Page 38 of The Last Stitch

A question I couldn’t stop asking.

But questions got people killed, and I already had too many of those on my conscience. Whatever she’d seen on that street, I needed answers—before curiosity turned into weakness.

Because no matter how her grief mirrored mine, I couldn’t let it blur the line between captor and captive. Not when her truth might damn us both.

CHAPTER 11

LILY

The morning room had become my own personal hell.

“No, no, no.” Adeline's voice cut through my third attempt at a curtsy. “You're bobbing like a buoy in rough water. A lady descends with deliberate grace.”

I straightened, fighting the urge to massage my aching knees. We'd been at this for two hours. Curtsies, posture, how to enter a room without looking like I was storming a castle. How to accept a calling card. Which topics were acceptable for morning calls versus dinner conversation. The seventeen different social landmines disguised as polite questions I needed to deflect without causing offense.

“Again,” Adeline commanded, settling back into her chair like a particularly judgmental empress.

“I'm not sure my knees can survive 'again,'” I muttered, but I bent anyway, focusing on the smooth descent she'd demonstrated. Keep your back straight. Eyes down but not too far. Hands gathered at your sides, not clutching your skirts like you're about to fall off a cliff.

“Better,” Adeline conceded. “Though you still look like you're preparing to be executed rather than greeting a duchess.”

“To be fair, meeting a duchess in this century sounds roughly equivalent to execution.”

Her lips twitched—the closest she'd come to a smile all evening. “Sit. Before you collapse and prove my point about your lack of stamina.”

I sank gratefully into the chair opposite her, resisting the urge to sprawl. Ladies perched. They didn't slump. My spine apparently needed constant reminding.

“You're doing better than I expected,” Adeline said, pouring tea with the kind of effortless precision I'd never master. “Though your modern sensibilities keep showing through.”

“Is that your polite way of saying I have opinions?”

“It's my polite way of saying you broadcast them across your face like a scandal sheet.” She handed me a cup. “When Lady Pemberton asks you about your travels from Yorkshire, you cannot look like you're calculating the historical accuracy of your own lie.”

“I wouldn’t⁠—”

“You absolutely would. I could see you working through the railway schedules in your head.” She took a sip of her own tea. “A proper young lady wouldn't know the exact timetables. She'd simply say, 'the journey was tiresome' and move on.”

“So, I'm supposed to be decoratively vague about everything?”

“You're supposed to be unremarkable enough that no one looks too closely.” Her gaze sharpened. “Speaking of which—Constance Sterling.”

I nearly fumbled my teacup. “What about her?”

“Don't play coy. I saw the aftermath when I arrived.” Adeline's smile was sharp. “August looked like he'd survived a battle, and you looked entirely too pleased with yourself.”

“She threatened to tell his father about me.”

“Of course she did. Constance views any woman within a mile of August as competition.” She took another sip, watching me over the rim. “What did you think of her?”

I considered my words carefully. “She seemed. . . protective of what she considers hers.”

“Territorial,” Adeline corrected. “Like a dog with a bone it doesn't even want but refuses to let anyone else have.” She set down her cup with deliberate care. “I loathe her.”

The frank admission surprised a laugh out of me. “You don't believe in diplomacy?”

“Not when it comes to Constance Sterling. She's vapid, grasping, and has all the genuine warmth of a December morning.” Adeline's expression turned calculating. “The only thing she's ever loved is the idea of being Mrs. August Hawthorne.”

“She seemed very convinced that's what she was going to be.”