Free The Lily Brand by Sandra Schwab

milk.
    And when, in his conversation with Aunt Louisa, his eyes suddenly darted to Lillian, she gave him, too, a shy smile and watched how warmth suffused his face.
    ~*~
    And so, like butterflies, they fluttered on, from soirée to concert, from theater to ball. The Viscount Perrin became a steady companion, forever sending Lillian tokens of his devotion—flowers, sweets and fruit, the latest print from Ackermann’s or a slim volume of poetry. By the end of March, Lillian had three of these, and as they sat in the Amphitheater one evening, he pressed her gloved hand, intertwining his fingers with hers while the thunder of the horses’ hooves reverberated through the round.
    The pleasure gardens were not yet opened, but he joined Lillian and Aunt Louisa on their daily morning drive around Hyde Park, a stately figure on horseback, thighs pressed around the sides of his raven-black horse. Lillian liked looking at him then, when the wind ruffled his blond curls and the sky seemed to be mirrored in his round blue eyes.
    By the beginning of April he had kissed Lillian’s gloved hand on two occasions, and Aunt Louisa had allowed him to dance the waltz with her niece. Sometimes on the ballroom floor, Lillian would then feel his gloved fingers gently caressing the exposed skin of her shoulders and upper back, a quick, light brush of silk. But she had to force a smile then, for, all at once, his arms around her felt like the bars of a cage. And she would remember another night, another man, and the pressure of the arms around her, imprisoning her…
    She would remember the play of candlelight over bronzed skin, over the mark shaped like a rose, over the red droplets blooming on the linen.
    Blood shows so well on white .
    She would have to reach for the chill gathering in the corners of the room then, would have to cloak herself with cold. Slowly, the spark of warmth inside her, which had kindled that night in the theater, faded and died.
    Still, she smiled on, smiled until her cheeks hurt, smiled when his mother and younger sisters were introduced to her, giggling girls not yet old enough to be out, but happy to pursue those pleasures of London that were open to them; smiled when his grandmother came for tea, a stately woman, demanding respect and watching Lillian with sharp eyes like those of an eagle. His family was drawing in, examining the girl their heir might want to bring home—like a cow from the market.
    They were subtle about it, for sure; nevertheless images of a prison at the end of the world rose before Lillian’s inner eye. The stench of unwashed bodies. The rustling of filthy rushes and the clinking of chains.
    The sight of Camille’s cold, hard eyes sliding over man after man.
    And still, Lillian smiled on, smiled even though she thought that the skin of her face must surely crack; smiled when his breath touched her cheek as he whirled her around and around the room in three-four time.
    The past is over… over…
    “You look so lovely tonight,” he whispered to her. “So lovely.” His fingers clenched around her hand, almost painfully.
    Perhaps he would ask her tonight. Aunt Louisa had said that it was to be expected any day now, and Nanette had laid her hand against Lillian’s cheek. “ Mon petit chou-chou ,” she had said, “ oh, mon petit chou-chou .” And her eyes had been swimming in tears, happy tears, that she had seen her charge through all misfortunes to bring her to this, to this , to be the Right Honorable the Viscountess Perrin.
    A silk-clad finger traced the curve of her neck and shoulder. “So very lovely. I—” His throat worked; fire raced up from underneath his white cravat.
    Lillian stared at that bit of starched white linen and willed herself not to flinch under his touch.
    The past is over.
    “I wish I were a poet.” Perrin’s breath, warm and moist, touched her ear, his voice hoarse. “So that I might write poems in your praise.” The candlelight danced over his blond curls