Running into the black night.
He could hear the shouts behind him, and then hoofbeats gaining on him fast. He whirled at the last minute, hands up, ready to dodge the horse.
Only to find the Duke of Montgomery pulling a great black beast to a half-rearing halt.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” the duke snapped, for once discomposed. He thrust out a hand. “Get on!”
HE’D SAID THAT he loved her.
Lily stared at the doorway, not sure she should believe what had just happened.
He loved her.
What did that mean to him? Was he going to offer to keep her? Or was it something he said to every woman he bedded?
But no. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she disregarded it. Apollo was a good man. If he said he loved her—loved her—then he did.
She sat in the bed, entirely nude, the coverlet pulled over her breasts, and felt a strange, tenuous feeling: happiness. Ridiculous. She didn’t even know if he’d escaped—and she had more than enough proof from Richard and Kitty’s marriage that aristocracy and actresses couldn’t mix. But…
He would escape. He was strong and determined and he was Apollo. He’d battled past the footmen and butler and the other gentlemen guests were certainly no match for him. He’d escape and she’d meet him in the garden tomorrow, and…
And what?
Perhaps they could find a way. He wasn’t the usual aristocrat, after all, and… and she loved him.
She shivered, thinking about it, such a risk, not only for herself, but also for Indio and Maude. Could she risk their happiness as well?
“He has good taste at least.”
She started at the strange voice and saw George Greaves stroll into the room as if he were entering an afternoon tea party.
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“As well you should, you little whore,” he said without any heat at all. He closed the door behind him.
Lily fisted her hands, prepared to jump out of the bed and run—nude, if she had to. “Get out of my room.”
“My room, actually—or my father’s, which amounts to the same thing,” George said, taking a chair and placing it so he faced the bed. “You, Miss Goodfellow, have abused my father’s hospitality.”
“In what way?”
He crossed his legs and she noticed that he was completely dressed in breeches, waistcoat, coat, and immaculately tied neckcloth. What had he been doing as his guests slept? “You’ve been conspiring with my cousin, it seems, against my family.”
“Not conspiring,” she said, hoping against hope that this might be explained away. “He didn’t murder those men. He just wants to prove it.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asked with clear contempt. “As I said, conspiring with my cousin, Lord Kilbourne, perhaps to kill us all in our beds.”
“What?” She stared at the man. Did George Greaves truly believe that Apollo had come here to murder everyone in their beds? He must realize how ridiculous that sounded.
“He’s a madman—everyone knows it and I’m tired of him dragging down the family name.” He looked at her with a reddened face, his eyes bulging.
Oh, dear. Perhaps George was the real madman in the family. Lily put on her most fluffy-headed female face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand all these matters and it’s not quite nice for you to be in here when I haven’t even my chemise on. If you’ll just go—”
“My father should’ve been the viscount, not my mad uncle or his bloodthirsty son,” George said, and Lily wondered if he’d even heard her. “Ridiculous that the family line has sunk into the mire of insanity and mental disease. I’m going to put a stop to this outrage once and for all.”
Lily blinked and then shook her head, taking a deep breath. Fluffy-headedness hadn’t worked. Perhaps bluntness would. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” George said precisely, “your connection to my cousin has provided me with an opportunity to end all this. You’re going to help me right the wrong. Kilbourne has escaped into the night, I have no idea where, but I’m sure you do.”