That was often the case, Lily reflected as they took turns at the washbasin and changed out of their dusty traveling clothes. The actors hired for a private performance were also considered professional guests by their host—there to enliven the party.
They were ready to appear in a little less than an hour. Moll was in dark brown and mauve, while Lily had on one of her favorite dresses, a scarlet affair with a deep, square neckline and white ruffles on the bodice and sleeves.
“Shall we?” Moll teased and they stepped out into the hall to find John and Stanford waiting.
“Ladies!” John swept them a ridiculously elaborate bow.
“Ass,” Stanford muttered, offering Moll his arm.
That left Lily to take John’s arm as they descended. She’d worked with both Moll and John before and was finding Stanford to be quietly witty beneath his role as the elder actor. In normal circumstances she’d be enjoying herself immensely: a country house, a party, genial colleagues, and the prospect of a week’s worth of good food.
Tonight, though, she simply saw the party as something to endure.
On the first floor was a large salon and Lily glanced around it, mentally trying it on for size for their play. The lighting wasn’t very good—it was an interior room with only two windows at the far end—but the play would be at night anyway and with several dozen candles, it might well do.
She caught Stanford’s eye and when he winked, she knew he was thinking the same thing.
Then their host entered and with him the rest of the house party guests.
The first were Mr. and Mrs. George Greaves, their host’s son and his wife, though, since the older man was a widower, Lily suspected his daughter-in-law had had a hand in planning the party. She was a plain woman in her thirties, quiet, but with an intelligence in her eyes when they were introduced to her. Her husband, in contrast, had a carrying voice that would’ve done him well had he taken to the stage. George Greaves was a big, burly man and still had the good looks age had faded from his father.
Behind them was another, somewhat younger couple. Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Warner were still newlyweds and obviously in love. They made a striking couple, as both had beautiful butter-yellow hair, and Lily couldn’t help thinking they were destined to have a gorgeous brood of children.
Miss Hippolyta Royle was accompanied by her father, Sir George Royle, who had made his fortune in India and been knighted for his efforts. She was a dark beauty who obviously doted on her aging parent.
Besides Miss Royle, there were two other single ladies at the party: Mrs. Jellett, a society widow with a gossiping gleam in her eye, and Lady Herrick, the wealthy—and quite beautiful—widow of a baronet.
Lily was just thinking that the house party was weighted heavily in favor of the ladies when their host cried, “Ah, Your Grace, you’ve arrived!”
She turned to see the Duke of Montgomery, Malcolm MacLeish…
And Caliban.
Only he wasn’t Caliban. Not anymore. He was Viscount Kilbourne, his hair tied severely back, wearing a dusky-blue suit heavily embroidered in gold and crimson, and a cream waistcoat, and looking every inch the aristocrat.
LILY WORE A crimson gown that exposed the upper slopes of her lovely breasts, white and inviting.
Apollo felt a bit as if he’d been hit square between the eyes.
“You did not tell me Miss Goodfellow would be here,” he hissed in Montgomery’s ear.
“Didn’t I?” replied the duke. “Why? Was the information of import to you?”
Oh, the other man knew well enough that the information that Lily would be attending this same house party had been “of import.” In the weeks he’d spent preparing for the house party, Apollo had endured quite a bit of time with the duke. He was frighteningly intelligent, mercurial, and selfish to the point of mania, and had the sort of impish sense of humor that found the predicaments of others funny. Rather like a little boy who enjoyed pitching battles between beetles and worms. Except the duke was much, much more powerful than a little boy.
So it was hard to tell if the duke hadn’t told Apollo about Lily because he was amusing himself—or for some other more nefarious reason.
Not that Apollo gave a damn at the moment.
Over two weeks it’d been since he’d last seen her—two weeks in which he’d gone to bed every night wondering how she was and what she was doing, and waked with the image of her face behind his eyes.
Her lichen-green eyes had widened fractionally when she’d turned to see him, but she’d controlled herself all too soon, plastering on a bright social face that he was beginning to hate already.
His uncle, William Greaves, was making the introductions, but Apollo had eyes only for her.
She curtsied to him, murmuring huskily, “Mr. Smith,” as she did so, for they’d settled on the silly pseudonym for the party.
He couldn’t help himself. It’d been too long and he didn’t know how she felt about him anymore. If she hated him or even—God forbid—believed him to be a bloody murderer.