“I am very certain of you,” he’d said, lifting her hand from her lap and pressing a warm kiss to her gloved knuckles. “I am Derek Hawkins. And you are the muse for which I have been searching. I intend to keep you. For all eternity.”

She’d caught her breath at the vow. At the way it evoked other, more formal ones.

Certainly, meeting Derek Hawkins was a shock. She’d been reading about him for years—he was a legend, an artist and star of the stage, renowned throughout London and beyond as one of the most skilled theatrical minds of a generation. News of his talent and good looks preceded him—and while Lily could not in the moment confirm the former, the latter appeared quite accurate.

But it was not his celebrity that won Lily over. She had more than fluff between her ears, after all. She did not dream of a famous suitor.

She dreamed of a suitor who would ensure she was never alone again.

After all, Lily had been alone for her entire life.

In the days and weeks that followed, Derek had courted her, playing the part of the perfect gentleman, escorting her to autumn festivals and winter events, even hiring an older female servant to chaperone them on public outings.

And then, on a cold, snowy afternoon in January, he’d sent a carriage for her, and she’d been ferreted to his studio—the inner sanctum of his artist’s world.

Alone.

There, in the sun-soaked room, surrounded by dozens of canvases, he’d honored her with his words and promises, worshipped her beauty and her perfection and vowed to keep her with him. Forever.

The words—so pretty and tempting and precisely what she’d always dreamed of hearing from a man so handsome and skilled and valued beyond measure—had filled her with more happiness and hope than she’d ever imagined possible.

For two months and five days, she’d returned to the studio again and again, sitting with more than a little pride in the room, warm with winter sunlight and Derek’s gaze. She’d given him everything he asked. Because that was what one did when one was in love.

And they were in love—a fact that was proven by this moment, as they stood in the great hall of the Royal Exhibition, surrounded by the brightest and most renowned of London’s populace. Lily was a half step behind Derek’s right shoulder (where he preferred her), wearing a pale yellow frock (slightly lower than Lily would have liked, but which he’d selected himself), her hair up in a tight, unyielding twist (precisely the way he liked).

As they’d ridden to the exhibition, the rain forcing them inside his carriage, where it tapped its rhythm on the roof and shut out the world beyond, he’d taken her hand in his and whispered, “Today is the day that changes everything. For all time. After today, all will be different. My name will be whispered throughout the world. And yours, as well.”

She’d blinked up at him, heart bursting, knowing that he could mean only one thing. Marriage. She’d smiled and whispered back, “Together.”

The carriage had slowed in that moment, and they’d arrived at the exhibition, but she’d heard his agreement in the thunder of the rainstorm beyond.

Together.

And now they were here, and she was feeling prouder than she’d ever been in her life, for this man who would soon be her husband, and for herself as well. After all, it was not every day that the orphaned daughter of a land steward was so privileged to stand before all of London with the man she loved.

The room was massive, the walls reaching twenty feet high and every inch of them covered in artwork. Every inch, that was, but one central spot behind a dais on the far end of the space, this one covered instead with a curtain of sorts, as though what was there was due a magnificent reveal.

Derek turned back to give her a wink. “That one’s for us.”

Lily smiled. Us. What a lovely, lovely word.

How long had she wished to be part of an us?

“Mr. Hawkins,” the secretary of the academy met them at the midpoint of the room with a firm handshake and a fervent whisper in Derek’s ear. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We are ready for the announcement immediately, if you are, sir.”

Derek nodded, his lips curving into a wide smile that marked his triumph. “I am always ready for announcements such as this.”

Lily looked about the room, taking in the crush of people, all waiting for the exhibition to begin. She recognized a handful of London’s brightest, and was immediately unnerved by the idea that she was surrounded by titles and funds. She stiffened, suddenly wishing that Derek had proposed yesterday, so she might be allowed to reach for him—to steady herself in the force of London’s combined gaze.

“He’s brought that Hargrove girl with him.” Lily resisted the urge to turn at the sound of her name, whispered, but too loud not to be heard. She assumed that had been the speaker’s plan all along.

“Of course he has,” came the scathing reply. “He delights in dotage. And look at the way she stares after him. Like a pup after a bone.”

The first speaker tutted her distaste. “As if it weren’t enough that she looks the way she does.”

Lily willed herself not to listen and fixed her eyes on the back of Derek’s head, where his black hair curled in perfect whorls.

They did not matter.

Only Derek mattered.

Only their future. Together.

Us.

“Everyone knows anyone who looks the way she does is a complete scandal. I cannot believe he’d bring her here. Today of all days. There are dukes in attendance.”

“I heard the Queen might appear.”

“If that is true, it’s even more disgusting that he would bring her.”

“His own consort!” The words came on a chortle, as though they were clever.

They weren’t.

Lily resisted the suggestion that she might be something other than Derek’s betrothed. As though she were a scandal. And even though she wasn’t—even though there was nothing scandalous about love—her cheeks flamed and the room grew warmer.

She turned to Derek, willing him to hear the women. To turn and tell them that not only were they speaking out of turn, but that they were speaking out of turn about his future wife.

But he didn’t hear. He was already moving away from her, bounding up the stairs to the place where the curtain hung, hiding his masterpiece. He hadn’t let her see it, of course. Hadn’t wanted to tempt fate. But she knew his skill, and knew that whatever he had selected for the exhibition would take London by storm.