“Yes?” He looked at her oddly, as if everyone had a duchess as a sister.
“Which means the duke is your brother-in-law.”
“He’s rather an ass, if that makes any difference.”
“It doesn’t,” she said decisively. “It truly doesn’t. Why are you even talking to me? I’m the blasted help.”
“You are not and you know it,” he said impatiently. “I need to talk to you. To explain—”
“I’m paid to be here,” she said with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. “And you’re born to all this”—she waved her hand at the room, which, ill-lit though it was, still had a gold ceiling—“and more. You and I have nothing—absolutely nothing in common. I don’t know why you’re here, but I’ll thank you to stay away from me.”
She pasted a smile on her face and moved away from him as gracefully as she could. There was no need to cause a scene, just because her heart was breaking. Ridiculous, really. When he’d been a penniless workman in a garden, shabby and mute, he’d been well within her reach. Now that he was cleaned up and dazzling in his expensive clothes—that waistcoat alone must have cost more than she’d make in half a year—he was as high above her as the sun itself.
Apollo, indeed. Perhaps his name really did fit him.
If he was the god Apollo then she was merely a shepherdess or suchlike. Someone quite lowly and of the earth, not the sky. Shepherdesses might mate with gods in mythology but it always ended rather badly for the poor mortal.
And she had good cause to know that such was the case in this world as well.
The butler entered at that moment and announced supper and they went in to another dark room, this one long and narrow so as to fit an endless mahogany table. Lily found herself seated with the Duke of Montgomery on one side and the delightful Mr. Warner on the other. Directly across from her was Mr. George Greaves with Mrs. Jellett on one side and Mrs. Warner on the other.
o;Shall we?” Moll teased and they stepped out into the hall to find John and Stanford waiting.
“Ladies!” John swept them a ridiculously elaborate bow.
“Ass,” Stanford muttered, offering Moll his arm.
That left Lily to take John’s arm as they descended. She’d worked with both Moll and John before and was finding Stanford to be quietly witty beneath his role as the elder actor. In normal circumstances she’d be enjoying herself immensely: a country house, a party, genial colleagues, and the prospect of a week’s worth of good food.
Tonight, though, she simply saw the party as something to endure.
On the first floor was a large salon and Lily glanced around it, mentally trying it on for size for their play. The lighting wasn’t very good—it was an interior room with only two windows at the far end—but the play would be at night anyway and with several dozen candles, it might well do.
She caught Stanford’s eye and when he winked, she knew he was thinking the same thing.
Then their host entered and with him the rest of the house party guests.
The first were Mr. and Mrs. George Greaves, their host’s son and his wife, though, since the older man was a widower, Lily suspected his daughter-in-law had had a hand in planning the party. She was a plain woman in her thirties, quiet, but with an intelligence in her eyes when they were introduced to her. Her husband, in contrast, had a carrying voice that would’ve done him well had he taken to the stage. George Greaves was a big, burly man and still had the good looks age had faded from his father.
Behind them was another, somewhat younger couple. Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Warner were still newlyweds and obviously in love. They made a striking couple, as both had beautiful butter-yellow hair, and Lily couldn’t help thinking they were destined to have a gorgeous brood of children.
Miss Hippolyta Royle was accompanied by her father, Sir George Royle, who had made his fortune in India and been knighted for his efforts. She was a dark beauty who obviously doted on her aging parent.
Besides Miss Royle, there were two other single ladies at the party: Mrs. Jellett, a society widow with a gossiping gleam in her eye, and Lady Herrick, the wealthy—and quite beautiful—widow of a baronet.
Lily was just thinking that the house party was weighted heavily in favor of the ladies when their host cried, “Ah, Your Grace, you’ve arrived!”
She turned to see the Duke of Montgomery, Malcolm MacLeish…
And Caliban.
Only he wasn’t Caliban. Not anymore. He was Viscount Kilbourne, his hair tied severely back, wearing a dusky-blue suit heavily embroidered in gold and crimson, and a cream waistcoat, and looking every inch the aristocrat.
LILY WORE A crimson gown that exposed the upper slopes of her lovely breasts, white and inviting.
Apollo felt a bit as if he’d been hit square between the eyes.
“You did not tell me Miss Goodfellow would be here,” he hissed in Montgomery’s ear.