by Mary Balogh
“How old are you exactly, Lily?” he asked.
“Twenty, sir.”
“Ah.” He was silent for a few moments. “Twenty. You do not look so old. What is your date of birth?”
“I am twenty years old, sir,” she replied firmly, beginning to feel annoyed by the duke’s persistent questions.
They had already passed through the rock garden and were approaching the fountain. He looked down at her. “I beg your pardon, Lily,” he said. “I have been impertinent. Forgive me, please. It is just that you have reminded me of an old—oh, obsession, I suppose one might call it, from which I thought I had long recovered until you stepped into the nave of the village church.”
She was puzzled by him. She was annoyed with him. And she was not sure whether she ought to be a little frightened of him.
“Forgive me.” He stopped at the fountain, smiled at her, and raised her hand to his lips.
“Of course, sir,” she said graciously, drawing her hand away and turning to run lightly up the steps to the terrace. She forgot that looking the way she did, she ought to have run around to the servants’ entrance. But she was fortunate enough not to see anyone except the footman, Mr. Jones, who blushed and responded to her bright greeting with an embarrassed smirk.
The Duke of Portfrey had a handsome, elegant appearance and a pleasant smile, she thought. But it would be foolish indeed to stop being wary of the man.
The following day Neville went out early in the morning on estate business with his steward. It was not quite noon when he returned alone through the village. He decided to stop at the dower house to see how Lauren and Gwen did, though they called most days at the abbey. Lauren insisted on behaving just as if nothing untoward had happened. It might even be said that she had taken Lily under her wing. She sometimes even read and played the pianoforte for her. While it might seem to be a happy turn of events, it had Neville worried.
Gwendoline was alone in the morning room. She set down a book when Neville was shown in and raised her face for his kiss on the cheek. She did not smile at him. Gwen had not done much smiling lately.
“You have missed Lily by only a quarter of an hour,” she told him. “She came here after walking on the beach. She returned to the abbey through the forest instead of going by the driveway. She is very unconventional.”
“If that is meant as a criticism,” he said, “stow it, Gwen. Lily has my full permission to be as unconventional as she pleases.”
She looked assessingly at him. “Then she will never learn to fit in,” she said. “It is unwise of you, Nev. But I will tell you something that annoys me more than I can say. In many ways I envy her. I have never waded in the sea water—not since we were children, anyway. I have never climbed that rock and tossed off my bonnet and kicked off my shoes. I have never just … walked off into the forest without taking the path.”
They looked at each other gravely for a few moments and then exchanged rueful smiles.
“Don’t hate her, Gwen,” he said. “She had no intention whatsoever of causing anyone pain. And she is dreadfully lonely. I am not sure my support is enough for her. I need help.”
She picked up some tatting from a table beside her and bent over it. “It was such a pleasant dream,” she said. “You marrying Lauren and living at the abbey with her. Me here with Mama. All of us together as we always were before I—before I married Vernon. Now it is all spoiled. And Lauren is suffering so much that she will hardly confide even in me. Nev, we have always talked about everything.”
“Where is she?” he asked.
“She went out a few minutes after Lily left,” she said. “She said she needed air and exercise, but she did not want me to go with her. I wish she would not insist upon making Lily a—a project. She needs to prove something—that she can rise above adversity, that she can refuse to bear a grudge, that she can continue to be the perfect lady, as she has always been. If only she would—”
“Hurl things at my head and hate Lily?” he suggested when she hesitated.
“At least,” she said, “it would be healthy, Nev. Or if she would saturate a few towels with bitter tears. She has even spoken of moving back to the abbey so that she can always be available to Lily, to help her cope with her new life.”
“No,” he said firmly.
“No,” she agreed. “I will develop leprosy or something else deadly so that she will have to remain here to nurse me.”
They smiled fleetingly at each other again, and then she resumed her work.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I should suggest that Lauren go to London for at least a part of the Season. Elizabeth will be returning there within a few days. I am sure she would be delighted to have Lauren’s company. Yours too.”
“London?” She looked up, startled, “Oh no, Neville. No, I have no wish to go there. Lauren would not either. To find a husband, do you mean? It is too soon. Besides, she must be—our whole family must be rather notorious just now.”
He winced. Yes, he had not really thought of that. The events of the past week must be very adequately feeding the ton’s insatiable hunger for sensation and scandal. Many of its members had been at Newbury for the wedding. And those who had not been would be avid to learn the details. It would be humiliating to Lauren to appear in London this year.
He sighed and got to his feet. “I suppose,” he said, “we all need time. I just wish I could take all the burden of what has happened on my own shoulders and be the only one to suffer. Poor Lily. Poor Lauren. And poor Gwen.”
She set her work aside and accompanied him to the stable, where he had left his horse. She took his arm as they walked, and he reduced his stride to accommodate her limp.
“And after we have all been given time,” she said, “will you be happy, Nev? Is happiness possible for you now?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you had better train Lily,” she said. “Or better still, you had better allow Mama to train her.”
“I will not have Lily made unhappy, Gwen,” he said.
“Is she is happy as she is, then?” she cried. “Are any of us happy? Oh, what is the use? If we are unhappy, it is not Lily’s fault. Or even yours, I suppose. Why is it that we always seek to blame someone for our misery? It is just that I have been determined to dislike Lily quite intensely.”
“Gwen,” he said, “she is my wife. And it was a love match, you know.”
“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows. “Was it? Poor Lauren.”
She said no more, but raised an arm in farewell as he mounted and rode toward the driveway.
Lily had not yet returned to the abbey, he discovered when he arrived there himself, having left his horse to a groom’s care at the stables, though she had left the dower house a good half hour before he had. Where had she gone? It was almost impossible to know, but she had walked into the forest when she left the dower house. Perhaps she was still there. Not that it would be easy to find her. And not that he ought to try.
But perhaps she had lost her way. He strode off past the fountain and across the wide lawn toward the trees.
He might have wandered among them for an hour and not spotted her. It was sheer coincidence that he saw her almost immediately. His eye was caught by the fluttering of the pale blue dress that had been the first of her new clothes. She was standing very still against a tree trunk, her hands flat against it on either side of her body. He did not want to frighten her. He did not attempt to silence his approach as he went to stand in front of her. Even so, he could see the unmistakable fear in her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, closing them briefly, “it is just you.”
“Who did you think it was?” he asked her curiously. She was not wearing a bonnet—his mother would be scandalized—though her hair was neatly dressed.
She shook her head. “I do not know,” she said. “The Duke of Portfrey, perhaps.”
“Portfrey?” He frowned. But she had been afraid.
““What have you done with your cloak?” sh
e asked.
“I did not wear one today,” he replied, looking down at his riding clothes. “It is too warm.”
“Oh,” she said. “I was mistaken, then.”
He would not touch her, but he leaned his head a little closer to hers. “Why were you frightened?”
Her smile was a little wan. “I was not really. It was nothing. I am just jumping at shadows.”
His eyes roamed over her face. She looked even now as if she were afraid to abandon the safety of the tree against which she leaned. A new and painful thought struck him.
“I have thought about your captivity,” he said, “and I have thought of you in Lisbon, trying to get someone in the army to believe your story. But there is a chunk of missing time I have not considered, is there not? You were somewhere in Spain and walked all the way back to Lisbon in Portugal. Alone, Lily?”
She nodded.
“And every hill and hollow and thicket in both countries might have concealed a band of partisans,” he said, “or French troops caught behind their own lines. Or even our own men. You had no papers. I should have given thought to that journey of yours before now, should I not?” What sort of terrors must she have lived through in addition to the physical hardships of such a journey?
“Everyone’s life contains suffering,” she said. “We each have enough of our own. We do not need to shoulder the burden of other people’s too.”
“Even when the other person is one’s wife?” he asked. She should have been able to look on the partisans as friends, of course—they were all Britain’s allies. But her experience with the one group must have given her a healthy fear of meeting another band. And he had not even thought of that journey. “Forgive me, Lily.”
“For what?” She smiled at him and looked her old sweet beguiling self again. “These woods are beautiful. Old. Secluded. Filled with birds and birdsong.”
“Give it time,” he told her. “Eventually you will come to believe in the peace and safety of England. And of your home in particular. You are safe here, Lily.”
“I am not afraid now,” she assured him, and her serene smile seemed to bear out the words. “It was just a—a feeling. It was foolish. Am I late? Is that why you came for me? Are there visitors? I forget that there are always visitors.”
“You are not late,” he said, “and there are no visitors—though there will be this evening. But even if you were late and even if there were visitors, it would not matter. You must feel free here, Lily. This is your home.”
She nodded, though she did not reply. He held out a hand for hers without thinking. But before he could return his arm to his side, she took his hand and curled her fingers about it as if touching him were the most natural thing in the world to do. It was a warm, smooth hand, which he clasped firmly as they began to walk in the direction of home.
It was the first time he had touched her since that afternoon at the cottage. He looked down at her blond head with its coiled braid at the back and felt curiously like crying.
She was changed. She was no longer Lily Doyle, the carefree young woman who had gladdened the hearts of a hardened, jaded regiment in Portugal. She had lost her innocence. And yet it clung about her still like an almost visible aura.
12
The afternoon had turned unseasonably hot. The evening had remained warm and was still comfortably cool at a little before midnight, when Neville saw his guests on their way home from the terrace. His Aunt and Uncle Wollston, with their sons, Hal and Richard; Lauren and Gwen; Charles Cannadine with his mother and sister; Paul Longford; Lord and Lady Leigh with their eldest daughter—all had come to dinner and had stayed for an evening of music and cards.
Lily had found it a difficult evening, Neville knew. She did not play cards—poor Lily, it was yet another absent accomplishment that his friends and neighbors had discovered in her. And while she might have found congenial company with Hal and Richard or even perhaps with Charles or Paul—he had noticed without surprise that she was always more comfortable with men than with women—she had been taken under the wing of Lady Leigh and Mrs. Cannadine, who had proceeded to discover all the other attributes of a lady she simply did not possess. Then she had been borne off by Lauren to the music room, where all the young ladies except Lily had proceeded to display their accomplishments at the pianoforte.
They had been absolutely fascinated, Lady Leigh had assured Neville later in the evening, to learn that Lady Kilbourne had often been forced to sleep on the hard ground under the stars in the Peninsula, surrounded by a thousand men. His lordship’s dear wife simply must be prevailed upon to tell them more about her shocking experiences.
It had often been considerably more than a thousand, Neville thought with inner amusement, and wondered if the ladies, clearly titillated by such scandalous information concerning his countess, realized that sometimes there was safety in numbers.
He was restless after everyone had retired to bed. Being alone again with Lily during the morning, talking and strolling with her, holding her hand, had reawakened the hunger he had been trying to deny for her companionship, for the intimacy of marriage with her. Not just sexual intimacy—though there was that too, he admitted—but emotional closeness, the cleaving of mind to mind and heart to heart. It was something, he realized, that he had never particularly craved with Lauren. With her he would have been content with the comfortable friendship and affection they had always shared. But not with Lily.
He fought the temptation to go into her room to check on her, something he had not done since that day at the cottage. He was afraid he might try to find an excuse to stay.
But suddenly he leaned closer to the window of his bedchamber, through which he had been idly gazing. He braced his hands on the windowsill. Yes, it was Lily down there. Did he even need to doubt the evidence of his own eyes? Who else would be leaving the house at this time of night? Her cloak was billowing out behind her as she hurried in the direction of the valley path—and her hair too. It was loose down her back.
It seemed strange to him at first that she had chosen to go out alone in the middle of the night when she had been frightened in the forest in the middle of the day. But only at first. He understood soon enough that if Lily had demons to fight, she would not cower away from them but would face them head-on. Besides, her peace and serenity had always been drawn from the outdoors and from the solitude she had seemed able to find even in the midst of a teeming army.
He should leave her alone.
He should leave her to find whatever comfort for her unhappiness she was capable of finding on the beach beneath the stars.
Yet he ached for her. He ached to be a part of her life, of her world. He longed to share himself with her as he had never done with any other woman. And he longed for her trust, for her willingness to share herself with him.
He longed for her forgiveness, though he knew that to her there seemed nothing to forgive. He longed to be able to atone.
He should leave her be.
But sometimes selfishness was hard to fight. And perhaps it was not entirely selfishness that drew him to go out after her. Perhaps away from the house, in the beauty of a moonlit night, he could meet her on a different level from any they had yet discovered here at Newbury. Perhaps some of the restraints that had kept them very much apart since her arrival—and especially since that one afternoon—could be brushed aside. Their morning encounter had held out a certain promise. Perhaps …
Perhaps he was merely looking for some excuse—any excuse—for doing what he knew he was going to do anyway. He was already in his dressing room, pulling on the riding clothes his valet had set out for the morning.
He was going out after her.
If nothing else, he could watch out for her safety, make sure that she came to no harm.
Lily had been to the beach since the afternoon of the picnic once in the pouring rain of early morning. She had been scolded roundly on her return by Dolly, who had predicted darkly that her ladyship would catch her
death of cold even if she had worn a borrowed cloak with the hood up. Lily had been to the beach, but she had never again turned up the valley to the pool and the cottage.
It was definitely one of the beautiful places of this earth, and she had spoiled it by panicking when she had been kissed. She had refused to trust beauty and peace and kindness, and she had been punished as a result. She had found herself unable since that afternoon to forge any of the contentment for herself that she had almost always been able to find in the changing surroundings and conditions in which she had lived her life. She had become fearful. She had started to imagine men—or perhaps women—in dark cloaks stalking her. She did not like such weakness in herself.
The evening had been a great trial to her. It was not that the number of guests had overwhelmed her. Nor was it that anyone had been unkind or even openly disapproving. It was not even that she had felt out of place. It was just that finally, after a week at Newbury Abbey, Lily had come to a terrible realization: that this evening was the pattern of many evenings to come. And the days she had lived through would be repeated over and over down the years.
Perhaps she would adjust. Perhaps no future week would be quite as difficult as this one had been. But something had gone permanently from her life—some hope, some dream.
Fear had taken their place.
Fear of an unknown man. Or perhaps not unknown. The Duke of Portfrey was always watching her indoors. Why not outdoors too when she wished to be alone? Or perhaps it was not the duke. Perhaps it was—Lauren. She came every day to the abbey and invariably attached herself to Lily, being attentive to her, solicitous of her well-being, eager to teach her what she did not know and do for her what she could not do. She was all graciousness and kindness. She was quite the opposite of what she should be, surely. There was something not quite right in her cheerful acceptance of her situation. Just thinking of her gave Lily the shudders. Perhaps it was Lauren who felt it necessary to keep an eye on her even when she was alone. Perhaps in some fiendish way Lauren was trying to make her so uncomfortable in company and so terrified when alone that she would simply go away.
