“Now, Mr. Abrams,” Felton’s father said, finally shutting the door and providing some privacy in the small foyer. “I saw my son at breakfast only two hours ago, and I… I am quite confused as to why he’s not here. There must be a good reason.”
Lily wasn’t confused.
Felton Lloyd, the Viscount of Harlington, would have made an excellent husband, albeit a boring one at nearly fifteen years her senior. Their marriage would have brought some much-needed security into her world. Just as her first betrothed, William Crainfeld, would have with his mining business. And while marrying the viscount would have stopped the wagging tongues of the ton as to why she was left at the altar the first time around, her being jilted again only added to her biggest problem—her reputation.
No man wished to marry a woman who might as well have been married to studying the stars. Her stepmother had even gone so far as to lock up her telescope to keep her focused on the impending nuptials.
Her father’s wide face reddened like a strawberry under the late June sun. “You can’t run away from this, Lily. You have ruined us.”
Unlikely, considering her father was the second son of an earl and the Abrams were considered a very esteemed family in London. Which was all the more reason the viscount was eager for the match.
Lily vaulted a quick glance between the two older men, then edged backward for the exit.
“Forgive me, I need a… moment.”
What she needed was a husband.
Lily spun and hurried outside, ripping off her bonnet and ignoring the shouts behind her as she raced through the fields toward home.
What a fool she had been to trust Felton. There was another way, surely. Her mother had always told her she was excellent at solving problems.
This was simply a temporary challenge. She wiped at her eyes and quickened her pace as she barreled down the well-appointed hallway of her father’s Cumbria estate. If only her heeled slippers weren’t a shy too big. She wouldn’t risk a sprain for the sake of a husband, no matter how deep his pockets were.
Lily had to draw the line somewhere.
Another set of footsteps tagged behind in a perfect echo. Lily held her chin high to the quiet murmurings of the servants who passed and tried their best to fade into the worn silk wall coverings. No one ever knew what to say to Lily when she was always the betrothed and never the bride.
“Perhaps you should head to your room and remove your wedding dress first,” her friend Kate’s soft voice cautioned from behind.
“No need.” Lily stretched onto her tip-toes, reached above the doorframe to her father’s office, then clutched the spare key to the door in her palm. She wiggled the key into the keyhole, then shoved her shoulder against the door to counteract the early summer humidity. The door burst open, and she stumbled inside, wiping her palms against her thighs as she righted herself.
Heavens above, her father’s office was a jumble of books and stuffed mallards. Where even to begin?
“I fear we are only at the start of this mess.” Miss Katherine Bancroft stood in the doorway, radiating the most infuriating sense of calm.
Lily threw her hands onto her hips and huffed away a rogue brunette curl from her eyes. “If I were desperate, I would be running after Felton. We both know what a prize he is, which is why I am here.”
Kate bit back a smile and nodded. That wide mouth of hers, the same one the scandal rags loved to gossip about after an unfortunate run-in with England’s most notorious rake, finally parted with a soft laugh. “Let us have some tea and maybe take a walk...”
“You don’t need to watch over me. I am fine. If anything, I am quite happy I avoided another mistake. He would have bored me to tears talking insistently about his beloved stamp collection.”
“Even so.” Kate stepped inside the office and shut the door quietly behind her. The silence ate up the space between them. “He is a cad.”
Lily refused to cry. The men in her life didn’t deserve her tears. She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded.
Kate, steadfast and even-tempered, waited her out. She looked divine in a simple green dress. Her reputation couldn’t withstand anything other than modesty after last year’s scandal.
“I know it is around here somewhere,” Lily mumbled, more to herself. She couldn’t stand around and be subject to anymore pitying stares. “Father always has Williams bring it here instead of the breakfast table, so he can spare himself from his daughters’ company.”
“Bring what?”
Lily waved off her friend, concentrating on the stacks of papers piled around her father’s massive desk. It was more fitting of a king than a man who sat back and squandered his daughters’ dowries on hunting expeditions and an exorbitant habit for taxidermy. She shuffled through papers madly, chucking one pile to the floor as she moved on to another.
“Maybe I can help look for… wait, what are you searching for?”
Kate unpinned the sea-green bonnet from atop her black hair, then removed her gloves and set them aside on a carved stool by the door.
“No,” Lily said without thinking, “there is no need for help. I have the situation well in hand.”
She scowled. The puffed sleeves of her yellow gown were scratchy. She had endured several long and tortuous visits with the modiste for the dress. Not to mention the rest of her trousseau.
What would become of that now?
She snickered to herself, moving aside an empty teacup as she remembered all the fine fripperies that had been bought for her husband’s viewing. The silks and ribbons and garters, much more decorative than functional. She had been excited to have a wardrobe her husband would love. Like a fool, she wished only to make him happy. Now, she had trunks packed at her childhood home, ready to leave for a bridal tour that would never be and new clothes she dared not wear.
And she had so wished to travel to Venice, finally.
Kate creeped into the middle of the room as papers rained down around her tall frame. She quietly crossed her arms and tapped her slipper, waiting.
“I don’t want to rush this search. It’s only that I am sure the others will catch up. You are an excellent sprinter, however.”
Lily paused, laughed, then swiped up another armful of papers, unlodging the inkwell from its home in the process.
“Oh, drat.” She dove to the floor, wincing when the sound of ribbons tearing from her dress echoed in the heavy silence as she clutched the ink safely in her hands. She exhaled and rolled to her back as the dust motes danced in the sun shining down through the window.
When she was much younger, and Mama was still alive, she remembered studying the atlas in this very spot with father’s magnifying glass.
Perhaps she was being a bit overzealous in her search.
