The days following the engagement announcement plunged the Armstrong mansion into a frenzy of an entirely different sort – a whirlwind of preparations for the wedding, not merely the ball. The Duke of Warrington's proposal had elevated the Armstrongs to an unprecedented social zenith. Mrs. Eleanor Armstrong was in her element, directing an army of seamstresses, jewelers, and social secretaries with the precision of a seasoned general. Mr. Alistair Armstrong walked with a permanent smirk, basking in the reflected glory of his daughter's coup.
For Lily, the triumph felt like a deepening shadow. Every congratulatory call, every newspaper announcement trumpeting the union of American wealth and English aristocracy, was another nail in the coffin of her quiet hope, another confirmation of her own insignificance. She watched Athanasia move through it all, her sister a radiant figure, perfectly playing the part of the ecstatic bride-to-be. The brief, almost imperceptible flickers of worry Lily had noticed in Athanasia's eyes before the ball were now more pronounced, though still expertly masked. Sometimes, in a quiet moment in the hallway, or when she thought no one was looking, Athanasia would press a hand to her stomach, a gesture that went unnoticed by their parents, but not by Lily's keen, if often overlooked, eye. A faint pallor beneath Athanasia's carefully applied rouge, a newfound fragility in her movements – Lily saw it all, and a quiet, unsettling concern began to grow in her heart.
Lily found herself increasingly isolated. Her parents, consumed by the grand wedding preparations, had even less time for her. Her duties were minimal: to attend fittings for her bridesmaid gown, to offer polite smiles during endless rounds of social calls where she was introduced as "the younger Miss Armstrong, dear Lily, so utterly devoted to her sister," and to fade into the background. She tried once, tentatively, to ask Athanasia if she was truly happy, if everything was well. Anastasia had given her a swift, almost desperate squeeze of the hand, her eyes wide for a fleeting second, before forcing a brilliant smile and declaring, "Never better, Lily! This is every girl's dream, isn't it?" The answer, too quick, too bright, only heightened Lily's unease.
The day came for Athanasia to depart for England, for her journey across the Atlantic. The Armstrongs had planned a grand send-off, a public display of affection and triumph at the docks. Lily stood on the pier amidst the crowd, the salty air whipping at her veil. The steamship, a colossal beast of steel and smoke, loomed over them, its whistle a mournful bellow. Athanasia, surrounded by her parents, waved gaily to the cheering onlookers. Her silver gown, the one from the ball, seemed to shimmer even in the overcast light, a last dazzling performance. She hugged her parents, kissed them dutifully, then turned to Lily.
Anastasia pulled Lily into a tight embrace, a rare, genuine hug that lasted longer than strictly necessary. She whispered, "Be brave, Lily. Be yourself. It's enough." Her voice was thick, almost choked. Then, she was gone, swallowed by the gangplank, a silver streak against the dark hull. Lily watched until the ship was a mere smudge on the horizon, feeling as though her last remaining anchor to kindness had been severed.
The news arrived a week later, via a terse, shattering telegram from the steamship company to the Armstrongs.
"DEEPEST REGRET REPORT MISS ATHANASIA ARMSTRONG PRESUMED LOST AT SEA. EVIDENCE SUGGESTS ACCIDENT ABOARD VESSEL EN ROUTE TO LIVERPOOL. FURTHER DETAILS FOLLOW. OUR SINCEREST CONDOLENCES."
The mansion, which had so recently vibrated with joy, fell into a stunned, horrified silence. Mrs. Armstrong let out a piercing shriek, collapsing onto a fainting couch. Mr. Armstrong's face, usually so ruddy with self-satisfaction, turned a ghastly shade of grey. The grand triumph had become a catastrophic public scandal, a devastating blow to their carefully constructed image. Their "perfect" daughter, gone. Their ducal connection, severed.
Lily heard the news from Mrs. Hobbs, her maid, who found her quietly sketching in her room. The shock was immediate, visceral. Athanasia, gone? The sister who had been her sole kindness, the only light in her confined world? The vague worries Lily had felt about Athanasia's secret burden sharpened into a sickening grief. But even in her despair, a small, logical part of her mind rebelled. Athanasia had been so careful, so poised. An accident?
The days that followed were a blur of public mourning and private chaos. The Armstrongs, masters of presentation, immediately donned the deepest black. Mrs. Armstrong took to her bed, issuing heart-wrenching pronouncements of grief to the press. Mr. Armstrong, though visibly shaken, focused on controlling the narrative, ensuring the "tragedy" was portrayed with the utmost dignity, subtly blaming the perils of transatlantic travel. Investigators were dispatched, inquiries made, but the official verdict remained: lost at sea.
Society whispered. The "Armstrong Tragedy" became the talk of every drawing-room and dining table. Some offered genuine sympathy; others, like Mrs. Nellie Vanderberg, reveled in the dramatic downfall of the upstart family. "Imagine," Nellie would undoubtedly have purred to her circle, "to lose a Duke, and then to lose the bride herself! Such bad luck for the Armstrongs."
Then came the unexpected telegram from England, a mere few days after the news of Anastasia's presumed death had reached Henry. It wasn't to the Armstrongs, but directly to Lily, filtered through her father's secretary first, then cautiously delivered to her by Mr. Armstrong himself, his expression a mixture of grim purpose and renewed calculation.
"HIS GRACE DUKE OF WARRINGTON DEEPLY GRIEVED REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE WARRINGTON RESIDENCE NEW YORK DESIRES TO EXTEND PERSONAL CONDOLENCES AND SOLACE URGENT."
Lily stared at the telegram, her breath catching. The Duke? Requesting her presence? Her father's eyes, shrewd and assessing, were fixed on her. "It seems," Mr. Armstrong said, a new, unsettling gleam in his eye, "that the Duke is quite distraught. He requests your comfort, Liliana. A gesture of immense courtesy, under the circumstances." He paused, clearing his throat. "We simply cannot refuse. It would be… impolite. A grave insult to the Duke after such a shared sorrow."
Lily's stomach churned. This wasn't about comfort. This was about salvage. Her parents, ever pragmatic, saw a glimmer of hope in the wreckage of their plans. Athanasia was gone, but the ducal connection, however tenuous, remained. And Lily, the overlooked, disposable daughter, was now their last, desperate card to play.
"But... me, Papa?" Lily stammered, feeling overwhelmed. "I... I can't possibly comfort a Duke. What would I say? What would I do?" The thought of facing Henry, the man who had briefly seen her, then almost immediately forgotten her for her dazzling sister, filled her with dread. She was grieving for Athanasia; she was utterly inadequate for this task.
"Nonsense, Liliana," Mrs. Armstrong, now out of bed and dressed in severe black, swept into the room, her grief seemingly momentarily forgotten in the face of this new opportunity. "You are Athanasia's sister. It is your duty to offer solace. Think of it as… a shared burden. A continuation of our family's bond with His Grace." Her eyes, sharp and calculating, met Lily's in the mirror. "You will go. And you will conduct yourself with the utmost dignity. This is not a request."
And so, with a heavy heart and a mind churning with anxiety, Lily found herself packed into a hansom cab, bound for the New York residence Henry had taken for his American stay. The air was cold, mirroring the chill in her soul. She clutched a small, worn book in her gloved hands, its pages offering no solace today. Each jolt of the cab over the cobblestones brought her closer to a confrontation she was utterly unprepared for.
Henry's New York residence was a grand, though temporary, affair on a quiet street, less ostentatious than the Armstrongs' marble palace, but exuding an air of old-world dignity. A solemn-faced butler, very much like the Mr. Hawthorne Lily would later meet, ushered her into a formal drawing-room. The curtains were drawn against the bright afternoon light, casting the room in a somber half-light, as befitting a house in mourning.
Henry stood by the fireplace, his back to her, silhouetted against the dim glow of embers. He was dressed in dark mourning clothes, which somehow made him seem even taller, more imposing. The quiet dignity of his sorrow was palpable, a stark contrast to her parents' performative grief.
"Your Grace?" Lily's voice, small and uncertain, barely carried across the large room.
Henry turned slowly. His face was drawn, his eyes heavy with weariness and grief. But then, as his gaze met hers, something shifted. A flicker of recognition, a subtle tightening around his eyes that had nothing to do with sorrow. He seemed to take a small, sharp breath, his gaze suddenly intense, piercing, as if he were seeing her for the very first time.
"Miss Armstrong," he said, his voice deeper than she remembered, laced with a new, startling note. He took a step forward, then another, his eyes never leaving hers. There was a pause, a stretch of silence that felt charged with unspoken understanding. He didn't offer a platitude or a polite expression of sympathy. Instead, his gaze searched hers, a growing shock widening his eyes.
Lily felt a blush creep up her neck. Had she done something wrong? Was her grief not proper enough? She wrung her gloved hands, convinced she had already failed her mission to "comfort."
Henry stopped a few feet from her, his expression utterly bewildered, a dawning horror mixing with a profound realization. He saw the genuine, quiet sorrow in her eyes, the way she clutched her hands, the familiar shyness that had captivated him in the garden. He remembered the feel of her shawl, the unique curve of her neck in the moonlight. He took in her modest mourning dress, her understated elegance compared to Athanasia's usual vibrancy.
"You," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a dawning incredulity. "It was you." His eyes widened further, fixed on her, as if a veil had been ripped away. The truth, in that moment, hit him with the force of a physical blow. The quiet one. The authentic one. The one he had spoken to in the garden. He had been enchanted by this Miss Armstrong, not the dazzling socialite. The realization was both shattering and exhilarating. He had proposed to the wrong sister.
A wave of profound guilt washed over him, followed by an intense surge of recognition, and something deeper – a powerful, undeniable connection. All this time, he had mourned a woman he intended to marry out of duty, while the woman who had truly captured his attention, the woman he now realized he profoundly desired, stood before him, grieving not just for a sister, but for the loss of her only solace.
Lily, utterly confused by his intensity, could only stare, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Your Grace?" she whispered again, a fresh wave of self-consciousness washing over her. She misinterpreted his expression as disappointment, perhaps even disgust. She was a poor substitute indeed.
Henry raised a hand, as if to ward off an invisible force, his mind reeling. "My God," he breathed, the words escaping him. He looked at Lily, truly saw her, and the weight of his colossal mistake, the depth of his initial blindness, crashed down upon him. And with it, the undeniable, terrifying truth: he had proposed to the wrong sister, and now, he was undeniably, irrevocably, captivated by the right one. The true tragedy, for him, was just beginning.
Henry stood frozen, the ornate drawing-room of his New York residence suddenly too small, too quiet, too charged with the weight of his devastating revelation. Lily, her eyes wide and confused, shifted uncomfortably, mistaking his stunned silence for disapproval. He had to speak, to explain, but the words felt trapped behind a dam of shock and burgeoning desire.
"Your Grace?" Lily whispered again, her voice barely a breath. "Are you... unwell?"
Her concern, so genuine, so artless, only intensified the blow. This was the woman he had dismissed, the secondary sister, the quiet one. Yet, it was her quiet grace that had drawn his weary eye, her authentic vulnerability that had pierced through the cloying artifice of the Gilded Age ball. He remembered the feeling in the garden—a sudden, unbidden spark of recognition, a sense of having found something real in a world of illusion. He had focused on the "Armstrong" name, the necessity of the match, and the superficial reports from his secretary, allowing the glittering facade of Athanasia to obscure the genuine article. He, Henry Alistair Warrington, Duke of Warrington, a man priding himself on discernment, had made a catastrophic error.
"No," he managed, his voice rougher than intended. He took another step towards her, driven by an urgency he couldn't name. "No, Miss Armstrong, I am... not unwell. I am merely... profoundly mistaken." He reached out, his hand hovering, then falling, unsure if he dared touch her. "Forgive me. I... I have been a fool."
Lily's brow furrowed, a delicate crease between her eyes. "A fool, Your Grace? I don't understand." Her self-deprecation was immediate. "If it is my presence here that offends, I assure you, my parents insisted..."
"No!" Henry interrupted, his voice sharper now, cutting through her habitual self-effacement. "Not your presence. Never your presence." He took another breath, forcing himself to calm, to think clearly, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "Miss Armstrong... in the garden. At the ball. That was... that was you?"
Lily's cheeks flushed a deep crimson. "Yes, Your Grace. I... I sought a moment of quiet."
"Quiet," Henry echoed, the word tasting like a revelation on his tongue. "You spoke of it being overwhelming inside. I remember." He closed his eyes for a brief moment, picturing the scene with vivid, painful clarity. The way she had sat on the bench, head bowed, so utterly apart from the world within. The genuine sigh. The sense of solitude. "And you said... you said you should return, as it was 'impolite' to be away too long."
Lily's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise mixed with lingering confusion. He remembered? He remembered their brief, insignificant exchange? She had assumed he had forgotten it the moment he returned to the ball, swallowed by the more pressing demands of society and his radiant fiancée.
"Yes, Your Grace," she managed, a tremor in her voice. "I did."
Henry opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on hers, desperate for her to understand the magnitude of his realization. "And the proposal," he began, the words difficult, painful, "the proposal was... for Miss Athanasia. For your sister."
Lily nodded, her expression softening into gentle, familiar sadness. "Yes. She was so very happy, Your Grace. She spoke of it often." The lie, spoken to her by Athanasia's forced brightness, still echoed in Lily's memory.
"No," Henry countered, shaking his head slowly, emphatically. "No, she wasn't." He looked away for a moment, wrestling with the implications. "Not truly. And I... I was blind. Blinded by duty, by necessity. By expectation." He turned back to Lily, his gaze intense, earnest. "When I asked for 'the younger Miss Armstrong,' for 'the one I spoke to in the garden,' they... they presented Athanasia." His jaw tightened, a muscle clenching. The Armstrongs. Of course. They would have seen their chance, twisted his words, ensured their prized daughter secured the ducal match. He was suddenly appalled by his own naivety, his own reliance on intermediaries, his own acceptance of the pre-arranged match.
Lily stared, a dawning comprehension slowly, painfully, breaking through her ingrained disbelief. Her parents. It was a familiar pattern, their manipulation, their cunning. But for this? To misdirect a Duke? The sheer audacity of it left her speechless. And then, a fresh wave of humiliation washed over her. He had wanted her? The invisible Lily? No. It couldn't be. Her mind immediately rejected the notion. This was pity. This was guilt.
"Your Grace," Lily said, her voice now firmer, though still laced with her deep-seated self-deprecation. "You must be mistaken. You spoke to my sister at length at the ball. She is vibrant, charming, accomplished. Everything a Duke would desire. I am... merely Lily." She gestured vaguely to herself, to her quiet mourning dress, to her own pale, unadorned presence. "I assure you, you mistook a polite conversation for something more. It is a common error with me."
Henry felt a surge of frustration, but also a profound, aching understanding of the decades of neglect and devaluation that lay behind her words. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't see what he saw.
"It was no error," he insisted, his voice gentle but firm. "And it was no mere polite conversation. It was... the only genuine moment of my entire visit to New York. You cut through the artifice, Miss Armstrong. You, with your quietness, your honesty, your desire for a moment of peace. You were not a performance. And that, I assure you, is precisely what a Duke, or any man, desires in a true partner."
He took another step, closing the distance between them, his eyes pleading with her to believe him. "I admit my folly. My preoccupation with duty, with the financial salvation of my family, overshadowed my judgment. I relied on others, on vague descriptions, when I should have been utterly precise. And I believed their interpretation of my request. But when you entered this room, Miss Armstrong, when I looked at you... I knew. I knew I had made a profound, terrible mistake in proposing to another. Because it was you I sought. It was you who captured my attention."
Lily's breath hitched. His words, so earnest, so direct, were shattering the walls of her carefully constructed self-perception. She felt a dizzying mixture of fear and a fragile, terrifying hope. Could it be true? Could this man, a Duke, who could have any woman, truly have wanted her? The thought was so utterly foreign, so contradictory to everything she had ever been told about herself. Her parents' voices, sharp and dismissive, echoed in her mind: 'Melancholic waif.' 'Childish brooding.' 'Utterly devoted to her sister.' They would never believe this. She could barely believe it herself.
"But... Athanasia..." Lily stammered, the name a painful barrier. "She was your intended. And now... she is gone. You are grieving." She forced herself to speak, even as her heart begged her to simply accept his words. "This is kindness, Your Grace. Pity. You feel obligated due to... due to the tragedy."
Henry winced. "Obligation? Yes, I am honor-bound. But pity?" He shook his head emphatically. "There is no pity in this, Miss Armstrong. Only regret for my initial blindness, and... a profound sense of discovery." His gaze softened, intensified. "I grieve Athanasia's passing, yes, as a decent man should. But my sentiments towards her were those of duty. My sentiments towards you are something entirely different. Something far more... compelling."
He paused, then took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Miss Armstrong," he said, his voice gaining a clear, resolute tone, "I made a mistake in proposing to your sister. A grievous mistake of identity. But I am an honorable man. And I believe in rectifying my errors. My offer of marriage was to an Armstrong. My heart, now, clearly tells me to whom that offer should truly have been addressed. Therefore, with all due respect, and with the utmost sincerity... I wish to extend that proposal to you. Liliana."
The use of her given name, spoken with such earnestness, was like a physical touch. Lily's world tilted. A proposal. To her. Not as a replacement, not as a duty, but because he claimed he had wanted her all along. The audacity, the impossibility of it, warred with the fragile spark of hope his words ignited.
"Your Grace," she whispered, shaking her head, tears pricking at her eyes. "You cannot. The scandal. My parents... they would never allow it. And society..."
"Society will talk regardless," Henry stated, his voice firm, dismissive of the whispers that were already swirling around his name. "And your parents, I assure you, will be far more amenable to preserving the ducal connection than they will be to any argument against it." His eyes met hers, holding a plea. "But this is not about them, Liliana. This is about us. About what I saw in you, and what I believe we could build. Will you consider it? Will you consider giving me the chance to rectify my mistake, and to show you what I truly feel?"
Lily stood paralyzed, caught between the crushing weight of her lifelong insignificance and the impossible, breathtaking possibility that this noble, discerning man genuinely saw something worthy in her. Her mind screamed that it was a trick, a cruel jest, or a desperate act of honor. But her heart, so long starved of kindness, yearned to believe him. The very idea was terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly unbelievable. She was Lily, the overlooked. How could she ever be a Duchess, let alone his Duchess? And yet, his eyes held a sincerity that defied all her ingrained skepticism.