Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Dowry?” Lily almost laughed. “But I have nothing.”

  “Not quite nothing.” He smiled blandly. “It’s hardly worth the trouble, I know, but Mr. Witt advises us to keep everything neat and tidy.”

  Lily glanced at the thin, gray-wigged, dry stick of a man who was unfurling a document and laying it out on Soames’s desk. She’d always thought a husband acquired everything a woman owned on the day they exchanged wedding vows. Mr. Witt must be quite a stickler. She took the pen from his hand and scrawled her name. Lewis signed underneath.

  Soames proposed a toast.

  To the happy couple, he uttered, handing everyone except Lewis a small glass of port; to his abstemious son he gave a glass of barley water. “May God grant you a long and blessed life together, and may your children spring up around you like olive branches.”

  Lily paled, but got the wine down without choking.

  It was time to rejoin the party. When Lewis stood aside to let her pass through the archway that led to the courtyard, though, she hung back. She was tired all the time these days, and exhaustion hit her now with the force of a blow—no doubt because of the wine. Continuing to play this grotesque charade of bridal happiness was suddenly more than she could bear.

  “Lewis,” she murmured, touching his sleeve, “would you mind terribly if I went up early? It’s a wonderful party, and it was so kind of your parents to think of it, but—I’m a bit tired. All the excitement has taken a toll on me, I guess, and I want to be fresh for tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” he answered without hesitation or regret, and began to walk with her back through the house. At the foot of the staircase he paused, and surprised her by taking her wrist when she murmured “Good night” and started to turn away. “Lily,” he said portentously.

  “Yes?”

  “A woman’s highest duty to her husband is obedience.”

  She nodded slowly and began to try to frame some suitable reply.

  “I’ve been watching you tonight,” he went on, not waiting for a response. “Your speech and manners are too free; they invite misunderstanding. In the future, you’ll have to curb your behavior around individuals of the opposite sex.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But—I never intended anything improper, Lewis, I promise—”

  “I don’t doubt it; but I speak of the result, not the intent. My father has been vouchsafed a vision from God that you and I are to marry. The match may seem unsuitable, even strange to us, but that does not signify. A higher Power has decreed it, and our duty is to accept His will with humility and gratitude.” He tightened his grip on her arm and leveled her with a stern, gray-eyed stare. “You will be my wife, Lily. With discipline and patient instruction, you will become everything the Lord intends you to be.”

  It almost sounded like a threat. Lily squared her shoulders, suppressing an inner shudder. At least the mystery was solved: Lewis liked her no better than she liked him. She sent him a brave, determined smile. “I will try hard to be a good wife,” she promised truthfully. “I will help you with the work you’ve chosen in every way I can. One day I hope you’ll be proud of me.”

  His stern expression softened slightly. “I hope so too,” he said, and bent to drop a dry kiss—his first ever—on her forehead. “Sleep well. I’ll send the maid up to you.”

  “Good night, Lewis.”

  He walked away, tall and straight and bulky. She watched him go, wondering what he would do if he knew about the baby. A quick tingle of perspiration dampened her palms. It didn’t bear thinking about. Hanging onto the banister, she dragged herself up the stairs and turned down the long corridor that led to her room.

  It was small but comfortable, and all the furnishings were brand new. Without lighting a candle, she crossed immediately to the doors that led out onto a tiny balcony—the room’s finest amenity, in her opinion. It was on the other side of the house from the courtyard, thank heaven, so the festivities going on there now were only a vague hum. Soames had built his house on the outskirts of the old cathedral city, away from most of the bustle. A bright September moon was rising above the plane trees across the road, and somewhere among them an owl hooted. Tonight, as it had every night since she’d run away from Darkstone, Lily’s unconscious mind registered, just for a second, that something was missing. Then, again as always, she realized what it was: the sound of the sea. She missed it as an infant might miss the sound of its mother’s heartbeat.

  She drew a shaky breath. There were many things she missed, and much she had to regret. But she was getting through these dreadful days by living in the moment, suppressing thoughts of the past and looking no further into the grim future than tomorrow. It had gotten her to this day, this time, so it must be working; she had better not tamper with success. The owl called again, the sound hollow and haunted. Lily put her head in her hands and wept.

  Behind her she heard a light knock and then the opening of the door. She dried her cheeks with her hands and the sleeve of her dress, then turned around to see the maid standing beside the bed, waiting to help her.

  She undressed in silence, too weary for chatter, although she was aware that the maid, whose name was Abbey, must think it odd that she had so little conversation on the night before her wedding. They bade each other quiet good nights, and then Lily sat down at the dressing table to brush out her hair. Again the mirror was not her friend. The pale strangeness of her own face almost frightened her; it revealed too much of her desperate unhappiness. But she must not cry anymore; it was weak and foolish, and it brought no relief anyway. But she was weighted down with the twin burdens of regret and guilt, with nothing to comfort her but the certainty that at least she had not lied to Lewis about one thing: she would make him a good wife. Wherever he took her, and for the rest of her life, even if it killed her, she intended to be everything he wanted her to be. Personal happiness was ludicrously irrelevant now. What was happening was God’s punishment, because she had given in to sin with a man who had never loved her. As long as no harm came to the baby, she could count herself blessed that her punishment was no worse.

  She dropped her tired arms and bowed her head, staring at the hairbrush lying limp in her hands. The emptiness rose up again without warning; she closed her eyes, weary of tears. But she was so lonely. It was fatigue, she told herself, fatigue and stress that made it so hard not to think of Devon. Not of that last night—that was unbearable, unspeakable—but of other times they’d shared. For some reason she thought of the night beside the lake, Pirate’s Mere, when he’d walked up behind her, he and his brother, and she had been wet and trembling and embarrassed. It had been an awful moment—and yet she’d never been able to remember it without a secret thrill of excitement. But why would she think of such a thing now? She couldn’t help it; she clearly recalled the low, provocative sound of his voice in her ear, and even more clearly the way his warm fingers had pulled her dripping hair aside and lightly touched the bare skin of her back. A deep longing welled up inside, so strong it hurt her, made her throat ache.

  Her breath caught. A touch—so light—at the back of her neck made her throw her head up, wild-eyed. A big hand whipped around and muffled her scream of fright.

  They stared at each other in the mirror while her chest heaved and she tried to catch her breath. He took his hand away slowly, but the other stayed tangled in her hair, holding her still. She’s changed, he thought, though he couldn’t define how. He’d thought it before, observing from the trees outside as she’d moved among the people at her party, and again from her balcony when he’d watched her undress. She was as beautiful as always, more so, but there was a new fragility, a tentativeness, as well as an odd, heavy quality. Sadness? His fingers tightened in her hair; he remembered that he didn’t give a damn what she felt, now or ever.

  “Did all that Wesleyan merrymaking tire you out, love?” He watched her swallow, following the line of her throat into the neckline of her modest robe. He reached down and began to unbutton it, casually, dow
n to her waist. She allowed it, seemed frozen in her seat, eyes wide and lips parted, still too shocked to speak. “What, no greeting for me, Lily?” His eyes locked on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. “Haven’t you missed me? I’ve missed you.” He pushed the robe over her shoulders, listening to the flutter of her breathing. She didn’t move. “What a relief to see that you weren’t injured in the fall from your window, sweetheart. I’ve been so worried about you.” He gave a little tug on the ribbon holding the front of her nightdress together, and her beautiful eyes darkened. At last she reacted.

  She jumped up and tried to twist away, but he still had her hair. He pulled her into an embrace, intimate but unkind, and her eyes turned luminous with sudden tears. Detached, careful, he wiped them away with his fingers, noticing the bruised-looking crescents under her eyes. “Such a tragic face,” he murmured, touching her cheeks, her lips, frowning intently.

  “Why have you come?” It amazed her that she could speak any words at all, much less coherent ones.

  “Why? To see you, of course. And to wish you well on the eve of your marriage. The wisdom of your choice eludes me, I confess, but I long ago gave up trying to understand women.”

  “Let go of me.” Instead his arms tightened cruelly. But only for a moment; then, to her surprise, he released her. She backed away immediately, seeking distance, trying desperately to read his face. He was surveying the room, taking in its small ordinariness with a contemptuous glance. Shocked, she watched him walk to the bed and sit down at the foot, crossing his booted legs and smiling across at her coldly. She dreaded to ask, but she could not wait any longer. “Clay,” she faltered, hardly above a murmur; “how is he?”

  His smile stayed in place, but now it was patently unnatural. “He’s recovered,” he said tonelessly.

  Lily’s chin dropped to her chest; she closed her eyes and thanked God.

  “But he’s lost his memory. He can’t remember who shot him.”

  She jerked her head up. “I didn’t.” Still his odd, wooden smile didn’t change. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she went on, unable to stop. “I think it must have been Trayer. Do you remember? He said he would pay you back.”

  “Trayer. Yes. That must have been who it was.”

  But he didn’t believe it—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. “How did you find me?” she asked hopelessly.

  “Simple. I opened the letter your estimable guardian had forwarded to you at Darkstone.”

  “But—”

  “Then I went to Lyme Regis, where dear Mrs.—Troublefield, wasn’t it? a vaguely familiar name to me—was persuaded to say where you’d gone.”

  She shivered; the thought of his persistence chilled her. “Please …” She lifted a beseeching hand, then let it fall to her side, conscious of the futility of asking him for anything. Instead she said, “What are you going to do?”

  “Me? I’m not going to do anything.” His eyes shone with a hard, peculiar gleam that terrified her. “But you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I only want one thing from you now, Lily. It’s really all I’ve ever wanted.” He stood up, and Lily wrapped her arms around herself and stood straighter. He went toward her slowly, daring her with his eyes not to move. By the time he reached her she had gone pale with dread and the effort of control. He reached one hand out to her shoulder and caressed her under the robe, softly, almost absentmindedly. “I want to sleep with you.” Her eyelids flickered, but otherwise she didn’t react. “Just for tonight,” he explained, running an idle finger under her chin, stroking her jaw. “One last time for us, hmm? For old times’ sake.”

  She got out, “No,” in an aghast whisper.

  “No?” he repeated, pressing her lips now with his forefinger but otherwise not touching her. “Oh—but I forgot to tell you what I will do if you refuse. I’ll have you arrested.” He watched color come into her cheeks, then recede as she went even whiter. Her lovely gray-green eyes widened; for a moment he was lost.

  “Dev …”

  The sighed word recalled him to his purpose. “You know I can do it. They’ll put you in prison, love. You’ll stay there until November for the assizes, and then they’ll try you. Clay can’t remember, but his note will be enough.”

  “His—”

  “They’ll hang you,” he said flatly, tired of sparring.

  She took a step back. His cold, remote expression made her feel frozen inside. “I see.” She pulled her robe closer and bowed her head, absorbing his terms and the hateful things he’d said. She thought of the baby. “But if I give myself to you tonight…”

  “I’ll let you go.”

  She looked up. He stared back, and she saw the utter ruthlessness in his face. Her decision wasn’t automatic, and there was enough fight left in her to hope he knew it. But after a moment she answered, again in a whisper, “All right, Dev. You win.” Before she could think too long about it, she shrugged out of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. His face went even harder. Taking that for a dare, she crossed her arms and seized two handfuls of nightgown at the hips, pulled it up, and whisked it over her head. She held the balled cloth in her arms across her middle just for a second, and then flung it on the floor. Her voice came out high and thin. “Where do you want me? In the bed?”

  Devon dragged his eyes back to her face. She thinks this is a game, he thought, that I’ll relent because I’m bluffing. “Yes, the bed,” he answered softly, then repeated the last two words when seconds passed and she didn’t move. Fascinated, he watched her smooth diaphragm contract with every panicked inhalation. Finally she turned and walked stiffly to the bed. She hesitated, both hands on the mattress, fingers spread. Her hair hung down her back like a dark flame; her skin was white enough to blind. She bent a little, and the movement of muscle in her thighs and buttocks made him stop breathing. With a natural grace that he remembered with shocking and painful clarity, she climbed onto the bed, then sat in the middle in a slightly awkward posture of waiting. “Lie down,” he said hoarsely. Her thin nostrils flared, but she obeyed. “Yes, on your back. For now.”

  He moved closer. “Now open your arms and legs, Lily, as if you would welcome me.” She turned her face away, toward the wall. A moment later she spread her arms out on either side. He waited. “Lily?” He saw that her ribs were shuddering faintly, then uncontrollably, and in the flicker of candlelight he made out the silver rush of tears on the side of her face he could still see.

  The hollowness inside him shifted, changed, as if her tears were the ones he’d kept himself from shedding for so long and now his emptiness was beginning to fill. He walked toward the bed, stripping off coat and waistcoat as he went, dragging his shirt out of his breeches. He sat beside her, facing her, one knee drawn up in the hollow of her waist, and put his hand on the soft, silky skin of her thigh. She jumped. He lowered his head and kissed her just above the knee, once. She sighed and covered her eyes with one hand. He said her name, and as he did so he parted her legs with his hands, slowly but strongly, allowing no resistance. He watched her abdomen tense and harden. With his palm he caressed her between her legs; using the back of his middle finger he opened her, stroking side to side.

  Lily took a quick gulp of air and faced him, one arm still spread wide. He saw her tongue touch the roof of her mouth as she started to say his name. To stop her, he put his fingers inside her. Her eyes squeezed shut; her head went back against the pillow. “Don’t,” she said brokenly. “Dev, for the love of God—”

  “Don’t talk, Lily.” He watched her eyes, and the slow, slick movements of his hand. She drew one knee up; after long minutes her breathing changed and her back arched subtly. Her struggle to resist was fierce and obvious. He waited, resisting the invitation of her soft breasts until her hands curled into fists and every muscle went rigid. Then he bent to taste her, taking one stiff nipple into his mouth. She clutched at him while he suckled her and stroked her with thorough, remorseless skill. She didn�
��t move or make a sound, but all at once he felt her strong, rhythmic contractions through his fingers and the palm of his hand.

  The pulsing tapered away to soft, intermittent ripples. He straightened slowly. He wanted to see her face, but she kept it turned from him. Her breasts were flushed pink, wet from his kisses. He stared down at the still-intimate cupping of his hand, caressing her with a soft, insistent thumb. She jerked, and he stroked her again, but more gently. She moved her hand to cover his, stilling it, and looked at him.

  She saw that his face was intent, aroused, but beyond that she couldn’t read his expression. Sorrow and uncertainty kept her motionless. It was not tenderness that had motivated the thing he had just done. But it was hardly cruelty, either. Something in between, she guessed, despairing. He had wanted her to feel defeated. She said his name, needing to connect with him in some way besides sex. His face didn’t change and he made no answer. “Dev,” she repeated, whispering. “Can you believe that I love you?”

  Something flickered behind his eyes. She stared intently, straining to understand. Abruptly he got to his feet. She tensed, expecting anything. He began to pull off his boots, then his shirt and breeches.

  She sat straight up, her face the color of ashes. “Don’t. Don’t do this. This is wrong, please don’t.” The sight of his naked body, powerfully aroused, filled her with primitive, unreasoning panic. Before she could move, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her down, sliding his big body over hers. She felt his knees forcing hers apart. “Please! Oh please, we have to talk, you—”

  “I didn’t come here to talk.”

  With a stab of anguish, she felt his maleness enter her quickly, sleekly. To her surprise he held still then, deep inside her. A truce. She tried to touch his face—if only she could reach him!—but he took her wrists away and pressed them back against the pillow. “Dev—”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  He began to move, seducing her with the slowness of his long, sensual stroking. The quickness of her response shamed her; for a few minutes she tried to dissemble, but it was useless. Tears filled her eyes. He stopped the wet tracks with his tongue, but when she moved her mouth to kiss him, he turned his face aside. His movements quickened and his eyes burned with purpose. She knew what he wanted. She said, “I can’t.”