“So, you are leaving us.”
“Yes.”
“You will not see us back to Tunis? Not stay to make sure my uncle makes a full recovery?”
“I will not.”
His curt answers were infuriating. She wanted to grab him by the lapels and drag him close—shatter the distance between them. “Then this is how a gentleman discharges his duties. By running away.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Fury? Despair? He made to turn away, then swung back to her. “I had felt obliged to offer for you,” he said stiffly.
“Obliged!” Lily narrowed her eyes. “Is that what I am? An obligation? Some burden to carry until you can safely discard it? Well, I wouldn’t have you—even if you begged me to marry you.”
“No.” His voice was icy. “I don’t suppose you would.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass box.
Her box.
“I see you recognize it. I found the items within very…enlightening. And luckily for me, I won’t be forced into a marriage with a woman I now despise.” Contempt laced his voice. “I wish your future husband joy of you.” He thrust the box into her hands and strode to his horse.
“James, wait!” She followed him. “It’s not what you think.”
His eyes were hard. “What I think doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Miss Strathmore.” He slung himself into the saddle and spurred away, dust pluming up behind as he galloped back the direction they had come.
He truly did despise her.
Covering her mouth with one hand, Lily watched as his figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
Away from her forever.
She forced herself to remain standing. Her family was watching. She could not let them know how much she hurt.
She could see Isabelle’s mouth moving, but no sound emerged. Aunt Mary came toward her, and it was as though she swam through the air, she moved so slowly. Lily could not feel her aunt’s hand under her elbow, could not taste the water in the battered metal cup. Could not remember how she had ended up mounted again, following Richard as they clattered down the old Roman road to Tunis.
She could feel nothing. Nothing at all.
Chapter 20
London, England, June 1847
Lily sat on the chintz-covered settee, awaiting her first visit from Lord Buckley. Her future husband. The words rang oddly in her mind. She glanced again at the clock—half past two. The appointed hour had arrived.
She ought to be feeling something, she supposed. Anticipation, curiosity, fear. She had traveled so far to end up sitting here in her mother’s parlor, waiting for a suitor she barely knew. Lily laced her fingers tightly together and glanced at her mother.
Lady Fernhaven was seated near the window. “Now, darling, try not to look so anxious. Though I daresay you are excited about finally seeing Lord Buckley.” She gave a little sigh. “I really cannot blame you. Who would have thought you’d do so well for yourself? A future countess, only think of it!”
Lily had been doing just that.
It was high time she started using her head again. Her heart had proved an unreliable compass, poor bruised and bewildered thing that it was. A useless organ, altogether. To think she would have followed that man anywhere.
Since her return to England, Lily had simply passed each day as it came. There was nothing else to be done. Even painting seemed too much of an effort.
“When Lord Buckley comes in, I would like him to sit next to you on the settee.” Her mother smiled. “I am certain he will be quite taken with you. And I have noticed that your travels agreed with you. You have a certain air about you now.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lily asked, not quite sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“It’s just…oh!” Lady Fernhaven rose to her feet, her attention drawn to the window. “The Buckley’s carriage has arrived. I have instructed Edwin to show them straight in.” She bustled over to Lily. “Do try and smooth your hair—and smile.”
A few moments later the butler opened the parlor door. “Lord Buckley and Countess Buckley.”
Lord Buckley stepped inside, his mother on his arm. He was shorter than Lily remembered, and his waistcoat bulged slightly over his stomach, but he was otherwise unobjectionable.
“Welcome, welcome.” Lily’s mother beamed at their visitors.
“Lord Buckley, we are so pleased you have returned to London. Lily has been greatly looking forward to your visit.”
“Yes.” Lily smiled wanly.
Lord Buckley released his mother’s arm and bent over Lady Fernhaven’s hand. “How good to see you again. You are looking as lovely as ever.”
“You are too kind, my lord. And here is Lily.”
Lily curtsied and offered her hand. He took it, bowing perfunctorily.
“Miss Strathmore.” His pale blue eyes skimmed over her.
“A pleasure, to be sure.”
She kept herself from frowning as Lord Buckley turned back to the older women. One would expect a man to give his future intended more than just a cursory glance.
“Shall we be seated?” Lily’s mother motioned Lord Buckley to the settee. “We’d be delighted to hear of your travels. Do make yourselves comfortable.”
“Certainly.” Lord Buckley guided his mother to the settee and settled beside her. Lady Fernhaven’s brows drew together.
Lily was just as happy to take the nearby chair. She could see the garden from here.
The countess turned to her son. “Do tell them about your trip. The story of the pompous majordomo.” She turned to Lady Fernhaven. “Gerald wrote me faithfully—he always does—and related the most charming anecdotes of his travels.”
“Such devotion,” Lady Fernhaven said. “Lily includes lovely sketches with her notes home. They say a picture is worth ten thousand words, you know.”
Lord Buckley sniffed. “Actually, they say a picture is worth one thousand words, isn’t that right, mother?”
“I do believe you are correct, but if she sent ten sketches that would equal ten thousand words. So Lady Fernhaven would also be correct.”
“I suppose so. If she actually sent ten.” He turned to Lily.
“Did you?”
“Pardon me?”
“Did you send ten sketches?”
“Well, no. Not ten.”
Lord Buckley nodded. “There you have it. Miss Strathmore’s sketches are not worth ten thousand words.” Apparently satisfied that he had made his point, he launched into a long tale of his travels.
Lily leaned back in her chair. It was insufferably tedious, but this—not orange blossoms and kisses beneath the stars—was the stuff real lives were made of. She forced her attention back to the room, to Lord Buckley’s voice. It was becoming clear that her marriage would not be a silent one. Perhaps, under some circumstances, a picture was worth more than ten thousand words.
“What an entertaining story!” Lily’s mother said at last.
“The majordomo certainly got what he deserved, I do say. And you tell it so well.”
“I was there, after all,” Lord Buckley replied, “And I consider myself a keen observer, particularly when people make fools of themselves—as they so often do.”
“Not everyone is as sensible as you, dear boy,” the countess said.
“I am sure.” Lady Fernhaven smoothed her skirts. “Shall we take a turn about the garden? The roses are at their very best.”
“An excellent plan.” Lord Buckley stood and, somewhat to Lily’s surprise, offered her his arm. “May I escort you, Miss Strathmore?”
The two of them led the way, their mothers following at a distance, heads close together in conversation. The scent of roses hung in the warm summer air and the blooms were ripe and heavy, but there was no toga-clad maiden to gather them.
“Do you enjoy traveling, Lord Buckley?”
“Yes, I do. I welcome the freedom it brings, the new vistas. And when I travel I prefer to travel in comfort. There’s nothing like a well-sprung
coach. Why, mine is so smooth I can sip a whiskey without spilling a single drop.”
“Admirable.” Lily glanced down. “I don’t suppose you bring a portable bathtub with you?” She blinked away the image of lantern light dappling canvas walls.
“Why would I want with such a thing when the hotels I frequent are fully equipped with every modern convenience?”
“My aunt brought one on our expedition in Tunisia.”
“What an absurd and foolish extravagance.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was.”
Lord Buckley drew a fine handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed perspiration from his forehead. “Mother says you paint, as I recall. Landscapes, is it?”
“Sometimes—but my main work is botanical illustration. My uncle, Sir Edward Strathmore, is a respected botanist. I provide all the plant studies for his scholarly papers.”
Lord Buckley frowned. “Miss Strathmore, you will find that I am a man that speaks plainly. It is my nature and a virtue, though there will be times when it may not appear so to you. I must say I do not approve of women dabbling in the sciences. The fairer sex should tend to the domestic spheres for which they are best suited. It is where their talents lie.”
She removed her arm from his. “My talents lie in botanical illustration, Lord Buckley. And I assure you, I am well-suited to it.”
“Yes, I had heard that you were a bit…reclusive. All to the good, really. And I’m sure you can manage a household properly. Mother would not have recommended you, otherwise.”
Lily swung to face him, but he merely smiled at her, seeming not to notice her annoyance. The angry words died on her tongue. Why bother? She had not lifted a brush since leaving Tunisia. There was one thing she must know, however, before continuing any further.
“You do not object to a woman painting flowers—so long as she tends to her other responsibilities. Do you?”
He thought for a moment. “No, if they are painted for the sake of decoration and beauty. These things properly belong in the sphere of women.”
“Then you would not forbid me to paint?”
“I did not say that I would forbid you. Now come along.” Lord Buckley offered his arm once more. “It wouldn’t do to let Mother see us at odds. Our first lover’s spat.” He gave an odd little laugh.
The matter was settled, then. Lily took his arm and they resumed walking, their footsteps loud on the carefully raked gravel.
At length he cleared his throat. “Would you accompany me to the theater tomorrow?”
“I will.” It would be pointless to refuse.
“Very good. Look, Mother is beckoning to us.” He led Lily toward the countess.
Lily slipped her arm from his and paused. Cupping her hands around a full-blown yellow rose, she inhaled deeply. For one moment she was drenched in the scent, the feel of sunlight, the soft petals yearning against her hands.
Ahead, the mothers smiled expectantly.
Lily let out an impatient breath and yanked her thoughts back to the breakfast table. She had been thinking about him again. James Huntington. She was better off without the scoundrel. True, she hadn’t told him about her mother’s plans for Lord Buckley. And she should have, considering what had been between them.
But he was equally at fault. If he had had taken the time to discuss the matter instead of riding off into the wilds like a tribal Bedouin she could have explained. If he had made his offer for her something from the heart and not empty words dragged from his lips by guilt or obligation, then everything could have been different.
Her tea had grown cold. Lily swirled it then set it back down, untouched. She did not have much of an appetite. The last two weeks had been filled with a flurry of dinners and balls and outings with her mother and Countess Buckley and sometimes even Lord Buckley himself. She sighed.
Lord Buckley was not the suitor she would have chosen for herself—but that did not make him unsuitable. To her mind, his imperfections were precisely what made the match tolerable. She was not exactly a prize herself—not with her secrets and tattered virtue. If it were possible to love Lord Buckley then Lily doubted she would be able to go through with the wedding.
But she could not love him. She did not even pity him. He was getting what he valued—an outwardly respectable bride from a highly respectable family. She could not expect more from this arranged match. It was too much to ask that he care about her or her skills, beyond the fact that she was able to play the role of aristocrat’s wife.
And the other duties. Lily shivered. She could not imagine his soft hands on her, his fleshy lips pressed against hers, although one of her primary obligations, her chief one in fact, would be to bear Lord Buckley an heir. Still, many women who did not love their husbands managed to fulfill that responsibility, and ultimately there would be children to compensate.
At least she was not carrying James’s child.
She had not considered the consequences of her night with him, not until the morning her courses had come. She had removed her nightgown and stared blankly at the small red stain, then wrapped her arms about herself and cried, silently.
But that was done with. Lily took up her fork. She pushed her eggs to one side of the plate, then back again.
Her mother glanced up from perusing the society pages. “More kippers, darling?” she waved toward the chafing dish. “You have not seemed quite yourself recently. Not that it behooves a lady to eat overmuch at breakfast. But do have something more.”
“Yes, mother.” Lily took a slice of toast and spread it with strawberry preserves.
Lady Fernhaven continued to look thoughtfully at her. “It is your nerves, I imagine. But don’t worry darling, the time is almost right for Lord Buckley to make his offer. His attentions to you are not going unnoticed. These things take time, after all. We do not want people to form the wrong impression—which a hurried courtship and marriage can unfortunately convey.”
“Of course not.” She took a small bite of toast and then set it aside. “Mother, since things are progressing so well with Lord Buckley, couldn’t I make a brief visit to Brookdale? I haven’t seen Uncle Edward and the family since we returned.”
“Your aunt did write to tell us your uncle was fully recovered, did she not? It is best you remain in London. Especially with Lord Buckley almost brought to the point. You must be ready when he pays that important call—it will be one of the most significant moments of your life! When you are Countess Buckley you may have your uncle and the entire family to visit at your home whenever you wish—with your husband’s permission, of course.”
“I would be gone no more than two or three days.” Lily tried to keep the pleading note from her voice. She had felt so alone since returning to England. She missed them all dreadfully.
Lady Fernhaven tightened her lips. “I will hear no more on this subject.” She picked up the paper and returned to her reading.
Lily stared out the window. It was a perfect day, warm and golden. She wished the clouds would mass and cover the sun. It was far too bright.
“My goodness!” Lily’s mother exclaimed. “Lord Severn is getting married. Who would have imagined it—and to a foreigner, no less. A Baronessa Bellini.”
Lily looked up. “Did you say Bellini?”
“Yes, it is rather a thrilling tale. The page says—
“Word has just reached this author’s ears that the dashing Lord Severn has returned to London. And, what is more, that he has brought a fiancée back with him! Well may you inquire, dear reader, what lady has managed to snare the heart of the ton’s most fascinating bachelor.
It is none other than the charming and spirited Baronessa Bellini, who, as you may recall, spent the winter here in London and was seen once or twice on Lord Severn’s arm. Who would have suspected the depth of their attachment?
After a lover’s tiff last March, witnessed by unnamed sources, the baronessa sailed for home on the Peninsular and Oriental line. Lord Severn set off in pursuit, following his lady l
ove back to Italy to beg her forgiveness on bended knee. He won it. And her hand as well, it seems.”
Lady Fernhaven folded the page and tapped it against the table. “I do not recall meeting the lady, myself. Was she at the Wembly’s ball, do you think?”
“I made the baronessa’s acquaintance, mother. She sailed with us on the steamer that took us to Tunisia.”
“Really?” Lady Fernhaven raised a well-manicured brow.
“What was she like? Did she seem suitable? One never knows with those foreign titles if a person is truly up to standard.”
“She is a lovely person. Warm and…discerning. And quite fashionable as well.”
“I suppose a certain continental flair in dressing is to be expected. And her choice of fiancé shows impeccable judgment.” Lady Fernhaven nodded.
Lily hoped the baronessa had made the right choice in Lord Severn. After all, she had been so wrong about James. But anyone could make a mistake. Hadn’t Lily done so herself? James had been handsome and kind and honorable—or at least had appeared to be.
Her mother laid the paper aside and took a sip of tea. “Lord Buckley is escorting us to a picnic this afternoon. And the weather is so lovely for it. We shall have a splendid time.”
“Oh yes, a perfectly splendid time.” Lily wasn’t sure she could bear another outing. Perhaps she was developing a headache. She drew her brows tightly together. Yes, there it was now.
“I am not feeling quite well, Mother.”
Lady Fernhaven gave her a sympathetic look. “Nerves again, darling? Go and rest. I hope you will be recovered in time for the picnic. It would be a shame to miss such a pleasant afternoon with your suitor.”
“Yes, a rest will do me good.” Sleeping seemed the one thing she excelled at these days.
The butler entered the room, bearing a silver salver piled with correspondence. “The morning post has arrived, my Lady.”
“Very good, Edwin.” She riffled through the stack. “My goodness. Well, Lily. You have certainly cultivated the right acquaintances lately. An invitation…” she held it up proudly, “to the betrothal ball of Lord Severn and the Baronessa Bellini. Well done, darling! We shall attend, of course. Everyone will be there.”
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