Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(72)

And entice she did.

Lily was… he stared in wonder. He didn’t have the words to describe the spell she cast over the room. It was as if she’d caught and channeled light, a prism of delight. She was quick and bright and he found himself leaning forward, to catch a little of her illumination. He wanted her to speak to him, only him. To hold her attention as she held his.

The damnable thing was, he knew he wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the audience wanted a small part of Robin Goodfellow for their very own. As a friend to confide in. As a lover to shower with affection. He was half hard simply watching her swirl about the stage, flinging quips at the male actor who was supposed to be her rival. How was it possible that he’d been inside her only that morning and now he felt as if he knew her not at all?

He watched as she leaned a little closer to the actor, flirting with her mischievous green eyes, and he was half admiring, half outraged that she would look at any other man that way.

Every man in the room must have an erection.

Apollo swallowed, trying to lean back, trying to break from her spell, only to find that he couldn’t.

He wasn’t the only one.

He watched as his elderly uncle blushed when she bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the audience.

Dear God, but she was dangerous.

He was a great ugly lump, he knew this. He’d always been, ever since the day when he’d been but fifteen and he’d topped his own father’s height. How could such a mercurial fairylike creature want anything to do with him? And yet she had. She’d let him touch her intimately. Had let him claim her.

In that moment Apollo resolved that no matter how ridiculous their mating might be, he wasn’t going to let her change her mind. She was his now—and if he had any say in the matter, she’d be his always.

THE PLAY HAD gone well, Lily thought later as she sat before a looking glass and washed the paint from her face. True, Stanford had managed to forget an entire speech in the third act, and the boy playing the overly handsome valet was much too prone to trying to upstage the other actors playing with him, but Moll had delivered her lines with graceful humor touched with ribaldry and John had been so handsome and chivalrous she’d nearly fallen in love with him herself. Yes, overall a great success.

“About done, dear?” Moll called, turning in front of her own little looking glass to try to see her hair from behind. “I’ve a mind to dance with that pretty duke tonight—and have a glass or two of Mr. Greaves’s wine. I hope it’s good.” She winked at Lily. “Not that it’ll stop me if it’s not.”

Lily laughed. “Go ahead. I still have to re-pin my hair.”

Moll twirled one last time and left.

Lily smiled into her mirror. It made no sense, but she wanted to look her best for Apollo. He’d never seen her perform before and she was a bit nervous about his reaction. Had he liked the play? Had he recognized the lines that she’d written in the garden with his help?

She wrinkled her nose at herself. Silly. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the ball and then her primping would have been for naught.

In the silence of the little chamber off the drawing room she heard footsteps approaching. Hurriedly she pushed a last pin into her coiffure and stood, smiling as the door opened.

Her smile froze on her face when she saw who entered.

Lord Ross hadn’t changed much in seven and a half years. He still had a stiff, nearly military bearing. He still wore a properly curled and powdered white wig. He still had a flat stomach and big shoulders. And he still had one blue eye and one green.

But the lines around his mouth and eyes had deepened and multiplied and his mouth seemed permanently turned down now.

Perhaps cruelty could stamp itself upon a man’s face.

“Lily Stump,” he drawled, his voice smooth and light. Apollo’s voice would never sound like that, she knew. His voice would always grate, no matter how much his throat healed.

And she was glad.

“Richard,” she replied evenly.

“Lord Ross, if you please,” he snapped, and although his voice didn’t rise, her gaze darted to his hands.

They had half-fisted.

She nodded. “My lord, then. How may I help you?”

“You,” he said, prowling into the room, “can help me by staying out of my way and remaining quiet.”

She pivoted so that he wouldn’t back her into the corner. The little room held only two tiny tables and a single chair, her box of paints, and the costumes. But there was the looking glass. If she had to, she could break it. The edges would be sharp.

“Very well,” she said quietly.

“Swear it,” he said, advancing.

She ducked and darted around him. There was a pull and a tearing sound and then she was out of his grasp and out the door, running with her skirts bunched in her fists.

“Lily Stump!” he roared behind her, but she’d be a fool to stop.

And she was no fool.

She skidded around a corner, nearly barreling into a wide-eyed footman.

“Miss?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“I do beg your pardon,” she gasped, smoothing her skirts. One wasn’t supposed to apologize to servants, she knew, but to hell with that. She smiled at the man—really just a very tall boy. “Where is the ball being held?”

He pointed to the stairs. “Ground floor, ma’am. Shall I show you?”