done any flesh-wallowing for far too long now.
Je parle français un petit peu , Lily Masters had said. I speak a little French . To what use did she put that French? Was this little book a manual of sorts? And yet… a good choice for yer first , the prostitute had shouted down to her. He remembered her blush in Kilmartin’s lodgings. If she had been initiated into the flesh trade, it had likely been only recently.
Gideon shook his head ruefully again. He was mad. So be it. He now knew the extent of his own need to win. His own equivalent of bribing the dressmaker.
He felt in his pocket for his grandfather’s watch, and was relieved to find it.
Lily stirred and opened her eyes, then sat up abruptly and leaned forward to peer out of the coach’s tiny window.
They were hurtling up a drive lined with trees, tall straight ones, prim as sentries. Through them she could see a flash of something red—brick? And then more and more and still more red brick unfurled before her disbelieving eyes, and the afternoon light struck sheets of light from the correspondingly endless rows of windows. She dropped her gaze to the vast pillared portico, tinted amber in the lowering sun. A fountain leaped skyward in the courtyard.
She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the brilliance of the place; her heart swelled with its beauty.
“My uncle’s home,” Gideon said simply. “Aster Park.”
Lily merely nodded once, an admirable attempt at feigning indifference. Somehow she suspected Newgate didn’t hold a candle to Aster Park.
Lily and Alice stood in the grand tiled entryway of the house, gripping each other’s hands. Lily’s eyes had gone huge, expanding to accommodate the grandeur of the room in which they stood. Gideon watched her shoulders go back and her chin go up, as though the house itself was an adversary she intended to best.
He was reminded of Constance’s first visit to Aster Park. Her beauty, her confident tranquillity, her bloodline—Constance had seemed as touchable as a star then. She’d stood in nearly the same place as Lily stood now, her cool gray eyes assessing fixtures and furniture, and her verdict, delivered lightly—“I wouldn’t mind living here myself, Mr. Cole”—had landed on Gideon’s ears like a benediction.
From that moment, an understanding had slowly grown between them; that understanding, it seemed, had been too long on the vine. He fought back another surge of restlessness.
“Is tins our palace?” Gideon heard Alice whisper to Lily.
“Very like is,” Lily whispered back.
“Then is Mr. Cole the prince?”
“ Prince ?” Lily scoffed. “He hasn’t even a title.”
Once again, despite himself, Gideon found himself fighting a smile. The cheek of the girl.
He stepped forward to speak to Gregson, the footman. “How do you fare, Gregson? Someday you really must tell me your secret. You never age a day.”
The elderly footman, who was almost as bent as an inverted J but still taller than Gideon by inches, looked pleased. ‘Thank you, sir. ’Tis the air at Aster Park, to be sure. I am happy to see you, sir, and your uncle will be delighted as well. “
“And is Uncle Edward still dying, Gregson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dying any worse than before?”
“No, sir. The same as always, sir.”
“Very good. I’ll be up to see him as soon I get the dust off. And by the way, Gregson, may I introduce to you Miss Lily Masters and her sister, Miss Alice Masters? They are cousins of my dear friend Lord Kilmartin, who should arrive tomorrow, and will be my guests here for some time. Will you kindly see that rooms are prepared?”
Gregson goggled at the bedraggled, barefoot girls.
“And we’ll need two baths drawn at once, if you would, Gregson.”
Gregson’s lips parted; he looked tempted to reply, Good God, we most certainly do. Instead he said, “Very good, sir. I’ll speak to Mrs. Plunkett.”
“We’ll need some clothing, too, Gregson.
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