Lord.
It didn’t matter that, with her head in her notebook for the better part of her sister’s ramblings, Lila hadn’t been following whatever gossip so occupied her sister. Just as it didn’t matter who the “him” in question was.
It was a universal truth well known that Polite Society would sooner give a person perishing of thirst a cut direct than a cup of water. It was a fact Lila had learned all too well when she’d disappeared from Polite Society, and the ton gossip had buzzed with wonderings of her whereabouts, answering their own questions with invented, salacious rumors.
As such, given the Town’s sick fascination and reporting on their family, why would Sylvia ever bother with any gossip printed about another?
Sylvia clapped her hands once, and the army of girls fluttering about immediately ceased.
“We really need to consider your costume soon, Lila, if you still intend to join me?” her sister asked.
Lila’s stomach clenched. She still planned on accompanying Sylvia. Hugh had taught Lila some skills should she be required to defend herself or her sister. It isn’t enough . . . She forced the misgivings back. “I do. I will . . . just not now,” she said, and gave thanks when her sister didn’t press the matter further. Lila would be there for that riotous affair . . . for Sylvia.
While the seamstresses helped Sylvia into her garments and tidied up, Lila skimmed through the pages of her notebook. Not long ago, she’d also been as focused as her sister on the tale of stolen children.
Now, through the chattering of her sister’s gossip, all she could think about was how those worries had brought Hugh into her life.
Lila trailed her fingers along the top page. This was the particular one Hugh had last held in his hands as he’d railed at her vision and then disappeared like a specter whom she’d merely conjured of her own lonely company.
“You are why I don’t deal with the nobility, Lila March. Aside from the patronage they bring to my establishment, and the money they bring with it . . . because nothing about the peerage is to be trusted. And you only proved that . . .”
A painful little ache struck her heart.
Liar—it wasn’t a little one.
It was a great big, gaping pain . . . because she missed him. Because she hated that he despised her. And just as much, she hated that he’d looked with disdain upon a future that had fueled her these past weeks, enlivening her where she’d previously been deadened inside.
And in the greatest twist of irony, he’d been the one person who’d made her feel whole again. He’d reminded her what it was to feel, and in ways she’d never felt before.
And how little he’d thought of her. How ill his opinion. And how easily he’d simply cut her out of his life.
What did you expect? You knew him but a handful of days. You made more out of those moments than ever could have mattered to him.
And she’d also given herself to Hugh Savage, and the memory of their embrace was the only gift she retained of their time together.
After the small army of seamstresses had filed from the room, Sylvia sprawled into the seat across from Lila and grabbed for the newspaper she’d been reading from before her dressmaking session.
“All very scandalous, isn’t it?” Sylvia murmured. “A kidnapped duke. Can one even imagine . . . losing one’s ch-child?” Her voice broke.
From over the top of her notes, Lila stared at that makeshift screen made by the latest edition of The London Inquisitor. And for the first time since she’d left Hugh, a pang struck for reasons unrelated to him or their tumultuous parting, or the altogether brief imagining she’d had of him and her together, creating a fight society. This time, it was the thought of a lost child. “The poor boy,” Lila murmured softly to herself.
“Something has finally managed to capture your attention,” Sylvia said. “Why do you believe I’ve been absorbed in this every day? Because I like gossip?” She brought the paper back up before her face. “He’s a man grown now,” she clarified. “But that doesn’t make any of this less sad. All the lost years. All the lost love. The questions about his past.” She angrily lowered those pages once more, wrinkling them in her tight grip. “And all the while, all anyone worries after is whether their own titles are safe? Or whether they’ll have to