by Shana Galen
He watched her leave, left with more questions than answers.
***
Lily returned to her room, surprised she had not taken a wrong turn en route. She had not even been at Ravenscroft Castle for twelve hours. It seemed like weeks. She had Anna help her undress for bed and then dismissed her. When she was alone, Lily took a sheet of paper and a quill from her satchel and began to pen a note to Fitzhugh. She was brutally honest in her remarks, admitting she had been too heavy-handed when asking about Ravenscroft’s activities during the war. She sat back, read over what she’d written.
The problem, as usual, was Darlington. She should have been able to question him with all of her usual finesse, but she found herself edgy and impatient in his presence.
She lifted her quill again, dipped it in ink, and wrote of Fallon: Our mutual friend was correct in surmising that Lord D—will be a problem. He thwarts me at every turn. I will deal with him, but I may be forced to take less than appealing measures.
Lily shuddered. It had been bad enough to endure Ravenscroft’s touch for a few minutes before he’d fallen into a stupor. How was she going to tolerate him for any lengthy period of time? She knew if she was to be successful in this mission she might have to go to bed with the duke. Fitzhugh and his superiors had never said as much. It was not expected, but it was also part of the reason she’d been chosen for this mission. If she was a courtesan in truth, this aspect of her mission would not have caused her to blink, but for the life of her, Lily did not understand how courtesans tolerated bedding men they found repulsive. Desperation born out of necessity, she supposed. She was not quite that desperate yet. She had another idea, but she thought Darlington would like it even less than he liked the idea of her bedding his father.
And what did it matter what Darlington thought anyway? He was an impediment, nothing more. Except he was so much an impediment because she still wanted him. She had thought after his aborted kidnapping attempt she would hate him forever. She didn’t. If he would stop kissing her, that would have helped. She could hate him quite easily until he kissed her or touched her—and then something happened. She took leave of her senses, and her body responded.
She had imagined thousands of times what it would be like to be touched by him, kissed by him, desired by him, but the reality exceeded her every fantasy. Perhaps her experience was too limited to indulge in truly sinful fantasies.
And that thought brought her to the other issue in the back of her mind.
She signed the letter and readied it to be posted. She needed to find a way to escape for a few hours tomorrow. A servant could easily post the letter, so that would not suffice as an excuse. Perhaps she could claim she had forgotten some necessary undergarment and beg to be excused from the afternoon entertainments to go into the little town nearby.
But then all the other women would want to go into town as well. The suggestion of an afternoon of shopping would be too tempting. That meant she would have to sneak away. It was an unnecessary risk—precisely what the countess had warned her against. But she had to see him again. It had been at least two years, and the last time it had broken her heart. She had vowed not to return. He was well. He did not need her. She had made the right decision.
But she had to see for herself. She had to see him one last time, if only to say good-bye in her heart.
The early morning might be the best time to slip away. The ladies would be abed, and the men would rise early to hunt. She glanced at her clock and sighed. That left her approximately two hours in which to sleep. Reluctantly, she summoned Anna again, and told her to wake her when the household servants rose to tend to the gentlemen. And then Lily fell into a light sleep.
***
The dew on the grass near the stables soaked her boots before she had even departed Ravenscroft Castle. Lily stood shivering in the misty morning, listening to the distant sound of hounds baying as the hunt began. Most of the grooms were engaged with the hunt, but she had found one still behind and asked him to saddle a good-natured horse for her. He’d offered to go with her, but Lily had refused. This was something she needed to do on her own. She’d lifted her riding crop and said she could handle any trouble, but now she patted her pocket and felt the reassuring weight of her small pistol. She did not think she would have to fire it. It would be enough to show it if she was accosted.
The groom brought the mare, an older horse who was gentle and slow, and helped her mount. She straightened her dark red riding habit then asked for general directions and started on her way, keeping well away from the men and their hunt. The sun had burned off most of the mist by the time she reached her destination. The air had warmed, and she was no longer cold. One look at the blue-streaked sky told her it would be a lovely summer day—the kind with puffy clouds and light breezes, carrying the scent of summer flowers.
It had been a summer day like this long ago when she’d met him. She’d been at a fair just outside London and had begged her parents to allow her to roam about with her friends. They had conceded, and she’d skipped off with two girls whose names she could barely remember now. They’d had a marvelous time. Between them, they’d probably had all of sixpence, but much could be had at a fair for very little in those days. And watching people come and go was free.
Lily would never know why he’d chosen her. He could have had his pick of any of the foolish young girls at the fair that day, but when she’d looked up from studying the heifers on display, she’d seen him watching her. He was handsome, devilishly handsome. And, of course, he was older. Her breath had caught in her throat when he’d smiled at her and approached. She remembered feeling her cheeks heat and knowing she was as red as the ribbons she and her friends had admired at one of the booths.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, and held out his hand. It was such a romantic thing to say. Not that she would have found it romantic now. At five and twenty, she would have rolled her eyes at such foolishness and made a witty, but cutting, remark. At barely sixteen years of age, she was charmed. Impossibly charmed. And he knew how to charm young girls, or so she realized later—when it was too late. He made a great show of introducing himself and bowing politely to her friends, but he wanted her alone. And, despite her parents’ warnings to stay with her friends, she went with him.
He bought her sweets and paid her admission to the menagerie and the boxing matches. And before he left her, he bought her the red ribbons she’d been eyeing. Her mother would scold her for purchasing those later—red was one of the colors that clashed horribly with her hair and complexion. He also arranged to see her again. He’d told her his name was Giles Westerly, and he’d bowed and said, “Lily Dawson, it has been a pleasure.”
She’d been Lily Dawson then, not the Countess of Charm. If not for Giles Westerly, she might never have become the Countess of Charm, but she couldn’t put all the blame on him. She had always loved adventure and excitement too much. The forbidden was all the more appealing to the girl in her who was tired of needlepoint and peeling potatoes and all of the other domestic chores that dominated her day and, seemingly, her life.
She’d lived for those clandestine meetings and the stolen kisses and delicious caresses that became bolder and more forbidden as the summer went on. Oh, she’d protested his roving hands and his nimble fingers, but she hadn’t meant it. She’d been in love—or what passed for love at that age. She’d thought he loved her too.
But, of course, he hadn’t. When he’d taken what he wanted, he disappeared, and by the time the leaves had turned, the romance was over and her virtue lost.
She shook her head ruefully at the memory as the mare topped a low rise. She was close. She remembered this rise—or so she thought. And when she reached the summit, she reined in the horse and looked down at the small cottage with its well-tended flowers and verdant fields. A puff of smoke came from the chimney, which gave her hope the family was home. She should have wished the
y were away for the day. Seeing him would give her no peace, as much as she tried to tell herself it would. That was a lie, and if the Countess of Sinclair had been here, she would have seen right through it.
But not even that formidable lady could have kept Lily away. She’d tried in the past, but Lily supposed she still had some of the foolishness that contributed to her fall all those years ago. A decade ago. Another lifetime.
And then the door opened, and her heart all but stopped. It was him. She would have known that face and that hair anywhere. She saw it every day in the mirror. He didn’t see her, and that was for the best, because she was certain her face showed her every feeling. She had been prepared for the yearning—the longing to hold him, know him, this part of herself who had been so abruptly severed from her life. She’d not been prepared for the pain—the absolute anguish and despair that crashed over her when she saw him.
He was no longer a baby. He was growing up without her. He was his own person, and she, who at one time had known his every breath or cry, knew nothing of him now. Her arms ached to hold him again, tickle his tiny, plump toes, kiss his sweet brow, feel his chubby hand curl possessively about her finger.
The pain of her loss washed over her, and she would have crumpled had she not been seated atop the horse. Clutching her hand to her heart, she watched as the boy carried a bucket, appearing wholly absorbed in his own thoughts. She wondered what they might be. What did a boy of nine think about, imagine, dream of? Did he ever think of her? Did he even know she existed?
She hoped not. She could be nothing but an embarrassment and a disgrace to this boy. In London, when she was engaged in a steady diet of balls and routs, she never thought of what she was. She danced and laughed and flirted and spent others’ money as though it were her own. Occasionally, she would catch a glimpse of herself in a mirror and wonder who the girl looking back at her was. But she could barely remember what it had been like to be Lillian Beatrice Dawson.
It was only when she was on the street in the cold light of day—when she had shopping or an errand or some ordinary task—that she was reminded of her place. She was a fallen woman, and respectable men and women crossed the street to avoid her. It was as though her vice was catching and could infect one by mere proximity. Her own parents would not see her. She had tried not once, but twice, to visit them. She should have learned after the first time, but she had never given up easily, even when the results were painful. And she could hardly blame her parents for disowning her. She had given them little choice. However, she did blame them for abandoning her when she had needed them most. The abandonment had not only stabbed her in the heart but left her at the mercy of the figurative wolves.
Her father had ordered her out without even a second look. Her mother had found her and gave her some money and food, but to her father, she was dead.
Even now Lily was angry at the man she’d once revered. He’d turned her out—scared and with child. Alone and defenseless. He knew London, knew what awaited her on its streets, and he’d abandoned her to that fate. If it hadn’t been for the Earl and the Countess of Sinclair, she would be dead by now. Lily did not doubt that.
The boy looked up at her, his gaze curious. She knew what he saw—a well-dressed woman on horseback out for a morning ride. He might wonder why she had ventured so far from the castle, as she was likely one of the duke’s guests. And then she saw him turn toward her. Sweet boy. He had no idea how tempted she was to go to him. She wanted nothing more than to dismount. She would run to him, embrace him, wrap her arms around him as she had when he was a baby. All she wanted was to hold him one more time, to kiss his face, to tell him she loved him, she thought of him every day, she had not wanted to give him up. She wanted to see him laugh, hear his voice, hold his small hand in hers.
She never wanted to let him go again. Even now, the pain of losing him cut through her and left her breathless. Would it ever dull? Would she ever feel whole and complete once again? When would she wake without that vague feeling of wrongness? When would she open her eyes and not feel the crushing pain of remembering that a chunk of her heart was missing?
At times she wished her memory would fail her, so she would not have to bear the hurt.
He was nearing, and she knew her illusions about a reunion were just that—illusions. She would have to leave him. Again. He waved at her, his smile lighting up the hillside, and her heart clenched. Sweet boy. Handsome boy. She bit her lip to stanch the tears. He probably thought she was lost.
But she was not lost, and as she turned her horse, she knew it was time she returned to what she knew.
Eight
Andrew stepped back into a small copse and watched as Lily spurred her horse back in the direction of Ravenscroft Castle. His own horse nickered quietly at the scent of the mare he probably recognized from the stable, and Andrew put his hand on the horse’s nose and soothed the beast.
When she was away, he mounted the animal and urged him up the hill where she’d stood, looking down. He saw nothing unusual, nothing to warrant her attention. If memory served, this was the Musgrove home. The man was a gentleman farmer, and while the family was not wealthy, they were self-sufficient. Did they have only the one boy? Andrew couldn’t remember, but he was intrigued. Everything about Lily seemed to intrigue him.
And now he would return home and see what other intrigues this day held.
He’d spent the rest of the late morning avoiding his father’s guests. It had not been difficult because, with the exception of Lily and the men who had gone hunting, no one had been up and about. He’d found his sister in the music room, practicing her pianoforte as well as the harp. He’d listened briefly and then stepped outside to search for his father’s steward. His father had been too occupied with his vices of late to take much notice of the estate, and Andrew had taken to meeting with the steward to discuss what needed to be done. But he’d barely left the house when he was accosted by someone else altogether.
“My lord,” the opera singer purred, waving her fan in front of her face. It was a breezy day, and she did not need the fan, but he supposed it was for effect. And it was a lovely effect. Angelique was an attractive woman. He was rather surprised she had sought him out after the way he’d neglected her the previous night.
“Mrs. Howell. Good morning.”
“Angelique, please,” she said. “Care to accompany me on a walk?”
“Actually, I had business to attend to with the steward.”
“Oh, is that all?” She fluttered her fan again. “Do you mind if I accompany you? I’m certain I shall find it fascinating.”
Andrew sincerely doubted that. He did not find it interesting. But neither did he want the opera singer running to his father with a complaint. Andrew would be damned if he was going to be accused of not entertaining his father’s guests. He offered an arm. “He is typically near the stables at this time of day. I thought to seek him there.”
“Oh, good,” she purred, but he saw her look down at her dainty slippers. They would be ruined if she stepped in manure or muck. “This is a beautiful estate, my lord,” she said. “Did you enjoy growing up here?”
“How could I not?” He’d spent more time at Eton than he had here, but his sisters had told him it was a lovely place to grow up. But this was not a woman to whom he relished giving confidences. She was making idle chatter, not hoping for his life story. He supposed it was his turn to ask her a question, but he could not think of one. He really didn’t care where she had grown up or what opera she was performing next or what she thought of the weather. Angelique did not interest him, and he did not feel like feigning interest today.
They walked in silence and had not made it halfway to the stables when the woman cried out and halted. Annoyed, Andrew glanced back at her. “Oh, dear. I do not think my slippers will survive a trek through that.” She pointed to a muddy puddle. He had intended to step over it. Surely she could
step over it as well. “Could you lift me over it, my lord?” There was the waving fan again and a flutter of her lashes.
Andrew smiled tightly, put his hands on her waist, lifted and arced her over the puddle. He set her down and started for the stables again. And then there was a pile of manure and then another puddle. Angelique had to be carried over each. Andrew was no fool. He could see her ploy. She had not come with him because she thought it interesting. She hoped to seduce him. He did not know why this annoyed him. She was an attractive woman, and he had been without a woman in his bed for some time. But he had wanted only to speak to the steward, and he was tired and did not want to carry her halfway across the yard. He did not want to flirt or tease or whatever else she had in mind. He wanted to finish his business.
And if only Pelham could hear him now. His friend the Duke of Pelham was always saying Darlington was too frivolous to be a duke. Darlington wasn’t even a duke yet, and already he had become as sober and dull as Pelham. He wasn’t even interested in opera singers anymore. That was not normal. Flynn would have suggested Andrew have a doctor examine him for signs of fever.
Finally, Andrew arrived at the stables and found the steward discussing a matter with the stable master. Andrew joined in their discussion of which conveyances needed repair and which it was more worthwhile to simply replace. He had not even touched on the topic of the fall harvest when Angelique gave a loud yawn and said she would have a look about.
Andrew gave the steward an apologetic look and attempted to return to the discussion. The steward was explaining the need for several more workers when they heard a loud clatter. Several grooms came running, and Andrew followed them to the saddle room. Two or three overturned buckets rolled on the ground, the grain that had been inside scattered about, and a stack of horseshoes had fallen from their hooks and lay on the ground. “I’m so sorry!” Angelique said. “I do not know what happened.”
