It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(88)

Lillian was thrown into frequent proximity with her mother, who was supervising (or harassing, as it might more accurately be said) a pair of housemaids in their laborious efforts to fold and pack hundreds of articles into the great leather-bound steamer trunks that had been brought up by the footman. After the stunning turn of events in the past day or two, Lillian fully expected her mother to plot out her every word and gesture in the effort to secure a betrothal with Lord Westcliff. However, Mercedes was surprisingly quiet and indulgent, seeming to choose her words with extreme care whenever she and Lillian spoke. On top of that, she did not mention West-cliff at all.

“What is the matter with her?” Lillian asked Daisy, bewildered by her mother’s docile manner. It was nice not to have to scrap and spar with Mercedes, but at the same time, now was when Lillian would have expected Mercedes to mow her over like a charging horse brigade.

Daisy shrugged and replied puckishly, “One can only assume that since you’ve done the opposite of everything she has advised, and you seem to have brought Lord Westcliff up to scratch, Mother has decided to leave the matter in your hands. I predict that she will turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to anything you do, so long as you manage to keep the earl’s interest.”

“Then…if I steal away to Lord Westcliff’s room later this evening, she won’t object?”

Daisy gave a low laugh. “She would probably help you to sneak up there, if you asked.” She gave Lillian an arch glance. “Just what are you going to do with Lord Westcliff, alone in his room?”

Lillian felt herself flush. “Negotiate.”

“Oh. Is that what you call it?”

Biting back a smile, Lillian narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be saucy, or I won’t tell you the lurid details later.”

“I don’t need to hear them from you,” Daisy said airily. “I’ve been reading the novels that Lady Olivia recommended…and now I daresay I know more than you and Annabelle put together.”

Lillian couldn’t help laughing. “Dear, I’m not certain that those novels are entirely accurate in their depiction of men, or of…of that.”

Daisy frowned. “In what way are they not accurate?”

“Well, there’s not really any sort of …you know, lavender mist and the swooning, and all the flowery speeches.”

Daisy regarded her with sincere disgruntlement. “Not even a little swooning?”

“For heaven’s sake, you wouldn’t want to swoon, or you might miss something.”

“Yes, I would. I should like to be fully conscious for the beginning, and then I should like to swoon through the rest of it.”

Lillian regarded her with startled amusement. “Why?”

“Because it sounds dreadfully uncomfortable. Not to mention revolting.”

“It’s not.”

“Not what? Uncomfortable, or revolting?”

“Neither,” Lillian said in a matter-of-fact tone, though she was struggling not to laugh. “Truly, Daisy. I would tell you if it were otherwise. It’s lovely. It really is.”

Her younger sister contemplated that, and glanced at her skeptically. “If you say so.”

Smiling to herself, Lillian thought about the evening ahead of her, and felt a thrill of eagerness at the prospect of being alone with Marcus. Her conversation in the orangery with Lady Olivia had given her a greater understanding of how remarkable it was that Marcus had let his guard down with her to the extent that he already had.

Perhaps it wasn’t a certainty that their relationship would be filled with turmoil. It took two to argue, after all. It was possible that she could find ways to decide when something was worth fighting over, or when she should simply dismiss it as unimportant. And Marcus had already shown signs of being willing to accommodate her. There had been that apology in the library, for example, when Marcus could have crushed her pride, and had chosen not to. Those were not the actions of an uncompromising man.

If only she were a bit more artful, like Annabelle, Lillian thought that she might have a better chance at managing Marcus. But she had always been too blunt and straightforward to possess any feminine wiles. Ah, well, she thought wryly, I’ve gotten this far without any wiles…I suppose I’ll do fine if I just blunder on ahead the way I’ve been doing.

Idly sorting through some articles on the dresser in the corner, Lillian set aside the necessities that would have to remain unpacked until their departure the day after next. Her silver-backed brush, a rack of pins, a fresh pair of gloves…she paused as her fingers closed around the vial of perfume that Mr. Nettle had given her. “Oh dear,” she murmured, sitting on the spindly velvet-upholstered chair. She stared at the glittering vial that was cradled in her palm. “Daisy …am I obligated to tell the earl that I used a love potion on him?”

Her younger sister seemed appalled by the very idea. “I should say not. What reason would you have to tell him?”

“Honesty?” Lillian suggested.

“Honesty is overrated. As someone once said, ‘Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of the heart.’ “

“It was the Duc de Richelieu,” said Lillian, who had read the same book of philosophy during their schoolroom lessons. “And the accurate quote is, ‘Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of the State.’ “