He paid their entrance at the door. Halfway down the tunnel, Lily pulled up and refused to budge.

“Not until you un-truss me,” she insisted, screwing up her lips to send a burst of breath upward, toward a stray ringlet dangling between her eyebrows like a sausage link. Her huff briefly lifted the curl but failed to dislodge it. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I need the use of my arms.”

After a moment’s pause, during which he considered the inherent dangers of removing his glove, putting a hand to her fair, lovely brow, and tending to the stray lock himself … Julian capitulated. He released all but the uppermost ties. Immediately, she reached up with one elegant, white-gloved hand to brush the impertinent ringlet aside. A ray of peach iridescence burst from the brown-gray wrap.

“You must keep it on,” he admonished, tugging the garment tight around her shoulders in case the tunnel’s dim lighting prevented her from understanding his words. “The hood as well.”

She signaled agreement with a nod.

When they reached the house, Julian scanned for the two boys he’d paid to reserve their seats. There they were, in the center of the second row, staring slack-jawed as a mustachioed man led a trio of trained poodles through their paces on stage. Just viewing their wide-eyed expressions, Julian paused, reluctant to disrupt the boys’ enjoyment. But then the younger one caught sight of him, elbowed his friend, and together they rushed to vacate the seats, hungry for their promised shillings. Much as they liked the entertainment, they wanted the coin—and the food it would purchase—more.

Julian slipped each boy a crown instead. He could well remember that hunger. At their age, he would have waded through molten lava to retrieve a sixpence. A sixpence was a true windfall—it meant three trips through the soup line for him and Mother, each. More like four for him and two for her, because she always spooned some of her portion into his bowl. They could have dined on a crown for weeks.

As the trained poodles departed the stage, Julian shook off those cold, hungry memories and laid a hand to Lily’s back. He ushered her to their place on the velvet-padded bench. A juggler in classic harlequin garb took the stage for a few minutes. After his routine, the lights dimmed a touch.

As the curtain rose on the play proper, Lily leaned close. Her warm breath stirred against his ear. “Thank you.”

Just as quickly as she’d come, she slid away. But her arm lingered, grazing his. Suddenly, Julian was reliving a different part of his youth—those heady adolescent years when he’d lived for the slightest brush of female skin, a whiff of sweet perfume, or a furtive glimpse of stocking-clad ankle. That exhilaration of first contact was hard to recapture now. As a consequence of his exploits over recent years, he’d grown jaded, and precariously close to bored, when it came to women on the whole.

But Lily was different. A mere glance from her could be a thorn to his side or a balm to his soul, depending. She could voice but a syllable, and it was like silk sliding over his skin. And nothing thrilled him more than simply seeing her content. That whispered thanks against his ear made the whole night worthwhile. Honestly, it probably redeemed the better part of his year.

Absurdly choked with emotion, he slid his gaze toward her. She sat with her head tilted up, staring at the actors on stage. Her eyes were bright with reflected stage lamps, and the hood of her cloak had slipped back, revealing a mass of dark curls and her dusky, parted lips. She was lost in the performance, utterly absorbed.

For his part, Julian didn’t hear a word of the play.

“My goodness,” Lily said, “did you not hear a word of the play?” She took Julian’s arm as they moved to exit the theater. Departing guests crushed on all sides, forcing them closer together. “How could you fail to have an opinion?”

“What opinion can one have on a comedy? Either it amuses or it doesn’t.”

“But that’s not true. A comedy can have all manner of themes and meanings. Take the character of Tartuffe, for example, and his disguise of false—”

Lily’s remark was cut short when a theatergoer jostled her from behind. She stumbled, but Julian pulled her up and steadied her elbow with his free hand. When she’d regained her balance, he pivoted her to face him.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure. The look in his eyes—blue and brimming with intense concern—made her weak in the knees all over again. Goodness. This must be the look he used to seduce women. That look said, If you are hurt, I am hurt. If something is broken, I will fix it. Tell me your great toe is sore, and I will walk to Shropshire to gather herbs for a poultice. Sir Walter Raleigh had made these eyes at the queen before throwing his cape over that mud puddle. Lily was sure of it.

At length, she nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He frowned and gestured in the vicinity of his brow. “Your hair is showing.”

With an exasperated tug, Lily drew the woolen hood up and over her curls. Really, if there were people of her acquaintance in attendance, they were not likely to be scanning the crush of humanity in the pit. And, even if there were, the chances of one of them marking Lily out in the crowd were slim indeed.

They exited through the same tunnel by which they’d entered. When they emerged, they found the night cold and dark. Moisture fizzled in the air—not quite rain, not quite fog. Now and then, a knife-edged gust of wind cut straight through the protection of Holling’s thick cloak.

“We’ll find a hack just up here,” he said.

Despite the stinging mist, Lily kept her face up and her eyes open wide. The stream of people exiting the pit flowed through an entirely different channel than the route she was accustomed to following. They turned onto a narrow street, lined with little shops. Street vendors waved to them from both sides—standing under burning oil lamps, hawking roasted nuts and steaming pies, snuff for the gentlemen, flowers for the ladies, ballads for lovers.

Her eye was drawn to a Romany woman dressed in vibrant silks and carrying a basket of cut flowers. Her smoky eyes promised intrigue and romance. As Lily passed, the old gypsy woman held out her palm and raised a brow.

Lily tugged Julian’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “Let’s have our fortunes told.”

He gave her a disbelieving look as people streamed around them.

“Come on,” she said. “Why not?”

“Because it’s late and cold and raining, and if we stand about chatting with shady street merchants, I predict with certainty you’ll catch a chill.”

She smiled patiently. “Fortunately, I do have a rather formidable cloak.”

Lily knew it was late, and the weather was harsh. Truth be told, she was shivering violently in this gray woolen cocoon. But she just couldn’t bear the thought of the evening being over. After this night, he’d only promised one more.

She shook herself, unwilling to dwell on that thought. It neighbored too close to desolation.

Working beneath her cloak, she tugged one hand from its glove and stretched it toward the fortune-teller. “Give her a coin, won’t you?”

Julian grabbed for Lily’s hand instead. He turned it palm-side-up in his gloved grip and said, “If it’s a fortune you want, I’ll read it.”

The sudden contact left her breathless. “Oh.”

A fingertip clad in warm, close-fitting kid leather slid over the lines of her palm. Suddenly, the night didn’t seem so chilled anymore.

“A long life,” he said, tracing a line from the crook of her thumb to the outer edge of her palm. “Good health and happiness.” He lifted her hand and pretended to peer at it. “Ten … No, eleven.”

“Years?”

“Children.”

“Eleven children?” A burst of laughter escaped her. “Goodness. By whom?”

“By your husband, of course. In your future, I see you taking a very dependable, respectable, faithful husband.” Droplets of moisture dotted the glass in his spectacles. She couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes.

“He sounds terribly dull.” She couldn’t help but tease. “Is he perchance a clerk?”

He dropped her hand, and the air between them was suddenly heavy with awkwardness.

“At least buy me a flower?” she said.

He fished a coin from his pocket and tossed it in the gypsy woman’s basket, withdrawing a single mist-glazed rose. “Here,” he said, presenting it to her wrapped in a ribbon of irony. “Because the hundreds of blooms in your drawing room are growing lonely.”

“I like this one best.” She took it in her ungloved hand, and together they continued on.

Lily glimpsed a row of hackney cabs waiting up ahead. Too close. She couldn’t bear to let him go just yet. She stopped abruptly.

Again, he turned to her, plainly confused. “Lily, is there something you want?”

Words failed her. What could she say? She hardly knew what she wanted, much less how to ask for it. Time. She just wanted time. Time spent with him, exploring this delicious, palpable attraction and the meaning of it all.

“Julian, when you were staring into my palm …”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Did you perchance see dinner in our future? I’m positively famished.”

“I’m certain Holling will have—”

“No, no. I don’t want to wait that long. I’m hungry now. Surely there are shops hereabouts that cater to theatergoers.”

“There are, I’m certain. None of them are fit for you to visit.”

“Me?” She smiled. “But you forget, I’m a common woman, sir. I dine in these establishments all the time.” To her left, a leaded glass window threw diamonds of yellow light onto the pavement. Lily peered through the open door. A greasy aroma wafted out, mingled with the sharp tang of spirits. “What about this place? Is it a cookshop? Or an alehouse?”

Julian frowned. “A bit of both, and then some other things besides. If it’s a label you’re looking for, ‘Den of Iniquity’ would likely cover it.”

“Excellent. I’m absolutely starved for some iniquity.” She dropped his arm and walked through the open door, knowing he would follow.

Chapter Eleven

Julian followed her, of course. What choice did he have?

Catching up to her in the entryway, he grasped her by the elbow and wheeled her around. She tottered on her heels. For a brief moment, he considered throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her straight out the door. Then he found himself enjoying that image, far too much.

“No,” he said simply. To her or to himself, he didn’t know.

“It doesn’t look so bad,” she said, darting a glance about the place. “Let’s stay.”

Julian surveyed the place. She was right; it didn’t look so bad. The room was crowded with a number of tables, stools, benches and the occasional straight-backed chair. About half of the tables were occupied with couples or chatty groups of men, many of whom clutched playbills in their hands.

“Very well,” he said, resigned. “Just dinner.”

Because truthfully, he didn’t want to take her home. In the theater, with the peerage hovering above them, he’d suffered the constant fear of discovery. But in a place like this, it was so easy to imagine that there was nothing to fear. That she was just his sweetheart, and he was simply … himself. He wanted to revel in the illusion of honesty, if only for a while.

He chose a small table in the furthest, most isolated corner of the room. Once they were seated, a serving girl made her way to them.

“Have you beefsteak?” Julian asked her.

“Yes, sir. Also joints of mutton, and a very fine fish pie.”

“Is the beefsteak truly beef? You know, from an actual cow?”

“Julian!” Lily chided.