from New York.”
Christian glanced at the spine, then startled himself with a genuine laugh. Sun Tzu:
The Art of War
. “From you? No—from Mina, am I right?” Ashmore’s wife was an American
bon vivant
, petite and pretty as a doll, and dangerously sharp. She had once told Christian that etiquette manuals were a sham; all a woman needed tosucceed, she claimed, was a copy of Machiavelli’s advice for tyrants.
“Her newest inspiration, yes. I advise you to read it thoroughly.” Ashmore added dryly, “She’ll probably quiz you on it when next we meet.”
An intuition brushed through Christian. Here was why Lilah Marshall sometimes seemed so familiar to him. She and Mina shared the same brand of brazen self-possession, a winking awareness of their own charm and wit. “Cover to cover, then,” he said, and tucked it under his arm before taking his leave of Ashmore.
Once upstairs, however, he left the book unopened in his sitting room. Ashmore was right in one regard: Bolkhov had claimed too many pieces of his inward reserve. For months he had fantasized about nothing but blood. But tonight, he would push aside all thoughts of warfare, and dream of more pleasant villainies.
With God’s grace, he would dream only of what he wished to do to Lilah.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante
.”
Lilah had been staring out the window at rolling fields. Startled, she looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Miss Everleigh sat across from her, swaddled to the chin in a most unattractive, but no doubt extremely expensive, coat of fine-twilled puce-colored cashmere. “I said,
Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante
.”
Lilah recognized the language as French. There, her knowledge ended. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed.”
Miss Everleigh narrowed her eyes, which Lilah knew could shine a striking violet, but which today—thanks to the coat—more closely resembled the color of a mud-clogged puddle. For all Lilah knew, that was the very reason Miss Everleigh had chosen such an unflattering color. If the past two hours of stony silence had demonstrated anything, it was the lady’s ability to make everything—even Lilah’s first trip into the country—deeply unappealing.
“You have just admitted that you’re thoroughly unqualified to be my assistant,” Miss Everleigh told her.“Either you do not understand French, or you are unusually honest.”
Charming! They were bantering now, only a hop and a skip away from becoming bosom friends. “I would like to think myself honest,” Lilah said. It
would
be nice to be Lilah Marshall in truth, the daughter of a respectable clerk. “Alas, my French is very poor.”
Catherine sniffed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because you’re a woman of great insight,” Lilah said smoothly.
From Catherine’s sour look, it was clear that flattery would not work. “This is a mad arrangement. You will only get in my way.” She straightened her muff—was she really so cold that she required all that outerwear?—and returned to staring fixedly out the window.
How could someone so pretty, so fortunate in her circumstances, and so widely admired by handsome young gentlemen in need of a fortune, be so unpleasant? In her shoes, Lilah would never have stopped smiling. Every door in the world stood open to Catherine Everleigh. She only needed pick which one she felt like exploring, as the mood took her.
Instead, she buried herself in business. Nothing else seemed to bring her joy.
Her gloom was a subject of some speculation among the Everleigh Girls. “See if you can crack her,” Vinnie had advised Lilah, in an uncanny echo of Palmer’s instruction. “They say she had a lover once, but he was too proud to marry a woman whose family was in trade. I’m sure that’s what left her so shriveled inside.”
Vinnie, Lilah feared, was a secret romantic. The truth was probably much less interesting: Miss Everleigh hadbeen cursed by a fairy at birth,
Christian glanced at the spine, then startled himself with a genuine laugh. Sun Tzu:
The Art of War
. “From you? No—from Mina, am I right?” Ashmore’s wife was an American
bon vivant
, petite and pretty as a doll, and dangerously sharp. She had once told Christian that etiquette manuals were a sham; all a woman needed tosucceed, she claimed, was a copy of Machiavelli’s advice for tyrants.
“Her newest inspiration, yes. I advise you to read it thoroughly.” Ashmore added dryly, “She’ll probably quiz you on it when next we meet.”
An intuition brushed through Christian. Here was why Lilah Marshall sometimes seemed so familiar to him. She and Mina shared the same brand of brazen self-possession, a winking awareness of their own charm and wit. “Cover to cover, then,” he said, and tucked it under his arm before taking his leave of Ashmore.
Once upstairs, however, he left the book unopened in his sitting room. Ashmore was right in one regard: Bolkhov had claimed too many pieces of his inward reserve. For months he had fantasized about nothing but blood. But tonight, he would push aside all thoughts of warfare, and dream of more pleasant villainies.
With God’s grace, he would dream only of what he wished to do to Lilah.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante
.”
Lilah had been staring out the window at rolling fields. Startled, she looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Miss Everleigh sat across from her, swaddled to the chin in a most unattractive, but no doubt extremely expensive, coat of fine-twilled puce-colored cashmere. “I said,
Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante
.”
Lilah recognized the language as French. There, her knowledge ended. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed.”
Miss Everleigh narrowed her eyes, which Lilah knew could shine a striking violet, but which today—thanks to the coat—more closely resembled the color of a mud-clogged puddle. For all Lilah knew, that was the very reason Miss Everleigh had chosen such an unflattering color. If the past two hours of stony silence had demonstrated anything, it was the lady’s ability to make everything—even Lilah’s first trip into the country—deeply unappealing.
“You have just admitted that you’re thoroughly unqualified to be my assistant,” Miss Everleigh told her.“Either you do not understand French, or you are unusually honest.”
Charming! They were bantering now, only a hop and a skip away from becoming bosom friends. “I would like to think myself honest,” Lilah said. It
would
be nice to be Lilah Marshall in truth, the daughter of a respectable clerk. “Alas, my French is very poor.”
Catherine sniffed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because you’re a woman of great insight,” Lilah said smoothly.
From Catherine’s sour look, it was clear that flattery would not work. “This is a mad arrangement. You will only get in my way.” She straightened her muff—was she really so cold that she required all that outerwear?—and returned to staring fixedly out the window.
How could someone so pretty, so fortunate in her circumstances, and so widely admired by handsome young gentlemen in need of a fortune, be so unpleasant? In her shoes, Lilah would never have stopped smiling. Every door in the world stood open to Catherine Everleigh. She only needed pick which one she felt like exploring, as the mood took her.
Instead, she buried herself in business. Nothing else seemed to bring her joy.
Her gloom was a subject of some speculation among the Everleigh Girls. “See if you can crack her,” Vinnie had advised Lilah, in an uncanny echo of Palmer’s instruction. “They say she had a lover once, but he was too proud to marry a woman whose family was in trade. I’m sure that’s what left her so shriveled inside.”
Vinnie, Lilah feared, was a secret romantic. The truth was probably much less interesting: Miss Everleigh hadbeen cursed by a fairy at birth,
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