For the Love of Lila

by Jennifer Malin

  Attention fixed on her face, he closed the door. “What is it, Lila?”

  She looked around, perhaps reminded of the night they had spent together in the room. At last focusing on him, she said, “Now that I am here, I am not sure where to start.”

  A complicated matter, he noted, rather than pressing danger. He surmised who might be involved. “Is it your cousin—something to do with the Italians?”

  “Actually, yes, in a way.” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Felicity is leaving Paris. She is moving to Italy to be Goldoni’s mistress.”

  He hesitated, unsure of the root of her distress. A typical woman would have been worried about her cousin’s character—but not Lila. Confused, he asked, “What is your concern? Do you fear she will suffer misuse by the count?”

  “No. I mean, no more than the misuse inherent when a woman is mistress to a married man.”

  Given her nervous air, he expected an explanation of what troubled her to pour forth. Instead, she looked away from him, wringing her hands.

  He struggled to grasp why she had come. Presuming she must want advice, he tried to organize his thoughts. “Then you are worried about the dependence she will have on the count?”

  “Well, naturally I am disappointed that she has not sought her own means of support...” Her voice trailed off.

  Puzzled by her reticence, he stood watching her, a foolhardy vein in him savoring one last chance to gaze upon her. He told himself he should resent her intrusion. Why did she need to see him—to tease him like this? Surely she would know better than he how to deal with her own cousin.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever your concern, I fear I’m less likely than you to know how to change Felicity’s mind. From what I have seen, she is a strong-willed woman.”

  “I know. I know. That is not what I came to ask of you.” She put her hand over her mouth.

  “I fear I shall require your candor, Lila. My wits are slow today, if capable of functioning at all. What assistance do you require from me?”

  “Well, you see, Tess is going with Felicity. They plan to leave next week.” She studied him as though expecting him to glean her next words, but he could deduce nothing. She moistened her lips. “I don’t have any interest in going with them, so I shall be living on my own.”

  “Oh.” The beginnings of understanding broke on him. Her finances would quickly be strained. He rubbed his chin. “So you’ll need your trust closed.”

  “Y-yes.” She averted her gaze again, evidently unsure of his reaction.

  He sighed. “Don’t worry, Lila. I am through arguing with you about whether or not you should close your trust. I will get the money to you as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you. But I’m afraid that is not the whole of the matter.” She walked to “her” bed and sat down, toying with a loose thread in the bedcover. “Without Felicity, I have no one to introduce me to society here—except maybe Mr. Douglass, and I am not entirely comfortable with him. On the other hand, when I spoke to Mrs. Shelley, she told me about some wonderful literary functions in London. She assured me I’d be welcome to attend.”

  She abandoned the thread and looked him in the eye. “I want to return to London.”

  His heart jumped, though he instantly rebuked it. What difference did it make if she lived in London, Paris or the West Indies? In any case, he would need to keep clear of her.

  He took his own turn at looking away, walking toward his luggage for no particular reason. “To stay?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Would it be possible for you to delay your departure—perhaps by a day?”

  “My departure?” He spun back around. “You want to return with me?”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head, scarcely believing she could ask such a thing. To travel side-by-side with her, every moment of the day, for days on end, would be torture. “Impossible.”

  Jumping to her feet, she said, “I know that another journey together would be difficult, but if we approach it rationally—”

  “Rationally?” He snorted. “Lila, will you ever learn that some aspects of life cannot be governed by a rational mind? I would have hoped that last night would have taught you something of human passion.”

  “It did.” She took a step toward him but made an abrupt stop. “Oh, Tristan, it did. In fact, I can’t deny that part of my reason for asking this of you is because I don’t want to give you up.”

  The anguish in her big brown eyes ripped at his heart. He had to avert his gaze for fear that he would end up in her arms pouring out his own grief. Once there, he doubted he could pull away again. “I’m sorry, but you must. Our differing goals demand it.”

  “I know, but—” She cut herself off, apparently at a loss for an argument.

  If she could have come up with one, he would have been glad to listen. But he knew she had no case. They had no case.

  He stepped to the window and stared outside, seeing nothing beyond the concrete strip of the terrace. “Our priorities clash with one another in matters too important for us to ignore.”

  A long silence followed, during which he sank into utter misery. He wished he were wrong—that they had overlooked some option, some compromise they hadn’t thought of.

  “You are right,” she said behind him.

  He turned around, no longer caring if his misery showed. “I am sorry that it cannot be different.”

  “So am I.” She pushed a straying lock of hair under her hat and retied the bow under her chin. “I believe I will still be leaving Paris. Unquestionably, I shall find living in my native land easier than in a foreign one. But I will make my own arrangements to return to England.”

  He nodded, his voice strangled in his throat.

  Placing her hand on the door handle, she said, “I imagine we will meet again sometime.”

  He couldn’t bear to express an answer—or even consider the possibilities.

  “When do you leave?” she asked.

  “The day after tomorrow.” He stared into her eyes, soaking up and storing the image of their beauty for a future of sad memories. Wondering how he would bear to look away, he said, “As early as possible.”

  “Of course.” She cast her gaze downward and nodded. “Have a good journey.”

  He had no answer for such an impossible wish.

  She tightened her grasp on the door handle, her knuckles white with strain. Before turning the knob, she looked back at him. “Tristan?”

  “Yes?”

  She gazed at him, her eyes underscored with violet shadows. Then she shook her head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. Good-bye.”

  He held still as she opened the door and departed. The door closed behind her and her footsteps echoed in the hall, each one growing softer. When they had faded, he walked back to the window to look down into the street.

  The blur beyond the terrace sharpened when she entered the scene. For some reason, her appearance startled him. He hadn’t quite known he was watching for her.

  He gazed on as she stopped outside the hotel, glancing up and down the avenue. Instead of crossing, she continued her lookout, and he realized she must be seeking a hackney coach. He frowned. Hadn’t she brought her own carriage? Surely she could have taken her cousin’s.

  A sorry-looking hack approached, a battle-worn carriage pulled by a nag with a drooping back. Tristan stood appalled as she waved to the driver, an unshaven lout with a suspect bottle on the bench beside him.

  He pressed his fingertips to his temples and felt his pulse throb. Had she no sense of self-preservation?

  Fortunately, the driver signaled to her that he already had a fare. In consolation, the man leered at her as he progressed down the block. His passenger, another boor, shouted something out the window as they passed.

  She lifted her chin and awaited the next hack, while Tristan grew more and more agitated.

  Suddenly he had a thought that horrified him: This is how she would comport herself on her
journey back to England— traveling alone, recruiting disreputable drivers and companions, no doubt staying at disgraceful inns...

  Damnation. Would he have to take her with him after all?

  He threw open the window and leaned out to peer over the terrace edge. Two young ruffians on the opposite side of the road caught his attention. They slithered onto the cobblestones, each with a leer locked on Lila.

  Oblivious, she stretched on tiptoe to see beyond a passing barouche. Up the street, another deplorable hack approached.

  Tristan knew she would signal for it.

  “Lila!”

  His shout startled her, as well as everyone else in the surrounding area. The ruffians spotted him before she did, and he shot them a searing glare. While they turned off in another direction, Lila looked up, her eyes rounded.

  “I’ll take you back to Felicity’s,” he called down, ignoring the stares of street vendors and passersby.

  Her brows rose higher. She glanced around at the onlookers, then gave him a discreet nod.

  Under ordinary circumstances, he might have been amused. He had actually managed to embarrass her. But his pounding heart made no allowance for humor.

  “Wait for me.” He started to duck into the room but thought twice and looked back down. “In the hotel.”

  Only when she had safely re-entered the building did he pull back inside the window. He grabbed his waistcoat and slipped into the garment, shaking his head. If he couldn’t trust her to travel a few blocks on her own, he could hardly let her fumble her way back to London. He would, he concluded, take her with him.

  The decision spurred a rush of adrenaline, a bit of folly that disgusted him. Snatching up his jacket, he reminded himself he had far more reason for apprehension than excitement.

  As he darted for the door, he knew he wouldn’t change his mind about taking her back as his traveling companion. But this time he had to wonder when the ride would end.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alone inside the coach Tristan had hired for their journey, Lila sat watching the countryside pass. The bluish glow of dusk lent an otherworldly quality to the trees, and the hour—that no-man’s-time between day and night—seemed to reflect the state of her life. Immersed in transition, she had no concept of her future. She didn’t know where she would live, who her friends would be...or how she would go on without Tristan.

  Through the roof, she could hear his muffled encouragement to the horses. The previous day a downpour had cut their travel short, and the lost time had prompted him to press harder today. Now the team had begun to slow and would soon need to stop for the night. Having spent hours alone the preceding evening, Lila dreaded another like it.

  She slumped in her seat, recalling how Tristan had rushed through dinner and retired early to his room. The rest of the night she had struggled with her writing, unable to concentrate, thanks to her awareness that he lay in the next room.

  A swaying of the carriage brought her back to the present. They rounded a turn, and gravel crunched under the wheels, marking the start of a driveway.

  Presuming Tristan had settled on lodgings, she opened the window and leaned out to look ahead. At the end of the drive, she saw a large, carefully maintained inn, well lit and attractive. Beyond the building, a number of private coaches stood parked at the stables. Clearly, the establishment enjoyed good patronage.

  As they slowed to a halt, she pulled back inside. A plentitude of guests would only mean more people looking on, curious about newcomers, murmuring and raising their eyebrows. To pose as a married couple hiring separate rooms embarrassed her. The night before, she could have sworn everyone had stared at them, speculating how cold she must be or why her husband couldn’t stand to share her bed.

  The carriage door opened and Tristan stood outside, offering her his hand. “This inn looks comfortable, does it not?”

  “Quite nice,” she said without enthusiasm as she slipped her fingers in his. Trying to ignore the tingling that his touch aroused, she stepped onto the gravel.

  They walked to the door arm in arm, though she knew they must look awkward. Something about his demeanor—his stiff posture, his indifferent expression—advertised his resistance to her. She believed the staff last night had sensed it, and everyone here would as well.

  Within moments of their entrance, the proprietor emerged from a busy dining room. A dashing older man with graying temples that foiled jet-black hair, he bowed and gave Lila a broad grin. His black eyes gleamed. “Bon soir, madame.”

  Flattered by the apparent admiration, she smiled and nodded.

  He turned to Tristan and bowed again. “How can I help you, monsieur?”

  Tristan dropped her arm, leaving her feeling conspicuously isolated. Pulling out his billfold, he said, “My wife and I will require a private dining room and two of your best bedchambers for the night.”

  She looked down, unable to meet the stare she sensed coming from the innkeeper. Naturally, he assumed that a request for such chaste sleeping arrangements must have originated with her, the woman.

  The man cleared his throat. “I am afraid we have no adjoining rooms available. We do, however, have a splendid suite that you might enjoy, encompassing a bedchamber and a dressing area. I assure you it is singularly commodious.”

  “The rooms need not adjoin each other,” Tristan said, his mouth sagging at the corners. “What other single rooms are available?”

  In the silence that followed, Lila shrank, glancing around to see if anyone else had heard. Luckily, all in the dining room appeared engaged in conversation.

  She ventured a peek at the innkeeper.

  The man scratched his head. “I have two fair-sized rooms on the second floor. They are not quite so sumptuous as the other, but you will find them comfortable. Madame, would you object to a chamber at the rear of the inn?”

  When he looked at her, she noticed the gleam in his eye had dulled. Instead, he stared down his aquiline nose at her, his upper lip curling slightly, no doubt with disdain.

  Warmth flooded her cheeks. She did not want to be thought of as sexless. Blast it, she did not want to be sexless. In truth, she wanted to sleep with Tristan tonight. What would the innkeeper think if he knew who the real cold fish was?

  She turned to look up at Tristan. “The suite sounds charming to me.”

  Instantly she lamented her rebellious tongue. How could she unman him in public? She had never intended as much. On the contrary, she wanted to make him feel more of a man.

  Lord, she wanted to, with all her being.

  When he met her gaze, the hardness in his eyes made her cringe. She realized she had put him in an impossible position. If he opted for separate quarters now, the proprietor would think him unnatural.

  “I’m sorry.” She scoured her mind for a way to right the wrong. “I know my snoring kept you awake last night. Truly, you cannot afford to lose more sleep, my dear. We will take the other rooms. I don’t mind the rear of the inn.”

  He stared at her, then looked away without responding.

  “The suite has a comfortable couch in the dressing area,” the innkeeper said, his air once more congenial. “If monsieur has difficulty sleeping, he can move into there. I will provide extra pillows and blankets. Then you need not separate from one another.”

  “Very well,” Tristan said, addressing the innkeeper. “We’ll take the suite.”

  Without another glance at Lila, he paid in advance and commissioned a footman to fetch their belongings from the carriage. During their entire trek upstairs, he would not meet her gaze. When they got to the room, he took the bags from the servant and shut the door. Finally he turned to her and glowered.

  “I am so sorry, Tristan.” She swallowed. The ribbons of her bonnet dug into her neck, and she reached up to loosen the tie. “Once I had opened my mouth, I couldn’t fix what I’d said. I did try to.”

  “And what were you trying to achieve when you opened your mouth in the first place?” He whipped off his
hat and gloves and threw them on a chair.

  “I don’t know. That man gave me such a look. I simply couldn’t stand the idea of what he must think of me.”

  He stared at her. “Any other time you couldn’t care less what the world thinks of you. What can the opinion of one stranger, whom you’ll never see again, signify?”

  She rubbed her forehead, accidentally knocking off her bonnet. “I don’t know how to explain. The French are so full of passion, and here I am, a young woman, apparently unwilling to sleep with her own husband. ‘Tis not natural.”

  “Except I am not in fact your husband,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t know what came over me.” She picked up her hat and tossed it on the bed, a large four-poster that dominated the room. “These last two days have been trying. I’m suffering under great emotional stress. Surely you feel the same.”

  He shot a glance heavenward, then focused back on her. “And bedding down like this is supposed to relieve the tension?”

  Stepping to the center of the floor, he gestured from the bed in the main chamber to the couch in the dressing area. The passage between them had no door. “Lila, if you do nothing to protect your virtue, indeed throw yourself in my way, how I am to behave honorably? Though I endeavor to live by higher standards than many men, I am by no means a monk.”

  “I truly am sorry. I know this is not what you want.”

  “What I want?” He snorted. “What I want is simply to pass this night sleeping. Unfortunately, your presence makes it difficult. Even when you’re not falling on my bed—as you did our first night together—I can scarcely forget your proximity. When a woman is sharing a man’s bedchamber, the fact doesn’t slip his mind.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You believe men alone are subject to desire?”

  “That’s not what I said. And I don’t speak of mere desire but torment.” Yanking off his jacket, he slung it amongst the rest of his things. “I can’t stand knowing that you lie so near me but still out of my reach.”

  But I am not out of your reach. Knowing he had reason to be angry, she kept her thoughts to herself.