The Revenge of Lord Eberlin by Julia London

one day. But even bland fops would not forgive her ruination. How ironic, that Lily would be left with nothing but an empty title when he was through with her, while his title was as meaningless as the paper it was written upon.
    Tobin stared coldly at his reflection. Rise up. Press on. That was his mantra, which he’d begun to chant to himself when he’d found himself fatherless. Rise up, press on. Don’t think overmuch. Don’t feel. Rise up, press on. Harder, stronger than before.
    “My lord . . . your handkerchief,” his valet said, presenting him with a freshly ironed linen.
    Tobin turned away from the mirror, took it from the valet’s hand, and wordlessly left his suite of rooms.
    He went directly to the yellow salon, where he would receive his guest. It was small in comparisonto others, and it was here he would share an intimate meal with Lily. A table for two had been set near the hearth. Thanks to Carlson’s attentions, the room was in pristine condition. The flowers had been brought up from the hothouse and arranged in large bouquets that dripped blooms of red, pink, and yellow. The furnishings, recently arrived from Italy, were set upon his new, Belgian wool rug. The draperies, delivered last week, had been hung, and heavy gold rope sashes held them back so that the view of the courtyard, already ablaze with torchlights, could be viewed.
    The Louis IV table was covered in Swedish linen. The place settings of fine bone china shimmered in the low candlelight, as did the silver, which was polished to such a degree that Tobin could see his reflection in the wide soupspoon.
    Pleased with the setting, he signaled at a footman standing at attention near the door to pour him a tot of whiskey. He tossed that down in the way he’d learned to do as a boy on his first voyage. The sailors made a devilish concoction from stuff scraped from the bottom of barrels and brewed on the ship’s deck. Tossing it quickly down one’s throat reduced the burn. These days, the whiskey Tobin drank from crystal tots was the finest Scotch whiskey available. It didn’t burn, but old habits died hard.
    The warmth of the whiskey had just begun to seep into his veins when Carlson entered and bowed. “The Lady Ashwood has arrived.”
    Tobin felt a tiny twinge in his chest, and, for a moment, he feared the fever would spread into his bones and his body would betray him. But it passed as quickly as it had come. “Bring her.”
    He walked to the hearth where a fire blazed, then stood with his legs braced apart and his hands behind his back. He was uncommonly restless, which he found mildly surprising, since he was no stranger to women. Yet he’d never felt quite like this—
    She swept in behind Carlson on a cloud of rich, forest green velvet and organza, and Tobin had to remind himself to breathe. Lily had grown into a stunning woman; the rowdy little girl she’d once been was now a woman of exceptional poise. He’d never expected to find such an alluring woman when he’d come here. Quite the opposite.
    The color in her cheeks was high and her pale green eyes were glittering. She regarded him with the cool confidence of a woman who knew she was admired.
    Tobin bowed. “Welcome to Tiber Park.”
    She said nothing.
    Tobin walked forward, took her hand, and bowed over it, kissing her knuckles. “May I say that you look beautiful this evening.”
    The color in her cheeks deepened. She glanced sidelong at Carlson.
    “You may leave us for now,” Tobin said, and Carlson walked obediently from the room, leaving a single footman standing attentively near the door.
    “Please do come in,” Tobin said, sweeping his hand toward a pair of chairs before the hearth. “This is the yellow salon, so named because one can see yellow roses in bloom from the windows.”
    Still, Lily did not move or speak. Her gaze was wandering the room, taking in the furnishings. To a casual observer she looked serene, perfectly at ease, yet her gloved hands were