Page 43 of My Dark Duke

What was left of the morning was spent on washing and dressing. When Lillian reemerged from the dressing room, into the bedroom, she found the linens on the bed had been changed. She blushed, for that meant both Polly and Maude had learned her virginity was no more.

They know well you are the duke’s mistress, a voice in her head chided, as she began to fret. It wasn’t as though they had believed her a nun.

By the time she arrived downstairs, it was time for lunch. Maude set out a plate of bread and cold meats on the table, alongside a pot of tea, and a copy of the morning’s paper.

Lillian fell on the food with glee; lovemaking was rather draining on one’s appetite. When she’d had her fill, she poured herself a cup of tea, and idly perused the papers.

The high of the night before was beginning to wear off. The whole day stretched before her, with little to do except wait for Thorncastle’s return.

A gossip column caught her eye, one which detailed the whispered scandals of the town. She read of a mysterious baron, who had lost a fortune at the tables to a duke, and the return of a prodigal son, set to inherit a title from his brother. The tales meant little to her, but the last paragraph caused her to draw a sharp intake of breath.

The D of T, once a regular feature of this column, was seen yesterday evening at Vauxhall, in the company of a mysterious young lady. Just who she is, is anyone’s guess, but we expect we will soon learn more about her, for the D looked most enamoured by her.

Lillian’s hands grew clammy, as she nervously reread the paragraph. Sebastian had warned her that being his mistress would attract attention, but she had not thought said attention would be from the papers.

Her mind flew to Lord Bailey, who loomed like a spectre over her. Had he recognised her? Surely, if he had, he would have shouted out? She was, after all, a murderess.

Too worried to read any further, Lillian pushed back her seat and made for the window. She peered out onto the road, wondering if she would catch one of the baron’s spies lurking outside.

It was a fanciful idea, borne out of fear, but still she looked.

It was a perfect spring day; the sun shone down, casting a bright glow over the neat houses and cherry blossom lined footpaths. There was not a soul in sight - no ominous presence to scare her.

“It’s a beautiful day.”

Polly’s voice startled Lillian, who jumped a little. She had not heard the lady’s maid enter.

“Lovely,” she agreed, stepping back from the window.

If Polly had noticed her strange behaviour, she gave no sign. She bustled around the room, humming lightly as she collected the empty plates.

“Perhaps we shall take a walk later?” she suggested, glancing at Lillian kindly. “It would be a shame to waste such lovely weather - it might be bucketing down tomorrow.”

A hysterical giggle bubbled in Lillian’s throat; she searched for spies, while Polly wished to discuss the vagaries of the English weather. She could not venture out, not now, when Lord Bailey might be on her trail.

“Not today, Polly,” she answered, carefully. “I think I would prefer to rest for the afternoon.”

“As you wish.” Polly was unperturbed. “I’ll be in the kitchen; if you need anything, just ring.”

She swept from the room, still humming her country tune. As the door clicked shut behind her, Lillian sagged with despair.

She had thought herself safe with Thorncastle, but now it felt like she had merely locked herself in a cage. A gilded one, but a cage nonetheless.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SEBASTIAN HAD NOTset foot in White’s in weeks. The lure of a club full of drunken gentlemen betting and carousing, paled significantly in comparison to the lure of spending time with Mary.

He had dedicated his every spare moment to her, a fact which had not gone unnoticed by some.

“I thought you dead,” Barty called in greeting as Sebastian arrived at the drawing room of White’s.

Barty was seated at the club’s Bow Window, the spot reserved for its most illustrious members. As Barty was not included amongst those ranks, Sebastian could only presume he had invoked his name when securing it.

“Actually,” Barty continued, as he waved down a passing footman, “everyone’s been wondering where you are. I’ve been battling questions about your whereabouts for weeks; there’s rumours you’re suffering from a terrible ailment, though I can think of only one thing that could keep you so occupied...”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, waiting for Barty to illuminate on his theory.

“A filly,” his cousin said, triumphantly. “You’ve obviously fallen hard for this one, old boy.”

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