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"She has loyal friends," Mother observed beside me, though her tone suggested this wasn't necessarily a good thing.
"Yes. She does."
"However, loyalty can be complicated. Especially when divided between old friends and new opportunities."
I turned to study Mother's profile, noting the calculating glint in her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing at all, darling. Simply an observation." She paused, watching as Lili charmed a group of elderly lords. "Though Ido hope she understand how the world works. How business works."
Before I could ask what the hell she meant by that, we were approached by Lili and her friend, who had glided across the ballroom.
"Miss Anderton," Mother said, "What a transformation. You look almost like you belong here."
The 'almost' hung in the air like a blade.
"Thank you, Lady Victoria. This is my friend Cecilia Evans."
"Ah yes, Daphne mentioned you'd be joining us." Mother's smile never wavered as she assessed Cece with the precision of an appraiser. "How delightful to meet two of Daphne’s American friends."
The pause before 'American' was so slight it might have been missed by anyone not trained to hear the subtle weapons Mother wielded with words.
"Actually, I've been living in London for five years now," Cece said smoothly. "I run a PR firm here."
"How industrious." Mother turned back to Lili. "I do hope you're enjoying yourself, dear. Though I imagine it must be quite different from your usual entertainment venues."
I watched Lili's face carefully, saw the slight tightening around her eyes that meant she'd caught the insult but was choosing to ignore it.
"It's absolutely magical," Lili replied, her Southern grace serving as armor. "I can't thank you enough for including me."
"Of course. Though speaking of work," Mother's expression shifted to something that looked almost concerned. "I understand you're in television? Such an unpredictable industry."
For the next hour, I found myself unable to look away as Lili worked the room. And that's what she was doing—working it. She'd transformed from the nervous girl I'd found in my bed a week ago into something magnificent and terrifying.
She listened to elderly lords drone on about their rose gardens with genuine interest. She laughed at jokes that weren't funny.
She remembered names, asked follow-up questions about grandchildren and charities and business ventures.
Within an hour, she had half the room eating out of her hand.
But it was more than just social grace. It was intelligence.
When Lord Ashford started lecturing about the decline of American media standards, she didn't argue. She asked questions. Smart ones. She drew him out, made him feel important, and somehow turned his criticism into a discussion about the evolution of entertainment across cultures.
I watched her deflect Lady Pemberton's pointed questions about her "little television show" with such skill that the woman ended up genuinely interested in gardening tips.
I watched her discuss Jane Austen with the Duke of Marlborough, holding her own in a conversation about literature that would have left most Oxford graduates stammering.
She was brilliant. And watching her shine in my world—this world in which she had every right to feel uncomfortable—made me feel things I had no business feeling.
When she charmed a group of young socialites by discussing the authenticity of vintage fashion, I saw Cece beam with pride. When Lili impressed several business people with her insightsabout reaching different demographics through media, I felt something dangerously close to possessive satisfaction.
"She's quite something," James said, appearing beside me with two glasses of whiskey.
"What?"
"Lili. She's impressive."
I accepted the glass, using the movement to cover the fact that I'd been staring. "She's Daphne's friend."