There was a silence, all of the ladies staring in rapt fascination at Lilly as she continued to toy with her tea cup. At length, gently, Euphemia said, “You surely do not still pine for Lord Saye?”

Lilly’s blush replied to them all. A chorus of dismay went around.

“He is a rake, Lilly, he will do nothing but break your heart!” Euphemia protested warmly.

“He is not the marrying sort,” Georgette added .

“Well he must, sometime,” Lilly said. “He requires an heir.”

“An heir!” Euphemia scoffed. “He will think of that when he is sixty and his mistresses are all as old as he is.”

“She is probably right about that,” Georgette added.

“He makes me laugh,” Lilly said weakly. “There is precious little to laugh at with dear Balton-Sycke, sweet as he is. He simply is not diverting.”

“Laugh?” Sarah stared around at the other three. “Who wants a ridiculous husband?”

“Oh, I do not mean to say he is ridiculous,” Lilly protested.

“I mean, he is, sometimes. But he…I am amused by him. Whenever I am with him, I wish I could remain forever. When I am with Balton-Sycke I feel…well…sometimes I find myself reorganising the shelves in my closet or thinking of where I shall go next. He is just dull.”

“Not dull,” Euphemia protested. “Steady, as a husband should be.”

“And then…well, you do recall how Saye and I kissed once?”

“At a masque?” Sarah asked.

“It began there,” Lilly admitted. “But I went out onto the terrace with him later, for air.”

“For air,” Euphemia moaned. “How often a path to doom begins by going to the terrace for air!”

Lilly could not help herself—she had to giggle at Euphemia’s theatrics. “I assure you, I am not doomed. ”

“You will be if you do not accept Mr Balton-Sycke!” Euphemia retorted.

“In any case,” said Lilly softly, then continued telling her friends the sweet remembrances of that delightful evening, the scent of roses in the air and Saye gently easing her mask from her face, then not-so gently tossing it behind him as he kissed her quite beyond anything she had ever thought possible. And then! “He made me some promises.”

“Promises?” Sarah asked.

Lilly blushed hotly but managed to tell her friends what Saye had promised her. It had shocked and scandalised her at the time, and it still did, mostly—but she was more than a little intrigued by it all.

“Impossible!” Euphemia declared while Sarah pointed out that the mantid species was known to eat males after their usefulness was concluded.

To Georgette, however, the acts described did not seem quite so shocking.

She wore a self-conscious half smile and looked away from the group.

Lilly resolved to ask her about it all later.

“When I think about doing any such thing with Balton-Sycke,” she said, “I feel rather nauseated. But with Saye…”

Georgette’s small smile had now grown to a full-out grin, but she still said nothing, allowing Euphemia and Sarah to express all the outrage that was expected.

Well, Euphemia had married a man who was nearly fifty, who could blame her?

And Sarah? For all her fortune and good family, she was nearly wholly disinterested in feminine pursuits; fashion bored her, she was useless with a needle, and she fell over her own feet when she danced.

Lilly allowed them to turn the conversation to the delights of redecorating the house in Lowestoft, but somehow she knew that wall hangings and rugs could not colour in the lines of a grey existence.

While the two other ladies were entering Euphemia's carriage, Lilly touched Georgette’s arm, wordlessly asking that she accompany her.

Georgette gestured towards the street, likely needing a turn in the cold air as much as Lilly herself did.

Her mother was ever-fond of a good blaze, and their rooms were nearly always stifling.

When they had walked a short distance, Georgette said, “Well, Lilly, I am proud of you. You are much naughtier than I ever gave you credit for.”

“I have not done anything naughty yet , much to his lordship’s dismay. But am I a fool to consider turning my back on Balton-Sycke for…for…?” Lilly gestured helplessly.

“ Délicieux jeux d’amour ?” asked Georgette frankly, and made Lilly blush.

“No! I mean, yes…more like the general enjoyment of life! I do not mean to say that I do not enjoy spending time with?—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Georgette said. “And do not think I censure you for it. Indeed, I do not! We shall, all of us, grow old with these men. Once the thrill of engagements and weddings has worn off, there must be more to life! ”

“I agree,” Lilly replied warmly. “And that brings me to the greatest problem of all.”

“That my cousin has not spoken?”

“Oh yes,” said Lilly. “I do tend to forget you are related to him.”

“On Lady Matlock’s side. But my darling girl, you must know Saye might have said those things merely to be shocking.”

“I know,” Lilly groaned. “And I have scarcely even had the opportunity to be in society with him since that masque. I do not know if it was anything of significance, or merely the words of a man who had drunk too much and wished to steal a few kisses.”

“The heart wants what it wants. Sometimes all other considerations must be laid aside.”

“You sound like you know something of the matter,” Lilly said with a sidelong glance at her friend. “Have you some secret lover that none of us knows of?”

Georgette laughed. “Do you not know everything I do? Come now! Mr Balton-Sycke is gone for a month. Surely there must be some way to use the time to advantage?”

“I must,” Lilly said determinedly. “I cannot accept Balton-Sycke, but neither can I refuse him, not with my mother all but shopping for my trousseau.”

“Just think of your strategy carefully,” her friend advised, “because nothing so easy will make that boy don the leg shackles.”

The January air bit at Saye as he exited his aunt’s house and walked swiftly towards his club, but he scarcely felt it. His mind raced with plans and schemes and horrifying visions of what would happen if he failed to stop this calamitous event.

He had just turned onto Piccadilly when a vision arrested him.

Her —or at least he thought it was her, blast those accursed bonnets!

—walking with his cousin Georgette. For a moment he thought of walking over to them, but no; they appeared deep in conversation and, in any case, he knew not what he might say except to demand that she immediately throw aside any notions of Ball-Sack.

His swift stride became a pensive stroll as he entered his club, nearly hurling his overcoat at the waiting manservant as he espied his brother and Darcy sitting at a table.

Darcy was looking rather thunderous himself, but Saye had no time for his whinging.

Today he would have the luxury of the whinge, and they would all shut their pie holes and hear him.

“Where have you been all morning?” Fitzwilliam asked by way of greeting.

“To visit Aunt Fortescue,” he replied tersely, “and it was there I learnt of a horrible disaster about to happen. ”

“What is it this week?” Darcy asked. “A spot on your trousers?”

“Or on Florizel?” Fitzwilliam suggested, referring to Saye’s snow-white Pomeranian.

“Maybe his carriage had the cheek to get dirty,” Darcy teased.

“Or perhaps?—”

“Enough,” Saye snapped. “Ridicule me later if you like, but this time I have a dreadfully serious problem and there is nothing in the least humorous about it.”

He paused then, scowling at them both until they assumed more contrite countenances; then he announced, with no little ceremony, “My wife is contemplating matrimony to Hairy Ball-Sack.”

“Who?” asked Darcy.

“Harold Balton-Sycke from Lowestoft,” Fitzwilliam informed him. “Good fellow. A year behind me at school.”

“Oh yes! Has that sister who sings so beautifully.”

“The very one. Good family.”

“Listen here!” Saye interrupted. “The relative merits of Ball-Sack’s family are irrelevant!

She cannot marry him, because if she does, then she cannot marry me !

Now let us think and think hard, men. I have one month to vanquish Ball-Sack and steal his girl, and we must plan how to do it.

Darcy—you have come back from the ashes with Miss Barnett, tell me how you did it. ”

“Bennet.”

“What’s that? ”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said patiently. “Her name, Saye, is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Bennet, Barnett, Bassett… Does it really signify? She will surrender it soon enough for a better one, will she not? And then I shall call her Lizzy,” Saye retorted.

“Or Elizabeth, if she permits it,” Darcy replied.

“Or Liza. She seems like a Liza.”

“ Elizabeth .”

“Zabet,” Saye mused. “I heard of a gypsy called Zabet once and I was rather taken with the name.”

“You will not call my wife a gypsy name,” Darcy said stiffly. “Why must we always have these stupid conversations?”

“You are right, you are right,” Saye conceded. “What Zabet wishes to be called is her own business, and my business is winning Lilly Goddard. How to do it is the less easy matter.”

“Here is an idea,” Fitzwilliam said. “What if you called on her, asked her to dance, were kind to her mother et cetera, and then simply asked for her hand?” He gave a little smirk that encompassed both his relations. “You both have a penchant for making things difficult that need not be.”

“Oh really?” asked Darcy. “Well, where is your wife?”

“A facer on you, Richard,” Saye added gleefully. “Where is your wife indeed?”

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “The Season is not kind to a poor soldier,” he said, with more candour than was his wont. “The ladies are more apt to be enchanted by the young bucks flashing their blunt, most of whom are not even seriously pursuing matrimony. Darcy got the last good woman—I am sure of it.”

As it was, there was a small estate that Saye had inherited along with his viscountcy.

It was in an unfashionably north-eastern part of England, and the weather there was far too cold, but it would do for a second son.

Lord Matlock had forbidden him to confer it until Fitzwilliam was engaged to a lady they all approved of, fearing he might find himself tricked into some unsuitable alliance.

His brother could be rather heedless when it came to female temptations.

“Until Mr Bennet yields, I cannot marry her,” Darcy intoned glumly. “We have had, already, a lengthy journey to become engaged, and I begin to fear the engagement itself will be longer still.”

“Well, perhaps I shall have time to win her yet,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin. He leant over then and gave Darcy a little punch on the arm. “She did rather enjoy my society at Rosings.”

“She had little choice as you were forever hanging about her,” Darcy muttered.

Like the days in the nursery. Saye sighed heavily.

He had been forever stopping fights between the pair of them back then.

“Your error,” he told Darcy, “is that you neglected to anticipate your vows. Fathers become remarkably agreeable to nuptial haste once their daughters are despoiled. But enough about Zabet, we need to get back to my problems. ”

“Will Elizabeth be coming to town soon?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“ Miss Bennet will come to town sometime before Easter,” Darcy replied with a hard stare. “When Mr and Mrs Bingley take a house.”

Fitzwilliam said something, but Saye scarcely noticed. He had been, at last, struck by inspiration. “We should have a house party at Matlock!”

That stopped their squabbling. He continued, “I shall invite Georgette and her friends?—”

“Georgette?” Fitzwilliam gave him a quizzical look.

“Our cousin. I like her, and we need to spend more time with that side of the family,” Saye informed him piously. “I shall ask dear Zabet, perhaps some few of her many sisters?—”

“Stop calling her Zabet.”

“—an assortment of lovelies for my brother...with a masquerade ball, to be sure, to give the poor sod a fighting chance with them...”

“Travel to Matlock may be difficult,” Darcy opined.

“Bah!” Saye said. “The roads are as good as any in the Empire.”

He felt, suddenly, as good as he had felt for some time.

Yes, bringing her to Matlock was just the thing.

Let her see the place which would be her own, let her feel his significance apart from the ribaldry of London.

He could already imagine his attire—not the dandy of town, but a country gentleman.

A country gentleman with éclat to be sure.

“So you get Miss Goddard to Matlock,” Fitzwilliam said. “And then?”

“And then I make her love me and accept my offer of marriage, and Hairy Ball-Sack crawls back into the sea where he belongs.”

“Saye,” Fitzwilliam said, laying a hand on his arm. “Just tell me this. Do you love her?”

“Do I love her?” Saye gaped at his brother. Every so often, he was reminded of just how stupid his brother really was, and this was surely one of those times.

“Yes. Do you love her?”

“Or do you just want to win her?” Darcy asked.

“That is a fool’s question.”

“But what is the answer?” Fitzwilliam insisted. “Love? Or the need to claim victory?”

With a deep sigh, Saye shoved his face into his hands. “I should not be required to?—”

Darcy said, “Saye, if you want this woman so badly, it should not be such a difficulty to?—”

“Yes! Does it suit you? Yes, yes, yes, I love her, and if I cannot have her, I shall die of misery. Besting Hairy Ball-Sack is a nice side victory, but it is nothing to my need to have her for my wife.”

With a curse, he rose, shoving his chair violently against the table. He cursed again for good measure, and spun on his heel, stalking through the club, glaring angrily at everyone he saw.

When he had nearly gained the door, a large hand clapped him on the shoulder, arresting his progress. He turned to see Darcy had risen and followed him and even now offered a compassionate grin.

“Come back to the table,” he said. “Your brother has ordered some of the French brandy brought out for us. Let us toast another man down!”