Lillian made a scornful sound. “No, he didn’t utter a single word to that effect.”

A puzzled frown creased her sister’s forehead. “Lillian…is it that you’re afraid he only wants you because of the perfume?”

“No, I…oh God, I didn’t even consider that, I’ve been too scattered…” Groaning, Lillian snatched the nearest pillow and crammed it over her face as if she could smother herself. Which, at the moment, didn’t sound half bad.

Thick as the pillow was, it didn’t completely muffle Daisy’s voice. “Do you want to marry him?”

The question caused a stab of pain in Lillian’s heart. Tossing the pillow aside, she muttered, “Not like this! Not with him making the decision with no regard for my feelings, and claiming that he’s only doing it because I’ve been compromised.”

Daisy considered her words thoughtfully. “I don’t believe Lord Westcliff will characterize it that way,” she said. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would take a girl to bed, or marry her, unless he truly wanted to.”

“One could only wish,” Lillian said grimly, “that it mattered to him what I wanted.” She left the bed and went to the washstand, where her own haggard reflection glowered back at her from the looking glass. Pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl, she splashed her face and scrubbed at her skin with a soft square of toweling. A fine cloud of cinnamon powder wafted into the air as she uncapped the small tin and dipped her toothbrush into it. The crisp bite of cinnamon banished the sour, pasty feeling from her mouth, and she rinsed her mouth vigorously until her teeth were as clean and smooth as glass. “Daisy,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “would you do something for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t want to talk to Mother or Father just now. But I have to know for certain if Westcliff really did offer to marry me. If you could manage to find out—”

“Say no more,” Daisy replied promptly, striding to the door.

By the time Lillian had finished her morning ablutions and had buttoned a white cambric robe over her nightgown, her younger sister had returned. “There was no need to ask,” Daisy reported ruefully. “Father is gone, but Mother is staring into a glass of whiskey and humming wedding music. And she looks positively blissful. I would say beyond a doubt that Lord Westcliff made an offer.”

“The bastard,” Lillian muttered. “How dare he leave me out of everything as if I were incidental to the whole business?” Her eyes narrowed. “I wonder what he’s doing now? Probably ensuring that all the loose ends are tied. Which means that the next person he’ll want to speak to is—” She broke off with an inarticulate sound, while rage pumped through her until it seemed to steam from her pores. Controlling wretch that he was, West-cliff would not leave it to her to end her friendship with Lord St. Vincent. She would not be allowed the dignity of a proper farewell. No, Westcliff would take care of everything himself, while Lillian was left as helpless as a child in the face of his machinations. “If he is doing what I think he is,” she growled, “I will brain him with a fireplace iron!”

“What?” Daisy was obviously bewildered. “What do you think he—no, Lillian, you can’t leave the room in your nightclothes!” She went to the doorway and whispered loudly as her older sister stormed into the hallway. “Lillian! Please come back! Lillian!”

The hem of Lillian’s white gown and robe billowed behind her like the sails of a ship as she stalked through the hallway and descended the great staircase. It was still early enough that most of the guests were abed. Lillian was too incensed to care who saw her. Furiously she charged past a few startled servants. By the time she reached Marcus’s study, she was breathing heavily. The door was closed. Without hesitation she burst through it, sending it crashing into the wall as she crossed the threshold.

Just as she had suspected, Marcus was there with Lord St. Vincent. Both men turned toward the interruption.

Lillian stared into St. Vincent’s impassive face. “How much has he told you?” she demanded without preamble.

Adopting a neutral and pleasant facade, St. Vincent replied softly, “He’s told me enough.”

She switched her gaze to Marcus’s unrepentant countenance, perceiving that he had delivered his information with the lethal efficiency of a battlefield surgeon. Having decided on his course, he was pursuing it aggressively to ensure victory. “You had no right,” she said in seething fury. “I won’t be manipulated, Westcliff!”

Deceptively relaxed, St. Vincent stepped away from the desk and came to her. “I wouldn’t advise wandering about in dishabille, darling,” he murmured. “Here, allow me to offer my—”

However, Marcus had already approached Lillian from behind and had placed his coat around her shoulders, concealing her night garments from the other man’s view. Angrily she tried to knock the coat away. Marcus clamped it firmly on her shoulders and pulled her stiff body back against his. “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said close to her ear. She arched furiously away from him.

“Let go! I will have my say with Lord St. Vincent. He and I both deserve that much. And if you try to stop me, I’ll simply do it behind your back.”

Reluctantly Marcus released her and stood aside with his arms folded across his chest. Despite his outward composure, Lillian sensed the presence of some strong emotion inside him, one that he was not entirely successful at controlling. “Then talk,” Marcus said curtly. From the stubborn set of his jaw, it was obvious that he had no intention of allowing them a moment’s privacy.