Unlacing Lilly. Gail Ranstrom

not give him away lest they give themselves away. Devlin was not a man people would admit to knowing.

      Gay paper lanterns lit the paths and the sound of an orchestra floated from the ballroom on a summer breeze as soft as a caress to his cheek. Laughter filled the air, along with the clink of glasses, and he knew the wine would be as free-flowing as the Thames.

      Devlin shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over a branch to roll his shirtsleeves up. The night was uncommonly sultry and he was not in the least concerned about how a gentleman appeared in public. He was not a gentleman.

      “Oh, Lord Olney! You are beyond diverting.”

      Edward Manlay? Marquis of Olney and the Duke of Rutherford’s heir? Devlin turned toward the voice. Coming down the path toward the bench beneath the willow were the Rutherford heir—lean and lanky Olney—and a fairylike creature whose honeyed hair was silvered by the clear moonlight. She wore a deep blue gown, turned almost black by the depth of the night, and trimmed with embroidered white birds in flight. How very appropriate for one so ethereal.

      He moved behind the tree trunk and leaned against it, watching between the branches, curious to see what Olney would do next. Given that this was the cub’s favorite bench for seductions, would he maul his companion as he’d done to other hapless females on countless occasions? Or yawn and make an excuse to return to the ballroom?

      “Then say you’ll be mine and I shall spend the rest of my days diverting you.”

      “Are you proposing marriage, sir, or something else?”

      Olney preened, likely knowing full well a marquis, no matter his character, would be considered a good catch. “Marriage, Miss Lillian. I’ve never wanted anyone as desperately as I want you, m’dear. You’ve quite stolen my heart.”

      The dazzling Miss Lillian sat on the bench and the duke’s heir perched beside her. “I hardly think your father would find me suitable, since I am neither titled nor the possessor of a magnificent dowry.”

      Olney’s brow furrowed. Devlin did not know that look. Was he stringing the chit along, or was he truly vexed?

      “He is anxious to see me married. I can bring him around to my way of thinking. Trust me.”

      The girl opened her fan and began moving it indolently, not an artifice or affectation in the sultry night, but a genuine attempt to cool herself. Devlin could easily see the girl’s appeal—beauty, natural grace, self-possession and a proud bearing. Yes, she was everything Devlin could never have and that Olney would expect as his due.

      “Even so,” the girl said, “I think he would not like it.”

      Olney seized her hand and jerked her around to face him. “I must have you. I cannot countenance the way other men are watching you, courting you, sniffing around you like curs after a…”

      Devlin nearly snorted his amusement. He knew the rest of that sentence and doubted the estimable Miss Lillian would appreciate being likened to a bitch in heat. But then he heard the girl’s giggle and realized she knew full well what Olney had been about to say. Amused rather than insulted? Was Miss Lillian a bit saucy?

      Olney straightened his lapels and continued. “The long and short of it, Miss Lillian, is that I am not willing to wait. If father does not give his blessing, we shall make a dash for Gretna Green. He will accept it after ’tis done.”

      Good God! The dolt meant it! He was willing to wed the girl just to bed her. Well, why not? That was as good a reason to marry as any, as far as Devlin knew. The Rutherford heir did not need a dowry, nor did he require a titled bride. If she came with connections, that would be enough. But the girl’s next words dashed that conclusion.

      “I can only offer you a mediocre dowry, and we have lived so long in Ireland that we have no connections but there. Indeed, we only know a handful of people in town. I have nothing to offer you.”

      Olney stood, gazing down his long nose at a girl he would certainly consider his social inferior. Even at this distance, his desire was clear. “Father’s health is flagging. Marry me, and you will be a duchess one day soon. At the least, you will be a marchioness the moment you marry me. Grace my home, my table and my bed, and I will not ask anything more of you. But I must have you.”

      The old man was ailing? Then time was growing short. Drat. Devlin would have to make a move soon if he was to succeed.

      Miss Lillian’s pause disappointed Devlin. The prospect of being a duchess was undoubtedly more than any woman in her position could resist, but he’d hoped she would prove different. Yes, he would very much like to see Edward Manlay thwarted.

      “I am mindful of the honor you have done me, Lord Olney, but good sense urges me to decline.”

      “I will have you, father’s consent or not.”

      The arrogant bastard took her hand and lifted her to her feet so that he could crush her against his chest. Devlin held his breath. He would like to rescue her, but he never interfered, never gave his presence away. The coy chit would have to defend herself.

      She pushed against Olney’s chest with determination but she was no match for him. He subdued her quickly. Too quickly? She ceased her struggles and allowed Olney to kiss her, though he’d have wagered a good sum that she did not give him access to the full sweetness of her mouth. Clever girl. Keep him wanting more. He was liking this Miss Lillian more and more by the moment.

      Satisfied with her tentative surrender, Olney loosened his hold and she stepped back. Had she known he would release her if she granted the kiss? Canny, coy and saucy—a lethal combination for a man like Olney.

      “I will speak with Father at once,” he said, stepping backward onto the stone path. “Wait for me here, and we shall celebrate.”

      Devlin could guess how Olney would choose to celebrate. He wanted his Miss Lillian badly enough to defy his father and common sense to have her? This, then, would be the woman to bear the Rutherford heir? Ah, he’d waited patiently for years for something like this—and just in time, given that the old man was ailing. What a stroke of good luck this was—and one not to be squandered.

      Lilly heaved a long sigh as she sank to the little stone bench again, watching Lord Olney disappear through the French windows to go find his father. He’d been most persuasive. She hadn’t meant to encourage him, nor had she intended to aim as high as a marquis or a duke, but when faced with the possibility, she’d been hard-pressed to deny him. Her every instinct told her to proceed with caution, but her intellect told her that such a marriage to the Rutherford heir could be salvation for the O’Rourkes. And he certainly treated her well enough.

      Life since coming to London had been such a trial. Her poor sisters! Cora dead by betrayal, Eugenia withdrawn to the point of seclusion and Isabella wed suddenly by license to the infamous “Lord Libertine” even before their mourning period was over. As Lady Vandecamp, their sponsor in London, had said, what was to become of them if something drastic was not done? That “something” had fallen to Lilly.

      Her union with a marquis and future duke could be just the solution they needed to salvage what was left of the family’s reputation and future. If her marriage to a duke did not stop the ton’s doubts, it would certainly stop their gossip.

      Although she was not wildly in love with Olney, her mother had told her that love comes with time. She supposed she could wait. But, so far, all that Lilly had been able to see was that love was just another word for treachery. It had gotten Cora killed and Bella married to an unsuitable man.

      “So pensive, miss?”

      She gasped and whirled around to find a man in shirtsleeves standing beneath the willow. A groundskeeper or stable master. He’d frightened her half to death! But he was still a stranger, and if she’d learned nothing else in London, she’d learned to be wary of strangers. Especially one as wholly masculine and attractive as this one. She turned away without speaking.

      A deep chuckle caused a little chill of foreboding to skitter up her