The words landed with the precision of a surgeon’s blade. Hugo opened his mouth and closed it again.
Lily’s aunt raised one eyebrow, turned back to the fans, and said nothing more.
Hugo crossed the shop to where Lily stood. He reached out and gently removed the ribbon from her fingers.
“You have been holding this since we arrived.”
Lily blinked. She looked at the ribbon in his hand as though she had never seen it before. “I was examining it.”
“You were staring through it. There is a difference.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“About whether ivory or white is more appropriate for a wedding that exists solely to prevent social ruin.”
The words carried a sharpness that was more like the Lily he knew. Hugo felt something ease in his chest.
“Ivory,” he said. “It is warmer. And you look terrible in white.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“White washes you out. You need warmth. Color. Something that makes your eyes look like they are arguing with the fabric.”
She stared at him. The haze cracked, just a fraction, and something alive flickered behind it.
“My eyes do not argue with fabric.”
“Your eyes argue with everything. Which I rather enjoy.”
Her mouth twitched. She caught it, pressed her lips together, and fought it down. But the flicker remained, and the blank, distant expression she had been wearing for two days loosened its grip.
“Buy the ivory,” she said.
“I already told your mother.”
“Of course you did.”
He paid for the gown, the lace, the matching gloves, and a pair of silk slippers that Lady Brimsey selected with tears streaming down her face. He settled the account without blinking and escorted the ladies to the carriage, and when he handed Lily up the step, her fingers curled around his for half a second before releasing.
He watched the carriage pull away, then turned and walked in the opposite direction.
He had another call to make.
“Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise.”
Lady Stapleton stood in the parlor of her Mayfair townhouse, her smile composed, her eyes flat.
Nothing about her suggested surprise. Nothing about her ever did. She wore a morning dress of dark green, and her dark hair was pinned in a severe arrangement that sharpened the angles of her face.
“Lady Stapleton.” Hugo did not return the smile. “I need a moment of your time. In private.”
Something shifted behind her careful composure. A flicker of calculation was quickly suppressed.
“Of course. Have a seat, Your Grace.”
She did not offer tea. Hugo did not sit.
