Passionate

by Anthea Lawson

  “I thought your family was sending for you, that is all.”

  Lily looked away. Could it be that he didn’t realize she had been planning to go on the expedition? That might explain his kisses. Well, perhaps it was better this way. She wouldn’t have to explain why she had changed her mind, at least not to him.

  Wistfulness stole over her as they twirled and turned once more about the floor. This would be the last time. James would go, as he must, and when he returned she would be wed.

  The music was slowing, bringing them back to a room filled with voices and laughter. Their interlude was now truly over. It would be best if she remained in England. Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she swept James a deep curtsy, silk skirts hushing along the floor.

  He bowed in return. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Strathmore. I only wish it could have continued a little longer.”

  James woke early to a soft, gray drizzle. The new day barely brightened the sky and the sun felt immeasurably far away. Thoughts of Lily filled his mind—the way her lovely, mysterious eyes sparkled up at him in unguarded moments, how she felt in his arms melting into his kiss, her passion, her determined self-possession.

  He sat up restlessly, pushing free of the sheets. The shock of cool air against his bare chest brought him fully awake.

  Lily was leaving today.

  He pulled on his clothes and left the room. It was too early for the family to be stirring, especially after the late hours they had kept last night, but the house was awake. He caught the distant sound of rattling dishes and low-voiced conversation as the servants went about their early-morning duties. He padded quietly down the hall and descended the empty stairway. Without intending it, he found himself in the drawing room, its serene greens and golds nearly colorless in the wan light.

  The piano lid was closed, the empty furniture waiting patiently. It was a room asleep, except for the portrait of him propped on the mantle. Sir Edward had placed it there for the family to admire the night after Lily had finished it. James could make out the strong lines of the composition even in the pale half-light.

  With no one to witness but the empty chairs, he could tell the truth—his life had been undeniably richer and more hopeful since he had met her. Being near her felt like sunlight—even when she was glaring daggers at him. He hated the idea of her leaving.

  No. He wanted her—wanted her with him. And if she were just Lily the artist, or even Sir Edward’s daughter, that might be possible. But she was not Sir Edward’s daughter, even if she seemed intent on playing the part.

  Love was not enough. Love and property maybe—but never love alone.

  He turned back to the portrait. Could it be different this time? What if against all odds the expedition was a success and he returned as master of Somergate? Would that be enough?

  If only he had Somergate, and Lily’s heart, and her family’s blessing. James laughed grimly up at his portrait. “You have fine prospects, my friend.”

  The image on the mantle remained silent, heart’s longing written large in its eyes.

  Chapter 10

  Lily stepped out into the rain, following her father’s footman to the waiting coach. What a wretched day. She shivered against the persistent drizzle and drew her thick wool cloak more closely about her. Her thoughts veered toward James—the weight of his coat around her last night, the warmth of his arms.

  Why was she torturing herself this way? She had made her decision. She must not let herself think of him.

  Uncle Edward walked beside her, holding a great black umbrella to shelter them both. “You needn’t make any hasty decisions about staying behind, my dear. Take a few days. Post us a letter on Monday. It would be a shame not to have you along.” He handed her into the coach.

  “I know, Uncle. I will write you.” Lily pressed her lips together. She could see he was dreadfully disappointed but putting a brave face on it. She leaned out and kissed his cheek before settling back into the seats. Her maid, Bess, tucked a lap robe around her.

  “The foot-warmer is just there, miss. And your aunt made sure we were well provisioned.” Bess dug through the large wicker basket beside her. “There’s scones and cakes and meat pies and, my, even oranges and a flask of wine, and some fine cheese and a fresh-baked loaf. You’d think we were traveling across the whole of England, Miss, not just up to London.”

  Lily nodded. Aunt Mary left nothing to chance. How many more provisions would her aunt find necessary to bring to Tunisia? Well, Lily would not be there to find out. She sighed and turned to the window.

  The coach swayed as the footman climbed up beside the driver. Lily stared out at the beloved shape of Brookdale and the conservatory, gray and wet now, but still lovely. Still home.

  A tall figure near the stables caught her eye. He stood there, alone in the rain.

  “Oh,” she breathed. Her fingertips brushed the glass.

  The driver snapped the reins and with a crunch of gravel the coach rocked forward. When she looked out again James was gone, the sight of him lost behind the stone walls.

  The coach arrived at the highway and turned toward London. Lily watched the drenched green countryside rolling past. The expedition would have been dreadful—a constant battle between her attraction to James and her duty to her future. She should be relieved that he was no longer any concern of hers.

  It was over. Time to turn her thoughts ahead to London.

  She would have to tell her mother about the change in plans—though she certainly would not let her know the real reason. Lily bit her lip. Not that her mother would inquire too closely—she would take her daughter’s return as capitulation. It galled, but what else could she do? She closed her eyes and let the rocking of the coach lull her into a fitful rest.

  The hours rolled on heavily, with no break in the rain. Bess delighted in bringing forth offerings from the basket, which Lily nibbled at dutifully. At last the horses’ hooves rang over cobblestones. She glanced out the window to see that the fields and hedgerows had given way to tumbledown walls and dwellings. They had reached the outskirts of London. Ragged children, like flocks of dirty sparrows, chased after the coach, begging for a few pence. Street vendors called out their wares in strident tones, and the bustle and squalor of town closed in around them.

  Gradually the neighborhoods turned to more genteel dwellings, the people on the street dressed in finer clothing. The coach passed well-tended parks and gardens until they made the turn into Mayfair and drew up to the pillared and ornate residence that was the Marquis of Fernhaven’s London home.

  It was not the house Lily had grown up in. No, this place was far grander, as befitted her father’s advance in prestige and power. Her mother had it decorated, and re-decorated, in the latest mode. It had never felt like home, it was merely the place she stayed between visits to Brookdale. Lifting her chin, she descended the steps of the coach.

  Edwin, the butler, greeted her at the tall double doors of the main entrance. Like many men in his position, he seemed to consider smiling beneath his dignity, but his eyes twinkled a welcome. “Miss Lily. Your mother awaits you in the front parlor.” He took her cloak and gloves. “Her ladyship, it seems, is extremely eager to have you home.”

  “Thank you, Edwin. I shall attend her directly.” She smiled warmly at him, then turned down the hallway. A riot of color and texture assaulted her. Gold-figured wallpaper draped with emerald-green velvet swags and paintings that were eclipsed by their own carved and gilt-covered frames. There was a new lacquered table with climbing Chinese dragons for legs and a huge red urn filled with peacock feathers. None of this had been here before. Lily shuddered. Mother had been decorating again.

  Lady Fernhaven turned from the window and crossed the room in a flurry of damask skirts when Lily entered the parlor. “Welcome back, darling!” She gave her daughter a quick embrace, then led her to the floral chintz settee. “Come and sit. We have so much to discuss. I hope your journey was not too taxing?”

&nbs
p; “Mother, there is something I need to tell you—”

  “And I you.” Her mother leaned forward, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Lord Buckley is amenable to our plans and will pay his addresses to you when he returns to London. Oh Lily, isn’t it wonderful!”

  “He what?” Her mother’s scheme had progressed further than Lily had imagined. She had thought she and Lord Buckley would discuss the matter together and come to some arrangement.

  “Countess Buckley is sure he will make you an offer. She told me this in the strictest confidence, of course, but I do want you to be able to dream about it and know your dreams are not in vain.” Her mother smiled. “You see, Lily, one can be both practical and romantic.”

  She stared at her mother. “I had hoped we’d have a period of courtship before entering into the formalities.”

  “Of course you will, dear. All is ready for our visit to the Countess on Monday. I have ordered you a new dress, one that is quite becoming and shall suit you perfectly.”

  Lily felt a wave of weariness. She closed her eyes.

  “Isn’t it splendid? You are going to be a countess!”

  “Mother, it has been a long journey and I am feeling very tired.”

  “Of course, darling. I was nearly overcome by the news myself. Go up and rest. Your father and I are attending a dinner party this evening. Have Cook send up a tray.”

  When Lily stepped into her room she thought for a moment she had opened the wrong door. Her curtains were now a thick rose velvet, not the soothing green silk that had hung there before, and the coverlet and pillows on her bed had been changed to match. She turned in a slow circle in the center of the room. Where was her art? Her Turner and Clara Pope’s camellias? The pictures on the wall had no merit except that they harmonized with the room’s new color-scheme.

  She yanked the bell-pull, now a length of knotted pink silk.

  “You rang, Miss?” A breathless young maid hurried up.

  “Where are my pictures? The ones that used to hang in my room.”

  The maid twisted her hands in her apron. “I knew you would not like it, but Mrs. Hatcher insisted they come down.”

  Lily set her hands on her hips. “And who is Mrs. Hatcher?”

  “Your mother’s new interior planner, Miss. She is a fearsomely opinionated woman—if I may be so bold.”

  “This woman—she told you to get rid of my paintings?”

  “Yes, Miss. Most decisively. Said they spoiled the effect of the new colors.”

  Spoiled her colors, did they? Lily intended to do a lot more than spoil her colors, but first she wanted her paintings.

  “I do not agree with Mrs. Hatcher’s opinion. I want my pictures found and rehung—tonight! Fetch Edwin immediately and get everyone searching. So help me, if any harm has come to them Mrs. Hatcher will pay dearly.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and scurried away, but Lily scarcely noticed. She was already tearing the offending paintings down and tossing them into a pile in the hallway. She would have burned them, if she had a match and a hope of not setting the house afire.

  Another maid appeared at her door, carrying a tray. “Cook sent this up for you, Miss Lily. They’re still looking for your pictures. Jeffrey is searching the attics now.”

  “Thank you, Dora. Tell him that if he comes across my old curtains, he should bring them as well.”

  “Too late, miss. He’s here.”

  Jeffrey, a bone-thin footman, sidled through the door, arms full of framed artwork. Lily hurried forward. “Gently, now. Lay them on the bed.”

  “But miss,” Dora sounded appalled, “The coverlet will be ruined. The wrappers are horribly dusty.”

  “I will not shed any tears if Mrs. Hatcher’s coverlet is ruined. Let’s have a look at what Jeffrey has found.” Lily watched as the paper on the first picture was pulled gently back to reveal one of her early paintings—the formal gardens at the old house. She shifted it and glanced at the others.

  “These are not the ones I’m looking for.” It was work she had done years ago. Her Turner was not here, nor the others.

  Jeffery gathered up the pile she had pushed aside, revealing the bottom-most painting. Lily froze. She had not seen this one for years—had tried to forget about it. It was a portrait of a young man holding a paintbrush. His features were even and pleasing, his expression earnest. Robert, her art tutor, the one who had…Lily hastily replaced the other pictures on top, hiding the sweet-faced young man.

  “Take these away—they are not the right ones at all.”

  “Perhaps these will do, Miss.” It was Edwin, standing at the door with a stack of paintings.

  Lily jumped up. She recognized the frames. “Oh, Edwin, I could hug you.”

  “Please refrain, Miss.”

  “Then help me hang them.”

  “I would be most honored. Where would you like this misty one?”

  “Right here, beside the bed.” Lily felt her spirits rise as each familiar piece went back up. It already felt more like home

  “Much better.” She turned to the servants. “Thank you, all. You have been so kind.”

  After they had left—taking the discarded paintings piled in the hallway with them—her dinner suddenly seemed much more appealing. Lily ate some soup and pudding then went to her writing desk.

  Dear Uncle Edward,

  I have arrived safely in London to find the house completely re-done. It is beyond garish, but at least I have been able to restore my rooms.

  It pains me to think of missing the expedition, and of disappointing you and the rest of the family, but it is simply not possible for me to accompany you. Think of me when you are in Tunisia, and write often.

  Lily stopped and tapped the end of the pen against her lips. It was not fair. She should not have to abandon the expedition, and her uncle should not be left without an illustrator—and she most definitely should never have kissed James Huntington. Seeing the painting of Robert had reminded her exactly where her feelings for a man could lead. It was a warning, an omen.

  “Take your time,” her uncle had urged. “Think it through.” But there was no time. If she waited another day to decide she wouldn’t have the heart to remain behind.

  Lily finished the letter and folded it into an envelope, ready for the morning post. It was out of her hands now.

  “Good morning, darling,” Lady Fernhaven said as Lily entered the breakfast room. “I trust you slept well. We should speak about our visit to Countess Buckley this afternoon. It is in everyone’s best interest that it go smoothly.”

  Lily took a scone from the sideboard and joined her mother at the table. “Tea first, Mother—please.”

  “Here you are.” Lady Fernhaven poured her a cup. “We have so much to discuss.”

  Lily would have liked to linger over her tea, but her mother was hovering. She set the cup down half-full. “Very well.” So much for easing into the day.

  “Countess Buckley and I shared a season, you know. We both had the good fortune to make excellent matches that year—though she did manage to catch an earl. Not that your father is in any way inferior, what with his advance in Parliament.”

  “Of course not.” Lily nibbled her scone.

  “The point is, I know the Countess well. She has strong opinions about what sort of activities are proper for young ladies. When she asks about you, make sure you keep your responses demure and to the point. And no need to go into any great detail about your painting—no need at all.”

  “What, exactly, are you saying? That Countess Buckley does not approve of women painting?”

  “Oh no, no. Just that we need not mention the scientific part. I’m sure she has no objection to lovely pictures of flowers—very feminine.”

  “A large part of my art is botanical illustration, Mother.” Lily pushed her plate aside.

  “Well, it likely will not matter. I shall keep the conversation moving in a favorable direction. Now, about your hair.”

  Lily lifted one ha
nd to the unruly knot at the back of her head. The hair, of course. It was always the hair. She hated that her mother could make her feel so inadequate. “I can have Bess—”

  “I will send my own maid to help you get ready. One can’t be too prepared for a visit like this.”

  Four hours later Lily was suitably combed and coiffed, laced more tightly than she was accustomed, and buttoned into the new dress her mother had ordered for the occasion. It reminded her of preparing for her presentation to the Queen. There was the same nervous fluttering in her stomach. She wouldn’t be making her bow to the Queen this time, but there was more at stake—her entire future.

  She and her mother arrived at the Buckley mansion at half-past three. The butler led them through the grand entrance and down a long corridor—the sound of their heels echoed on the polished marble floor. He halted before an imposing pair of gilt-edged white doors. Lily drew in a breath—not as deep as usual due to the tight corset—and glanced at her mother, noting the subtle signs of tension in the set of her shoulders.

  “Marchioness Fernhaven and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Lily Strathmore.” The butler held the door open for them.

  “Come along, darling,” murmured Lady Fernhaven, stepping forward.

  The room was dominated by a pair of tall glass cases containing dozens of porcelain figurines: artfully arranged shepherdesses, ballerinas in mid-twirl, fat men in waistcoats, and fairy-tale princesses. Mirrors set at the back of the cases allowed the figures to be admired from all angles.

  Countess Buckley rose gracefully to greet her guests—a figure from her own collection come to life with impeccably styled hair and fashionable gown. Older, of course, but as carefully sculpted. Her eyes in particular were a pale blue, like the faintest wash of watercolor. Those eyes—yes. Lord Buckley had those same eyes. Lily suddenly recalled them staring mildly past her as they danced a schottische at the Chadwick’s ball last season.