Page 36

I followed her out of the study, down the hallway toward the drawing room where Constance waited. Lily walked ahead of me, spine straight, shoulders back—every inch the proper lady except for the defiant tilt of her chin and the slightly too-quick pace.

At the drawing room entrance, I caught her elbow. She turned, eyebrow raised in question.

“Try not to antagonize her,” I said quietly.

“I don't antagonize people.” Her smile turned wicked. “I just ask inconvenient questions. a difference.”

“Lily—”

“Relax, August. I'll be perfectly civil.” She patted my hand where it rested on her elbow, and the casual touch sent heat up my arm. “Assuming she gives me reason to be.”

The echo of Adeline's words from this morning would have made me smile under different circumstances. Instead, I just sighed and pushed open the drawing room doors.

Constance Sterling stood by the window, perfectly positioned to catch the afternoon light. She'd dressed for effect—a dress in pale pink that complemented her dark hair and fair complexion. Everything about her was calculated to project refinement and breeding. Everything I'd once found reassuring and now found. . . tiresome.

She turned as we entered, her expression brightening. “August, finally. I was beginning to think Mrs. Hartley had misplaced you.”

Then her gaze landed on Lily, and the brightness cooled to assessment.

“Constance.” I moved forward, acutely aware of Lily at my side. “This is Miss Lily Whitmore. She’s⁠—”

“The cousin,” Constance finished, her tone suggesting she'd already extracted this information from Mrs. Hartley. “How unexpected. I wasn't aware August was harboring relatives.”

“It was rather sudden,” Lily said, her accent carefully neutral—not quite Yorkshire, but provincial enough to be convincing. “My cousin Adeline's home is being renovated, and Mr. Hawthorne was kind enough to offer us accommodation.”

“How charitable.” Constance's smile didn't reach her eyes. “And where exactly are you from, Miss Whitmore? Your accent is rather. . . difficult to place.”

“Yorkshire. A small village you've likely never heard of.” Lily moved to the settee and sat with surprising grace. “But please, don't let me interrupt. Mrs. Hartley said you were here to see Mr. Hawthorne?”

The casual way she claimed space in my drawing room, the easy assumption of belonging—it was perfectly played. Constance's eyes narrowed fractionally.

“Yes, well.” Constance turned back to me. “I came to discuss the Pemberton dinner next week. I thought we might coordinate our arrival.”

“About that—” I started, but Lily cut in smoothly.

“Oh, will Miss Wolfe and I be attending as well? I'm so looking forward to experiencing proper Oxford society.”

The presumption was audacious. And brilliant. Because it forced the question: was Lily part of my household or not? And if she was, excluding her from social engagements would raise exactly the kind of questions we couldn't afford.

Constance's smile had gone brittle. “I wasn't aware Mr. Hawthorne's. . . friends would be included in our arrangements.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this another time,” I said, trying to regain control of the situation. “When we've had a chance to sort out everyone's schedules.”

“Or perhaps,” Constance said, her tone sharpening, “we should discuss why you're housing young women without proper chaperonage. I'm sure your father would be very interested in this unusual arrangement.”

The threat was delicate but unmistakable. And effective.

“Miss Wolfe serves as chaperone,” I said evenly. “And as I'm sure you're aware, housing relatives during renovations is entirely proper.”

“Is it?” Constance's gaze moved between Lily and me, searching for something. “How convenient that this distant cousin appeared just as we were discussing our own future arrangements. One might almost think⁠—”

“One might think what, exactly? That Mr. Hawthorne is hiding something? How dramatic. Though I suppose when one is prone to suspicion, even charity looks suspicious.”

The barb landed. Constance's cheeks flushed.

“I wasn't suggesting⁠—”

“Of course you weren't.” Lily stood, her smile sharp. “Just as I'm sure you weren't questioning Mr. Hawthorne's propriety or judgment. That would be terribly inappropriate, wouldn't it?”