Chapter 2
Shock and Delight

Dearest reader,

This author finds herself compelled to share the most curious of news. Though our diamond has surprised no one in attracting the attention of none other than the newly returned Duke of Peverell, it appears that an even rarer jewel of the most remarkable brilliance, fire, and luster has been unearthed. Her name? Miss Lily Evans.

That's right, most astute reader. The diamond's own newly debuted sister has been the break-out gem of the season, and though she hasn't nabbed herself a duke, she does appear to have attracted the rest of the eligible young bachelors to the drawing room at Evans House.

This author is left to wonder whether Her Majesty might reconsider the snub she once cast on this particular flower, for we all must know what the Queen despises more than anything: being wrong. And if the bachelors currently lining the drawing room at Evans House—acting madder than the muddled head of her dearest King George—are anything to go by, this author suspects that the blazing fire the Queen dismissed is exactly what has set these young men aflame.

"You didn't call on Petunia."

James looked up from his book right as a folded pamphlet fell into his lap. "Was I supposed to?"

Sirius sat with a huff in the armchair opposite him. "James. Come on."

"No," James pushed back. "You come on. It was one dance and socially mandated conversation, Pads." He waved the pamphlet. "And what the fuck's this?"

Sirius only grinned lazily, lighting a cigar from where he sat slumped down in his chair.

"Latest Lady Whistledown," he answered, letting out a long puff of smoke and closing his eyes. "Christ almighty, I needed this."

James arched a brow, looking up from his skim of the scandal sheet. "Long morning, I take it?"

Sirius shook his head slowly, eyes still closed. "You've no idea. Orion stayed with Bella, so I had to do the manly duty at Evans House. Fuck, Lily's popular."

"Hang on." James felt his blood start to boil as he read. "No one's nabbed me."

His friend just chuckled. "Welcome back to London, where if you're going to dance, you might as well be engaged, as far as the vulture mamas are concerned."

James only grunted in response, leaning his elbows on the table as he raked his hands through his hair and stared at the page in front of him. But though he knew he should be focused on the accusations of himself forming an attachment just because he danced, the words that really kept drawing his eye were those that articulated what he'd been mulling over since the night before: Brilliance. Fire. Luster. Aflame.

Lily Evans was a force to be reckoned with, and once he'd gotten past her cheek and seemingly innate ability to trigger his temper, he couldn't help but notice her raw beauty. It was something in the way her cheeks flushed and her face lit up from the inside when she smiled, the way she didn't seem to care when tendrils of that wine-red hair came loose from her chignon as she danced, the way those curves heaved as she tried to catch her breath from laughing too hard. All in all, she was alive in a completely different way than any other of the young ladies in that ballroom, and it wasn't surprising in the least to hear that nearly every other bloke at that damned ball had felt the same.

Something had shifted in his mood as he'd discreetly watched her at that ball, that lustrous brilliance about her setting certain parts of him quite aflame indeed, and if it were another time, another place—if he was back in Paris, say, and she was an independent woman, not the virginal charge of his best friend's titled family—he would have flirted his brains out with every intention of taking her to bed, because those rosy lips were begging to be kissed and bodies like that deserved to be worshipped. He was even finding himself increasingly enticed by the sharpness of her tongue, because something told him she'd used it just as deftly for other non-verbal purposes.

But, alas, she was the virginal charge of his best friend's family, as well as the kid cousin to said best friend and also the kid sister to the young woman with whom he was being matched.

Which, when put like that in broad daylight, all made him feel rather uncomfortable and slightly guilty about the fact that he'd gone home after the ball and gotten himself off to thoughts of that rare jewel on top of him.

"Why'd she get snubbed by the Queen?"

Sirius shrugged, blinking his eyes open and pulling his cigar from his mouth. "Mum said something about not looking excited enough to be there."

"She seemed in good enough spirits last night."

"Yeah," Sirius drawled with a roll of his eye, "after I spiked her lemonade for her."

James's mouth dropped open. "Pads, you—really?"

An amused expression worked itself onto his friend's face. "Shit, Prongs, I forget you don't know these things anymore. It's Lily. Her and I smoke on the back swings all the time, she's loads more fun than her straight-laced sister—no offense—and she hates society, by the way. Has no intention of marrying whatsoever. Or she didn't, anyway."

James leaned back in his armchair, slouching in a mirror of Sirius with one leg popped out. "What d'you mean?"

Sirius took a long drag of his cigar. "She's always wanted to go to university. She's got a brilliant mind for it, I've gone over some of my old coursework with her." He scowled at the table. "Her father had warmed up to the idea, been working on her mum about it. The thought was that if Petunia married, they would use some of the money from Lily's dowry to put her up for a year of university, try it out, you know."

James frowned. "I take it that obviously didn't happen."

Sirius shook his head. "William died. Hunting accident. Petunia had to drop out of the season for mourning, my father took charge of the girls' affairs, and there was really no question that Lily would have to debut and go on the marriage market after that."

A heaviness settled in his chest as he processed that information, tried to harmonize the grief she'd no doubt endured over the past year with the fiery energy he'd encountered. Somehow, the bit about drinking spiked lemonade was no longer surprising.

"Any of those blokes today going to make the cut?"

"Nah," Sirius said breezily, waving his cigar. "All far too green, and she was too hungover to care, though she did a good job hiding it—" He cut off, his eyes narrowing. "Why the sudden interest, Prongsie?"

James feigned his best indifference from where he lounged in his chair. "Just curious. As you said, I don't know these things anymore. So her and Petunia don't exactly get on, I take it?"

If Sirius didn't believe him, he at least played along, telling James about all the ways Petunia and Lily were different (as if James hadn't been able to glean that for himself) before moving on (thank god) to more neutral topics, such as James keeping up his boxing hobby, the best Opera girls to seek out for a rendezvous, and Sirius's complete disinclination to marry.

"Something tells me Orion doesn't like that," James chuckled into his scotch.

Sirius only swirled his ice around his glass. "Doesn't get much of a say, though, does he?"

James arched a brow. "You're a first-born Black, of a first-born Black, nine times over. Something tells me you'll need a wife."

His friend flashed him a wicked grin. "Ah, but don't forget I am in possession of something you are not, dear Prongsie. A brother."

And with that, he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. "You should come over tonight"—he set his glass rather loudly on the table—"Orry'd love to catch up"—he waggled an eyebrow—"and the Evanses will be there."

James tried to ignore the strange fluttering that had taken up in his stomach. "Alright," he agreed, "but only if you sit me next to Orry."

Sirius kept his promise of seating him by Orion, who claimed the head of the table, but he neglected to warn James that he'd have Petunia to his left and Lily directly across from him. He wasn't sure which was worse: Petunia trying to discreetly-on-purpose bump his leg as they sat down, or noticing how strikingly emerald Lily's eyes were as they fixed him with their unyielding scrutiny.

"So I hear Evans House was quite a busy place this morning," Orion said genially as he shook out his napkin over his knee.

"Most unexpectedly, yes," Violet said warmly. "Sirius did an excellent job in your stead, Orion."

"I'm sorry I didn't make it by," James offered politely. "I had some urgent business this morning that tied me up."

He hated pulling out the business line. Though every man did it—using that vague word to allude to something important while veiling whatever not-important and probably-not-respectable stuff they were actually doing from a woman's prying eyes—it didn't make him feel any less of a schmuck.

Sirius winked at him from his seat on Lily's other side, Violet smiled kindly, and Petunia was quick to simper, "It's no matter at all, Your Grace, I expect your return to London has been nothing short of exhausting."

The implication being, wouldn't it be nice to have a wife to ease the exhaustion?

Lily rested two fingers against her lips, and she might have appeared to be in thought if it weren't for the way she tapped them slowly in a subtle mime of smoking. Blast it all, she knew he was fibbing. A rare heat pricked at his neck.

"Quite," he agreed with Petunia, reaching for his wine glass. "All this paperwork with assuming the administration makes me appreciate my younger self's choice not to study law."

That earned the appropriate chuckles from the table, and thankfully Orion steered the conversation to James's travels on his Grand Tour, as he wanted James's input for Regulus's impending departure. James seized on the topic, travel being something he felt far more comfortable speaking about, and he couldn't help but notice that the longer he talked, the more Petunia stifled successive yawns while Lily seemed to listen with rapt attention.

"And what of Greece?" Regulus asked. "Siri didn't go there on his, but I want to see Athens."

James nodded in agreement. "And you should venture elsewhere in the country as well. The Ancient Theater of Epidaurus isn't far from Corinth, and it's worth it to hear the acoustics."

Lily leaned over her plate to look down toward Regulus. "What'll you recite, Reg? Give it a practice, go on."

Regulus blushed. "I-I dunno," he stuttered. "I'd have to—um—think about it."

Sirius placed his hand over his heart and crooned softly, "O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?"—Lily snorted into her wine glass, and James felt the corner of his mouth tug up at the sound, even as his eyes stayed fixed on Sirius—"Deny thy father and refuse thy name!"—he closed his eyes dramatically, reaching into the air—"And I'll no longer be a Capulet."

"Thank you, Sirius," Orion drawled. "Dramatic as always."

Sirius inclined his drink toward his father. "And what would you recite, then?"

Orion's lips quirked in a smile and he swirled his wine glass a moment before reciting, "This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man."

James clinked his glass with Orion's, having always appreciated Hamlet, but Sirius rolled his eyes and muttered, "You would quote Polonius."

Orion swept his arms open. "Ladies? Would any of you care to share an oration?"

The table was quiet, and James watched the girls eye each other a moment before Lily broke the silence, saying, "Well, if I ever got to go to the Ancient Theater of Epidaurus, I think it would be fitting to recite something Greek."

Orion gestured to her, sitting back in his chair with a curious expression on his face. Lily opened and closed her mouth, suddenly looking at her plate. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller than James had ever heard it. "Oh, the torment bred in the race, the grinding scream of death and the stroke that hits the vein, the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief, the curse no man can bear."

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, and a clatter from the end of the table told him someone (he guessed Violet) had dropped cutlery on their plate. An awkward tension filled the air, but James's stomach was churning for a different reason entirely: he'd written his senior thesis on The Oresteia.

"But there is a cure in the house," he continued, and Lily's head immediately shot up, her eyes blazing at him as he recited, "and not outside it, no, not from others but from them, their bloody strife. We sing to you, dark gods beneath the earth."

Lily cleared her throat, then finished, "Now hear, you blissful powers underground—answer the call, send help. Bless the children, give them triumph now."

No one spoke until Petunia said, "Well, that was somber."

Lily glared at her and snapped, "Actually, it's Aeschylus."

"Bless you."

"Girls," Violet broke in, exasperated, "honestly."

Lily refused to meet his eye and took to pushing her peas around her plate, and when the dinner concluded not long after that, she barely looked at him. James had the sudden urge to go to her, wrap her up in his arms—one didn't resonate with Greek tragedies out of blithe happiness, as he very well knew, and his conversation with Sirius had shed an entirely new light on the inner workings of Miss Lily Evans' brain—but he forced himself into composure. She was nothing more than an acquaintance, and he was meant to court her sister.

Really, he needed to get a grip.

To Miss Lily Evans:

The enclosed paper may be of interest to you. I would be curious to hear your thoughts the next time our paths cross.

It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. No one else would have sent her a bound copy of what appeared to be a thesis on the Greek tragedies called The Oresteia after she'd quoted one of its more famous—not to mention gruesome—sections at the dinner table like a completely improper lady.

"Mama," she called across the drawing room.

"Yes, dear?" Violet asked absently, not looking up from her needlework.

"What's the next social function on our calendar?"

"The celebration at Vauxhall tomorrow," Petunia answered while sniffing at the fresh bouquet that had arrived with Lily's bundle, its note a simpler (and rather more impersonal, if Lily was giving an honest opinion) It was a pleasure to see you.

Lily hadn't shown Petunia her note, telling her it simply enclosed an academic paper, as she suspected her sister would find some way to read extraneous meaning into our paths cross and Lily didn't feel like getting in a row over how it didn't mean anything other than an invitation for academic discussion, which Petunia had never understood.

"Right." Lily flopped onto the sofa, bending the front cover around the bound spine and holding the paper up in front of her face.

"Why?" Petunia asked, sounding nosy.

"I still have to figure out what I'm wearing," Lily lied. She already knew exactly which dress she was going to wear; she just had a paper to study.

"What is that you're reading?" Mary asked as she plaited Lily's hair.

Lily looked up and gave her maid a sheepish smile through the mirror. "A paper," she admitted. "It's something the duke sent over after the, erm, topic came up at dinner the other night."

Mary's eyebrow raised. "The duke, hmm?"

"It's nothing," Lily was quick to tell her. "He's courting Petunia."

Mary pursed her lips. "I don't know that I would call one bouquet of flowers courting, my lady."

A flicker of something like hope rose in Lily's chest, but she promptly knocked it back down. "Well, it will be," she sighed, "if Mama and Lady McGonagall have anything to say about it."

Mary gave her a sly smile as she worked on Lily's hair. "I think that dress you picked says something different."

Lily shot her a dark look, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. She'd picked her navy chiffon, knowing it complemented her complexion and accentuated the curves of her chest, which she'd been blessed with more of than Petunia.

"Especially," Mary prompted, "since Petunia will not be in attendance?"

Her unfortunate sister had caught cold and was currently confined to her bed, nose bright red and cough tickling her throat. Lily had spent most of the afternoon listening to her hysterics over having to miss Vauxhall, but the upside was that Lily wouldn't have to deal with Petunia butting in if the duke was still curious to hear her thoughts.

Mary's eyes twinkled, like she knew she was pushing the boundaries of what a maid should ask, but Lily had grown close with Mary over the years, and more than anything, it was nice to feel like she had a friend, someone she could trust, about matters like this.

"He is rather…intriguing," she admitted, and Mary squealed.

"I knew it, I knew you fancied him—"

"Well, now, hold on, I never said—"

Mary rolled her eyes. "You didn't have to say it, my lady, it's all over your face when he's the subject of conversation."

Lily pursed her lips as she examined herself in the mirror. Though her initial impression of the duke had been of an arrogant, entitled arse worthy of suffering at the hands of her sister's desperation, the way he'd looked when he'd spoken of his travels at dinner had unlocked something about him. The passion, the happiness on his face had only been matched by the moment he'd seen Sirius at the ball; it was like he was accessing another life, another set of memories, that made him light up from the inside, that made his eyes crinkle and his dimples pop as he smiled. It had been a good thing she'd been sitting down, because the sight had made her rather weak in the knees, and it all had only gotten worse after he'd quoted Aeschylus back at her.

This man, this divine creature who had been all over the world and seemed to see right through her with those molten eyes, was the furthest thing from an arrogant, entitled arse she'd ever met—and those pulling the matchmaking strings would waste him on her sister.

Not that she wanted him, of course. She didn't want to marry. Though she'd been ordered to make her debut, she was still scheming her way out of this hellhole and into the faraway land of a university, no husband necessary. It was just a shame to waste a man who could recite Aeschylus on her sister, was all.

"Well," Lily sighed, touching up the bright red rouge on her lips. "It doesn't matter anyway, Mary, because The Plan is still in effect."

Mary smirked. "Is that why you've been studying that paper he gave you, then?"

"Yes," Lily said stubbornly. "It's simply…practice. For being amongst scholars."

"Mm-hmm."

Lily ignored her, and turned back to reviewing her annotations as Mary finished pinning her hair.

Somehow, in the span of a few days, Lily had completely forgotten how annoying it was to fend off so many damn suitors.

Some part of her knew she should be feeling grateful—after all, there were many young ladies there who were not receiving any attention from eligible bachelors at all—but she just didn't have it in her to feel so grateful that she actually wanted to flirt back.

Especially when they misquoted Shakespeare or—even worse—offered her a poem of their own (awful) composition.

A soft snort sounded behind her, and she turned to see the duke watching her with an amused smirk on his face from where he leaned against a pillar a short ways behind her in the shadows.

Lily set her hands on her hips. "And how long have you been eavesdropping, might I ask?"

He didn't deny it. "Long enough to know that last one was rather horrific."

She fought a smile, chewing her cheek before relenting on her annoyance. "I don't know how I managed not to laugh," she admitted, and the duke chuckled.

"An impressive feat, I assure you."

"Ahem." A wince fluttered across her face before she could control it, and she turned reluctantly to the voice that would make her spine curdle from the other side of the Thames.

"Lord Pettigrew."

He smiled awkwardly. "Might I have this dance, Miss Evans?"

"Uh—" Her mind raced through possible excuses. Should she feign thirst? No, he'd just offer to escort her to the refreshments. Make up an imaginary partner and hide her dance card? Then she'd have the problem of actually finding said imaginary partner. Fall suddenly ill? She supposed the grass would be a decently soft landing for a faint—

"I'm afraid I am to escort Miss Evans to the floor," the duke said from where he was suddenly standing next to her. Lily looked up at him in shock; she hadn't even heard him move.

Lord Pettigrew looked curiously between the duke and Lily, his suspicion clearly evident, but as he was but a baron in the face of the duke, he simply ceded control with a bow. "Of course, Your Grace."

The duke held his hand sideways, and with a sudden flutter in her stomach that hadn't been there before, Lily took it.

Her heart thundered in her ears as she made the slow walk to the dance floor at his side, the presence of everyone's eyes on them pressing in on her from all directions. She couldn't breathe, could barely hear the music of orchestra that she knew was swelling around them, and the world tilted ominously as she turned to face him and somehow, miraculously, managed to place her arms on the appropriate places of his shoulder and his palm.

His voice, low and gentle, almost like a purr, cut through the buzzing noise of her brain.

"Stare into my eyes."

Molten gold, shining in the soft ambience of the fireworks overhead, stared back at her.

"And don't faint in front of the entire ton unless you want Lady Whistledown to write about how I made you literally swoon at Vauxhall."

Lily snorted, then hastily bit her lip in an attempt to appear composed. The duke chuckled softly, his hand firm at her waist.

"Maybe try breathing," he added.

She let out a deep sigh, feeling her head clear and the volume of the music increase. "Thank you," she said quietly as they turned through the dance. "I'm not…used to being the center of attention like this."

"Well, don't look now," he replied softly, "but we might as well be on the opera stage for how all everyone is watching."

Lily sucked in a deep breath through her nose and grumbled, "How do you do this?"

"I don't care."

She scoffed lightly. "Well that was…frank."

He caught her by the waist, his breath tickling her cheek, and murmured, "I care about what you think of that paper I sent you," before spinning her away.

Lily turned back into him, feeling more like herself the longer the dance went on.

"I found the author incredibly presumptuous on several points," she told him as they moved through the dance, "but overall I must say it was one of the most intelligent essays I've ever read."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," she answered. "Whose paper is it, anyway?"

He dipped her expertly across his body, his lips quirking in a grin. "Mine."

Lily swore her stomach fell straight through the dance floor as he righted her again, holding her securely against him as she gaped stupidly at the smug expression on his face.

"Yours—"

"I studied classics," he told her as he twirled her. "And I admit, I am quite presumptuous when it comes to my interpretation of Greek tragedy."

When she spun back into him and rested her hand on the back of his shoulder, a zip of electricity unlike anything she'd ever known shooting up her arm and reverberating down her spine.

She was at a complete loss for words. "Your Grace—"

"James."

Her voice came out breathless. "What?"

He dipped her again before pulling her against him. "My name. It's James."

She'd been completely distracted watching his lips move as he spoke, the most absurd thoughts appearing in her brain—

"I think if you can critique my thesis, we can call each other by our first names, no?"

He turned her under his arm before drawing her back in again.

"Alright," she agreed, though her thoughts swirled with the swelling orchestra and spinning couples and bursting fireworks around them. "James."

It fit him, she realized, as his eyes reflected the fireworks ahead and a dimple appeared in one cheek. Something soft, yet also strong.

This time, when he dipped her, he ducked his head dangerously close to hers as he righted her, his voice gravelly as he murmured, "Lily."

His gaze pinned her where she stood, her body feeling inside out with how her pulse fluttered and her breath caught. It was the same look he'd given her at dinner, when her mind had suddenly emptied itself of all the other passages of classic Greek literature she knew save for the one that made her instantly feel her grief for her father.

It was a look that, if she had to describe it, made her feel rather like he'd seen past her eyes and straight into her soul.

For those not in attendance at the Vauxhall celebration, you missed the most remarkable coup of the season. In an unexpected turn of events, it appears Miss Lily Evans has captured the interest of the newly returned Duke of Peverell, right from underneath her own sister's nose.

How the young miss secured her newfound suitor is yet to be determined. Yet, if anyone shall reveal the circumstances of this match, it is I.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown