She blinked at the sudden assault. “There’s nothing. I—”
“Lily.” He trailed his fingers along her hairline. “I care for you. I would protect you if I can. Please tell me.”
She opened her mouth and then shut it again. In a little while they would part and probably never see each other again. Did she really owe him anything when such was the situation?
But in this time—this stolen time before all that would come next—they were close. If things had been otherwise, she might’ve made this man her husband. Might’ve borne his children, kept his home, slept beside him night after night until they both had white hair.
Perhaps in this in-between time she did owe him the truth.
So she laid her head on his chest and listened to his reassuring heartbeat as she spoke.
“When I was little, living in various theaters with my mother, there was another girl my age. Her name was Kitty and she was my friend. Both her mother and her father were actors and I suppose we grew up together. Kitty had flaming red hair and blue eyes and when she laughed, her nose scrunched up so adorably. Once she was old enough she always played the heroine. She was funny and kind and I loved her. She was very fond of seedcake, I remember. Maude would sometimes smuggle a small cake in for us especial and we would have a tea party behind the stage as my mother and her parents worked in whatever play they were in at the time.”
ther guests turned, faces startled or expectant according to their personalities.
Edwin was in his element with an audience. He bowed and strutted to the middle of the room. “I have received many accolades for the play you enjoyed last night, but now I must reveal to you the real talent, the real playwright of A Wastrel Reform’d.” Edwin paused for a pregnant second and then turned and bowed to Lily. “My own sister, Miss Robin Goodfellow!”
Even knowing what he might say, Lily was caught by surprise. For a moment she simply stared, wide-eyed, at her brother. Then, grinning, he took her hand and drew her to the center of the room.
The guests rose, clapping, and she could do nothing but curtsy and curtsy again. In the back of the room a footman tapped on Mr. William Greaves’s shoulder and leaned close to whisper something in his ear before Mr. Greaves turned and left the room.
Amid the uproar, Lily looked at her brother. “Why?”
He shrugged, his look rueful. She wondered if he’d already begun to regret his decision to reveal the authorship of her plays. “It was time,” he murmured, close to her ear because the applause was continuing. “And, no matter my own self-interest and pettiness, I do love you, Sister.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes and she threw her arms around her brother. Over his shoulder she could see Apollo, standing and clapping with the other guests, his eyes full of pride.
APOLLO WATCHED LILY blush and smile as she was finally acknowledged for the words she’d written. He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, to congratulate her himself, but they hadn’t progressed to a point where he could claim her in public—yet. So instead he used the distraction to slip from the room.
Outside the breakfast room, footmen scurried back and forth, paying him no mind. He strode down the hall and ducked around the corner. His uncle’s study was at the back of the house on this floor, in an area normally reserved for the family.
He was nearly at the door when he was hailed from behind.
“Mr. Smith.”
He turned to find his uncle staring at him in puzzlement. “Might I help you, Mr. Smith? I fear there is nothing of interest down this way, merely my own study.”
“I apologize,” Apollo said easily. “I must’ve gotten turned around.”
“Quite.” The older man’s gaze sharpened on him and he cocked his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Smith. Have we perchance met before?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Apollo replied, holding his uncle’s gaze. It was the truth, after all: he had no memory of his father’s family’s ever visiting when he was young, save for the one time his grandfather had come to announce Apollo’s enrollment in Harrow.
“Strange,” the older man murmured as they turned back toward the front of the house and the rest of the party. “But I find that something about you is reminiscent of…” He trailed away, shaking his head. “I feel that I’ve seen you before.”
He slowed as they came to the end of the corridor, and although Apollo wanted to rush away, he made himself slow as well.
“My father,” the older man said suddenly, “the earl, is a big man. I used to be quite afeard of him as boy. Broad shoulders like a bull, huge hands.” He seemed lost in a not entirely happy memory. “My brother and I did not inherit his frame—much to my father’s chagrin—but I’m told my nephew is at least as large as my father. And, of course, my son George bears him some resemblance.”
He looked at Apollo and there was a sort of frightened question in his eyes.
“Mr. Greaves.”
Both men looked up at the low voice. A servant stood at the other end of the hall, backlit by the window there.
“Ah, Vance,” the older man said. “There you are.” He turned back to Apollo. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Smith?”
“Of course,” Apollo murmured. He watched as his uncle walked to the manservant.