“He said so that you may finish his garden,” Trevillion replied, “but I take your point.”
Kilbourne glanced at him. “Have you found out anything about my cousin? Could he be the one behind the murders, not my uncle?”
“Nothing,” Trevillion stated. “He lives rather frugally, in fact. It’s only his father who is in debt.”
Kilbourne shook his head. “Should I trust Miss Goodfellow’s brother? Or Montgomery? Or neither?”
“Hmm. Point the brother out to me.”
Kilbourne looked around. “There. He’s just come in the door with Montgomery.”
Trevillion turned discreetly and saw a wiry man in a white wig a step behind the duke. On the other side was the Scots architect they’d met in the garden—MacLeish. “Strange that he should warn you against the duke and then keep his company.”
“Mmm,” Kilbourne murmured in assent. “I’ve been trying to think what Montgomery gets out of all this.”
“You don’t believe that he wants you for his garden?”
“Possibly.” Kilbourne shrugged. “But I’m hardly the only gardener he could hire. There has to be another reason.”
“He probably doesn’t do anything but for a minimum of at least two things to his advantage.” Trevillion stiffened as he watched Montgomery approach Lady Phoebe. “Damn.”
“What?”
He’d forgotten the obvious: rank. Lady Phoebe, as the daughter and sister of a duke, was most likely the highest-ranking lady in the room. And since Montgomery was a duke and thus the highest-ranking gentleman, naturally he’d be seated next to her.
Trevillion nearly growled. “I don’t like him near my charge.”
“He’ll hardly do anything in a crowded room,” Kilbourne said. “Besides, she has her chaperone. That one looks a Tartar.”
Trevillion grunted, not liking having to leave Lady Phoebe’s protection to an old woman, no matter how sharp.
The musicians began a tune, prompting the audience to quiet. After a moment an actor strode in with Miss Goodfellow and began an argument—something about a maid he wanted to woo. The male actor was apparently her twin brother.
A farce. Not to his taste—theater seldom was. Trevillion fixed his eyes on his charge instead, surprised to see that Montgomery had switched chairs with his architect friend. The younger man now sat next to Lady Phoebe, his red head close to hers.
Trevillion frowned and turned to Kilbourne, but one look showed that was a lost cause.
The viscount’s gaze was riveted on Miss Goodfellow.
Chapter Sixteen
Ariadne thought at first to flee, but the monster made neither move nor sound. At last, gathering her courage, she ventured near. He lay facedown and nude, his massive arms outstretched among the innocent flowers, his lower limbs in the water. Blood flowed from numerous cuts to his legs and torso. His bull’s head was turned to the side, and as she stared, he opened his eye…
—From The Minotaur
He’d made love to her, but he’d never truly seen her, Apollo realized as he watched Lily on stage. She’d changed the dress she’d initially appeared in to breeches and a coat, her dark hair hidden under a man’s white wig. Anyone with half a brain could see she was a woman disguised as a man, but the point wasn’t to fool the audience, but rather to entice it.
And entice she did.
Lily was… he stared in wonder. He didn’t have the words to describe the spell she cast over the room. It was as if she’d caught and channeled light, a prism of delight. She was quick and bright and he found himself leaning forward, to catch a little of her illumination. He wanted her to speak to him, only him. To hold her attention as she held his.
The damnable thing was, he knew he wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the audience wanted a small part of Robin Goodfellow for their very own. As a friend to confide in. As a lover to shower with affection. He was half hard simply watching her swirl about the stage, flinging quips at the male actor who was supposed to be her rival. How was it possible that he’d been inside her only that morning and now he felt as if he knew her not at all?
He watched as she leaned a little closer to the actor, flirting with her mischievous green eyes, and he was half admiring, half outraged that she would look at any other man that way.
Every man in the room must have an erection.
Apollo swallowed, trying to lean back, trying to break from her spell, only to find that he couldn’t.
He wasn’t the only one.
He watched as his elderly uncle blushed when she bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the audience.
Dear God, but she was dangerous.
He was a great ugly lump, he knew this. He’d always been, ever since the day when he’d been but fifteen and he’d topped his own father’s height. How could such a mercurial fairylike creature want anything to do with him? And yet she had. She’d let him touch her intimately. Had let him claim her.
In that moment Apollo resolved that no matter how ridiculous their mating might be, he wasn’t going to let her change her mind. She was his now—and if he had any say in the matter, she’d be his always.
THE PLAY HAD gone well, Lily thought later as she sat before a looking glass and washed the paint from her face. True, Stanford had managed to forget an entire speech in the third act, and the boy playing the overly handsome valet was much too prone to trying to upstage the other actors playing with him, but Moll had delivered her lines with graceful humor touched with ribaldry and John had been so handsome and chivalrous she’d nearly fallen in love with him herself. Yes, overall a great success.
“About done, dear?” Moll called, turning in front of her own little looking glass to try to see her hair from behind. “I’ve a mind to dance with that pretty duke tonight—and have a glass or two of Mr. Greaves’s wine. I hope it’s good.” She winked at Lily. “Not that it’ll stop me if it’s not.”
Lily laughed. “Go ahead. I still have to re-pin my hair.”
Moll twirled one last time and left.
Lily smiled into her mirror. It made no sense, but she wanted to look her best for Apollo. He’d never seen her perform before and she was a bit nervous about his reaction. Had he liked the play? Had he recognized the lines that she’d written in the garden with his help?
She wrinkled her nose at herself. Silly. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the ball and then her primping would have been for naught.