’ ‘Lucilla,’ gasped Hilary, his cheeks reddening with wrath. He did not look at her directly, though she fantasized that she could 141 feel his stares from the back of the class on occasion. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. ’ She had given nothing away.
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