When Julian made no motion to deny it, Lily supposed her guess to be near the mark. A nervous chuckle escaped her control.

“How can you laugh?” he demanded.

She threw up a hand. “How can I not? I mean, it’s a terrible pun. I’m only deaf, not dumb at all. But there’s no denying I’ve played abominably all evening.”

He blinked at her, incredulous.

She felt her own face heat. Her tongue stumbled against her teeth as she tried to explain. “It’s easier to laugh. One must have a sense of humor about such things, or life becomes unbearable. And if you’re going to be my escort in society, you’ll need to gird yourself against these little slights, too. People don’t understand. Some assume my mind went with my hearing. Others shout themselves red, as if increased volume will help. Still others are just so flummoxed by the whole idea, they ignore me entirely. The commander may be a self-important boor, I’ll grant you. But you can’t fly into a rage every time one of those fresh-faced lieutenants makes an honest attempt at conversation.”

“They were insulting you.”

“That’s mine to decide, not yours. I’m so tired of you thinking for me. First I can’t live alone. Then I can’t hold a simple dinner conversation without a knifepoint intervention. Now I can’t even know my own mind? I thought you were my friend, Julian, but a true friend wouldn’t keep reminding me of my limitations. He’d believe in me, and help me believe I can do anything I choose.”

His expression softened. “Lily, of course I believe in you, but—”

“But what? There’s no room for ‘but’ in that sentence. You can’t say you believe in me, ‘but.’ Either you believe in someone, full stop—or you don’t.”

Sighing heavily, she took a few paces about the room, trying to master her emotions and revive some faith in herself. If there was one thing worse than being the object of others’ pity, it was succumbing to self-pity. After nine years, the deafness itself rarely caused her a moment’s lamentation. Only the thoughtlessness of others sometimes dragged her spirits low.

“You have no idea, Julian. These little slights this evening—they’re nothing.” Pausing by a side table, she gave the porcelain beagle squatting there a pensive tap on the head. “Once,” she said, smoothing her fingertip down one floppy ear, “the year after my illness, I received a letter from my mother’s Aunt Beatrice. In it, she expressed her very deep distress about my affliction, as she called it. She felt it her Christian duty to point out that my deafness was a judgment from God. My punishment for being too beautiful and too proud. She prayed I would be more mindful of my spiritual health, now that my physical well-being had been compromised.”

Lily hadn’t thought about that letter in years, not consciously. But obviously the paper-thin score on her heart had never quite healed, festering all this time. Had people thought her too proud in her debut season? She hadn’t been, not excessively. Only shy. But some had obviously mistaken her natural reserve for vanity, and in a fashion, Lily must have felt shamed by Aunt Beatrice’s rebuke—for she’d never spoken of that letter to anyone, not even Leo. Why she was telling Julian about it now, she had no idea.

Julian’s hand fell on hers, warm and strong. When she lifted her face, he spoke slowly and distinctly. “Your mother’s Aunt Beatrice was an unforgivable, imbecilic, self-righteous bitch.”

And with that, he gave her exactly what she’d been needing. This was why she’d told Julian. Leo never could have said that. He was far too congenial, and besides—Aunt Beatrice had given him his first pony.

“Yes.” Lily nodded, feeling years of resentment uncoil within her. “Yes, she was.”

“As if an illness could somehow be your fault, or God’s will.”

Sensing an opportunity in this vein of conversation, Lily asked, “If not mine or God’s, whose fault was it? The doctor’s? My parents’?”

“No one’s, of course.”

He pried her fingers from the ceramic dog and held her hand in his. Strange, confusing sparks of sensation traveled from her wrist to her elbow.

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he went on. “Sometimes bad things just happen, and there’s nowhere to point the finger of blame.”

“Exactly.” The current of electricity buzzed through her whole body now. “Just like with Leo. Sometimes bad things just happen, and there’s no one to blame.”

“That’s different. That’s different, and you know it. Where there’s murder, there’s blame. By definition.”

“But—”

He dropped her hand and stalked to the unused hearth, propping one boot on the grate and leaning his forearm on the mantel, glaring hard into his fist.

She crossed to him. “We have to talk.”

“We’ve been talking.”

“No, I mean …”

Curse him, she’d been hoping to avoid this conversation. Ever since Leo’s death, Julian had become so protective of her, so intense in their every interaction. And now it would seem she’d caught the same contagion. Unable to put him out of her mind, ascribing strange tingles to his casual touch. Perhaps if they discussed this tension between them, it would dissipate.

“Ever since my brother died,” she began, “I’ve been struggling to answer this question: Without Leo, who am I? He was such a large part of my life, and in many ways I defined my existence in relationship to his. In too many ways, I fear. I’m sorting out the tangle, slowly. But as if that weren’t hard enough, there’s this other question. It comes to the fore whenever we’re together. I can only imagine it’s the reason we’re always quarreling of late.”

He stared at her, impassive. “What question would that be?”

Anxiety prickled in her throat. Using all available willpower, she blunted her nerves and met his gaze. “Without Leo … who are we?”

A glimmer of some inscrutable emotion lit his eyes, but she didn’t dare focus on it too long. Instead, she dropped her gaze and concentrated on his mouth, awaiting his reply. As much time as she’d spent staring at him, she couldn’t help notice that his lips were so well-shaped. Wide and sensual, curved at the edges just a bit. The faintest pull of his jaw muscle could tweak that curve into a playful smirk or a genuine smile or a wicked suggestion. He must be a very good kisser, when he wasn’t under the influence of pain and sleeping powder.

Her own tongue darted out to moisten her lips. Oh, this was terrible.

Words, Lily. Concentrate on his words.

“I mean,” she continued nervously, “we became friends through Leo, and now that he’s gone, it’s only natural that we would be forced to … ask ourselves that.”

“And have you arrived at an answer?”

“I know what we aren’t. You can’t be Leo’s replacement. I don’t need a substitute brother, watching over everything I do.”

A little tug of his jaw tipped his mouth. “I don’t want to be your brother.”

“I don’t need a guardian, either. I’m eight-and-twenty, not a girl.”

“I’m well aware of that, too.”

“Then why have you become so protective and overbearing? Always demanding that I marry, then chasing off any man who so much as dares to touch my hand?” Even as she asked the question, Lily knew the heat building between their bodies was a very good clue.

Still she prattled on, hoping more words would dispel it. “You …” She touched a hand to his chest. A mistake. Too solid, too strong. Those sparks again. “You feel guilty and bound to protect me, and I …” She withdrew her touch and pressed the same hand to her own breast. Softer, uncertain. Quivering with each pounding beat of her heart. “I feel lonely and unmoored. We’re both emotional and searching for answers, and I just wish …”

She dropped her gaze, because she couldn’t bear to be interrupted. She had to get these words out. “I just wish our friendship could be the one thing that’s never in question. Can you understand? It pains me so much, to always be arguing with you, worrying about you. Just because Leo died, it doesn’t mean everything between us must change. I want to go back to the way we were before.”

She paused, eyes lowered and breath bated, wondering why those words tasted false on her tongue.

He seized her by the shoulders, forcing her gaze to meet his. “We can’t, Lily. We can’t go back. Too much has changed.”

“I don’t want things to change. Why can’t we just stay friends forever?”

“Because …” His grip tightened on her shoulders, and excitement rippled through her veins. “Lily, you can’t tell me you don’t know.”

No, she couldn’t. A hidden, deeply feminine part of her understood him perfectly. And yet … “I want you to say it.”

He pulled her to him, bringing her body flush against his. “Because I want you, Lily, the way a man wants a woman. I always have.”

He held her fast, and she stood breathless, slowly becoming aware of his body. Then, slowly, growing aware of her own. She had a thin, willowy build. People always teased that there was scarcely anything to her. But here in his arms, she felt her own substance. Her weight, her heat, her curves.

“There’s always been a tension between us,” he said. “I know you must feel it. Tell me you feel it, too.”

She nodded. Oh, yes. The tension, the attraction, the force of his ardor. She felt all those things. But she could also feel it—a firm ridge, swelling against her belly. The physical manifestation of male desire, and yet she wasn’t made timid by the display. To the contrary, for the first time in months, she felt powerful and strong.

His eyes searched hers, then dropped to linger on her lips. She watched his mouth as he formed the unmistakable syllables of her name. “Lily.”

So prescient of her parents, giving her that name. L-sounds were among the easiest to lip-read. The trouble was, the shape of her name always looked a bit silly to her. Especially with her honorific attached: “Lady Lily.” Two l’s were bad enough, but three were ridiculous. All that tongue-flapping made her want to giggle.

But when Julian spoke her name, it never looked like a joke to her. No, it looked vaguely … naughty. Sensual, not silly. She’d always loved watching her name on his lips.

Always.

The word seeped down into her bones, into her soul, where it simply … fell into place. Like the moment of triumph she felt after scouring a ledger a dozen times and finally finding the six shillings unaccounted for, in the column where she’d mistaken a seven for a one. At last, it all made sense—all the quarreling and worrying and strange tingling that resulted from his touch. This explained why he’d grown so inordinately protective of her, and why the sight of his blood on her fingertips had thrown her into absolute panic. Because he’d always wanted her this way. And deep down—so far deep down she hadn’t even been fully aware of it until this moment—she’d always desired him, too.

Here was the answer. Who were they, without Leo?

They were two people who wanted each other.

And right now, they were two people who were just about to kiss.

Chapter Seven

Lily leaned into his embrace, needing to touch him. Wanting him to know that she craved this, too. She knew she ought to close her eyes for the kiss, but she just couldn’t. So she watched, restless with anticipation, as his mouth lowered to hers. And just as his breath caressed her lips …

He startled. And leapt back.

Left with nothing to lean against, Lily pitched forward. She barely managed to catch the mantel’s edge before tumbling to the floor. She shook herself, confused and gasping and uncertain where to look. Had she merely misread his words, or the entire situation? How much mortification could fit into one evening, anyway?