Read Online The Lily Brand by Sandra Schwab - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Schwab
Tags: Historical Romance
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Aunt Louisa.
“Ahhh, Covent Garden…” The orange slice disappeared into Aunt Louisa’s mouth, and she munched and swallowed thoughtfully. “Master Betty had his debut there, if I remember correctly. Have you heard of Master Betty, my dear?” She turned to look at her niece.
Lillian shook her head.
“An excellent actor,” the viscount remarked. “Especially for so young a boy. He was but a boy, Lady Lillian, when he first appeared on a London stage in… in…”
Aunt Louisa clicked her tongue. “In 1804. Twelve years ago, in the middle of winter. We would not have been in Town that winter if it had not been for William Betty.”
Lillian stared at the young man who sat beside her peeling oranges. He made such an effort to appear all wise and manly, when he could not have been more than a mere boy himself, back in 1804. His slender, graceful fingers made quick work of the oranges. Clever fingers, yet carefully groomed and manicured, they showed no traces of hard labor, and the skin was smooth and white as fresh milk. Lillian imagined his body, the skin pale and unblemished. Smooth, without marks.
No brands.
No scars.
Such an innocent body.
Vividly she remembered another body, another man, tall and lean, but all innocence ripped away, the scorched lily on his chest—
Lillian shook her head to chase the unwanted memory away. The past is gone . She folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling. It is all over.
Aunt Louisa frowned. “Master Betty. They were all wild for that snooty boy. Even my Lord Wishart.” The frown deepened. “ Especially Wishart. How he would dart backstage to see the boy rubbed down by his father! As if he did not have sons of his own, Wishart. His behavior was rather embarrassing to watch, especially for a wife, if I may say so. But then, he had always been a bit soft in his head, my Wishart. Which is what probably got him killed in the first place.” She flipped her fan shut in order to poke it into Perrin’s padded waistcoat. “ You know one end of a gun from the other, do you?”
“Madam!” Clearly affronted, Perrin squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I might not have fought against the Frenchmen, but believe me, I am well renowned for my sportsmanship!”
“What a relief to know,” Lillian’s grandfather said in a low tone, which seemed meant for Lillian’s ears alone. Turning around, she caught his wink. He bent forward and murmured, “Can always bring you home some game, the boy. It’s very reassuring to know you won’t starve.” His clear green eyes twinkled merrily.
Lillian’s lips lifted in a shy smile for the man who had been a quiet, benevolent presence in the background during the last few months. He had called in the teachers and Aunt Louisa, had ordered a new wardrobe to be made for his granddaughter, and had remained in his library for most of the time. And yet, he now did not seem to like the thought of parting with Lillian.
Smiling, the Marquis of Larkmoor took his granddaughter’s hand and blew a kiss on its back. “Have I already told you, my dear, that you’ve got your grandmother’s eyes?” He patted her hand. “A fine woman, your grandmother. A very fine woman.” His voice took on a mellow tone. He squeezed Lillian’s fingers, and the warmth of his hand seeped through her gloves to warm the skin below.
As she sat there in the stuffy theater box, looking at her grandfather while her aunt and her suitor discussed guns and the advantages of good fencing skills, a spark, a feeling of belonging ignited in Lillian. The tiny warmth settled in her heart and started to thaw the ice within.
Lillian glanced at Alexander Markham, Viscount Perrin, at his sweet, rosy face, the blond locks that curled around his head like those of the angel she had seen in her mother’s prayer book a long time ago. With her forefinger she traced the painted plates of the fan he had given her.
A sweet man, a good man, with innocent skin of
“Ahhh, Covent Garden…” The orange slice disappeared into Aunt Louisa’s mouth, and she munched and swallowed thoughtfully. “Master Betty had his debut there, if I remember correctly. Have you heard of Master Betty, my dear?” She turned to look at her niece.
Lillian shook her head.
“An excellent actor,” the viscount remarked. “Especially for so young a boy. He was but a boy, Lady Lillian, when he first appeared on a London stage in… in…”
Aunt Louisa clicked her tongue. “In 1804. Twelve years ago, in the middle of winter. We would not have been in Town that winter if it had not been for William Betty.”
Lillian stared at the young man who sat beside her peeling oranges. He made such an effort to appear all wise and manly, when he could not have been more than a mere boy himself, back in 1804. His slender, graceful fingers made quick work of the oranges. Clever fingers, yet carefully groomed and manicured, they showed no traces of hard labor, and the skin was smooth and white as fresh milk. Lillian imagined his body, the skin pale and unblemished. Smooth, without marks.
No brands.
No scars.
Such an innocent body.
Vividly she remembered another body, another man, tall and lean, but all innocence ripped away, the scorched lily on his chest—
Lillian shook her head to chase the unwanted memory away. The past is gone . She folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling. It is all over.
Aunt Louisa frowned. “Master Betty. They were all wild for that snooty boy. Even my Lord Wishart.” The frown deepened. “ Especially Wishart. How he would dart backstage to see the boy rubbed down by his father! As if he did not have sons of his own, Wishart. His behavior was rather embarrassing to watch, especially for a wife, if I may say so. But then, he had always been a bit soft in his head, my Wishart. Which is what probably got him killed in the first place.” She flipped her fan shut in order to poke it into Perrin’s padded waistcoat. “ You know one end of a gun from the other, do you?”
“Madam!” Clearly affronted, Perrin squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I might not have fought against the Frenchmen, but believe me, I am well renowned for my sportsmanship!”
“What a relief to know,” Lillian’s grandfather said in a low tone, which seemed meant for Lillian’s ears alone. Turning around, she caught his wink. He bent forward and murmured, “Can always bring you home some game, the boy. It’s very reassuring to know you won’t starve.” His clear green eyes twinkled merrily.
Lillian’s lips lifted in a shy smile for the man who had been a quiet, benevolent presence in the background during the last few months. He had called in the teachers and Aunt Louisa, had ordered a new wardrobe to be made for his granddaughter, and had remained in his library for most of the time. And yet, he now did not seem to like the thought of parting with Lillian.
Smiling, the Marquis of Larkmoor took his granddaughter’s hand and blew a kiss on its back. “Have I already told you, my dear, that you’ve got your grandmother’s eyes?” He patted her hand. “A fine woman, your grandmother. A very fine woman.” His voice took on a mellow tone. He squeezed Lillian’s fingers, and the warmth of his hand seeped through her gloves to warm the skin below.
As she sat there in the stuffy theater box, looking at her grandfather while her aunt and her suitor discussed guns and the advantages of good fencing skills, a spark, a feeling of belonging ignited in Lillian. The tiny warmth settled in her heart and started to thaw the ice within.
Lillian glanced at Alexander Markham, Viscount Perrin, at his sweet, rosy face, the blond locks that curled around his head like those of the angel she had seen in her mother’s prayer book a long time ago. With her forefinger she traced the painted plates of the fan he had given her.
A sweet man, a good man, with innocent skin of
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