A Lily Among Thorns(37)

Solomon held out the pins at once, aghast. Instead of taking one at a time, she snatched them all, as if she didn’t trust him not to change his mind.

“That’s not true, I—” He stopped. He had been charmed by the act. It had been a relief, just for a few moments, to have a Serena who laughed and spoke freely and smiled up at him without a trace of irony. Who didn’t see him as someone she needed to fight. “I’m sorry.”

She shoved pins into her hair and didn’t look at him.

He sighed. “Serena, let’s take the day off, shall we? I have to go to Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring to deliver a few things, but after that we can go on a picnic or something, visit the British Museum, I don’t know—” He trailed off. “Sorry. I guess that must sound awfully childish.”

The awkward silence was pierced by the shrill cry of the woman in the stall across the street. “Savoy cake and trifle, only tuppence! Naples biscuits, a farthing each!”

Serena smiled shakily. “I want a piece of tipsy cake.”





Chapter 9


Serena noticed that Solomon’s steps were getting slower and slower as they turned onto Savile Row. They were going at a crawl by the time Solomon stopped under a green-and-white striped awning. Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring was emblazoned on the shop window in gold and black lettering. Underneath, in smaller letters, it read Since 1786. Everything the Well-Dressed Gentleman Requires. We Match Any Colour. A set each of fashionable morning, evening, and riding dress was prominently displayed, as well as a selection of waistcoats, ranging from brilliantly colored, heavily embroidered brocade to subtly tinted and unadorned piqué. Solomon was looking anywhere but at her now. “You needn’t come in if you don’t wish to.”

Oh. Somehow she hadn’t expected that. “I’ll try not to be too vulgar in front of your relations.”

His eyes flashed, and his mouth compressed into a thin, tight line. He slapped the flat of his hand against the door and pushed it open. A bell tinkled. Solomon bowed with a flourish. “After you,” he said, adding something under his breath that sounded like, Deserves what she gets.

Perhaps the tipsy cake had been a mistake. She felt decidedly sticky. “Is there any custard on my face?” she asked in as dignified a way as possible, but it was hard to sound dignified asking something like that.

He gave her a wicked smile and nodded.

Serena narrowed her eyes. “Where, might I ask?”

Solomon brushed his thumb over the side of her mouth. “There,” he said in his husky voice.

At once every nerve she had was tingling. The tears she knew were just below the surface threatened again. She hadn’t cried in years, and now it seemed that it was all she felt like doing.

She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and looked at it for a moment. Then, knowing there was no help for it, she spit into the handkerchief and rubbed at her mouth. “Is it gone?”

His hazel eyes were almost blue with amusement. He nodded, and she swept ahead of him through the door.

The shop was very clean and very neat. Bolts of cloth stacked on shelves completely obscured the wall to their left. To the right was a table covered in copies of Ackermann’s Repository, colored plates of French fashions, and diagrams on the proper method of tying a cravat. That was all, except for a door to the right of the counter that must lead to the fitting rooms. The walls were beautifully whitewashed, and the wooden floor shone. A boy in his late teens sprawled behind the counter, nose buried in a Minerva Press novel. His fair hair was flattened over his forehead and teased up farther back in an eager attempt at sophistication that only made him look impossibly youthful.

“Hullo, Arthur,” Solomon said. “Is Uncle about?”

“He’s in the back.”

Serena was momentarily disconcerted by his voice. It was distinctly London, where Solomon’s was Cambridge with a hint of Shropshire.

Arthur gave her the once-over and whistled appreciatively. “And you must be Lady Serena.”

She inclined her head. Solomon shot his cousin a warning glance. “Sorry. Lady Serena, may I present my cousin Arthur?”

Arthur sketched a bow from his chair. “Enchanté,” he said with a refreshing lack of concern for proper French pronunciation. “You’re much more beautiful than I was expecting, seeing as you’ve been taking liberties with our Sol.”

And yes, she had just been making a silent vow to be civil if it killed her, but she couldn’t be expected to let that slide. “That’s funny, because you’re much less mouthwatering than I was expecting, seeing as you’re Solomon’s cousin.”