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Her heart sank like a stone into a pond. Lily Abbott positioned her silver fork on her plate and, pinning a broad smile to her lips, turned to face her mother. She did not miss her brother pressing his twitching lips together, his chocolate-brown eyes dancing with amusement as he lifted his cup of coffee for a sip.

It was Lily’s third Season, a fact that was causing increasing panic in Mama, whose energies were consumed by the imperative of securing her daughter a respectable match.

Lily had hoped that Aidan’s recent return from his Grand Tour would divide Lady Moreland’s formidable attention. However, it seemed her brother’s bachelorhood was far less concerning than her own unmarried state.

“Mama …” She injected her voice with cheerful enthusiasm, a performance honed through many such encounters. Lily had always been exuberant, but she had honed that quality into a strategic art form, a kind of armor. She had discovered that if she chattered long enough, Mama would become distracted and lose her train of thought, allowing Lily to steer the conversation toward safer ground. “You look lovely! Your gown is immaculate, and the beadwork so intricate. You shall quite eclipse the King’s coronation robes in such a glorious ensemble!”

Behind her, Aidan emitted a discreet snort of laughter as Lady Moreland paused to preen, smoothing her hands over her lavish skirts while casting a proud glance down at her coronation finery. Lily’s compliment was not without merit. Her mother was striking, her sleek brown hair made luminous by the pearl-studded gold and red velvet coronet that denoted her rank as viscountess.

But the distraction was fleeting. Lady Moreland’s sharp gaze returned to her daughter.

“What happened with Lord Ashby?”

“We danced together. It was a waltz, and the music was sublime. I do believe the musicians were quite masterful, and I could have danced until sunrise.” Aidan snorted again behind her, clearly stifling laughter as Lily launched into her verbal gambit. Her brother had always seen through her tactics.

“Lily!” her mother interjected, her tone clipped.

Lily clamped her mouth shut and offered an innocent smile. “Yes, Mama?”

Lady Moreland did not appear in the mood to be sidetracked. The grandeur of the coronation had evidently stirred every thought of marriage into a fresh frenzy, and Lily feared this particular interrogation would not be easily evaded.

She cast a subtle glance over her shoulder, a silent appeal to Aidan, who watched the scene with undisguised amusement as he sipped his coffee.

“Lord Ashby was quite taken with you, but after your dance, his mother told me he had abruptly lost interest. What in the world did you say to him?”

Lily lifted a hand to rub the edge of her earlobe, the movement unconscious as she sifted through her memory. Her talent for cheerful misdirection seemed less reliable after a night spent attending a ball until dawn.

“I simply admired the musicians’ skill and praised the servants’ livery. I may have commented on how splendid the ballroom looked, dressed as it was with hothouse flowers and⁠—”

Her mother groaned aloud. “Did you chatter the entire dance?”

“I suppose I might have,” Lily admitted, not quite contrite.

“Oh, Lily! How will you ever make a match if you will not stop blabbering like a fool?”

“Mother,” Aidan interrupted with the cool assurance of a man who knew he could take liberties without consequence, “I think we must accept that Lord Ashby and Lily are, regrettably, ill-suited.”

Lily’s heart leapt with relief when Aidan interrupted. Ever since her cousin Sophia had left their household to marry the Earl of Saunton the year before, Lily had contended with her mother’s matchmaking unaided. Now that her brother had returned from his Grand Tour, perhaps she would not have to face Lady Moreland’s impatience alone. If they could scheme together, she might yet make a match rooted in love and mutual admiration, like Sophia’s, a union of laughter in drawing rooms and quiet understanding at breakfast, not one forged in social obligation and her mother’s expectations.

Not that Papa would ever compel her to marry against her inclination, but Mama’s relentless ambitions wound through their days like the tightening of a corset at dawn. Subtle, pressing, inexorable.

Lady Moreland frowned, perplexed by her son’s bold assertion. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Lord Ashby, if I am not mistaken, is an utter bore who only speaks of horseflesh and hounds. Not to mention he is thirty years her senior and has several children from his previous marriages. Lily and he have no commonalities between them and would have nothing to discuss at the breakfast table.”

“Matches have proved successful over less. And Lily’s babbling must be reined in.”

“I find Lily’s conversation delightful and her optimism infectious. She amuses me during even the most melancholy of days. If Lord Ashby cannot appreciate her for the jewel she is and would discard her after a single waltz, then he does not deserve her.”

Their mother sighed and leaned back. She appeared unwilling to spar further with her eldest. “You could introduce more of your friends to her, Aidan.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

Lily had been glancing between them, her head moving slightly as the tension in the air softened. She cast a quick, grateful wink toward Aidan, who returned her look with a small smile, just as his expression changed. His eyes shifted to something beyond her shoulder and widened in astonishment. His jaw fell open.

Startled, Lily twisted to look behind her, one gloved hand flying to her mouth to catch a laugh.

Lady Moreland gave way to laughter—high, musical, and uncontrolled—as her husband entered the morning room. It was a rare sight to see the usually reserved viscountess doubled over, laughter spilling from her as she clutched her waist.