Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  He unclenched his hands and put them on his knees. “So I married her. When it was over, my naïveté stunned me. I’d bought a farm in Dorset, thinking she’d like living close to home. But the very quality that had drawn me to her was restlessness—how could I have been stupid enough to think she would enjoy a life that was just like the one she’d tried so hard to escape?

  “In moments not quite so full of self-disgust, I understood that part of it was her fault. She agreed to every suggestion I made, seemed pleased and flattered by every ‘condescension,’ as she called it. Not once did she give me a hint that anything was amiss. Until the night she left me a note on the kitchen table and took herself off with my bailiff and all the money she could find in the house. ‘I can’t live this life, I’m leaving you,’ she wrote. She didn’t bother to sign her name.”

  Lily pressed her fists to her chin, hating what he could make her feel. But helpless tears slid down her cheeks, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I never think about her now. I found the letters I’d written to her—needless to say, she didn’t take them with her. Reading them again was the only way I could call back what it was I’d felt for her. I wanted to understand the passion, the—insanity. But they’re only words. There’s no feeling at all anymore. Nothing.”

  He stared into space. A moment later he put his elbows on his thighs and buried his face in his hands. Drawn against her will, Lily moved toward him soundlessly. She knew as surely as if he’d spoken where his thoughts had led.

  “But I never stop thinking about Edward,” he said in a muffled voice. “She took him. Oh, Christ. He was eight months old. He could smile and laugh. When I held him he never cried.” She crept closer and put her hands on his shoulders, standing behind him. “Sometimes his little body seems so real to me, Lily, I can almost feel him. He had black hair, soft as flax. And he was fat. And very … happy. I think he was happy.” His shoulders hunched; he took a breath and sat up abruptly, the back of his head pressed against her bosom. “But sometimes I can’t get out of my mind how he looked, his—corpse. Two days dead and still unburied. He looked so small. His skin was blue—his beautiful face—” He couldn’t finish. A sob rose in his chest and shook his whole body. Lily embraced him and held tight, unable to console, helpless in the face of his despair. Their tears mingled and fell on her crossed arms. She murmured to him, her cheek pressed to his temple. He took a shuddering breath and drew his handkerchief from his pocket.

  She stepped back. She was shaking because of what she had to tell him, what she had to tell herself—that her heart had closed up. It contained one person now, the child in her womb, and could admit no one else.

  “Devon.” He turned to look at her. She was relieved to see that he had himself in control again. “I’m sorry for your pain. It hurts me—so much. More than I can bear. But this child”—she stopped and swallowed, and now she could only whisper—“this child is mine, and you can’t have it.”

  He stared at her without speaking for so long that finally she couldn’t stand it. It felt as if she’d thrust a knife into his heart, then into hers. Not knowing what he would do, she went to him again and put her arms around him. His body felt heavy, limp. She put her face in his hair and kissed him—a silent, secret kiss.

  Then her arms fell away. She moved back, across the shadowy room toward the bed, and sat down on its edge. “I’m so tired. Please go now, I have to go to sleep.”

  He didn’t move. Minutes passed, and she thought she heard him say, “Ah, Lily. You are my joy and my dark penance.” He stood and came to her, pulled her gently up from the bed by her hands. The light was dim here; they could hardly see each other. He touched his fingertips to the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes. “Let me help you,” he said, stroking the back of her neck with his warm hand. “Let me do this for you.”

  His touch was soft—and she needed it so much. And he needed it, too. She closed her eyes. She would allow herself just a moment’s pleasure, because it had been so long. So long.

  Gradually she realized he was unfastening her gown in back. She turned around, away from him, but he slid one arm beneath her breasts to hold her. “Let me, Lily.” Something in the touch of his hands reassured her; she stood quietly, her head bowed.

  He eased the dress off her shoulders and let it slip to the floor. “Where’s your nightgown?” She pointed to the foot of the bed. He started to unfasten her chemise.

  “Don’t. No, don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—I don’t want you to see me.”

  He moved his hands down to cover her swollen stomach. “But you’re beautiful.”

  “I’m not.” She remembered to add, “And I don’t need you to say that I am.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But you are anyway. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. You always will be. Do you think that because your belly’s big I don’t want you?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t care, I mean—“

  “I remember everything about your body.” He went back to unbuttoning her shift in front, his arms reaching around her, fingers light and gentle. “I remember how soft your skin is, how sweet it smells. How warm in my hands. I remember your hair, tickling my face, smelling of soapsuds. The bones of your face under my fingers, your eyelashes touching my cheek, my lips. Your mouth. God, Lily, I remember your mouth.”

  “Devon—”

  “The taste of you, Lily, the sweet, sweet taste. Touching you was so good. Your breasts are soft and perfect and they filled my hands just right.”

  “Please—”

  He had her naked now, but didn’t turn her to face him. He spread his hands over her stomach again and took a deep, unsteady breath. Lily leaned back against him and allowed it, her heart full and aching. “I want you. There’s no one else but you. Lily, I’m dying for you.”

  She felt his breath fan her neck, her shoulder. The thought of loving him, making love with him now, made her tremble. He moved his hands up to hold her full breasts, and the trembling became a palsied shaking she couldn’t control.

  “You’re cold.” He let her go, slowly. His voice sounded strange. He snagged her nightgown from the bed and gave it to her. She pulled it on jerkily, then faced him to sit on the edge of the bed and take off her stockings. She did it without coyness, and the intimate chore—the raising of the hem of her gown past her knees, the quick, efficient peeling of the cotton hose over her long calves—moved him as nothing else had; his whole body tensed with desire so desperate it frightened him.

  She finished and lay down, covering herself. The blanket flowed in seductive shadows across the soft mounds of her belly and her breasts. “Let me kiss you,” he said hoarsely.

  Her voice was scarcely any lighter. “You mustn’t.”

  He sat beside her and put his hands on either side of the pillow. “Don’t you want me to?”

  The question confounded her. The answer to it was so obvious she though he must be taunting her. “It won’t mean anything,” she said shakily.

  “It won’t mean anything?”

  She felt inexplicably ashamed.

  “It will mean something to me,” he said. He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers.

  She was lost immediately in the warmth and the urgency and the sweetness. She made a sound of longing and defeat, and reached for his wrists. His mouth stayed gentle and undemanding; it was impossible to say who started the provocative caress of tongues or the deep, hot kisses and the hard, trembling, purposeful clutch of hands. Hunger, stronger than anything they’d known before, caught them off guard. Her blood sang a warm, surprised song, remembering everything they’d shared. He held her as tightly as he dared, and the firm, generous curve of her belly against him renewed something that had been dead, that he’d long ago given up any hope of resurrecting. At length, in a panic, Lily pushed back at his shoulders. She was panting, her face full of dismay and wonder.

  “That meant something,” he s
aid when he could speak. How close they had come. His body was still in rebellion. “Good night, my heart,” he whispered. One last kiss. Their lips touched.

  It started again instantly, all the helpless wanting, as if reason had never made its brief, unwanted interruption.

  “I don’t want you to seduce me!” Lily cried, but clutching at him with strong fingers.

  “I’m not, Lily, I’m loving you.”

  “Don’t say it—”

  “I love you. I love you.”

  She wept, and let him unfasten the gown she’d put on minutes ago. “Tell me why you changed your mind,” she begged, her mouth pressed to his throat. “About me, and Clay. What made you want me again?”

  “Let’s not talk.”

  “No, tell me now. Please, Dev, it’s time.”

  He shut his eyes tight, feeling his blood cool. “I told you, I came to my senses.” He touched her bare breasts with the tips of his fingers, and her breath hissed through her teeth.

  But she wouldn’t let it go. “But why? Tell me why. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking of you, Lily, of the way you are. I remembered how sweet you are, how gentle.” He’d thought it would be hard to lie to her, but it was the easiest thing in the world—because it wasn’t a lie at all. “You could never have hurt Clay. I don’t understand now how I could have believed it, even for a second. I’ll never stop being sorry. You gave me everything, even though you knew I couldn’t give you anything back. I was afraid I’d killed all that sweetness in you. Love me again, Lily, let me back in. I need you.”

  She wiped the last of her tears away and took him in her arms. His hair smelled of the sea. Their hearts beat together, and his body was like the other half of hers. She pressed soft kisses to his mouth, his closed eyes, whispering comfort against his skin.

  What a rich blessing. He began to stroke his hand across the solid swell of her belly. How long had he wanted to touch her like this? He felt himself healing, flourishing, and so close to her and to his child—all one. Their baby had been conceived in love, although he hadn’t known it at the time. He knew it now. “I love you, Lily.”

  But she said, “Don’t, Dev, just hold me, it’s enough.”

  He wanted to keep saying it, but it made her sad. And she was right, this was enough—for now.

  “I don’t want to be naked,” she whispered a little later when he started to push her nightgown down past her hips.

  “Why? Oh, Lily, let me see you. I want to be close to you.”

  “All right.” She couldn’t deny him anything. “But you too—now.”

  “Yes.” He smiled and sat up to strip off coat and shirt, boots and breeches. He tossed the covers aside and sank back down beside her. She was lovely, he murmured to her, desirable, delicious, he wanted her at this moment more than he ever had before.

  “But I’m so fat,” she insisted, but smiling, almost believing him.

  “No, you’re perfect.” He kissed her with all his pent-up need and tenderness until they were panting, mouths starved and slippery, hands grasping. His fingers made a comb through the soft hair between her thighs. She parted her legs in invitation and he accepted, enthralling her with his slow, deep caress.

  She shuddered, arched higher. “Dev, I don’t know—how—”

  “I know a way.” Facing her, he pulled one of her long, sleek legs over his hips. “Like this.”

  “I can touch you this way,” she marveled, demonstrating.

  He groaned. “Yes, I know.”

  They kissed, side by side, exchanging sweet, hot caresses, until they forgot to kiss. He squeezed her hand tighter around himself, rock-hard and throbbing, and ground out, “You do it. Slow, love, take it slowly, only as much as you—ah, Christ.” She had taken him deep inside, all at once. They held still to savor it. “Lily, this—this is—”

  “Yes,” she whispered, in perfect agreement.

  “No, but this—” Words were useless. He was connected again with his deepest feelings. He’d been solitary and alien, and now he’d come home. He, Lily, the child—they were together inside her kind and generous body. A storm of emotion shook him. He felt redeemed, and this intimacy was all but unbearable. He could have wept, but his sexual arousal was too intense.

  His reaching hands were splayed across her breasts, hers on his stomach and his bent knee beneath her. Their bodies made a lovely, ungainly X. Lily let her excitement rise and blossom slowly, selfishly, taking his patience for granted because he had never been anything but patient before. It was as if she’d already been satisfied, and it was enough now to take delight in the miracle of this union, this amazing completion.

  Almost enough. She could feel his passion building through the long, steady rhythm of his body’s caress, and it fired her. Heat coursed through her, singeing her where his fingers stroked and pressed. The heat intensified. She’d known desire before, but not quite like this. She was aching. But she was big with child—how could her body respond to him this way? She had no answer; she only wanted. And loved.

  And he was swelling, bursting, he couldn’t bear the wait. This was need, not seduction, rough and uncontrollable, and he’d been on the edge of it for much too long. He rose up to take her near breast in his mouth while his fingers pinched and chafed at the other. Lily’s head fell back, chin to ceiling, and she began the soft, rising moan, a sound he had never forgotten, that told him her climax was near. He thought of all the times he’d teased her, taunted her with his control and her helplessness, his mastery of her. Now he was master of nothing. He spoke low in her ear, love-words and soft, broken-off obscenities that were barely understandable between the hungry, devouring kisses he pressed to her throat, neck, shoulder. He could feel himself beginning to fall, beginning to overflow. “Hurry,” he urged, trying to sound calm. She looked at him, and her eyes, before she closed them, were soft and opaque with her deep woman’s knowledge. She smiled, and then her mouth opened on a long, silent cry.

  He waited for her, surprising himself, but held fast in the grip of fascination while Lily surrendered, shuddering against him, gasping out her pleasure. His own followed instantly, a deep, endless release. When it was over, nothing was the same as it had been. Before he fell into sleep, still entwined with her in a lovers’ tangle of sweat-damp arms and legs, he felt his baby move inside her body. Joy, an exquisite shimmering sensation, took his breath away. He kissed Lily’s mouth, and closed his eyes in peace.

  Twenty-seven

  “LILY!”

  She stopped, trapped. It was Clay who had called—she hadn’t made her escape quickly enough. If she weren’t so fat he wouldn’t have seen her, she thought irritably. She turned and gave a reluctant wave and a nod. Perhaps it would still be possible just to walk away—but no. Now Devon was striding toward her along the cliff path, his face full of purpose.

  “Come and meet Alice and my mother,” he invited, smiling. “Last chance—Alice has decided to stay, but Mother leaves tomorrow.”

  “This isn’t necessary,” Lily said in a low voice.

  He arched a brow. “Are you afraid?”

  She started to deny it, but she saw the warm sympathy in his eyes and it provoked her to tell the truth. “Terrified.” So far she had successfully avoided their ladyships, who had been at Darkstone for nearly a week, and until now Devon had respected her reticence.

  “I won’t let them eat you,” he promised softly. He reached for her hands, his body blocking her from the view of the others. The look in his eyes melted her; everything blurred.

  She thought of how patient he’d been these last days, letting her set the pace of their reconciliation. His wounds went as deep as hers, but hers were fresher—they didn’t heal as quickly. And so they hadn’t spoken of the future or given each other promises. At times like this, though, when his heart shone in his eyes, and when he stood close and she remembered everything about his body underneath the rough tan broadcloth and the soft white muslin—then she had no resistance at
all, and her only defense was that he didn’t know it.

  “Come,” he urged her gently, “you’ll like them. And they’ll love you.” He took her arm. It seemed childish to hang back now; she let him lead her toward the trio waiting for them on the cliff path.

  “Mother, Alice, this is Lily Trehearne.”

  Lily curtsied, murmuring, feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable. She’d made a mistake, she realized immediately. This was without a doubt the most awkward moment of her life; the more she thought of it, the more absurd it seemed. What could Clay and Devon be thinking of, wanting her to meet these women? Were all men this stupid? After the introductions, it didn’t surprise her that no one knew what to say. Clay was holding Alice’s arm in a comfortable way, she noticed. Lady Elizabeth was holding something too, a tiny ball of fur—a dog, Lily surmised—while making no effort at small talk. Instead she regarded Lily with such sharp-eyed interest that she wanted to squirm. Never had she felt so clumsy and tongue-tied. Or so pregnant.

  “Lovely day,” Clay mentioned presently, for the tenseness of the silence had finally registered even on him. Lady Alice agreed, and expanded on the theme for a few halting sentences.

  “I was just on my way home,” Lily remarked desperately. “Good day—I’m happy to have met you.” She curtsied again, sent a private glance of misery at Devon, and made her escape.

  In the cottage she paced, reliving the dreadful scene, chiding herself for going out at all today when she’d known that Alice and Elizabeth were here and there was even a small chance that she would meet them. Gabriel watched her from the open door, massive black head rotating with each of her hectic circuits. With a scrabbling of toenails he suddenly turned around; she peered past him to see what had caught his attention. Coming up the walk, skirts swaying, silk parasol swinging, strode Lady Elizabeth Darkwell.