Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  “You can.” He embraced her, releasing her wrists, and at last she was allowed to touch him—his heated skin, the cool sleekness of his hair. Now it was his body that was trembling as she slid her hands over his buttocks and the rigid muscles of his back. She was dying to kiss him. She trailed her fingers under the hard bone of his clenched jaw; watching his eyes, she drew his head down and traced the strong outline of his lips with her tongue. He sucked in his breath; his shuddering intensified. But he was waiting, wanting her to let go of her control before his own snapped. It was a matter of power. Realizing it, Lily almost smiled, for this was a game she could win.

  She shifted subtly and pulled her knees up, lodging him higher, tighter. Legs locked around his waist, she began to rock him with the same slow, canny, devastating artistry he had taught her. His face was buried in her hair, but she thought she could hear him grinding his teeth. Patient and passionate, she gave herself to him, daring him to reject the gift this time. She knew the instant his resistance began to disintegrate. He raised his head; just for an instant, behind the desire, she caught a glimpse of haggard suffering in his eyes. Her heart contracted. Cradling his dear face, she touched her lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. He shuddered, not moving, and then suddenly his open mouth slanted over hers and he returned her kiss with all the wild tenderness she had been afraid to hope for. He only lifted his head to grit out a low, hoarse shout when his climax came. It surged through him with a rough, tumultuous violence that she accepted gladly. She held him tightly, needing to shelter him until the storm passed. Afterward, he lay limp in her arms, sprawled across her, his breath rasping. But she could not tell from the heaviness of his body whether what he felt now was satisfaction or defeat.

  And she couldn’t ask. Words were their enemy, had always been, but never, she sensed, more so than now. She stroked his damp skin, treasuring the rare peace, if that was what it was. Her love was as strong as ever. But he would not believe her if she told him of it, and she would do anything to keep on holding him. She pressed her breasts and her belly against him softly, secretly, because the need to tell him about the baby was overpowering her. Not being allowed to speak those words made her cry.

  He felt her tears on his cheek and pushed up on his elbows to see her. He had never been able to stand it when she cried. In weary wonder, Devon heard himself say, “Don’t. It’s all right, Lily, don’t cry.”

  He slid away and lay on his side beside her. Lily dried her face on the sheet, determined to stop this weak weeping. But her emotions were closer to the surface than she knew, because in the next minute she found herself saying, “I love you, Dev. I do, I swear it.”

  A moment passed. Devon lifted his hand to her shoulder and patted it stiffly. “And I love you.” She drew in her breath, turning to look at him. His downcast eyes eluded her. “But you must marry Lewis,” he said in a sad, resigned voice. “I wish you happiness with him. He’s probably not a bad sort. His father’s rich, and that will help. But you already know that.”

  What was left of Lily’s heart broke into pieces. “Will you remember me?” she whispered, eyes closed.

  “Oh, yes. And you’ll remember me.”

  Something in his voice made her heart stop. His fingers began to trail across her breasts in lazy, random patterns. A little later he covered her mouth with his, putting an end to speaking, arousing her in spite of a heavy listlessness that had begun to spread through her body. Turning her, he took her from behind this time, bringing her to her pleasure with slow, unrelenting patience. Heartsick, she fell into an exhausted sleep. Sometime in the night his skimming hands woke her. The candles had guttered; the room was dark and chilly. She suffered his strange, tormented loving in silence, too weary to speak now, or even to weep. The next time she awoke, she was alone.

  Twenty-one

  “FOR ‘THE WIFE HATH not power of her own body but the husband, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband. Else were your children unclean, but now they are holy.’ ”

  Lily closed her eyes and tried to attend more to the fine, theatrical rhythm of Soames’s marvelous voice than to St. Paul’s uncompromising message. Kindly, soaring, avuncular, celebratory, the voice filled every inch of the enormous, high-ceilinged drawing room, empty of furniture this morning to accommodate the eighty wedding guests crammed between its ornate, frescoed walls. At least their faces were a blur to her, white, featureless blotches with staring eyes. She was thankful for the gossamer veil covering her head, for if the guests could see her face clearly underneath, it might alarm them.

  It had alarmed Soames’s wife a few minutes ago when she’d come to Lily’s room to tell her it was time. “My dear, you’re ill!” Then, “Oh, heavens—Roger won’t want to put off the ceremony,” she’d fretted, twisting her hands. Lily had to summon all her strength to reassure the good woman that she was not ill, only excited, and of course the wedding must go forward. But she felt another lurch of nausea now and pressed the prayerbook Lewis had given her more tightly to her stomach. She ought to have forced herself to eat something for breakfast after all, she thought distractedly. What if she fainted?

  “ ‘Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything,’ ” Soames rumbled on, big square teeth bared for the dramatic “e” sounds. Lily’s knees had begun to tremble; she imagined for a few seconds how very easy it would be to slide to the floor, right here, right now. What on earth was she doing, marrying Lewis Soames? Surely this was a perversion, a sin, a willful crime against nature. Her very soul was in rebellion against it, and the battle inside was draining away the last of her physical resources. She still felt empty and violated from Devon’s harrowed, desperate lovemaking, and yet the thought of giving herself to her lawfully wedded husband seemed infinitely stranger, a truly unnatural act.

  “For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh.’ “

  She had no choice. “Unnatural act” or not, what she was doing was a practical necessity, nothing more or less. Her other two options were the poorhouse and prostitution. Rather than marry Lewis, she might have picked one of those—except for the baby. The solution was not to think about it. Submit; let it happen. And don’t faint. Gratefully she felt the solidity of Lewis’s shoulder against hers. But it surprised her too, for she hadn’t realized she was leaning against him. Soames had stopped reading and was addressing his “dear friends,” telling them why they were gathered here together.

  It’s not the end of the world; it’s a wedding. To a good man, a respectable man. Just then he took her hand—his father must have told him to; she hadn’t heard—and she looked down at Lewis’s huge, blocky fingers, hers invisible inside them. She tried to imagine him touching her with passion, and everything in her shriveled and shrank. It was a sin, but she thought of Devon’s hands, touching her. Even last night, in his anger and pain, there had been moments of undeniable tenderness between them—never mind that they had been against his will, half buried under some inscrutable torment. But he didn’t love her; he had as good as given her to Lewis, without regrets: “I wish you happiness with him,” he’d said. His heart was a mystery she would never unlock, because she would never see him again.

  Marriage was an indissoluble union, Soames was saying, sanctified by the word of God and prayer. It was a sacrament proclaimed by Christ according to Mark, indivisible once undertaken save for the cause of fornication. Fancy, Lily knew, but it seemed to her that Cousin Roger’s piercing gray eyes could see through her concealing veil straight to her wicked heart. Submit, she ordered herself. Don’t think, just do it. Do it for the baby. Her hand in Lewis’s was drenched with perspiration, but she was shivering as if with a chill. She heard a whirring in her ears, and despaired: dear God, she was going to faint after all.

  But it wasn’t whirring, she realized a second later, it was whispering; and now it was murmuring. People were talking. Impossible; was she l
osing her mind? Were they? What had Soames just said that could have provoked it? “In the absence of any impediment” was the last thing she could remember. She glanced up at Lewis, but he seemed equally bewildered. Soames stopped talking and peered, scowling, between her and Lewis’s shoulders. They turned around together, still holding hands. The crowd behind them was parting in the middle, falling back to make way for a newcomer.

  In the instant before she saw him, Lily knew it was Devon. Her first response was sheer, wild delight. Behind the veil, her face was transformed; she had to hold back a laugh of pure joy. He was here! He was going to save her! He was dressed formally, all in black; he even wore a wig. Had he been here all the time, pretending to be a wedding guest? Knowing it would be unseemly just now to flash him a huge, rapturous smile, she kept her veil in place. She saw him glance down at her and Lewis’s clasped hands, and gave a tug to break the contact. But Lewis held on.

  “I know of an impediment to this marriage,” Devon announced in an idle, conversational tone that nevertheless carried to every ear in the long room.

  But Lily saw through his seeming casualness; she could read the hot intensity in his eyes, and she felt its answering flame in her own heart. Oh, my love, she called to him silently; the jumping of a muscle in his hard jaw made her imagine he’d heard.

  “At least, I should find it a bit of an impediment if I were standing in the happy groom’s shoes at this moment.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Soames. “What do you want here?”

  “I’m Devon Darkwell, Viscount Sandown, and I know a reason why young Lewis here might not wish to bind himself forever in holy wedlock to this woman. Are you interested in hearing it?”

  The room had gone deathly quiet. Even Soames, for once, seemed incapable of speech. Finally it was Lewis who answered. “Speak your piece quickly, sir, and then leave us. You are not known here.”

  “Not entirely true, my friend. I’m known by one of you. Known rather well, in fact.” His voice was still matter-of-fact; it was the slight sneer on his lips when he uttered the last words that sounded the alarm in Lily’s brain. “But you asked me to be quick. I’m happy to oblige, for I’ve no more stomach for prolonging this unsavory business than you. Think you, sir, that you are marrying a virgin?”

  A gasp went up. Lewis’s fierce grip on her hand tightened painfully, and she was relieved; it took her mind off the agony inside as every hope died and each foolish dream crumbled. Devon had not come to rescue her, he’d come to ruin her. She had a swift vision of everything that would happen, like lightning illuminating a catastrophe, and then it all went black again.

  “How dare you?” blustered Soames, his eloquent voice rising with indignation. “By what right do you come among us with your foul innuendos?”

  “Let him speak, Father,” Lewis said softly, and the murmurs of curiosity and outrage tapered off again to silence.

  Devon cocked an amused eyebrow. “Thank you,” he said with a mock bow. “I’ll be brief. Assuming that, like most men, you don’t care to find yourself encumbered with used goods on your wedding night, I think it might interest you to know that your betrothed is not precisely what she seems. Not even remotely, in fact. My acquaintance with the lady is short, a matter of months, so I can’t speak of the past. But I can tell you that until four weeks ago she was my mistress.”

  Soames was beside himself. “Sir!” he thundered, raising one heavy arm and pointing behind Devon to the door. “Leave my house at once before I have you thrown out. By God, sir, I’ll—”

  “Have you proof of this?” interrupted Lewis.

  “Alas, no. I can, however, prove one of the lady’s more recent transgressions. Very recent, in point of fact; indeed, I’m speaking of last night.”

  A chorus of shocked exclamations erupted from the guests. When she needed it the most, Lewis suddenly dropped Lily’s hand; she wobbled, and felt Soames’s strong, sustaining grip on her shoulder. Comfort from an unexpected source, she mused—and surely a temporary one. She folded her arms around herself and concentrated on not swooning. It would be too cheap a solution.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Devon went on with the same ghastly confidentiality, “but better to find out now than later, eh? The fact is, I lay with your bride last night in your own bed. Well, not in your bed precisely, but you take my meaning. I had her three or four times, I forget which, and then left at dawn by way of that convenient little balcony.” He smiled, and said as an aside, “If you decide to marry her anyway, I suggest you begin your new life together in a room without balconies, for your own peace of mind.”

  “Liar!” roared Soames.

  “Not at all. Shall I describe the room to you? Small, the minimum of furniture; a rose-colored carpet of a vaguely floral design. White walls, plain ceiling. Truthfully, it’s the bed I remember best—an oak tester with a carved headboard. Cotton coverlet of purple and rose and light blue, I think. You still don’t believe me? Wait, I’d forgotten.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled from it something white. “Voila! The lady’s garter—I divested her of it myself. As you can see, it has her initials.”

  All alone now, thought Lily, feeling Soames’s lifeless hand slide from her shoulder. It was almost a relief, because nothing worse could happen. This was the bottom.

  Lewis was speaking to her. “Is this true, Lily, any of it? Do you know this man? Is he—”

  “Of course it’s not true,” Soames interrupted, rallying, moving to stand between them. “The man’s a liar, and very likely an impostor. Lily is family, my cousin’s child. I’m a minister of the Lord—I’ve been blessed with the gift of seeing into men’s souls, and I tell you this woman’s heart is pure. Do you think I would countenance the wedding of my son to a common jade?” There was a gathering murmur of uncertain agreement. With his next words, Soames’s persuasive voice rang with conviction. “Your lies don’t convince us, sir. Leave my house at once. The wedding will go forward, on the strength of the word of this chaste girl. Lily,” he boomed, eyeing her confidently. “We only wait for the truth from your lips. Tell us, do you know this man?”

  “Yes, I know him.” In another mood, she might have found Soames’s expression comical, so obvious was his desire to rephrase the question. Summoning the last of her strength, she turned away from him and faced Lewis, drawing her veil away with an unsteady hand and looking directly into his shocked eyes. “What he says is true. I have been his lover. I ask your pardon, Lewis, I never meant to hurt you. I wanted to make you a good wife—” She broke off when Lewis snarled and shoved her away, hands trembling with suppressed violence, and turned his back on her.

  His father confronted him immediately; their low, urgent conversation was drowned out in the rising din of shock and amazement of the scandalized wedding guests. Lily felt their rapt gazes on her as acutely as if she were naked, but she looked at none of them. It was Devon’s glance that held her. Even when Lewis broke away from Soames’s desperate counsel and announced in a strident voice that the wedding was off, she couldn’t look away—no matter that the cruel triumph in Devon’s face desolated her.

  She became aware that the room was emptying. She felt a light touch on her arm and turned to see Ruth Soames standing at her side. The confusion in her shy brown eyes made Lily reach for her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Ruth shook her head in slow bewilderment and started to speak. But Lily would never know what she intended to say, because Lewis pushed his way between the two women at that moment, and Ruth, as intimidated by her son as she was by her husband, turned away and wandered out of the room.

  Knowing it was hopeless to try to make peace with Lewis, Lily simply waited. When she’d put on her pretty green wedding gown this morning, she’d been conscious of the irony that the day was glorious, the sun shimmering down from a sky of pure azure. Now, without surprise, she saw through the long drawing-room windows that a raucous wind had sprung up, blackening the sky and hurling dead leaves against the ho
use. A much more fitting conclusion to the debacle of her wedding.

  Lewis curled and uncurled his fingers into fists. With his back to Devon he hissed at her, “Lily Trehearne, you’ve dishonored my home and brought shame on my family. Leave this house; you’re dead to us now. But know that God’s wrath follows you and His justice is swift and terrible. Out, whore! Filthy, fornicating slut—”

  She didn’t truly believe he would strike her, even though his hands were clenched and raised; still, she felt relief when Devon seized him by the collar and pulled him backward, cutting off the tirade. “What, no words of denunciation for me? Not very evenhanded of you, Lewis, old man. A girl has to have a partner to be a filthy, fornicating slut—or hasn’t your father explained that to you yet?”

  “Villain! Spawn of the devil! Get out of my house, both of you! Here—what are you doing? Get back. Stop it, I said—”

  Devon was marching Lewis backward toward the door, nudging him with a flat hand on his chest each time he stopped. “Go away, Lewis,” he told him quietly. “I’ll leave in two minutes. But you’ll appreciate that I need to have a word with Lily first.”

  “No, you—”

  “Two minutes.” He gave him a last firm shove and shut the door in his face.

  Lily looked at the only seating accommodation, a loveseat set under the windows for some infirm wedding guest. But it was on the other side of the room, miles away; she would never reach it before her legs gave way. A long wainscoted wall was behind her; she stepped back until she felt its reassuring solidity against her shoulders. Devon sauntered over unhurriedly, hands in his pockets. The look of casual victory in his face and bearing was a mask, she knew, for there was nothing casual about him. He stopped in front of her and braced an arm against the wall beside her. She felt the subtle menace radiating from his body, but she was not afraid of him now.