Chapter 3
Art of the Swoon

There will forever be just two words that come to this author's mind the morning after any good party: "shock" and "delight." Well, dear reader, the scandalous accounts from last night's soiree at Vauxhall are quite shocking and delightful indeed. Emerging, phoenix-like from the ashes of the Queen's indifference, is one Miss Lily Evans. The illustrious debutante was seen dancing not once, but twice with the season's most eligible and most uncatchable rake: the Duke of Peverell.

Petunia's cough was deeper the next day, but that wasn't what was keeping Lily from going into her room. No, what kept her frozen just on the other side of the door, fist poised for a knock, were the words written by Lady Whistledown and the hysterics they would no doubt incite once Petunia found out about them.

"Lily! Is that you?"

She jumped, startled, but it was too late to turn around now. With a sigh, she opened the door to Petunia's room and stepped across the threshold, frowning as she took in Petunia propped up in bed, the lunch tray over her lap untouched save for the tea her sister was sipping as she read the very same scandal sheet that was in Lily's sweaty hand.

Petunia's eyes flicked toward Lily for only a moment before she said scratchily, "You stood there long enough."

"I—"

"Anyway, thank you—" Petunia cut off into a cough, and Lily opened and closed her mouth dumbly. "Erm—"

Petunia took a sip of tea, and though her voice was a rather unattractive croak, her eyes shone with excitement. "It's really rather genius, Lily. I knew that oversized brain of yours was bound to come in useful one day."

Lily's brow furrowed. "I don't—"

Petunia stared at her blankly before waving the pamphlet in her hand. "Dancing with the duke. Occupying him for me. Lily, it's brilliant. All the other ladies and mamas will think he's trying to choose between us, so they'll give up on him, while all the other suitors will focus on us—well, you, seeing as I'm meant for the duke—after seeing the duke's attention."

A rare genuine smile broke over Petunia's face. "I don't know that I've ever been so glad to have you as my sister, Lily."

Her stomach twisted, throat closing as an uncomfortable heat spread up her neck and the words of her rehearsed apology flew from her mind. She was utterly speechless, but the more seconds passed, the more she realized she shouldn't be surprised in the slightest that her sister saw everything how she wanted to see it, through some selfish lens of everyone else's actions being to serve her.

"Petunia, I—"

"You don't have to explain," Petunia cut her off. "I know you're not the sentimental type"—a cough overtook her, and she had to take a sip of tea before she could speak again—"but I appreciate you doing this for me—for our family. You're finally stepping up, Lily."

Her heart thudded under her skin, stomach roiling. She wanted to scream.

Petunia, oblivious to her turmoil, yammered on, "And it will likely be at least a week before I'm well enough to go back out, so I'll need you to keep up the façade until I'm ready to return."

Violet's voice chimed from behind Lily, "Façade? Girls, what's going on?"

Petunia turned her fevered eyes on their mother, waving her pamphlet. "Lily's occupying the duke for me, keeping other ladies away while I'm ill, and it's perfect because it only increases the attention on her from other suitors."

Violet's eyes widened as she looked between Lily and Petunia, an excited smile breaking over her face as she caught up to the scheme. "Oh, what an ingenious idea!" Her eyes flicked to Lily with a brief furrow—"I had wondered"—but then it was gone, her pleased smile back as she proclaimed, "I shall discuss with Lady McGonagall straightaway on our promenade tomorrow."

She clapped her hands excitedly, her voice breathless as she said, "Just think of it, both daughters engaged, and one to a duke!" But then tears welled in Violet's eyes, and she said thickly, "Your father would be so proud."

Lily's protest, already forming on instinct, died in her throat as she saw that mixture of pride and joy on her mother's face. They'd endured so much heartbreak over the past year, so much grief, and though Violet tried not to show it, Lily knew her mother worried deeply about her and Petunia being secure and provided for in good marriages. And while Lily had long planned on subverting that wish, not wanting to be beholden to one of the many blustering, bumbling bachelors that had been calling since the season opened, just then, as she saw the beaming smile on Violet's face, felt the warm hand taking her own, she wondered for the first time whether she could follow her own heart if it meant breaking her mother's to do it.

A knock sounded at the door, and Petunia's maid entered, smiling shyly. "Flowers from His Grace, my lady. With a note, here."

Petunia's greedy hands waggled for the note, her own smile smug as she read aloud, "Best wishes for a speedy recovery." She passed the note to Violet, whose cheeks were ruddy with all the excitement.

"See," Petunia told her, "he's waiting for me. We just need Lily to keep him occupied so that none of those other vultures try to steal him out from under me."

Lily's insides twisted, her initial disappointment at not being delivered a note turning into shame over even being disappointed over such a thing.

"Well," Violet mused, "if you'll be home for at least another week, we should probably have Lily join the duke for a promenade—surely you can find something to make conversation over for a morning, can't you dear? And then there's the ball the next night, I daresay you'd be able to afford him a dance, and then that should hopefully take us up to when Petunia will be well enough to return, though perhaps another promenade, and maybe the exhibit…"

Petunia's eyes narrowed at her over her teacup. "You're awfully quiet, Lily."

Violet looked at her expectantly. Lily swallowed hard and shook her head. "It's just—a little overwhelming, is all. My first season. All the…"

She trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. Games? Lies? …Betrayal?

Violet's face softened, and she squeezed Lily's hand. "You're doing wonderfully, dearest. We Evans girls are in this season together."

Even if she'd had the words, she couldn't explain to her mother that therein lay exactly the problem.

Somehow, Lily wasn't sure how, she managed to extricate herself from Petunia's room and retreat to her own, where she collapsed against the inside of her door. But she'd barely had time to exhale all the breath she'd been holding before a knock jolted her away from the door.

"Yes?"

The door creaked open, and then Mary slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind her. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she reached deep into the pockets of her skirts. "I have a letter for you."

Lily's eyes went wide. "What?"

"It came separately from Petunia's flowers, I nicked it from the tray before anyone else could see."

"Mary, you're brilliant!"

"Shh." Her maid held out a letter, folded and wrinkled from being stuffed in her pocket. "Just open it."

Lily broke the seal clumsily, her fingers suddenly not cooperating, and held her breath as she withdrew the parchment.

Lily,

I realize this is presumptuous of me, but I think we've already established that's a rather prominent trait of mine. I saw what Lady Whistledown wrote today, and while I can't deny that I am, objectively, the "most eligible" in the eyes of the vulturous mamas of the ton due to my title, nor that I've spent my adulthood thus far living up to the very definition of a "rake," I dispute being called "uncatchable." I wouldn't have always done so, but then, I never expected to match wits with an "illustrious debutante" either.

Lady McGonagall is persuading me to promenade tomorrow; maybe our paths will cross yet again?

Yours,

James

Ringing filled his ears as his vision momentarily moved in slow motion, his friend's left-hook having caught him square in the jaw. But James recovered quickly, ducking from the next swing and trading his own attempts, all blocked or avoided, before the two of them squared off, pacing around the ring as they breathed hard.

"Did you truly dance with the younger Evans girl? Twice?"

James swung hard—blocked—but launched a quick repeat assault—blocked again—before a fist again connected with his face, knocking him a few stumbling steps backward.

He spat, then faced his adversary. "Remind me again why you were the first person I chose to reacquaint myself with upon my return to town."

His next swing hit air, and then his jab was caught in a strong hand. "Admit it, friend. You missed me."

The connection of fist to jaw sent him reeling backwards, gasping through his groan as he wiped his nose on his palm. "I'm starting to—question why—"

But his opponent just laughed, turning toward the corner of the ring, where he fetched a towel that he threw at James before picking up another to wipe his own face. "I think my fists have taken enough pounding from your chin today, Your Dukeship."

James chuckled, bumping his friend's fist with his own. "Thanks, Moony."

Remus gave him an appraising stare. "Can't have you breaking your nose on my knuckles before the next ball, now, can we?"

James rolled his eyes. "Something tells me the mamas of the ton wouldn't mind."

"And what about Miss Evans?"

James opened his mouth and closed it again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't specify," his friend corrected facetiously. "The younger."

He shot Remus a dark look before covering his face with his towel, wiping the sweat from his face and neck. When he looked back up, Remus was watching him, a smirk lighting up his scarred face. "You haven't answered my question."

James shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "What Miss Evans thinks doesn't matter."

Remus laughed dryly. "That's a lie if I ever heard one, Your Rakedom."

Annoyance he couldn't explain started clawing at him, and he found himself looking for an argument. "Don't tell me you've started reading Lady Whistledown too."

"Nah," Remus said lightly, stepping under the ropes, "Sirius mentioned you seemed taken with her, is all."

James froze, one hand on the ropes, as he looked down at his friend. "Sirius?"

Surely there weren't many Siriuses hanging about London, but as Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had always existed in very separate compartments of James's life, he was at a momentary loss for how they could know each other.

Remus blinked up at him. "Er, yeah. Sirius Black. Tall bloke, dark hair, think you spent four years in Scotland with him getting into trouble?"

James shook his head, as if that could clear the confusion fogging it up. "You know Sirius?"

Remus pulled his lip under for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I do. Met him through the boxing circuit, actually. He's got money to spend and I've got bills to pay, so…"

James nodded his understanding. Unlike him and Sirius, Remus was from a poor, working class family; everything he had, he'd scrounged and earned for himself, and every match he won, he won because he'd trained and studied—and because he was driven by a fire born from the fact that he only got the opportunity to box and earn a slice of winnings when a wealthy nobleman sponsored his fight in the first place.

Something about Remus softened. "He's a good man."

"Yeah," James agreed, finally stepping out of the ring. "He is." He clapped Remus on the shoulder. "But I'm going to have to have a talk with him about being as bad of a gossip as Lady Whistledown."

Remus snorted. "Good luck with that."

Sunlight dappled the lawn, a rare bright and warm November day, and London's most elite all fanned themselves in their finery under elegant umbrellas and extravagant canopies as whispers spread like wildfire and judgmental eyes roamed a constant pattern over the park.

It was suffocating.

Lily smoothed her walking dress absently, toyed with the buttons on the cuff of her lace glove that kept coming undone, tried to ignore the gnawing nerves eating away at her insides—

Her mother sucked in an excited breath. "Oh, there they are!"

She didn't need to look to see who she meant, but she found her eyes drawing up anyway, finding him as instantly as two magnet pulled to a charge. Her breath caught in her throat.

From a short distance, and in broad daylight, he cut an even more striking figure than she'd appreciated at Vauxhall. His clothes were expertly tailored, his vest a rich brocade that appeared understated despite being no doubt more expensive than other bachelors' ensembles all together, and his collar stood up crisply around his neck, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw above the column of his throat, nary a ruffle to be had. There was something distinctly chic about him that Lily couldn't quite place, yet there was also a ruddiness about the slight messiness of his hair and wind burn on his cheeks, and Lily surmised she wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if he revealed himself to be a swashbuckling pirate underneath all of that high-fashion garb—

"Do I look funny today, Miss Evans?"

Lily pulled her lips under, her skin suddenly burning as she realized she'd giggled aloud, but his eyes danced with their own withheld mirth.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Not at all, Your Grace. I was merely recalling the story you told me at Vauxhall."

He arched a sardonic brow, no doubt recalling as well as she did that he had told her no such funny story at Vauxhall. "Would you like to hear the sequel?"

Next to him, Lady McGonagall looked down at Lily curiously.

"It would be my pleasure," Lily told him, and she stepped up beside him as he turned, hands clasped behind his back, and began a slow walk down the lane.

At first, they were both silent, but then James glanced back over his shoulder and must have felt that Lady McGonagall and her mother were a safe enough distance behind, because he asked, his tone far too amused, "Do I get to hear whatever story is behind that laugh?"

She gave him a fleeting side-eye to try and mask her flush, but something about him seemed to render her incapable of lying, so she told him, "I was just thinking you would make a rather good pirate."

He burst into a laugh, a sound deep and rumbling that sent sudden warmth flooding her spine. "Should I be flattered or offended that you appear to find me capable of plundering cities and seducing maidens?"

"Most certainly flattered," Lily jested back. "Just because most ladies are too proper to admit it doesn't mean they aren't secretly enticed by a rogue who cares not for propriety and knows how to do more than just brandish their sword."

James choked on air, and Lily's stomach somersaulted as she immediately realized her inadvertent double entendre.

"I didn't—I only meant—sword fighting"—James chuckled, and Lily sighed through her stammers—"oh, stop it—I meant—properly—"

He looked sideways at her, eyes twinkling. "I think you mean exactly what you say, Miss Evans."

Renewed heat flared in her face. "And I think you know exactly the rakish image you have crafted for yourself, Your Grace."

His smirk was lazy, just the slightest tug of his mouth, but it somehow sent her heart racing even harder. "Yes, well, rakes aren't expected to court innocent young ladies."

"You're courting my sister."

That stopped him in his tracks. "Is that what sending polite get well flowers is called these days?"

"That's what suitors sending flowers at all means these days."

James scoffed, resuming his walk. "If I were truly courting a girl, I would not need flowers, only five minutes alone in a drawing room."

Now it was Lily's turn to freeze, the implication of that sentence doing inexplicable things to her insides.

James only fixed her with a pointed stare. "Pirate, remember?"

"Wooing by ruining," Lily retorted, "how original."

He sighed, turning forward. "Forgive me. That was—"

"Honest." She fidgeted with her cuff, not looking at him. "Which is what I should be."

"Lily." His voice was softer, gentler, and the concern in it made Lily's heart squeeze.

Summoning all of her courage with the suck of her breath, she told him, "My mum met Lady McGonagall today so that everyone could see us promenade—and so they could discuss our…ruse."

He arched a brow. "Our ruse?"

Lily swallowed thickly. "Yes. You're obviously a perfectly titled match for my sister, but seeing as she's ill and can't return to society with a cold, I'm to"—she paused, looking up at those hazel eyes, currently unreadable—"occupy you, so as to keep the other ladies away."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "And what's in it for you?"

She laughed darkly. "Why, the rest of the eligible bachelors flocking to our drawing room after you've made me desirable, of course."

"You're desirable all on your own, you don't need me for that."

In any other conversation, those words would feel like honey, but just then, she rather thought he might as well have poured scotch over her open heart. "I don't need to have an opinion either, apparently."

"I'd say that makes two of us, as my fate seems as decided as yours."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Who needs devious Greek gods when there are scheming mamas?"

His chuckle was dry and short as he came to a slow halt, and when Lily faced him, it was to find a pained expression on his face. "Would it be the worst thing?" he asked. "Coming away from your first season with a husband?"

Her heart lodged in her throat. "I—I suppose I've just always desired something different."

"How d'you mean?"

James seemed genuinely curious, and before she could help it, before she could think about the improprieties of spilling her inner thoughts to a duke she'd just met days before, she found herself explaining, "Just…different. I prepare for these balls and outings, with all of these dresses and suitors, and I am…exhausted. I just—I want a different life, James. I truly believe I am quite capable of something more, even when I am not allowed to have anything else."

He studied her, his face thoughtful, and when he spoke, he said possibly the last thing she'd ever expected him to say. "You're not the only one."

She opened her mouth dumbly, then closed it again, at a momentary loss for words.

James looked out over the water of the pond, clearing his throat. "Well, it seems we're both being made pawns of this season, Miss Evans."

"Indeed," she agreed stiffly.

But then he smiled sideways at her. "Shall we be rogues with our own ruse?"

Lily's eyes narrowed. "And what's that?"

He held out his hand, his eyes twinkling down at her. "Playing along with theirs while we scheme our own ways to get us each out of this hellhole."

Her heart quickened its pace as she set her hand in his. "You have yourself a bargain."

"Good." His grin was dangerous, his eyes dark, as he bent over her hand in gentlemanly fashion, but there was nothing gentlemanly in how his fingers deftly turned her hand over, how his mouth found the exact spot where the button of her lace cuff had come undone yet again, like he'd noticed it, like he'd planned it, and Lily felt the briefest brush of warm tongue, of soft lips, right where she thought for her sure her pulse was about to explode out of her bare skin—

But before she could even blink, her hand was righted, his spine was straightening, only the heat lingering in his eyes confirming she hadn't day-dreamt what had just happened.

"Might as well make it believable," he murmured. "Don't you agree?"

Adrenaline simmered in her blood. "A proper lady always agrees with a duke, Your Grace."

His lips quirked. "And what about with a pirate?"

Lily rose to his challenge. "Only if she wants to be ruined."

I expect, dear reader, that the newly formed attachment between the Duke of Peverell and Miss Lily Evans will not be the only attraction on display at tonight's ball. No, the main event, usurping even a duke's attentions, will be the royal arrival of Prince Amos from Prussia.

His Highness has come to our shores in want of a fine Fräulein. Could this be the reason a certain language tutor has been seen visiting Selwyn House all week? Or the inspiration behind the new fabric ordered on special delivery for House Black?

And what this author is wondering most of all: Which gem will be the one to catch the Prince's eye?

Watching Lily dance with other suitors and try to keep the grimace from her face at whatever new banality they each managed to say was quickly becoming James's new favorite form of entertainment.

This current one appeared to be going from the standard Poor to Dreadful rather quickly, if her disturbed expression was any indication. She looked sideways at him as she curtsied to the poor fellow, then came straight over to James's waiting grin.

"And how did you find the ton's eligible bachelors?" he teased.

Lily sighed. "I must confess, I have felt more chemistry when being fitted at the modiste."

He smirked down at her, that new fluttery feeling taking flight somewhere in his stomach as she flashed a coy smile back.

A commotion at the entrance to the ballroom drew his attention away, and James looked over to see the Queen entering the room with a blonde man in military dress, everyone bowing and curtsying as they passed. Lady Whistledown had called it true, then.

From somewhere near where he stood with Lily, James heard one of the Meadowes girls tell another one, "The prince is from Prussia, and I dare say that I just caught his eye," to which the second Meadowes girl responded, "I love Russia. I could swoon."

Lily giggled. "They do not even know him."

"They do not need to know him," James countered.

"Besides the fact he is a prince," Lily mocked.

He turned to look down at her. "Surely you cannot be surprised. You know how this works, Lily. Was it not you who wrote the book on the very subject?"

She chuckled, her eyes sparkling, and he found himself chuckling right along with her.

Ahead of them, Adelaide Selwyn stepped from the reception line to the prince, and James felt his breath catch as Lily leaned in toward him, tilting her head up as she said quietly, "Oh, watch as Miss Selwyn lowers her eyes."

"Mmm."

"Oh, so demure," Lily commentated. "Now she will look up at him, ever so quickly, and then allow her fan to slowly sweep across her bosom before casting her eyes back upon the ground, for one is much too timid to ever meet His Royal Highness's piercing gaze, of course."

Laughter bubbled up from his chest, the scent of Lily's hair, a gentle sweetness, catching his nose as she turned her head.

"Oh, now he will kiss her hand," she resumed.

"Forever charmed by her submission," James added.

"Precisely." Lily turned those bright green eyes on him. "Should I ever need assistance drafting an addendum to my book, I shall know who to ask."

James arched a brow, turning his attention back to the scene between the prince and Adelaide unfolding in front of him. "I do believe he just told Miss Selwyn that her gown is exquisite."

Lily scoffed in laughter. "Oh, do you think so?"

"He is here to tell every lady the very same thing," James admonished.

"Mmm."

Seeing the Queen approaching Lily for the prince's introduction, James drifted away from her, to a few paces away where he could still see Lily over the prince's shoulder.

"Prince Amos," the Queen said grandly, "this is the young lady I was telling you about—the season's diamond."

His eyebrows rose up his forehead, and he bit back a smile as he watched the restraint evident on Lily's face as a flush rose around her neck. Apparently the Queen had changed her mind about Lily, then. Convenient that it had happened after Petunia had been ill (and therefore irrelevant and forgettable) and James had made multiple public appearances with Lily.

Lily offered her gloved hand to the prince with a fixed smile and James fought the stab of jealousy that hit him as the prince kissed it.

"So lovely to meet you, Miss Evans," the prince said as he straightened from his bow. "Your gown, it is exquisite."

Lily erupted into a laugh, her hand flying to her mouth, though it wasn't quick enough to prevent the loud snort that followed. Her eyebrows flew up her forehead, eyes round as saucers, as she slapped her hand more fully across her mouth and stared at James over the prince's shoulder. For a moment, he could only stare back, frozen in utter shock at the faux-pas, but then all of a sudden he was laughing but attempting to swallow it as he stared at the ground, willing himself into composure.

In a strained voice, Lily said, "My apologies."

The prince was obviously abundantly polite, because he replied, "No apology necessary."

The Queen was not as forgiving. "Perhaps a small one."

She led the prince away hurriedly after that, and James finally looked up to see Lily advancing on him, hissing, "That was entirely your fault—"

He hissed back, "How does one manage to make such an unbecoming sound while laughing?"

Lily turned away from him, facing the wall, and snorted again, covering her mouth in an attempt to hide her uncontrollable giggles, and James couldn't help his own laughter as he stood with her, shoulder to shoulder.

"Well, now you are just making it look easy," he teased, and Lily fanned her face in an attempt at composure.

But then James sensed a new presence at his side, and his laughter cut off instantly as he recognized one of the eligible barons, who ignored James completely and asked, "Miss Evans, might I have this dance?"

She cleared her throat awkwardly, nodding her assent as her laughter died in her throat, and let herself be led away to the dance floor, though her backward glance at him as he watched her walk away put a flutter of something like hope back in his chest.

He found Sirius stuck in conversation with Lady McGonagall near the refreshment table, and his friend gave him a grin of relief as he approached. "Spoken with the prince, yet, Prongs?"

James shook his head, plucking a lemonade from the table.

"He's been too caught up in conversation elsewhere," Lady McGonagall drawled. "Haven't you, Your Grace?"

He met her eyes evenly. "Yes, I suppose Miss Evans has kept me rather…occupied this evening."

The corner of Lady McGonagall's mouth quirked up. "Good." And with a light jab to his leg with her cane, she sauntered off into the crowd.

"What was that about?"

James shook his head and grumbled, "Later."

The dance ended, and Lily quickly found him and Sirius, her face flushed. "I'm parched."

Sirius looked at her curiously. "That wasn't that intense of a dance."

She only stared at him harder, and James was momentarily glad he wasn't the recipient of that glare. "I'm parched," she repeated.

"Ah," Sirius chuckled, "that kind of parched. Well, unfortunately for you, my stock's gone."

"Gone."

"Ran out."

"Uh-huh."

James caught on and cleared his throat, sending gray and green eyes swiveling toward him. "I may be able to assist."

Lily's eyebrows shot up. "Pray tell."

He didn't, but he did turn back to the refreshment table and discreetly pour a splash of brandy from his flask into two glasses of lemonade before turning around to hand her one. Lily took a small sip, then smiled over the rim of her glass as she tasted what he'd added.

But right as she was opening her mouth to say something, a collective gasp sounded somewhere behind them, and James stepped toward the new commotion, Sirius and Lily on his heels.

He sighed and rolled his eyes as he came upon the scene: Adelaide Selwyn, half sprawled on the floor, with Prince Amos fanning her frantically while her mother hovered over his shoulder, trying with considerable difficulty to look worried instead of gleeful.

"What has happened?" Lily asked from behind him.

One of the Meadowes girls—Agatha, he thought—answered, "Adelaide swooned—"

"And Prince Amos caught her," said the other one. (Prudence? He had a hard telling them apart.)

"It was the most romantic thing I've ever seen—"

James ducked down towards Lily's ear. "A feigned swoon. Chapter six, I believe? We ought to up our game."

Lily barely suppressed her giggles, blushing behind her hand, as Prince Amos looked up at her confusedly and Adelaide shot daggers at Lily with her eyes before rearranging her face to a simpering smile as Prince Amos returned his attention to her.

But up their game they did. As he assumed was by design (Violet's, not Lily's), James was Lily's last dance of the evening. The energy was always wound by this point in the night, the floor strewn with stomped petals, the champagne flowing for hours, the tipsy laughter of the crowd threatening to overwhelm the orchestra, who retaliated in kind by unleashing even more intense melodies for those couples still relegated to the dance floor for everyone else's piqued interest.

Because the last dance was always the slowest.

Despite the champagne and the extra brandy he'd slipped her, Lily approached him stiffly, her hand barely touching his arm as he reached for her waist.

"Closer," he told her softly, and she took an incremental step toward him. His hand tightened on her waist, and he took his own incremental step, closing more of the gap between them. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she whispered. "Just—that whole center-of-attention thing. Again."

He chuckled lightly. "The season's diamond gets stage fright, hmm?"

"I'm not—"

"You are." He meant it, beyond meaning that she had simply assumed that title. She was stunning, a blinding, blazing energy that was swallowing him whole. And maybe she knew what he meant, because for once, she didn't have a retort ready for him, only a look that was as open and awe-filled as when he'd told her on their promenade that he'd had a classics professor who advocated for more women in academia to whom he would write an introductory letter for her.

It was a look he wouldn't mind inspiring over and over again, even if it meant scheming to send her away toward her dreams to see it.

He lowered his voice. "And if this is to work, we must appear madly in love."

Her throat bobbed and she gave the smallest nod of her head, but then they were taking off with the music, and James was lost in a current of her hand tightening on his shoulder and her curves swelling under the front of her dress and her back tensing where he pressed his palm and the flick of her tongue over those rosy lips and the freckles dusting her nose that he only saw when he was this close—

He spun her out for the twirl, then pulled her back in, only his hand landed higher than before, to the skin above the dip of the back of her dress. Lily gasped lightly, her eyes locking with his, and he thought by how they seemed even darker than before that maybe she was also remembering that dangerous wrist kiss he'd stolen in the park. Maybe she was also questioning the dangerous game they'd agreed to play.

Maybe she was also realizing that appearing to be madly in love wasn't all that difficult when one didn't have to pretend.

These days, the modern young lady must display a miscellany of talents in her quest for a suitor. She must be a witty conversationalist, an impeccable dancer, an accomplished musician, and an expert in the art of the swoon. For managing to faint with nary a petticoat out of place is a most coveted talent indeed.

Of course, not everyone has fallen victim to the royal fever sweeping through London Town. One particular jewel—or, should I say, newly favored diamond?—seems quite immune, making this author wonder whether the crown has lost its luster or whether one illustrious debutante has simply lost her heart.