A Season of Ruin

by Anna Bradley

  Chapter Twenty

  Breakfast the next morning was a quiet affair. Lily was rather late to the table, for she’d spent half the morning pacing from her bed to her dressing table, wondering how she could possibly face Robyn after the way he’d . . . and she’d . . . and they’d . . .

  Every time she recalled the way she’d trembled in his arms and pleaded with him to touch her, her entire body exploded in heat and set her face aflame with embarrassment and longing. Then back across her room she’d go, hoping to cool her cheeks and put a halt to her lurid imagination.

  For imagine she did—her mind worked feverishly to conjure an answer for every question left unanswered after Robyn had sent her back to her room the night before.

  She needn’t have worried about meeting him at the breakfast table. He didn’t appear at all that morning. Lily was ready to jump from her skin every time she heard a noise in the hallway outside the breakfast room until at last Ellie informed her, far too casually, that Robyn had left the house earlier that morning.

  Ellie had fallen into a rather morose silence after that announcement, though Lily noticed her friend’s sharp eyes on her more than once.

  Charlotte wasn’t in a much better state than Eleanor. She seemed to be more agitated even than Lily. “Oh, Lily, I meant to ask you if Lord Atherton . . .” she began, but lapsed into silence without finishing her sentence.

  Lily was in no mood to endure one of Charlotte’s interrogations, but she tried to arrange her face into an encouraging attitude. “Yes?”

  Charlotte tried again, but whatever it was she wanted to say appeared to be lodged in her throat. “I wanted to say that I don’t think you should . . .”

  Lily tried to hide her impatience when Charlotte trailed off again. “If you think what it is, Charlotte, I’ll be in my bedchamber writing letters.”

  She laid her napkin down on her untouched plate and made her way to her bedchamber. She did have letters to write, to each of her sisters, so she settled onto a settee and picked up Iris’s latest missive, which had arrived nearly a week ago.

  Iris wasn’t a patient correspondent, and Lily imagined her sister was nearly wild for a response by this point, but she’d avoided this task for days for the simple reason that she had no idea what to say.

  Iris’s letter was filled with questions about the London entertainments, eager inquiries about ladies’ fashions, and repeated demands that Lily describe, in breathless detail, each of her encounters with her London beaux. Her sister seemed to be under the impression there were scores of them. She’d have been shocked to find there were only two.

  Two beaux, but only one who mattered, and that one not really a beau at all.

  What was Lily to say to her sister?

  Dearest Iris,

  The entertainments are sufficient to entertain, the ladies’ fashions are sufficient to cover the ladies (with a few notable and shocking exceptions), and just last night the rogue I’ve fallen madly in love with, the wickedest gentleman in London, used his talented mouth and fingers to bring me to screaming, shaking pleasure.

  She set Iris’s letter aside. No. It wouldn’t do, would it?

  There was a knock on the door. Charlotte, most likely, ready to begin her interrogation. Lily braced herself for the inevitable and went to admit her friend.

  But it wasn’t Charlotte. Instead, Delia stood on the threshold.

  She ran a shrewd eye over Lily’s face. “Well, for a young lady who’s had her every wish granted, you look remarkably sober.”

  “Delia! My goodness. What are you doing here so early? You shouldn’t have come. You’ll tire yourself and worry Alec.”

  Delia entered the room and peeled her gloves off, one finger at a time. “I’m not the only one who rose early this morning. Lord Atherton is in Alec’s study at this very moment, asking for your hand. I suppose you already know that, however.”

  Lily closed the door behind Delia. “Will Alec refuse him?”

  She tried and failed to hide her hopeful tone.

  Perhaps Alec would refuse, and then . . .

  Delia took a seat on the sofa, laid her gloves carefully in her lap, and folded her hands on top of them. “Of course not. Why would he? He asked me if you’d settled on Atherton and I told him I believed you had, for you did say so, Lily. Have you changed your mind?”

  Lily thought she detected a hopeful note in Delia’s voice, as well.

  She rose and began to pace her room again, then paused in front of the mirror to study her reflection. One of her curls had escaped its pins. She tugged at the errant lock to wrestle it back into submission, but her hands faltered in mid-motion before she could subdue it. She stared at her reflection for a moment, then loosed her grip on the curl and let it spring back into place outside its pin.

  She turned back to Delia. “I do wonder why you keep asking me that question, Delia.”

  Delia shifted onto her side on the settee. “I don’t like him.”

  Lily gave a forlorn little laugh. “I think pregnancy has made you far too blunt.”

  Delia shrugged. “Perhaps it has. I’m too exhausted to meander about the point. In any case, it hardly matters what I think. Only your opinion matters, but as I said before, you look quite somber for a young lady who’s finally caught her desired gentleman’s eye, so I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind.”

  “I can’t change my mind, even if I wished it. I’ve encouraged his attentions. He has every right to expect me to accept his proposals. It wouldn’t be proper to refuse him now.”

  “Proper?” Delia’s gave an incredulous laugh. “You’d marry a man because it’s not proper to refuse him? My goodness, Lily, you’ll pay a pretty price for that propriety. A marriage devoid of any kind of tender feeling will be a cold one, indeed.”

  “He’s not devoid of tender feeling entirely, Delia,” Lily began, though even to her own ears her protest sounded halfhearted.

  “My dear, I refer to your feelings for him.”

  Lily supposed she could deny it, but there didn’t seem to be much point. Delia already saw the truth, just as she always did.

  “I know you said you wish for a quiet, peaceful life,” Delia went on, “but be careful you don’t find yourself with far more quiet and peace than you ever wanted.”

  Lily took a seat on the chair across from the settee. “Lady Chase—that is, our grandmother wants the match.”

  Delia shrugged. “Yes, I expect she does. She and Lady Atherton have been friends for ages.”

  “Her patronage means a great deal to Iris, Violet, and Hyacinth.”

  “It means a great deal to you, as well, as I’m sure you noticed at Lady Chase’s fete the other night. That was the first time Lord Atherton ever danced with you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lily admitted, “but that’s not the point. To refuse Lord Atherton at this stage might anger Lady Chase, and if she becomes angry . . .”

  “I beg your pardon, but it is very much worth noting that Lord Atherton hadn’t a kind word for you before Lady Chase acknowledged you. As for our sisters, well, it would be unfortunate if our grandmother withdrew her patronage, but you can hardly plan your future based on every whim of Lady Chase’s, can you? Our mother certainly didn’t.”

  Lily’s throat closed at the mention of their mother, but Delia didn’t flinch. She continued to regard Lily with steady, serious blue eyes.

  Lily’s voice came out in a whisper. “It will cause another scandal . . .”

  To her surprise, Delia smiled. “Oh, my yes. Well, what would the ton do for entertainment if the Somerset family ceased to cause scandals? Think how dull London would be then.”

  Lily smiled back at her sister despite herself. “They’d all have to retire to the country.”

  “Yes, well, I do hope someone will warn the country first.”

  “Indeed.”r />
  They gazed at each other for a moment, then both of them broke into helpless giggles.

  Delia kicked off her slippers and reclined on the settee. “Speaking of Lady Chase’s fete, how does Robyn get on?”

  Lily felt her face grow hot at mention of Robyn, then hotter still when Delia noticed and raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Robyn? I—what do you mean? He gets on just fine. I think. That is, how would I know how he gets on?”

  Delia’s eyebrow rose another notch at Lily’s fumbling reply. “I thought he seemed a bit out of sorts the other night. I don’t suppose you have any notion what’s troubling him?”

  “No,” Lily said too quickly.

  Delia tapped her finger against her chin. “Hmmm. He seems . . . angry. No, no, that’s not it. He seems melancholy.”

  Melancholy. The word caused Lily a pang, but a lie rose to her lips nonetheless. “He seems just the same as ever to me.”

  Delia looked at her for a moment, but Lily continued to avoid her sister’s eyes. Finally Delia sank back against the settee with a disappointed sigh. She stayed for another hour to help Lily finish a letter to Iris, but she didn’t bring up either Lord Atherton or Robyn again.

  Lily lingered in her bedchamber after Delia took her leave, her stomach a mass of writhing nerves. Lord Atherton would arrive soon. Indeed, he could even now be on his way to Mayfair, with every expectation of an acceptance of his proposal.

  She should be doing something to prepare. Rehearsing a proper acknowledgment of the honor he did her, practicing her words of acceptance, perhaps, or at the very least perfecting her toilette? Did she really want to accept Lord Atherton with a defiant curl bouncing on top of her head, scorning its proper place under its pins?

  She wandered over to sit before the looking glass and tried to smooth the rebellious curl back in place.

  It’s all right if you’re afraid, love. I’ll take care of you.

  Lily stared at her reflection in the glass. The night of the Chatsworths’ ball she’d sat in this very chair as Betsy arranged her hair, cursing Robyn for the trick he’d played her at Almack’s. Cursing his selfishness.

  Yet that night it was Robyn who’d come after her when she fled from Lady Chase, and Robyn who’d taken her into the study and draped a blanket over her shoulders. Robyn had dried her tears and held her in his arms and kissed her so tenderly, and then sent her off to her room, untouched. Well, mostly untouched.

  He had taken care of her, just as he said he would. Not just the night of the ball, but last night, too, when he’d sent her away from him a second time, even as his body had been shaking with his desire for her.

  Tonight is about you, Lily—it’s just for you.

  A sob rose in her throat. Was he melancholy, as Delia said? She couldn’t bear it if he was. Just the possibility caused her heart to spasm with pain.

  She closed her eyes and thought of the pleasure he’d given her last night—such pleasure she’d trembled in his arms, begged him to touch her, then cried out for him in the final moments, when it became so intense her entire body shuddered with it.

  Oh, love, you don’t have to do a thing . . . just let me give you pleasure.

  He’d gloried in her pleasure, and he’d taken nothing for himself.

  Before Robyn, she’d never known such pleasure existed, but that wasn’t even the most precious of the gifts he’d given her.

  She’d denied her own voice for so long, she’d forgotten she could still speak. Since her parents’ deaths she’d been locked inside herself, trapped in the darkest corner of the maze, certain that if she only stayed quiet, if she only behaved, nothing awful could ever touch her again.

  She’d become so fearful, she’d nearly lost the ability to speak altogether; had forgotten the power of words.

  Tell me what you want. Ask me to touch you.

  With every stroke of his hand and every touch of his mouth against her skin, Robyn had made her ask for what she wanted, and oh, how wonderful it had been, to be in his arms, and to tell him how good he made her feel. To tell him how desperately she wanted his hands on her.

  To speak the truth to him. To speak the truth to herself.

  A soft knock sounded on the door. Lily opened her eyes. “Yes?”

  Lady Catherine entered the room. “Lily? Lord Atherton is downstairs. He’s asked for a private word with you.”

  Lily took one last look in the glass, then rose from the bench.

  “My dear Lily.” Lady Catherine took both of Lily’s hands in hers.

  Lily looked into her face, the face of the woman who’d become a second mother to her. Lady Catherine’s eyes were shadowed with doubt, and her smooth skin was marred by worry lines.

  “Before you go downstairs, dear, I want to say something to you.”

  Lily nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Lady Catherine’s fingers tightened. “Nothing has yet been done that can’t be undone. Do you understand?”

  Lily squeezed the fingers that held hers and nodded again.

  “When Lord Atherton asks for your hand, Lily, I hope you will remember your only obligation is to yourself.”

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll remember,” Lily whispered.

  Lady Catherine leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Good.”

  Lord Atherton waited for her in the drawing room. He turned away from the window when Lily entered, crossed the room to her, and took her hands in his. “Miss Somerset . . . Lily. How lovely you look this afternoon. I thank you for seeing me.”

  Lily studied him, searching inside her breast for any rush of pleasure at the sight of him, any weakening of the knees or hitch in her breath that might hint at attraction, but aside from a detached appreciation for his handsomeness—and he was handsome, by any lady’s reckoning—she felt nothing.

  What’s more, she sensed he felt little for her in return, for all his apparent tenderness as he gazed down at her.

  “You can’t be at a loss to understand why I’m here, my dear.” He dropped to one knee and raised her bare hand to his lips. “As I’m sure you realize, I’m sensible of your superior attractions.”

  Lily felt her eyes widen. Her superior attractions? It was hardly the passionate adoration a young lady longed for from her betrothed.

  So beautiful. I knew you would be, Lily.

  “From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I determined I must make you my wife.”

  Indeed? It hadn’t been quite the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, though, had it? She remembered their introduction well, and she did not recall now that she’d been overwhelmed by any signs of warm regard on his part.

  Quite the opposite.

  “I’ve come directly from a visit to Lord Carlisle, and he’s granted me permission to request you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife.”

  It was the perfect proposal—utterly correct, neatly and economically done. Two weeks ago Lily would have swooned. Not with love or passion, but with satisfaction. Two weeks ago, Lord Atherton on bended knee before her, asking with the utmost propriety for her hand, would have been all Lily could have asked for.

  It’s all right to take what you want.

  Robyn’s words from last night echoed inside her head. But was it really all right to take what she wanted?

  Oh, it was too late! For weeks she’d led Lord Atherton on, had given him every reason to believe his proposal would be accepted. She’d toyed with him, a respectable gentleman. She’d schemed and plotted to snare him, and now that he’d come up to scratch at last . . .

  She wouldn’t be a labeled a jilt if she refused him, but it was a near thing. Lady Atherton would be furious, and Lady Chase, as well. She’d accused Robyn of being selfish, but wasn’t it the pinnacle of selfishness for her to refuse Lord Atherton, when she knew it might damage her sisters’ prospects?

  But
to marry a man she didn’t love—what could be more unfair to him, more selfish than that?

  She looked down at him, on one knee before her, his bright blue eyes fixed on her face. She believed he was a good man; a virtuous man. He’d give her a peaceful, quiet life, and he’d take care of her.

  Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.

  Lily drew in a deep breath. “My lord, I thank you for the great honor you do me . . .”

  * * *

  Bright morning light had flooded the drawing room when Lord Atherton arrived, but it had long since faded to twilight. Lily hadn’t lit the lamps. Shadows played across the yellow-papered walls as the sun moved westward across the sky, but still she sat, watching the fire burn down to embers.

  She’d been here for hours. She hadn’t moved since she’d heard the front door close behind Lord Atherton.

  Francis. He’d asked her to call him Francis.

  He’d made a formal offer for her hand, and she’d given him her answer. Even now, hours later, Lily couldn’t quite believe her own reply. She’d known precisely what she’d say to him when he proposed, right up to the point when he’d actually uttered the words. She’d felt vaguely surprised when she heard her answer leave her lips, as if someone else had replied for her in a language she couldn’t understand.

  She’d expected Charlotte to descend on her as soon as Lord Atherton left, but strangely, Charlotte hadn’t come. No one had, not even a servant. She’d been left alone in the silent room to ponder whether she’d just made the most grievous error of her life.

  There was nothing to do now but wait.

  Her heart crashed against her ribs with wild hope one moment, then sank into her slippers in despair the next. The knots in her belly grew tighter with every minute that passed, and there was but one reason for it.

  She watched the light until it disappeared entirely and dark gathered in the corners of the drawing room. Still, she didn’t light the lamps, but sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, and waited for Robyn to come home.