Chapter 6
Swish
Lily didn't emerge from her room, didn't answer Dorcas's notes, didn't so much as read Lady Whistledown, for the next week. She claimed a headache, and though she could tell that some—Mary, from the way she looked at her; Sirius, from the notes he sent—knew immediately that she was faking, they obliged her and left her to her silence.
Her mother, to her credit, tried at first to do the same, but she ultimately bustled herself into Lily's room with a tea tray in Mary's stead, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled one of Lily's hands from where it wrapped around her hugged knees.
"Darling," Violet started, "whatever is the matter?"
"Nothing," Lily lied. "I told you, I've just had a horrible headache. I expect it's the cold."
"Hmm." Violet stroked her hand. "I don't think it's your head troubling you, dearest—"
"Mama—"
"—I think it's your heart."
Lily glanced up at her sharply, but where she expected something stern, the look that usually preceded a lecture, she saw instead only concern, like a troubled cloud hanging over her mother's face. Her throat closed, new panic swirling in her chest.
"Oh, darling"—Violet scooted closer to her and brushed her hair from her face—"please talk to me. Is it the Duke?"—her stomach clenched—"Minerva and I noticed you'd seemed taken with him, and I thought you might even—well, it seemed like he was just as taken with you, the two of you looked so happy togeth—"
"Stop." Lily suddenly couldn't bear to hear anymore. "It doesn't matter what you thought you saw. He's intended for Petunia, is he not?"
"Well—"
"Because she needs a good marriage, but Sirius is blood and the Prince showed no interested in her, so the Duke is the best option left—"
"Lily—"
Tears burst down her cheeks as her voice burst from her mouth in a shout. "You can say it, Mama! I'm not a child!"
Violet sighed as she pulled Lily into her chest, and for the first time since grief had shook the foundations of their home, Lily let herself be held, soothed, by her mother.
"You're not," Violet murmured into her hair. "I know you're not, darling. You're a smart, vivacious, beautiful young woman. And you've been burdened with so much."
Though she'd just protested that she wasn't a child, childish is exactly what Lily felt like as the weight of it all—the loss, the pressure, the expectation—reduced her to something small and pitiful. And through her cracking voice, she complained, "I don't want to marry him, Mama."
The hand stroking her head stopped. "Who, dearest?"
"The Prince," Lily choked. "I thought he was about to p-propose. That's why I rushed away and"—she gulped—"found Sirius."
Violet was silent long enough that Lily wondered if she knew more than she was letting on, but then: "I understand."
Lily lifted her head from her mother's shoulder and sniffed. "You—you do?"
Violet arched a brow. "The Prince is lovely, but he hasn't exactly been shy about coming to England to shop for a doting wife who will deliver him a litter of children and host tea receptions in Vienna. And while I'm generally not opposed to the idea, or him, I think I know my daughter well enough to know that she would be utterly miserable in that scenario, hmm?"
Lily swallowed hard and nodded her agreement. "I guess—I thought going to Prussia—I got carried away—"
Violet reached for a napkin on the tea tray and gently wiped Lily's cheeks. "Darling." Her words came slowly, chosen with care. "Of course Minerva and I had our own ideas at the start, but no one can predict everything. No one can predict love. Dearest, all that I want is for you to be happy. And if that is not with the Prince, that is okay, and if that is with the Duke instead, that is okay, too."
Lily tugged the napkin from her mother's fingers to blow her nose, avoiding Violet's eye.
"What of Petunia, then?"
"Well," Violet said gently, "I dare say she has her own armada of suitors lining up. They're only waiting for…"
"The Duke," Lily finished thickly. "They're waiting on the Duke."
The cards were all on the table, players waiting with bated breath, and as soon as the men at the top of the pecking order made their moves, the rest would follow in quick succession.
"Yes," Violet confirmed.
"Ugh, he's a rake, Mama."
She could see how the anger in her voice had taken her mother by surprise, but then, to Lily's surprise, Violet laughed. "Yes, Minerva tells me he had quite an adventurous time on the Continent," she commented. "But"—she lifted Lily's chin and fixed her with dancing blue eyes—"I am fully subscribed to the belief that reformed rakes make the very best of husbands."
And she winked.
Lily could only gape as her mother rose from her bed, a slight blush around her cheeks at the admission she'd just made. "You mean—Papa—"
Violets fingers toyed with a curl falling at her neck. "Oh, yes." A grin split across her face as she breathed, "He was awful. Every bit of a scoundrel."
"But—what—"
Her mother shrugged, eyes shining. "He grew up, dearest. He took up the mantle of his title, and he fell in love with me, and"—her chin wobbled as a tear bubbled over—"it was perfect."
The creak of her bedroom door preceded a tentative, "You called, miss?"
"Yes," Lily said distractedly, tossing her book closed onto her bed, not even bothering to mark the page because she hadn't absorbed what she'd read anyway. "I'm sorry, I know it's late, it's just—"
She froze as her eyes landed on Mary, standing not in her maid's clothes but of a dress of fashionable design with her dark hair hidden under a powdered wig and her face painted to highlight the natural beauty Lily was used to seeing every day.
Glancing over her shoulder, Mary slipped completely through the door and shut it soundlessly behind her. "What were you needing, my lady?"
Lily shook her head. "I—I don't know. I'm just—I'm sorry, you're obviously on your way out—"
Mary ignored her, instead striding over to the bed and saying softly, "You look like you need to unburden your thoughts."
"Actually," Lily said wryly, "I rather feel like I need to escape my thoughts at the moment. Distract me, tell me where you're going."
Mary blushed. "It's…a party. A lot of artists are usually there, models, opera singers—"
Her breath caught in her chest as she steadily held Mary's eye. "And…gentlemen?"
Mary chewed her lip. "Sometimes."
She felt her pulse speed up as her and Mary's eyes searched each other's, like they were each waiting for the other to speak first.
Lily had never been patient, nor had she been one to shirk an adventure. "Take me?"
Mary's eyebrows lifted, unspoken protest on her open mouth, but Lily rambled on, "I could wear an old dress, something no one would recognize. And a wig—do you have another? It would hide my hair. And you're amazing with make-up, you could—"
"Lily." Mary's rare use of her name made her stop short. "I—I don't know about this—"
"I do." Reckless adrenaline filled her to the brim. "I—Mary I've spent this whole week miserable at the thought that the second I leave this room, the Prince is going to propose, and I'm going to pushed into a life I don't want. But if there's a chance—even the smallest chance—that I can get to James, can apologize, before that happens—"
Mary's eyebrows raised. "So you want to be with him, then? The Duke?"
"I—" Lily faltered, then shared the truth that she hadn't shared with Violet. "We fought, we—hurt each other. I know that I don't want to marry the Prince, but—I just—I need to know if the Duke would forgive me, before I return to society and have to decide anything."
Mary's mouth curved into a smile, and she squeezed Lily's shoulders. "Find an old dress," she whispered, "and I will go fetch a wig."
Music vibrated through her bones, champagne buzzed through her veins, and Lily followed Mary through the throngs of revelers from one room to the next, positively thrumming with excitement. For the first time since she was a child, Lily felt free, uninhibited by the restraints of society's expectations, weightless. As she passed by clusters of people kissing, smiling, drinking, smoking, she only felt a mounting thrill: she could join them. She could strip off her dress and pose for the men painting in that room, or play cards in this one, or—
A hand wrapped tightly around her upper arm as a mouth pressed into her ear and a voice she'd recognize anywhere hissed, "You shouldn't be here."
Relief mixed with sudden panic as she turned to meet the hazel eyes staring down at her, but she forced herself to maintain her disguise. "I assure you I don't know what you mean, sir."
His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't argue. Instead, he did something she hadn't expected: he slid his fingertips slowly down her arm until they laced among her own, and then returned his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Come with me?"
Her eyes fluttered closed, the heat of his touch and his breath and his whole presence just doing inexplicable things to her insides. She'd known it was a gamble as to whether he'd be here, and now that it had played out as she'd hoped, she was awash in a whirl of emotions, rooted to the spot. He gently yet firmly pulled her behind him, and the movement jolted her back to reality, to the hum of noise and revelry all around her, and she immediately spotted Mary, watching her with round, questioning eyes. Lily nodded a quick reassurance, mouthed, it's okay, and then disappeared from her maid's view as James led her back along the hallway, up a short flight of stairs, down another hall, and into an empty room.
As he locked the door and did a quick sweep to ensure they were really alone, Lily took in her surroundings: they were in some sort of upstairs sitting room, the sort that was typically connected to a bedroom. It housed two bookshelves flanking a draped window and plush seating around a small grate, but before Lily could examine it any further, James was right in front of her, hands cupping her elbows.
"Lily, what are you doing?" His obvious anger put her immediately on the defensive.
"Having fun," she answered defiantly.
He sighed. "Look, I know you want to…escape, but this isn't the way to do it—"
She laughed darkly, rising to his bait. "Oh, well, pray tell, then how should I?"
"Lily—"
The words exploded from her mouth in hissing undertones. "This is my life, James! And I'm sick of being told how to live it. I've spent the whole week brooding over how Orion doesn't want me to go to university because it threatens his image, and I have no other way out of London unless the Prince wants to marry me and cart me off to Vienna, but I'd be just as trapped there in his castle as I already am here, probably even more so, and I've been miserable, James, I just—I need to feel something, I need to live, I need to know if you—"
His lips cut her off, swallowed her words, but before she could react and kiss him back properly, he pulled away. "Does anyone besides Mary know you're here?"
"No," she answered quickly.
"And you didn't see anyone else downstairs you recognized?"
"No."
"And you trust Mary?"
Lily nodded. "With my life."
In a blur of movement, James reached for her face, her neck, pulling her back to him as he murmured, "Oh, come here," and then kissed her more soundly, more thoroughly, than she'd ever imagined it was possible to be kissed. She gripped his waist, reached up his chest, letting herself feel the hard contours of his body under her palm, and then she gasped softly as his lips slid from her mouth to her neck and his hands forged an exploring path up her sides, over her ribs, across her breasts.
Velvet drapes cushioned the back of her head as the hard pressure of his leg pressed between hers through her dress, and Lily belatedly realized he'd walked her the few steps backward against the wall by the window. If she'd thought her body had been buzzing before, it was nothing compared to this, with James's mouth sucking hotly on her neck and his hands scorching her skin. Her body, her very blood, felt alive in a way she'd never before felt, and, even more than that, she craved him with a visceral thirst that felt like it could never be quenched, no matter how close she held him to her.
Her chest arched into his hands, nevertheless seeking more of his touch, his soft squeezes, and the pressure of his leg suddenly felt achingly good in a way that didn't make sense, but Lily let herself follow the sudden urge that rose in her mind and shimmied her hips in a quest for more of it.
James stopped, suddenly still against her, his breath coming in hot pants against her neck.
"What's wrong?" she whispered.
"Nothing," he hurriedly whispered back. "Just—" He lifted his face to hers, eyes like black orbs in the darkness of the room. "You rubbing me like that, I—I don't know if I trust myself to stop."
Lily's mind whirled with confusion. "What—what do you mean?"
Wordlessly, he encased her hand resting on his waist in his own, then dragged it to his front, between them, and down, until it covered a hard bulge in the front of his trousers. Which could only be—oh.
At her touch, his eyes fluttered closed, and a soft groan escaped his lips. "You wanted to know how lust was connected to—what did you call it? An unseemly ritual?"—he chuckled, and Lily held her breath, utterly lost for words—"Well. This"—he squeezed her hand over where she still covered him, resulting in her own hand tightening its grip on his hardness—"is how much I desire you, Lily"—his mouth ducked back toward her ear, his next whisper even softer—"how much I want to be inside you."
Her breath came in shallow pulls as she tentatively traced her fingers along his length, pieces of the puzzle starting to click into place in her mind. "What does it feel like?" she asked softly.
He smiled against her cheek, then pressed a kiss in the same spot. "Incredible."
"And what you said before, about…being alone? At night?"
His nose dragged along her skin, lips ghosting her jaw, like he was stalling, choosing his words. But then: "The pleasure you feel from joining, you can also feel through…other ways."
She thought back to the night she'd tried touching herself and was immediately disappointed. "I didn't."
James sucked in a breath that mingled with a soft laugh. "Were you thinking about me?"
"No." She frowned. "I was thinking about…what I was doing, and…well, why it didn't seem to be working."
This time he chuckled in earnest. "You need to think about what you desire. Physical and intangible, remember?"
She huffed in exasperation: "But what if I don't know what desire feels like? We're not told about that—"
"No," James cut over her with a smile. "I know you're not. But I know you know what it feels like."
Her eyes darted between his. "What?"
His leg pressed harder between hers, pinning her against the wall, at the same time that his hands went back to her breasts, cupping and squeezing with swiping thumbs, and Lily felt her eyes closing, her chest arching, her hips squirming—
Stubble brushed her cheek, teeth gently tugged her ear. "Do you want me?"
The words poured, unbidden, unthought: "Everything inside me is screaming for you."
Something low, like a growl, echoed near her neck, and his body rocked against hers in a fluid motion that left her aching.
"Lily—" His voice sounded pained, a mirror of the ache inside her, and she belatedly realized she still had a hand on him.
Flashes of their old conversation passed through her mind. "You said…" He lifted his face back to hers, waiting. "You said there was a…pinnacle. A release?"
"Yes." He swallowed loudly. "That's what…inside you, that can…create life."
More puzzle pieces clicking into place. "And…outside me?"
His breath hitched. "Then it's…just pleasure."
"And I can feel it too?"
He nodded. "Of course."
Lily didn't wait, didn't think. "Will you show me?"
His body tensed against hers, eyes darting, though he didn't say anything.
"James"—she pushed up on her tiptoes—"I trust you, and"—her breath mingled with his—"no one knows we're here"—she brushed her lips over his—"and you've already ruined me."
She couldn't tell whether she'd swayed his mind or simply worn down his self-restraint, but it didn't matter, because the next thing she knew, he was kissing her again, deep and slow, while his body pulled just enough away from her that he could ruck up the front of her dress. His hand was hot on the inside of her leg, firm where he squeezed, and he let go of the handful of dress he was holding in his other hand to cup her neck as he pulled back to tell her, "You can tell me to stop at any time, Lily."
She shook her head. "I won't want you to."
His forehead dropped onto hers, and Lily felt her insides coil with anticipation as his fingers drifted purposefully up the inside of her leg and then skimmed the same folds she'd tested. But whereas she had been clumsy, clueless, James was deft and deliberate in how he spread her apart and started a rhythm of slow, even strokes with the pad of his finger.
Her insides lit up at his touch, that ache where she couldn't reach suddenly growing tenfold, and she melted against him, letting her arms loop around his neck and her eyes close as breathy whimpers started to fall from her mouth.
James kissed the corner of her mouth. "Feel good?"
"Oh, yes."
"And this?" He tilted his hand, changing the angle of his fingers and moving them in what seemed like more of a circle, and Lily felt her hips buck into his hand as a quick moan flew from her throat.
James only chuckled and whispered a soft, "Shhh, quiet, love," against her lips. Her heart swelled in her ribcage, but all she could do was sigh, and as James resumed leaving gentle kisses on her lips, her ear, her throat, she thought she might combust from all the heat he was stirring in her body.
"That's it," he murmured, and Lily realized she'd been rocking her hips in time with his hand.
"I feel like…" But she had no idea how to put what she was feeling into words.
"Like you're close?"
"I—I don't know—"
He pressed a reassuring kiss to her lips, then adjusted his free hand so he held her firmly around her waist, supporting her weight. "You feel a pressure, building inside you?"
She nodded breathlessly. "It feels good, but—"
"But what?"
"Almost too much, like—"
But she cut off as she saw James grin just then, something that went straight to her core and poured itself over all the mounting ache his fingers were creating.
"That means"—he pressed his forehead back on hers, lips so close she could feel them move as he spoke—"you're going to come."
"James—"
Part of her brain didn't understand—come where?—she was right here—but something else was starting to happen in her body, something that was making her eyes scrunch shut and her nerves tingle and hips squirm until every caress of his finger felt like it was going to break her open. Her forearm braced heavily against the back of his shoulders, her hands scrabbling wildly for neck, face, hair, anything to get her closer to him, to try to satiate this craving, this ache, that was making her legs tremble, that was feeling more and more unbearable by the second—
"James—"
"That's it, Lily," he murmured against her lips. "Come for me, let go and come."
His fingers moved faster, pressed harder, and all of a sudden, everything burst. Before she could cry out, James muzzled her with his mouth, kissing her hard as color flashed behind her scrunched eyes and the press of his fingers sent lightening up her spine and down every limb, freezing her in spasms so overwhelmingly good they were almost painful.
Slowly, James released her mouth, his own breath ragged as his fingers stilled. Lily dropped her face into his neck as she raced to catch her breath, unable to prevent the whimpering moans that continued to fall as her body slowly returned to normal and she tried to process what had just happened—what she'd just felt.
James withdrew his hand, the loss of its pressure and warmth leaving her feeling unsteady, and enveloped her in a hug as his lips pressed into the top of her head. "Alright?"
Lily nodded, breathing him in, and then pulled her face to look up at his. "Incredible."
He smiled. "Good."
She pulled his face down and kissed him, trying to tell him everything she couldn't say, and when it inevitably deepened and her hands started roaming his shoulders, his chest, his waist, she wasn't surprised in the least when she felt that hard bulge at his front press into her hip, but this time, she reached down of her own accord and squeezed.
James groaned into her mouth, then pulled away to bite his lip, eyes still closed.
"Can I…" Lily paused, unsure what to ask. "Make you feel…like I just felt?"
A muscle clenched in his jaw, but then his eyes found hers, sparkling and dark, and his hands left her back to undo a button on his trousers and then pull himself through the opening.
Lily stared. She'd never seen this part of a man, and now that she was faced with it, she had no idea what she was supposed to do. But James moved her hand over him and told her softly, "You can touch me."
She swallowed thickly, too nervous to meet his eyes, as she skimmed her fingers along his length and over the tip. James shuddered and sucked in a breath, and, encouraged, Lily skated her fingers around him again, mesmerized by his smoothness.
Unsure what else to do, what he wanted, Lily finally looked up and met his eyes. But there was no judgment there—only blatant desire. He lifted her hand away from him and to his mouth, jaw moving like he was going to spit, but then he licked his gathered saliva across her palm and guided her hand into a firm grip, hissing as she made contact.
"Like this," he whispered, moving her hand up and down his length. Lily watched his eyes flutter closed as she followed his instruction, feeling her own body reacting to the wet sounds of her slick hand working him, and soon his hips started to thrust into her palm, matching her rhythm, and little whimpering moans she'd never imagined a man would make were falling from his lips.
Emboldened, awakened, Lily smiled up at him as she picked up her pace and heard him swear under his breath in response. His hands cradled her neck, breath coming in shallow pants as he watched himself slide through her fingers between them, and Lily was hit with a sudden wave of attraction for him, more intense than any of the attraction she'd previously felt.
"I'm close," he breathed, and then he reached down to coax her hand higher. "Up here—stroke me"—she twisted her hand around, feeling the ridge of him between two of her fingers, and swirled her thumb over the top, where moisture was already beading—"fuck."
He tried to kiss her, but it was like he couldn't focus, and then instead his head fell back, more of those little moans falling, building, until—
"Cover me, I'm co—I'm coming—oh—"
Her hand had barely closed around the top of him when she felt liquid heat rush against her palm, but she hardly noticed; all her attention was locked on his face, scrunched in pleasure above her, and the overwhelming, visceral knowledge she now had of what he was feeling in that moment.
His body sagged, forehead resting heavily on hers, and she felt his fingers tremble where they clutched at her neck.
"James?"
"Hmm?"
She giggled deliriously. "Your explanation in the park was woefully inadequate."
He snorted into her hair, chest shaking with his own laughter, but didn't say anything. Eventually, his breathing evened, and he let go of her to reach behind him, procuring a handkerchief from his back pocket, before he gently eased himself from her messy hand, tucked himself away in his trousers, and began wiping away the release coating her palm with a tenderness that stole her breath.
Tears suddenly pricked at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
His eyes shot up to hers, hands frozen in their ministrations. "What?"
She swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "For what I said the other night, after the ball—"
"Lily—"
"No, let me finish." Her eyes drifted to his chest, her free hand playing absently with a button on his shirt as she swallowed her pride and forced out the words she knew she needed to say. "I was…horrible to you. And you were right: I was jealous, so jealous, thinking about you being with her. But I was unfair. You do have honor, I know you do."
He resumed tending to her hand, though he asked curiously, "How do you?"
"You supported me," she answered immediately. "From the start."
Her hand dry, he wadded the handkerchief and stuffed it back in a pocket, but he didn't say anything.
"You never laughed at me, for wanting something different. You…encouraged me. Offered to help. After my father, it's…well, it's more support than anyone has given."
James smiled softly. "You're brilliant, Lily." He tucked his finger under her chin, his eyes tracing the planes of her face as he asked, "Do you think…there might be more than one way? To live a life that gives you the type of freedoms you desire?"
Her mouth dried, her heart lodging in her throat, as she wondered if he was asking what she thought he was asking. "Perhaps," she agreed.
His eyes searched hers, and she thought his breath seemed uneven.
"I thought," she confessed, "for a moment, that being a princess could, but"—she shook her head, heart beating fast—"I think that would leave me in an even smaller cage, as gilded as it would be."
A small furrow appeared in his brow as his hands slid to cup her neck. "Must marriage always be a cage?"
Her swallow was loud in the silence. "It is all I have ever known it to be."
A thumb traced her cheek in a slow sweep. "Even that of your parents?"
"I—" Her heart squeezed, lungs paused, as her eyes flitted between his. She didn't know how to answer that, the emotions of that afternoon's conversation with Violet still fresh. Having been so focused for so long on leaving London and not marrying, she'd nearly forgotten the joy—the love—that had filled their home when her father was alive, the way she'd peek around drawing room doors as a child to spy on them laughing and dancing, the way she'd assumed from the start that she would someday marry only as her parents had done: for love.
Somewhere along the path of adolescence, she'd lost that childish plan, formed different dreams, become disillusioned by the stream of bumbling idiots trying to court her sister during last year's season—and when her father had died, it had felt like the last of that childhood ideal had died right along with him.
But had she simply allowed herself to be overcome with disillusionment? Had she indulged too far in cynicism to keep that other, harder emotion—hope—at bay so she would never again have to feel the sting of disappointment? Was it possible for marriage to not be the cage, but to be the opening door to the world? Would she marry, if that were the case?
Would she marry, if it were for love?
A knock—two taps followed by pause and then two more—sounded at the door, and Lily breathed, "That's Mary's knock."
James nodded. "Then you should go."
She rose on her toes to kiss him, needing to taste him, feel the softness of his hair in her fingers, one last time.
His hand caught hers as she turned to leave. "Lily—"
"Yes?"
She watched his throat bob as he looked at their clasped hands, then back up at her. "I didn't meet Dahlia until the ball after the gallery, when—when we agreed nothing happened"—her chest ached—"and I haven't…seen her since before the fight."
Lily nodded slowly, adding up the timeline in her mind: he'd only gone to the singer between his two stolen kisses with Lily. Like he'd been hurting. Like something about that last encounter in the gardens had made him stop.
His hand squeezed hers tightly. "Do you trust me?"
She chuckled softly despite herself. "Call it pirate's honor," she teased, "but I do." Her voice softened, meeting the serious look on his face. "I do, James. You might have avoided responsibility before, but as long as I've known you, you have done what has been asked of you. I think you are every bit the Duke you were born to be."
Mary repeated her knock, and Lily squeezed his hand before letting go and striding to the door, confirming it was indeed Mary by whispers through the doorframe, and then slipping with her maid through hallways and outside to a waiting carriage.
Ever discreet, Mary refrained from saying anything in the thinly walled space of the carriage, though her eyes blazed with excitement as she beamed at Lily.
Lily beamed back, hand clutched to her chest as she breathed as though she'd just ran a race and let herself think a thought she'd never expected herself to have, never allowed herself to think, until this moment: she was in love with him—and if he asked, she would marry for it.