelled at the thought of Devon, it boiled and beat a rapid tattoo at the thought of Abigail’s father. She no longer felt the shame of his disapproval, but anger at his ability to control everyone’s happiness, to crush it like paper in a fisted hand.
“That dream is dead, I’m afraid,” she said. Oh! There—her anger at Devon came screaming back to life. His extravagant defense of her had killed her dream, after all. Was it possible to be completely in love with someone whose tendons you wanted to rip from their hands one by one? No. She’d leave his hands pristine. They did such marvelous things to her. But perhaps his toes…
Why did she have to be angry with him when he had so valiantly, if publicly, defended her honor? Thetonshould not take issue with him. Or with her!Hmph. They would refuse to see it that way. Thetonwanted to fit everyone into categories. Either polished porcelain, gleaming and delicate or broken, dashed to the ground with no ducal carpet to soften the fall.
Devon gleamed all right, but he was too strong to encase in porcelain.
Anddammitperhaps Lillian was, too.
In fact, she wanted to find the nearest porcelain figurine and throw it across the room to see it shatter into a million pieces. Then she’d jump all over it, breaking it up further. Wearing stout boots, of course. No flimsy dancing slippers for her. She did not want to be encased in something thin and breakable and stifling, nor did she want Devon that way.
So perhaps it was not her husband she was angry with, but the people who did not want to see her as she truly was. The people who did not accept her as she truly was. People like Abigail’s father.
Devon had tumbled scandalously into the ballroom because he saw her better than anyone else and would not allow others to hurt her.
The earl had reprimanded her, humiliated her because he did not see her at all, nor did he wish to. Lillian stood calmly and brushed the pleats of her skirt smooth until they were neat and sharp and cutting, Tabitha quizzing her all the while.
She finally met her friend’s gaze. “Any idea where the Earl of Needleham is right now, Tabitha?”
“None whatsoever. There’s no business at Parliament today. Arthur’s lurking in his study. So, I would put him in his own home perhaps… or his club.” She scrunched her nose. “I do not believe he belongs to the same one Arthur does.”
Lillian nodded, striding to the door.
Tabitha jolted to her feet, turning, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Where are you going?”
“To find Lord Needleham. I cannot sink any lower in his estimation, and he certainly will not let me near his daughter, so I might as well say what’s on my mind.”
“What will that help?” Tabitha followed her into the hallway.
“Likely nothing. Yet I must try. I began all this in order to be seen, and now I demand to be heard.”
CHAPTER25
Lillian’s palms sweated, but she resisted the urge to wipe them on her skirt. She was more nervous than when she had made her debut. Or when she’d handed a possibly insulting letter she’d written herself to a man she’d determined not to love anymore.
Hopefully, this turned out better than that because she loved Devon now more than ever before. She also was more determined now than she had been in either of those previous situations. She was even more determined than when she’d decided to become an incomparable. Then, she’d only had to prove herself acceptable. Now she had to embrace what others found unacceptable. A completely different challenge with much higher stakes. She had much more to lose but also much more to gain.
She squared her shoulders and knocked, and within moments, she was ushered into a drawing room.
“Footman must not know who I am,” she said under her breath as she floated into another impossibly soft seat.
“Pardon, Lady Pennworthy?” the footman said.
She smiled as brightly as she could. “Nothing. Not a thing.” She managed to stretch her lips even farther. Her face might break.
He bowed and exited, and she popped to her feet. She wove her way through the room, touching tabletops, tracing embroidered flowers on pillows, standing before the empty fireplace, and preparing to run. Surely, Lord Needleham would scream her out into the street once he realized who currently occupied his drawing room.
She really should not have said she was the Duchess of Collingford when the footman had answered the door, but it was the only way to ensure the earl saw her. Tabitha was hardly the most respected member of theton, but she was still a duchess, and she had given Lillian permission to use her name.
“You,” a male voice squeaked.
Lillian turned in what she hoped was her most calm and composed demeanor, stolen from her mother of course, and faced Needleham. She dropped a curtsy. “My lord. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me this afternoon.”
“I did no such thing.” Spittle shot from his mouth. Unfortunate. For him and for her. “You lied.”
