Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(8)

He turned and she was dazzled by his alarming prettiness. He had bright-blue eyes, long chocolate lashes, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a soft, curving mouth that she really wasn’t envious of. And to top it all off—as if to prove Providence really, truly wasn’t fair—he had guinea-gold hair, smooth and curling perfectly.

When Lily had been a very small girl she’d prayed every night for golden hair.

She blinked now. “Erm… yes?”

He smiled. Lethally. “Have I the pleasure to address the illustrious Robin Goodfellow?”

Lily straightened and raised her chin, employing her own smile—which, she had on good authority, could be quite devastating. Lily Stump might occasionally have bad posture, might have hair that wasn’t gold and sometimes wasn’t perfectly arranged, might in the dark of night have fears and self-doubts, but Robin Goodfellow had none of those things. Robin Goodfellow was a very popular actress who was beloved by all of London.

And she knew it.

So Robin Goodfellow smiled with just the right amount of impishness at the very pretty man—and by God made him blink.

“You do indeed,” she said throatily.

A spark of admiration lit within his gorgeous blue eyes. “Ah. Then may I introduce myself? I am Valentine Napier, Duke of Montgomery. I was informed by Mr. Harte that you resided here and I thought to make your acquaintance.”

He swept the lace-trimmed black tricorn from his head and bowed low, holding his stick in the other hand.

Behind her, something clattered.

Lily didn’t turn to see what Maude had dropped. Instead she inclined her head coquettishly and dipped into a curtsy. “I’m most pleased to meet you, Your Grace. Won’t you take a dish of tea with me?”

“I’d be honored, ma’am.”

Lily pivoted and exchanged a significant look with Maude. They hadn’t planned for such a contingency, but Maude was an old hand in the theater and knew well the art of a false facade. “It’s such a lovely day. We’ll take our tea in the garden, Maude.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Maude said, immediately assuming the mask of a perfect servant.

When Lily looked back, the duke was eyeing her speculatively. “Isn’t it a bit cold for tea outside?”

She didn’t so much as narrow her eyes. He knew damned well why she wouldn’t let him in the wretched theater—she wasn’t about to parade her lowered state of affairs before him.

“La, Your Grace, but I like the fresh air. Of course should you prefer a stuffy indoor setting—”

“No, no,” he demurred, a gleam in his eye.

She’d scored that point and well he knew it. But he seemed to take the setback in good humor. He stepped aside as Maude hurried out with two chairs—mismatched, of course, but Lily knew better than to apologize. To show any sort of weakness to a man like the duke was as ill-advised as a mouse’s bolting in front of a waiting cat.

He gestured gallantly to a seat and she settled herself gracefully, watching as he took his own chair. The duke moved with a sort of lazy elegance that, she thought, belied how dangerous he might be.

He glanced around at the devastated garden. “It’s a rather macabre spot, don’t you find?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Lily lied. Surely he didn’t think he’d catch her out with such a mundane snare? “The atmosphere of the garden is terribly mysterious. I find it altogether charming—and a wonderful influence for my stagecraft. An actress must always find inspiration for herself and her art.”

“I’m gratified to hear you say so,” the duke replied smoothly, “for as you know, I am now part owner of Harte’s Folly.” She must’ve given herself away somehow—a slight, involuntary movement or a widening of the eyes—for he leaned forward. “Ah, you didn’t know.”

Wretched creature. She made herself relax. “La, I’m not apprised of every little business dealing with the garden, Your Grace.”

“Of course not,” he murmured as Maude came out with a small footstool. She set it between them and disappeared back into the theater. The duke cocked an eyebrow at the plain wooden footstool and addressed it. “But this ‘little business dealing’ does put me in the position of your”—he cleared his throat delicately and looked up at her—“employer.”

Maude returned with a tray of tea at that moment, saving Lily from an ill-conceived reply.

Lily smiled as Maude set down the tray and poured tea for them both. Maude handed her the dish of tea with a question in her eyes. Lily held her gaze and murmured her thanks, signaling that she wasn’t in need of help.

The maidservant gave a quiet huff and left.

“She’s very loyal, isn’t she?” the duke observed.

Lily took a sip of the tea. It was weak—Maude must’ve used the last of the good tea leaves—but hot. “Aren’t all good servants loyal, Your Grace?”

He cocked his head as if seriously considering her comment, before replying decisively. “Not necessarily. A servant can serve quite adequately—even superbly—without any loyalty to his master at all.” He smiled, quick and mercurial. “As long, of course, as the master has fitted the servant with a proper bit between his teeth.”

Lily repressed a shiver. What a very loathsome image. But then aristocrats weren’t like other people. They played with the lives of ordinary folk as easily as Indio poked a stick into an ant’s nest, never considering the destruction they caused.