Chapter 5
An Affair of Honor

James normally dreaded balls, but never before had he been so nauseous for one. His kiss with Lily burned in his mind, replaying over and over, no matter how much he tried to block it out. There was affection consuming him, of course—an attraction he'd felt from the first night he'd met her and that had culminated in his skin feeling covered in cinders from her lips on his. But there was also a guilt haunting his every thought, a constant panic over whether anyone had seen. Lady Whistledown's commentary that morning, framed around the theme of scandal, had only hastened his worry; was it only a matter of time until he and Lily were exposed?

Of course, none of it mattered for him; he was a man—a duke—and could do as he pleased, really. Ruining a lady in no way obligated him to marry her, though it would certainly be considered honorable to do so. Still, he would be free not to. Lily, on the other hand…the truth getting out would end all of her prospects. Ruin did that to a girl: followed her around like an ugly, permanent shadow. And regardless of the fact that Lily had been the one to initiate the kiss, knowing that wretched word—ruin—could be Lily's fate because of him was making him sick.

Sirius wasn't helping matters. "Peverell!" He slapped a hearty hand on James's shoulder, making him wince.

"Since when do you call me that?"

Sirius surveyed the room lazily. "Uh, since right now? Thought I'd try it out."

James sighed and glanced again toward the doors.

"Waiting for someone?" Sirius asked knowingly, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

He just sighed again and grumbled, "Waiting for this ball to be over with, is more like it."

Sirius knocked back a swallow of lemonade, pulled a sour face, and then said, "You should come with me tonight, I'm headed to a party after this."

James arched a wry brow. "These things have after parties? Since when?"

His friend chuckled and shook his head. "Nah, not this crowd. Well, a few of the blokes around here might be there. Fenwick, maybe. Or Dearborn. They're both alright. But no, it's, ah"—he leaned into James's ear—"more of an artist crowd, if you know what I mean."

James nodded slowly, maintaining a straight face, though he caught on instantly.

"So? What d'you say, Paris Boy?"

He shrugged, eyes glancing toward the double doors again. "Maybe."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "You know, you used to be fun—"

"I resent that—"

"—before you went all falling in love with my kid cousin."

His blood might as well have turned to stone. "What?"

Sirius laughed, head thrown back with a boisterous grin, but he at least had the discretion to lean back into James's ear before he said, "Mate, it's obvious to anyone with eyes that you're smitten with her, and that she's smitten with you"—his stomach somersaulted—"so why not just court her?"

James shook his head, his tongue suddenly feeling too thick for his throat. "She does not want me to," he murmured back to Sirius. "She doesn't want anyone to. And not to mention, both of your families and Lady McGonagall have been pushing me toward Petunia from the beginning. According to paper, that is who I'm courting already, even though I barely interact with her."

Sirius was scrutinizing him with shrewd eyes, and James could tell he was actually using the brain he had tucked away in there to turn it all over in his mind. Then, quietly, "Well, shit."

The double doors to the ballroom swung open, revealing Petunia, who was immediately swarmed by suitors. But James's eyes searched for the figure behind her, ethereal in a pale blue dress with her hair only half up so those dark red curls tumbled down her back. Her eyes were darting, frantic, and his pulse quickened at the thought that she was looking for him just as he'd been looking for her.

"Smitten," Sirius accused in his ear, and James didn't have the strength to deny it. Because as he'd reflected on his promenades and dances and singular kiss with Lily, he'd already realized the truth in Sirius's statement: for the first time in his whole life, he was falling in love.

Her eyes caught on his from across the room, but instead of the usual smile that would spread when she sighted him, he was greeted only with a blank stare for a fleeting second before she was interrupted by some other suitor asking her for a dance. James watched as she plastered a society smile on her face and accepted his offered hand with a no doubt gracious reply, and then he continued to watch as she moved around the room with him, determinedly avoiding looking at the area where James stood.

"Did something happen?" Sirius asked. "Usually she pulls faces at me with this bloke, but she won't even look over here."

"No," James lied, and then he took off for the refreshment table.

Time passed in much of the same fashion: he drank spiked lemonade, curtesy of Sirius; he danced with Petunia, because it was expected of him, timing it to when Lily was dancing with Prince Amos; and he made the rounds chatting pleasantries with all the usual gentlemen. And then, when the end of the night was finally within reach and he realized he couldn't bear it ending without talking to Lily, he gathered his wits and approached her where she stood with Violet and Orion, looking like they were in a tensely hushed discussion, which he didn't doubt centered on one of the many suitors in the room.

"Miss Evans."

Her eyes flashed—with fear? Or warning?—as she bobbed stiffly. "Your Grace."

"Might I have the honor of a dance?"

Lily blanched, but he saw Violet trying not to smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Certainly," she answered, though her voice sounded strained and he felt her hand trembling as she took his outstretched palm. He gave her a reassuring squeeze, though she still felt stiff as she stepped into his arms on the dance floor. Having studied her dancing with other men for awhile now, James had begun to suspect that this alleged stage fright she'd once claimed was actually nothing to do with dancing at all and was actually due to him.

Any other time, that would have made him feel smug. Tonight, he just felt worse.

"Lily," he said softly, cradling her to him with a hand on her low back. "Talk to me."

"I can't," she whispered.

He spun her out, meeting her eyes fleetingly—wide, afraid—before she turned back into his chest. "You're safe," he murmured.

"You don't know that," was her quick response.

"No," he admitted with a sigh, "but that's what I want."

"Must be nice," she said cooly, "not having to worry about getting whatever you want."

His brows drew together as he looked sharply down at her. "Lily, you know that's not—why are you being like this?"

She didn't answer him and determinedly avoided his eye as she spun out for the dance.

When she was back against his chest, James tried a different tactic. "I'm sorry," he murmured near her ear, "about the position this could put you in, but…I'm also not sor—"

"Don't." She pulled in a shaky breath, and when her eyes finally looked up to his, they were swimming with water. "This is already too hard."

He frowned. "What—"

"We can't." She shook her head the slightest bit. "James"—her voice cracked softly in the middle of his name, echoing the crack splitting down his heart—"I should never have—if they ever—"

"Who?"

Lily swallowed hard and whispered, "My reputation does not only affect me, it affects all of them—Petunia, my mother, even the Blacks."

His stomach curdled with the weight of the truth she spoke.

"Ever since you brought up making introductions for me, I have been…trying to persuade Uncle Orion."

An echo of his conversation with Sirius, weeks ago now, floated through his mind, and his brow furrowed as he peered down at her. "Persuade him of what?"

She swallowed hard, then stared at his chest as she answered, "To honor my father's view. That if Petunia married, and married well, then I could use some of my dowry to try university."

Even as a pit of sadness settled in his stomach, pride burned through his chest.

"All I want," she continued quietly, "is to get out of this season, this city, unscathed"—though he'd known that about her from the start, the weight of hearing the rejection aloud crushed his heart all the same—"but Petunia, my family…even if I want something different than them, I still cannot bear to hurt them." Her eyes lifted back up to his, shining with a sad fierceness. "It never happened. Please."

He knew from the pained tone in her voice that she wasn't just referring to their stolen kiss but to everything that had transpired, been building, between them to lead to the kiss in the first place. But he also knew that, assuming they hadn't been seen, he alone controlled her fate; he alone could give her the chance to pursue what she'd always wanted—or he could take it away. And he saw from the determination of her face and the stiffness of her hand that she knew it too—and she hated it.

But there was no question as to which outcome he would choose.

Though it felt like he was shattering the pieces of his own heart, he nodded, squeezed her one last time where he held onto her, and repeated her wish: "It never happened."

Their song ended, and though Lily attempted to leave the dance floor as quickly as propriety allowed, she had barely made three steps before she was intercepted by Prince Amos, asking for one last dance.

James moved aside, feeling numb as he watched her force a smile, try to blink away the tears she'd been fighting. A presence sidled up to him, the soft thump of a cane giving him a split second preparation for Lady McGonagall's voice, which sounded as pleased and conspiratorial as ever. "The two of you certainly make a captivating match, Your Grace."

She might as well have plunged a knife into an open wound. Though he knew he should contradict her, rebuke her, something, he couldn't summon the words, couldn't tear his eyes from Lily, beautiful, lovely, vibrant—and out of his reach.

A hand pressed lightly to his forearm. "Whatever is bothering you?"

"N-nothing at all, Lady McGonagall." He forced the smallest of smiles, though he could tell she didn't believed him. Escape was necessary. "If you'll excuse me."

To his surprise, she let him go without a fuss, and he immediately set out for Sirius, finding him in a corner of the ballroom far away from circling mamas and hovering ladies.

"There you are!" his friend exclaimed. "I was just thinking it was time to call the carriage round. You joining me?"

James had already made up his mind. "Yes, I'm in."

This author has often thought the heart a most curious of instruments, heeding neither reason nor rank. For what possible explanation might Miss Lily Evans have for entertaining the suit of mere barons when she seems to have secured her choice of a duke or a prince? Could the debutante's mind not be the only thing amiss?

Let it be known, dear reader, that if this bizarre behavior portends a scandal, then be sure that I shall uncover it, for there is nothing like the holiday season to lift the spirits and loosen the tongue.

November bled into December, and James found himself falling into a mundane sort of rhythm. Hours doing duchy business. Hours at the club with Sirius. Hours boxing with Remus. Hours at balls. Calls on Evans House. Promenades with the Evans women. Dances with Petunia. Even fewer dances with Lily. And then a different sort of dance, back in his bedroom at Peverell House, with an opera singer he met through Sirius the night that his friend took him to a party with an entirely different crowd—not to mention atmosphere—than the uppercrust mingling of the ton. It was the first thing of London that reminded him of Paris: a place where one could smoke heavily, speak freely, paint openly—and fuck casually.

If there was one thing James had been missing since moving back to London from Paris, it was sex. The English were just so uppity about it. There was procreation within a marriage, or there were brothels (which were frowned upon, not to mention risky), with nothing in-between. It was stifling and rather annoying, and though his own hand got the job done, it was also boring, especially since he'd had a handful of lovers in his life, with varying degrees of attachment, and knew exactly what he was missing.

So when he'd tagged along with Sirius in the dredges of heartbreak, ended up drinking and smoking more than he probably should, and had a blonde-haired, French-speaking opera singer crawl into his lap, he'd kissed her without a second thought, kissed her friend for awhile too, and then woken up naked in his bed with the both of them. He couldn't regret something he couldn't remember, so he didn't think twice about it. Only, the blonde-haired, French-speaking opera singer who had started it all had left her card on his nightstand, and a few nights after that, following another ball that included yet another painful encounter with Lily, he called.

As it turned out, Dahlia Fleur-Peri was exactly what he'd been missing: raunchy, meaningless (French) sex. She was discreet enough to arrive late through the back entrance, witty enough that he didn't mind her company in the morning, and savvy enough to know that he paid her well enough to keep her mouth shut about them.

And that particular morning, as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a shirt over his head, she asked casually, "Who is she?"

James froze, feeling bizarrely nervous, like he'd been found out even though, with the danger of his past rendezvous with Lily seeming to have passed, he didn't think he had anything to find out (well, besides Dahlia herself). "Who?"

"The girl you think about when you're fucking me."

He turned over his shoulder to look at her, one hand propping up her chin, blonde curls spilling messily on his pillow.

She gave him a pointed look. "James." He'd told her from the beginning to call him by his name and never his title, feeling distinctly gross about being referred to as His Grace in bed, and now, after the time they'd spent together, the result was that she felt somewhat like a friend. "You always call or send for me after balls, you're always worked up into a right state, and you're always halfway there the first time."

A rare heat rose up his neck. "And you're observant."

"It's my job to be."

He chewed his lip, returning to his shirt. "Someone I can't have."

"James."

He lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"You're a duke. There isn't anyone you can't have."

A sad smile twitched at his lips. "Actually, believe it or not, there is. She doesn't want to marry. Wants a different life for herself. But that doesn't mean I can do with her what I do with you, because she's still a la—"

He caught himself, feeling instantly like a cad, but Dahlia just shook her head as she sat up and hugged her knees. "You can say it, James. She's a lady. She's titled, she's in society, she has a dowry probably as big as the expectations put on her." She gazed over his shoulder, as if deep in thought. "It must be suffocating."

James chuckled dryly. "I think she would agree with you on that."

Dahlia didn't say anything right away, and James started pulling on his boots, mind beginning to buzz about the day ahead, but then her voice broke the silence. "And I think Lily Evans would marry you."

His hands froze, fingers forgetting what to do with the laces, his mind numb. "What?"

He could hear the smile on her voice. "Us opera singers read Lady Whistledown too, you know. And like you said, I'm observant." She pressed a hand to his shoulder. "It's Lily, isn't it?"

James turned slowly, his heart aching strangely at hearing Lily's name there, on his bed, from Dahlia's lips. There was really no use in lying at this point. "Yes," he admitted, his voice coming out breathless. "It is, it's—Lily."

Her face broke into a dazzling smile, and she leaned toward him, conspiratorial. "Then what are you still seeing me for? Forget Lady Whistledown, forget the ton, forget the Prince, forget Petunia. Whatever different life she wants, you can give her. You're a duke, James."

It was like her words broke through some wall James hadn't even realized was there. How had never thought of that, connected that? They both hated London; they both valued academic pursuits; he had the necessary connections, could procure any tutor she wanted, hell, could even get her published, even if they had to fudge her name. They could travel, they could leave—and they could do it together.

"Dahlia." He grabbed the sides of her head, kissing her loudly on the forehead. "You're brilliant."

She gave him an amused smile and a shove. "Go win today, James."

Oh, he intended to. In more ways than one.

In a town filled with ambitious mamas and fortune-hunting gentlemen, marrying above one's station is an art form, indeed. But Miss Lily Evans' advance from future duchess to possible princess is an achievement that even this jaded author must applaud. Though, this author cannot dismiss the Duke of Peverell quite so soon. He may have let that rare jewel slip through his fingers for now, but I shall wager he is not a man to ever hide from a fight.

Excitement buzzed through her blood as she walked into the auditorium on her cousin's arm, the swarm of people and excited shouting echoing the anticipation she felt. Lily much preferred being amongst the town instead of the ton. Her eyes swept over the sign near the door, hastily tracing the words,

THE BATTLE TODAY
is between
BERTRAM AUBREY
known as the IRON FIST
&
REMUS LUPIN
known as the WILY WOLF

"If Mama knew I were here," she murmured to Sirius, who chuckled as he steered her through the crowd.

"Trust she would have more to say to me than you," he muttered back. Then, "There's your prince."

Lily wrenched her eyes away from the man in the ring gathering wagers for the betting board and toward where Sirius nodded, spotting Prince Amos standing regal in his uniform next to a thickset man with a dark beard, appearing to be giving the man a pep talk. Dread pooled in her stomach.

"He's not my prince," she hissed back to Sirius.

Sirius gripped her arm and turned her to look at him. "He asked specifically that I bring you today, Lily. Why else did you agree to come, if not to spend time with Prince Amos?"

Lily shrugged. "The experience? I've never seen a fight, and I'm sick of balls."

The sharpness of his gray eyes made her feel as though she was the one pinned in the corner of the ring. "Oh, so not because it was your only way into this room where a certain best friend of mine will be coaching on the sideline?"

Uncomfortable heat flared in her stomach and she gulped loudly, though she refused to look away and let him know he'd won that round. "Stop it," she scolded.

"Stop what?" He pulled a face of faux-innocence. "Wondering why two people who have obvious affection for one another are not running to the altar?"

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to focus on reason. "Marriage is a cage," she spat quietly, "and as you also seem to be avoiding it like the plague, I thought you of all people would understand that not all of us aspire to lock ourselves away."

His hand tightened on her arm. "What I understand," he hissed in her ear, "is that you are playing a dangerous game indeed if you are entertaining a royal's affections with no intention of following through."

Guilt slithered through her insides, knowing his words to be true.

Just then, a handful of pretty young women all passed by in their day-dresses and fascinators, and Lily might not have paid them any attention if one—a slender blonde in an eye-catching purple dress—hadn't paused to glance between Lily and Sirius with a smile.

"Lord Black," she greeted with a small curtsy.

Sirius inclined his head. "Miss Fleur-Peri. May I introduce my cousin, Miss Lily Evans?"

The girl curtsied again in Lily's direction. "My lady."

"The pleasure is mine," Lily said politely.

"I'll join you all in a moment," Sirius told the girl kindly, and Lily swore she saw the blonde wink before she took her leave and rejoined the others in their route to the far side of the auditorium.

"Who are those girls?" Lily asked curiously.

"Opera singers," Sirius answered simply. But then his mouth ducked closer to her ear, and he added with a smirk, "Fights are the perfect occasion to find gentlemen who may want…company to celebrate their winnings, hmm?"

Lily frowned, her thoughts racing uncomfortably with memories of tip-toed conversations around the same topic. "So they're all…ruined?"

Sirius shook his head. "They can't be ruined if they're not a lady to start with."

Lily glanced around, seeing a scattering of women about the room, none of them from the ton, and felt distinctly like a fish out of water. "I see." She turned a teasing eye on Sirius. "And how is it you knew that particular one, dear cousin?"

The smile fell from his face, mouth suddenly drawn.

"Oh," Lily rushed to apologize. "I didn't mean—Siri, I'm sorry if I overstepped—"

He sighed. "No, it's not—you didn't—" But then he paused, and his eyes narrowed down at her in an expression Lily couldn't read but thought seemed almost…defiant. "Dahlia. The blonde? She's a, um…friend of the Duke's."

Her stomach plummeted. "A friend?"

Sirius gave her an amused smirk. "All men have needs, Lil. Some have wives, some go to brothels, and some have opera singers come to their estate at night." His eyes glittered, something dark. "Doesn't matter to you, does it?"

James's voice, deep and sultry as he described what happens at night, rang through her mind, ricocheting off her skull and stabbing her body with a pain she didn't understand.

"No," she lied, hearing the tightness in her voice.

"Good." Sirius tugged gently on her arm. "Let's see you to your Prince, then."

This time, she didn't have the strength to correct him.

Lily felt like she was outside her body. Like some other consciousness, some other Lily that might have been, had risen to the occasion of smiling and nodding and conversing with Prince Amos, while the real Lily, the one with a crushed heart and a twisted stomach, could hardly bear to tear her eyes from the figure stalking the other side of the boxing ring.

He shoved a hand through his hair, making it stick up messily with the sweat he'd no doubt dragged through it, and though she couldn't hear him, she could see his mouth moving intensely, shouting what were no doubt instructions at his own man in the ring. And then time seemed to slow, her vision working in slow motion, as he shucked his jacket to the ground behind him without a care and began rolling his sleeves up his forearms—taut, rippling—and past his elbows to his upper arms, which were sculpted as if he was made of rock under his skin. The neck of his shirt flapped ominously, as if a button had come undone in his hasty movement, flashing a hard plane of chest.

She couldn't breathe. And then, as if it couldn't get any worse, his eyes suddenly latched directly onto hers from across the room, and Lily swore her blood actually began to boil. It was everything she'd felt that afternoon in the gallery, only increased tenfold; a burning ache in some part of her she couldn't reach and didn't comprehend.

Out of the corner of her eye, blonde hair somewhere over his shoulder caught her attention, and all of that burning ache turned into a roar of blazing fury in her chest. He dare look at her, Lily, with such heat in his eyes when his own paramour was sitting behind him?

But even worse: How stupid was she, to think he ever might have been genuine in his affections? To have known he was reputed to be a rake and yet to have overlooked the fact that that meant he had women in his bed after having her in his arms on the dance floor? To have allowed herself to be so wrapped up in a childish infatuation that she'd kissed him when he must have found her to be a fluttering fool compared to the beauty who kept him company at night?

At night. Images of his scoffing laughter, his disbelief, his wry comments, all flashed before her mind. She'd been a fool. She'd trusted him, and yet she'd been naught but a plaything, a chore, a friend's kid cousin to babysit for appearances, while he'd probably enjoyed a hearty laugh at her expense with the singer who got to freely kiss those lips, touch those bare arms.

Lily had never before felt so crushed, so humiliated—or so spiteful.

The sickening crunch of a punch hitting its mark jolted them both from the momentary trance they'd entered, and Lily felt herself merging, clarifying, back into herself. Lily. Strong. Determined. And sharp enough to cut.

She ducked toward Prince Amos's ear. "You must tell me, Your Highness, do you miss your homeland? I have never been to Prussia, but I have read of its beauty."

"It has attractions, to be sure," Amos said kindly. "That said, I attended school here in England, and I have often thought there is no better place to live, or to raise a family."

His eyes, pale blue, locked on hers, and he smiled softly. Lily forced herself to smile back as she teased, "The Queen is not over your shoulder, Your Highness, you need not make a show of singing England's praises for me. I quite envy the privilege young men like yourself have to travel the world."

Amos's eyes widened as he quickly searched her face, like he was trying to figure out how to read her, how to respond. Finally, he settled on, "Prussia is quite beautiful. Perhaps, if I may be so forthright, I may have the opportunity to show it to you someday."

A blush she hadn't expected rose to her cheeks, but before she could respond, a raucous yell from the crowd pulled their eyes back to the ring, where the Duke's man had turned the tide and was connecting left and right with the other man's jaw. Lily stood next to the Prince, hands covering her mouth in anticipation, as the Prince's man fell unconscious to the floor and the other side of the auditorium erupted in cheers.

"Wow," Prince Amos said quietly, leaning back down toward her ear. "That was unexpected, but quite impressive."

Lily smiled up at him as she joined him in clapping for the winner, and for the first time, she wondered if becoming a future queen of a foreign land would satisfy the desire she'd always had: to escape.

The Duke be damned.

She surveyed herself in the mirror one last time: a daring white and silver dress that highlighted her curves, make-up that flushed in all the right places, and—as the final touch—her hair down, falling in bouncing ringlets down her back and adorned with a simple crown of flowers, in stark contrast to the stiffly ornate up-dos currently in vogue that tended to litter ballrooms.

"Well, my lady?"

Lily admired the rouge of her lips and then told Mary through the mirror, "Perfect."

If she was actually going to play this game now, then she was going to do it the only way she knew how to do anything: all in.

Petunia, already in the entrance hall, gave her a rare, genuine smile as she looked Lily up and down. "Finally chosen a side then, have you?"

"The Prince assures me Prussia is as beautiful as I have read it is," Lily responded cooly.

Petunia arched a brow. "Then let us not keep him waiting."

As we all know, there is nothing this author loves more than a scandal, and tonight's soiree promises more than its fair share, courtesy of the recently widowed Lady Skeeter. Some may call her celebrations too provocative, and I would caution any young lady from getting caught up in the sensual nature of her fêtes. For one scandalous move between an unwed couple, a wayward touch, or heaven forbid, a kiss, would banish any young lady from society in a trail of ruin.

Violet grabbed her elbow as they approached the top of the staircase that would descend into the ballroom, her brow furrowed in concern. "Are you sure you're alright, dearest?"

Lily tossed her hair back, lifting her chin in a perfect imitation of Petunia, who was already processing down. "Exceptionally," she answered, and then she took off with elegantly striding steps down the curving staircase, holding her feathered fan coquettishly as she stole glances at all the faces watching her entrance from the room below. There was Adelaide, trying to spit fire through her eyes. Next to hear, having concluded a dance, was the Prince, gazing up at Lily with plain admiration. And to the side, standing next to Lady McGonagall, whose grin was unusually smug this evening, was James.

The first word Lily thought of to describe the look on his face was awed; but almost as quickly as she thought it, that look faded away, replaced by something she could only describe as hungry.

It made her all the more intent on starving him.

But it was Prince Amos alone who moved through the crowd and waited for her at the base of the stairs, Prince Amos who gushed, "Miss Evans, I simply must have your first dance," and Prince Amos to whom Lily curtsied and purred, "It would be an honor, Your Highness."

And then she pulled an age-old trick from the first chapter of her proverbial book, and let her fan slip from her grasp and to the floor. She glanced up through her lashes to Amos's face, then down to the fan and back, feeling the collective held breath of the room. With a kind if not confused look on his face, Amos bent to retrieve the fan, and while he was picking it up, Lily's eyes flicked of their accord over to where James stood. His stare was predatory, the muscle twitching in his jaw the only betrayal of his discomfort, and, satisfaction blooming in her chest, Lily turned her attention back to the Prince kneeling before her, handing her the fan as though it was a ring.

With her most simpering smile, Lily took it, only to hand it off to her mother, looking slightly baffled by the turn of events, and take the Prince's offered hand instead.

Could it be true? The season's jewel even more precious and rare a stone than previously thought? For it now appears this treasure is set to join the likes of the queen's ever-so-cherished crown jewels themselves.

With everyone finally arrived and presented, the ballroom livened around them, Lady Skeeter's hired acrobats and performers circling the room and—Lily's stomach lurched as she saw her—a certain opera singer making the front of the room her own personal stage with her natural white-blonde hair arranged in a voluptuous up-do reminiscent of Marie Antoinette and a lacy, bejeweled leotard adorning her petite frame.

Lily thought wryly that Lady Whistledown had been right on the money when she'd predicted that evening's fête would be rather provocative.

As she turned through her third dance with the Prince, her arm linked through his, Dorcas and Regulus went spinning by, the former giggling with her head tipped back in delight.

"They appear to be enjoying themselves," Amos commented.

"Yes," Lily smiled. "My cousin Regulus certainly knows how to make things memorable."

Amos's hands squeezed hers as they held them briefly in the dance. "Perhaps I may do the same." He turned her under his arm, then continued as they moved, "I know we've only known each other a short time, Miss Evans, but from the moment I laid eyes on you, I, uh—"

The dance spun her briefly to a different partner, and Lily didn't even register who it was for all the sudden panic bubbling inside her.

"'Ah! There you are," Amos exclaimed kindly as the dance tossed her back into his arms.

Her voice sounding every bit as frazzled as she felt, Lily mumbled, "Here I am, Your Highness."

"As I was saying," Amos continued, "some in Prussia believe I have run away, but the truth is I left to find someone to start a life with, to have a family with—"

The sight of the Duke across the room as she spun knocked the breath from her chest, and she barely caught the arms of the other man the dance shuffled her to. But within a few steps and another fleeting glance of dark, messy hair above the same burgundy jacket she'd first seen him in, she was back in front of Amos.

"And so I find myself left with one question to ask."

Lily curtsied for the end of the song, her heartbeat a frantic drum in her chest, beating in a rhythm that seemed to scream runrunrun.

"Miss Evans—"

"I need a moment," she cut across him. "To refresh myself, Your Highness."

His face showed his surprise, but he didn't object as Lily turned and shouldered her way through the crowd, out of the ballroom, and into the darkness outside. The cold bit her skin, but Lily breathed it in eagerly, needing it to burn her lungs, sharpen her mind. What was she doing? Her steps crunched the gravel underfoot, her hand pushed the gate swinging into the maze of gardens beyond, but still she didn't stop, her anxious mind driving her restless limbs onward.

The creaking hinge of the gate behind her gave her pause.

"Miss Evans."

Her eyes closed briefly as she steeled herself to turn around and face the voice waiting for her. He looked even more striking in the dark, regal yet elegant in his fitted velvet jacket, hair black as ink where it fell messily across his forehead.

"What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly.

His face was as unreadable as ever. "I could ask you the same thing. Most ladies don't run away when a prince is giving them attention."

The words spilled, choked, unplanned: "I thought he was about to propose."

James showed no surprise. "And most ladies would definitely not run from that."

A sudden defiance rose within her. "Well, I am not most ladies."

"No." A sad-looking smile melted across his face. "You most certainly are not."

Anger fused with confusion, and she spat, "What do you want?"

He opened his mouth wordlessly, then ran a distracted hand through his hair before saying, "You…took off in a hurry. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I am," she spat, not wanting to feel touched by his concern. "So you can go back inside to your singer and leave me to sort out my thoughts alone, thank you."

His already-pale face blanched even further in the moonlight, but Lily didn't feel the satisfaction she expected as she turned and stormed away from him through the garden's arched bushes.

"Lily, wait—" James followed her, his long strides no match for even her quickest pace. "I'm not leaving you out here, it's dangerous—"

"I'm perfectly capable—"

His hand closed around her wrist. "Then indulge my honor—"

"Honor!" Lily rounded on him, ripping her hand from his grasp as she glared at him with blazing eyes. "You want to talk about honor? Running off to your paramour all this time while my reputation is on the line? Oh, but let me guess, that's different, because you're a man and you pay her. Spare me."

The hatred in her eyes just then pierced him deeper than any knife could reach.

"Who told you?"

"Sirius." Her voice sounded thick. "Yesterday, at the fight."

James chewed his cheek, thinking he might just murder his best friend, but then Lily blurted out, "I trusted you." Tears finally bubbled and spilled onto her cheeks. "I thought you were different. I thought—even if—" She cut off, looking away from him.

"Lily—"

"No." Those greens eyes were back on him, as sharp as the vitriol in her voice. "I don't want to hear your excuses."

"Fine," James flung back, new rage—at Sirius, Lily, the Prince, the whole damn situation—bubbling in his chest. "You're right. I don't have any honor. Lady Whistledown's been telling everyone from the start: I'm a rake, Lily. I've blown off responsibility my entire life. A fucking pirate, remember?" He laughed humorlessly as he threw his hands aimlessly. "And you want to know what I think? You're not upset about that at all—you're jealous."

Her jaw clenched and he could see her skin darken where she flushed, but she didn't say anything, and he knew he'd called it true, knew he wasn't imaging the tension between them, still sizzling beneath the surface.

"This isn't about honor," he accused. "You pushed me away and now you regret it because what you really want is for me to do this—"

And he crossed the distance between them in two short strides, latching his hands roughly to her waist, around her neck, as he crushed his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss. For a few fleeting, blissful seconds, her hands went straight to his hair, her lips pressed eagerly against his, her soft whimper emptied into his mouth as his tongue swiped along her teeth—and then, in an angry flurry of movement, she wrenched herself away.

He let her go instantly, though he also let his eyes crawl over her heaving chest and smudged lips. "That," he said between shallow breaths, "is what I want to do to you every time I bloody see you, Lily. So go ahead, accuse me of not having any honor for choosing to take all that lust out on someone who can't be ruined instead of someone who can."

Seething, she hurled, "I already am," and she sounded so angry, so…repulsed, that he felt his heart break all over again.

"No," he told her, hearing his own voice start to choke. "You're not." He took a step closer to her, lowered his voice even more. "Because no one else knows what's happened between us, and I'll take this, with you, to the grave. You have my word on that." He knew he shouldn't, but he really couldn't help adding snidely, "Call it rake's honor."

He turned on his heel, convincing himself she'd be safe enough in the time it took to go back inside and prompt Sirius to come search the gardens, and strode into the night.

Cold and not wanting to stay out there alone no matter how much she'd insist otherwise, Lily followed him at a distance, discretely disappearing into a powder room to fix her hair and lips before venturing back to the ballroom, where Sirius nearly barreled into her as she slipped between the double doors.

"Lily, there you are!"

She ignored him and lifted a glass of champagne from the first passing tray she saw.

"James said—"

"The Duke doesn't know anything," she said crisply.

Her cousin frowned down at her. "But he left?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "Off to wait for his opera singer, I expect."

It took all but four swallows to down her glass of champagne, and then Sirius grabbed her elbow and steered her right back out of the room. "You have a headache," he growled in her ear, "and I'm taking you home."

The Duke of Peverell, I hear, was looking rather tongue-tied last night before yet another early departure, as Miss Lily Evans, the sister he seemingly had in his sights, has apparently decided to trade up. Surprising? Quite. Unreasonable? Of course not. After all, why settle for a duke when one can have a prince?