Tilly by M.C. Beaton Page A

creamy shoulders rose from a daringly low neckline. Her white kid gloves were smoothed above her elbows without a wrinkle and the feathers of her large osprey fan fluttered slightly in the cool evening breeze from the garden. Her wide blue eyes stared calmly around the guests and her still childish lips were parted in a tremulous smile. The beautiful ghost that had seemed to flutter before Tilly had suddenly come to life. Behindher, carrying her shawl, stood a smart-as-paint French maid, neat and demure in a black silk gown, with her glossy black hair braided into a coronet.
    Then Tilly moved slowly and unhurriedly into the room as the marquess strode toward her. There was a little silence. All the guests waited eagerly, the servants anxiously. Would she berate her husband for his infidelity?
    But Tilly merely held out her gloved hand and said in her new charming voice, “Philip, my dear! I trust you did not have too exhausting a journey?”
    “I was rather fatigued,” said the marquess, staring at her and wondering if he were having a dream. “But I slept well this afternoon. Toby tells me he is staying with us for a while.”
    “Ah, yes,” said the new Tilly, smiling languorously at Toby, who had come up to join them.
    “It’s most awfully kind of you to have me,” said Toby with a strange note in his voice. The marquess turned slightly in time to catch the look on his friend’s face and frowned. A new set of thoughts tumbled into his brain. What the hell had been happening while hewas away? Was this miraculous change in Tilly because of Toby?
    He became aware that his wife was addressing him. “I gather you had a most interesting time in Paris,” Tilly was saying. “Been studying the flora and fauna, dear?”
    “I was on business, as I told you,” said the marquess testily.
    “So you did,” said Tilly lightly and then murmured for his ears alone, “So silly of these newspapers to misinterpret a business trip.”
    Aileen, too, had noticed the expression on her fiancé’s face as he had looked at Tilly, and she quickly masked the rather sour and petulant expression on her own. She may have lost Lord Philip, but Toby Bassett was also a catch. All her girl friends envied her and that meant more to Aileen than any feelings of love or romance.
    She moved swiftly forward to take his arm possessively. “I’ve been asking Toby why he left London,” she said with a glittering smile, “but he won’t tell poor little me.”
    “I needed some country air,” said Toby, still looking at Tilly. Aileen tightened her grip. “Come, dear,” she said in a gentle voice that had, nonetheless, the undertones of pure iron. “Mumsie wants to talk to you.”
    Toby was led away like a lamb to the slaughter.
    Dinner was announced and, moving into the dining room, the marquess had to be content with his wife’s company for only that short journey, for he had to take his place at the head of the table, while Tilly seemed to be a mile away at the other end. He became convinced that malice alone had prompted Tilly to seat the Duchess of Glenstraith on his right and Mrs. Barchester, one of the ugliest and most boring women of the county, on his left.
    As the dinner progressed he noticed that Tilly seemed to be keeping her end of the table very well amused. Even old Sir Giles Barncaster, a fierce and florid Tory M.P. reputed to loathe all young women, was laughing appreciatively at something she said, and then his voice rang out loud and clear: “Gad, Lady Tilly, but you’ve got a remarkably well-informed mind!”
    Toby’s handsome face was leaning too near Tilly’s white shoulder.
    No one looking at Tilly could even begin to guess at the turmoil of feelings beneath the delectable bosom of her Parisian gown. She had forgotten that her husband was so handsome. Evening dress became him, the starkblack and white of its formality setting off his golden head and classic profile. He had acquired a slight tan on his travels, and in