by Lavinia Kent
As if sensing she had nothing else to say, Westlake finally continued, “Or do you wish to return to your own home? Marclyffe, isn’t it?”
Why didn’t he show some emotion? Any emotion? Lily collapsed back on the bed as her legs gave out. Her lower lip was trembling, but she could do nothing to arrest it. Even the thought of returning to Marclyffe left her stomach churning and her mouth sour. All she could do was remain still, her eyes large and damp, and pray that he would soon get to the point. She lowered her eyes and stared at her hemline.
“Can you tell me what happened, what brought you here? Why you felt the need to keep your identity a secret? It was deliberate, wasn’t it?”
Drawing in a deep breath Lily lifted her face, attempting to meet his gaze. The sunlight blinded her. She knew how he must look, though, after the stories he would no doubt have been told. She huddled in on herself and waited for his anger. She shivered in fear at what he might do now, for she had experienced men’s brutality.
Unwelcome tears threatened to flow and for a moment she fought them back, as she always had with Worthington. Then, as deep tremors shook her, Lily felt the tears leak out. She worked the edge of the blanket between her fingers, desperate to regain control. This was even worse than she had imagined. He might send her back. She didn’t know why his quiet rage and disapproval felt so corrosive. She had withstood far worse without betraying any emotion.
He didn’t move. She huddled on the bed, tears streaming down her face, soaking the fine linen covers of the pillows. She gasped for air, trying to subdue the emotions that overwhelmed her. Another wave of tears broke forth. The dam had burst and there was no containment.
Still he stood, his gaze never leaving her.
She turned away and buried her face in the pillows, releasing all the misery of her tarnished soul. Sob after sob swept through her, wracking her.
Finally, there were no more tears. She was empty.
She raised her swollen eyes to look at him, she saw that his head was bowed, his own eyes were closed, and a look that spoke of pain was stamped across his features. Her gaze traced the scar, which stood white on his clenched jaw. Their eyes caught and held, and she was lost in whatever passed between them.
He took a step towards the bed. Her breath caught.
He caught her chin between his rough fingers and tilted it up towards him, considering. She could feel his burning gaze fastened on her lower lip, and she licked it nervously, unsure of the sensations flickering to life deep in her belly.
Then he straightened, and drawing back a half a foot, met her eyes again. Lily sensed the calculation in his mind as he gazed at her. He seemed to be searching for her very soul.
Westlake opened his lips to speak, then paused. “You are the Countess of Worthington, aren’t you?” Although his question was little different than it had been only moments before, his speech was more careful, smoother, and Lily felt the desire to obey his unspoken demand that she confide everything, to gain release from the burden of her secrets. Her heart raced as she tried to make sense of his lack of anger, his coolness, so different than anything she had known. What was his purpose?
Words failed her, and all she could manage was a slight nod of confirmation. He took that as enough for the moment. She could not read the torrent of thoughts that altered his previously reserved expression.
“Why did you not tell me who you were?” The question was quiet, but filled with an underlying firmness.
She turned away from him. How could she trust him when so much was at stake?
“I didn’t know who you were. I was frightened. I’ve never been so afraid and confused. I could not believe I was safe.” She waited for his reply, but the silence only grew.
She pressed her eyelids shut and wished she knew what to say, how to explain without telling him all. She must remember that cold pitch of voice he used to such avail, and remember he was not the gentle Arthur of her youth.
She heard him give a deep sigh as he considered her words.
“What happened that night to put you in such a state? What led you to such unreasonable fear?”
She wanted so much to believe in him. He did not sound like an inquisitor. He did not sound cruel and they had held a secret between them once before.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “There is not much I can say. It is mostly a blur. I really don’t know how I got there. I remember walking and running through the woods. I didn’t have a real destination in mind. I only wanted to get away.” She chewed on her lip. “I certainly never meant to meet you.”
He smiled wryly, the first hint of emotion to cross his face. “That I can believe.”
He kept his gaze focused on her face and the look on his face drew the words out of her, like a line reeling in a trout.
“The last thing I really remember is being at the top of the cliffs looking down at Worthington.” She hoped that was the right place to begin her story. How much did he know? How much had he been told? “I could tell he was dead, and all I wanted to do was run.”
“You’d been attacked, then? The doctor mentioned your injuries.”
Lily felt relief flow through her. He knew and did not judge. Feeling the tension ease away, she rested her cheek in his palm.
“Yes. I didn’t know what to do but run. All I could think about was the baby and the need to get away to safety. I didn’t even know in which direction safety might lie.”
“It must have been horrible to see your husband killed. How did you manage to get away?”
Lily jerked in confusion. “Get away?” The tremor returned to her voice as she spoke.
“From the attackers.”
Suddenly his voice was fierce, and Lily had to fight the urge to cower from him.
“Where were the servants? Your assailants must have come upon you in the house, after you’d retired for the night. That would explain the state of your dress when I found you.”
Lily continued to stare. She could feel the knot of tension and stress forming again. She swallowed hard and fought the sudden wave of nausea rising within her.
Westlake rose abruptly and began to stride back and forth. The gentle man of moments before seemed to vanish, and in his place stood the duke, preparing for battle.
“You’ll have to speak to the magistrate. We’ll start a search for these men. They can’t be allowed to escape their crimes. Can you identify them? Do you know why they were after Worthington? Was it an attempted kidnapping gone wrong? What had Worthington done? I’d always heard unsavory rumors about the man. We didn’t mingle. I hadn’t returned to Blythemoor for many years. He rarely came to Town. Barely knew he was married.”
Westlake picked up his pace as he continued his monologue, never giving Lily a chance to answer his questions. He was obviously lost in his own plans, and for the moment seemed to have forgotten her, something for which she was supremely grateful.
For a moment she’d thought he had realized she had no choice and had understood her actions. A huge weight had been lifted: Someone – Arthur, her Arthur – knew the truth, and did not condemn her. But he hadn’t known the truth.
Westlake thought someone else had attacked Worthington and his lady, and driven Worthington over the cliff. Could she let that story live? Who could gainsay it? The temptation was great. Even if the servants suspected the truth, they would not dare speak against her. A glimmer of hope lay balanced against her innate candor. She felt as though she were riding to the hunt, so quick were the ups and downs of her emotions.
Lily realized that Westlake was still striding back and forth, declaiming. The text was a budget of the punishments that would be meted out against the malefactors. And she knew then, she could never confess the truth. He shone with a fierce need for justice. This was not gentle prince, but a warrior ready to cut into the fray, unmindful of all but his target.
Then, as if catching sight of her for the first time, he stalked towards the bed. “It’s a miracle that you escaped. I don’t know
what they wanted, but clearly you weren’t part of it.” He seemed to hesitate before reaching out to brush one of the many stray curls away from her face.
She lifted her hand to his and wrapped her small white fingers around his much thicker ones. She held his hand there against her face, breathing in the musk of his soap.
She closed her eyes and remembered her childhood fantasies of this man, how safe they had made her feel. She opened her eyes and lifted them to meet his. Was there still a trace of the young prince she had known?
Chapter Five
Dusk settled over the house as Arthur returned from his meanderings. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon walking through fields and poking in irrigation ditches. He had responsibilities beyond one small woman and her child. If he failed in some way, he knew, his estate managers would take up the slack, but he had never failed in his duties and he’d be damned if he’d let a lady – regardless of who she was – distract him from them now.
Arthur stalked through the formal garden to the ornamental pond at the back edge. In the waning dusk, it was possible to pick out the shimmering orange of the exotic fish with which he had stocked the pond in the spring. It had been an impulsive act, but he could not regret it. Watching the bright golden fish glide slowly through the shallows brought him a tranquility that had no edge of boredom. He dipped his walking stick into the water, watching as the ripples brought wide gaping mouths to the surface. It really was amazing how the small fish had grown over the summer. If they survived the harshness of winter, he could only wonder how they’d grow the following summer.
Arthur turned back and looked at the house outlined with the merest glint of the red that still shone fiery behind it. He had left a message inviting Lily – he should think of her more formally, but his mind refused – to join him for dinner, and it would be rude to be late. Mathers would already have his evening attire laid out, each piece pristine and perfect. Sherry would be served in the parlor, followed by the usual succession of courses. Then he would retire for brandy and a final cigar in the garden, and another day would be over, the same as so many others before it.
But it wouldn’t be the same, not if Lily consented to join him. Since she had arrived to disrupt his household, nothing had been quite the same. He took a deep breath and played with the thought; nothing had been the same since she arrived. His steps quickened on the paving stones as he moved towards the door.
“My aunt has agreed to join us, as chaperone, until such time as some arrangement can be made for you. Are you sure you have no family to take you in? What of your husband’s? Surely you wish to return to your home?” Lily watched as Arthur leaned back in his chair and surveyed her from under hooded eyes.
Dinner was finished and the last of the sweet lay forgotten on the table before them. Lily’s fork clanged against the thin china of her plate. She quickly lowered her hands to her lap.
“No, there is no one. And I do not yet feel up to travel, even of a short distance.”
Arthur had asked before and always she answered with the same simple words. He might know there must be family on her husband’s side – Worthington’s brother had surely been mentioned by somebody. He reclined further and she could feel his cool gaze sweep over her.
“Lady Smythe-Burke, my aunt, should arrive within a few days. We are fortunate that she was visiting not far from here. She will know how to deal with . . . the situation.” The words hung in the air until Lily felt her hands begin to tremble.
She raised her glance from her lap and looked at him with trepidation.
“I am not sure I understand, your grace. What do you propose?”
“I have not decided, but I do know the present situation cannot continue. This is not the place for you.”
She dropped her gaze again. She knew what he said was correct, but it sent chills down her spine. She knew she needed to leave, but she depended on his generosity until she could find a place to go – anyplace but Marclyffe and the memories it held. Still, as he had sent for his aunt, a chaperone – evidently he was not about to push her out the door.
As if seeking to relieve her discomfort, he changed the subject. “Have you been well enough to stroll in the garden? It would help improve your strength. The weather has been lovely and the late roses quite magnificent.”
“I am afraid I haven’t yet. I seem to be so easily tired.”
“You really must. The gardens are remarkable for the season.”
“I am sure you are correct. I have been so busy with Simon.”
Silence held for a moment, and she rushed to fill the awkward gap. “I used to be always out in the gardens at first light. I actually liked to hide under bushes and pretend I was a fairy caught by the morning light.”
He shot her the strangest look at that, his voice softer. “You must have been a most adorable sprite. I wish I could have seen you.”
Oh, but he had. She rambled on, trying to disguise the confusion his words and glance ignited. “I actually still sometimes pretend, although I’ve grown much too big to hide under bushes. Do you have any small trees?”
He didn’t answer. Did he think her mad? Grown women were not supposed to dream of being fairies, no matter the lives they sought to escape.
His expression remained cool, but she thought the slight tightening of his lips seemed troubled. She placed her utensils on her plate and rose.
“I am feeling a slight fatigue. As I mentioned I tire easily. Please excuse me.”
She felt the burn of his glance follow her as she fled the room. It seemed an eternity before she made it to her door.
Once inside she paced recklessly until just as she was about to retire, a maid arrived with a bunch of roses and set them by her bed.
The next morning, Lily hummed softly as she settled into the bright buttercup chair in the drawing room. The remade dress of the past duchess didn’t fit her perfectly, but after days spent wrapped in nothing but a nightdress and dressing gown, her new attire felt lovely. And it was lovely, too, to sit in the soft sunlight shining though the window and escape into the dream of being a real lady, of forgetting the past days.
Of course, any proper lady in Lily’s circumstances would be wearing the most unremitting of blacks. But that had not been an option.
When Gertrude brought the dress and the light slippers out before dinner she was full of apologies.
“I’m sorry, my lady, but I couldn’t find any black. I asked the housekeeper about it, and she muttered that she was sure there weren’t any.”
“I am not sure I understand.”
”I know the past duchess must have mourned a year for the old duke, but all I could find were her half-mourning grays and lavenders.”
“They must have been given away before now.” It really didn’t seem such a great mystery to Lily.
“I thought so at first, but it was odd, everything else is up there in the attics, packed carefully. It was only the blacks missing. I asked Nanny about it. She remembers everything.”
This was clearly leading someplace. Lily nodded at Gertrude to continue.
“Well, my lady, apparently on the anniversary of the old duke’s death, the duchess had every last piece of black she owned thrown in a brush heap and burned. She even threw her jet jewelry pieces in there herself. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
Lily certainly had not. “Why did she do it?”
“I asked Nanny that too, but she sniffed and bustled away. Still, it’s shocking, isn’t it? In any case I think this made up very nicely. It’s lucky you’re smaller than the duchess was; it never does work well the other way.” Gertrude shook out the simple mauve dress, demonstrating the careful stitching.
Lily could not regret being unable to wear black for Worthington; even the light purple seemed a mockery. Putting aside the unpleasant thought, she thought of her mother sitting in the same spot, so many years before, her warm voice filling the corners of the room as she laughed with the duchess or cuddled Lily tight in he
r lap.
Lifting the teacup, Lily blew gently across the surface before letting the first taste pass her lips. As the pungent flavor filled her mouth, Lily could not help smiling. She had grown used to the most watered down teas, insipid brews suitable only for a sickroom. Worthington believed that spending money for tea was wasteful. He wanted ale for breakfast. Now a sense of well-being filled Lily. There was nothing like a good cup of tea.
Her childhood fantasy, this home where she’d watched her mother filled with light and laughter, and had silently worshipped the prince of her dreams, began to come to life again. Perhaps it wasn’t a fantasy after all, but only a brightened memory. Arthur might not be the boy she remembered, but as the roses demonstrated, neither was he the ogre she had feared.
She settled her tea again on the table, and turned her face up to the sun. Nanny had taken Simon up to the nursery for a warm bath, and Lily felt more relaxed than she could remember. She had only to live in the moment, and let the past sleep.
“Hello, Sister, it’s good to see you so . . . well.”
The dulcet tones cut through Lily’s peace. She turned her face slowly towards the doorway.
A tall, elegant man stood there, the picture of a polished gentleman. His lips smiled. He stood stock still, poised.
Lily looked at him with some trepidation. “Do I know you? You call me sister? I have no brother.”
“A term of endearment only. I am Lord Dudley St. Aubin, your husband’s brother. Surely, you remember meeting me at your wedding? I certainly remember you.” He smiled again. “I am sorry we have not had the chance to become more closely acquainted. My brother and I were not always on the best of terms.
He prowled towards her. No, that was her imagination. It was only his faint similarity to his brother that had her so nervous.
“I am sorry, but I do not remember,” Lily answered. “My wedding is a bit of a blur.”
“My dearest sister. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? You know I always cared about you as a sister. Nobody could be dearer to me than my recently departed brother’s wife.”
