by Sylvia Day
Liliah almost reminded him that he was doing just that—but held her tongue.
“There is a . . . place.” Meyer spoke in a hushed whisper, and Liliah moved in closer just to hear his words above the floating music. “It’s secretive, selective, and not a place for a gently bred lady, if you gather my meaning.”
Liliah nodded, hanging on every word.
“Only few are accepted as members and it’s quite the thing to be invited. One of my acquaintances was far too drunk the other night and spoke too freely about this secretive club—mentioning a masquerade. That is all.”
Liliah thought over his words, having several questions. “What’s it called?”
Meyer paused, narrowing his eyes. “Temptations,” he added reluctantly.
“And they are having a masquerade?” Liliah asked, a plan forming in her mind, spinning out of control.
“Yes. And that is all you need to know.”
Meyer broke their gaze and looked over his shoulder at the swirling crowd.
“Go to her. We still have one waltz left and then I’ll ask you all the questions you’ll refuse to answer.” She winked, playfully shoving her friend toward the dance floor.
“When you put it that way . . .” He rolled his eyes and walked off toward the crowd.
Liliah thought back over what Meyer had said, considering his words—and what they might mean. A masquerade—inappropriate for ladies.
It sounded like the perfect solution for a lady wishing to be utterly inappropriate. All she had to do was discover the location, steal away, and maybe, just maybe . . . she’d get to experience a bit of life before it was married away. Was that too much to ask? Certainly not, and as long as she knew the name, surely she could discover the location.
For the first time since this whole misbegotten disaster, she felt a shred of hope.
Utterly scandalous hope.