Lily (47 page)

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.

“L
ILY!”

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.

She squinted in the doorway, finally making Lily out in the dimness. “May I come in?”

“Of course. How do you do? How good of you to …” She trailed off, aware that this was not likely to be a social call. Elizabeth was glancing about the rough room, cool blue-green eyes missing nothing. “Won’t you sit down? The fire’s still lit, I can make a cup of tea in no time if you—”

“Please don’t bother.” She sat at the wooden table in the room’s only chair. Lily recalled the high stool by the bed; rather than stand over her ladyship, she went and got it, perched on it nervously, and folded her hands.

“I recognize you,” Elizabeth opened. “I believe you once served tea in my son’s drawing room.” Lily stiffened. So the interview was going to be as unpleasant as her worst imaginings had warned. But unexpectedly Elizabeth smiled, and her rather haughty features relaxed. “You didn’t do it very well, I noticed. It’s lucky for all of us that your career as parlormaid was short-lived. Clay has told me all about you, Miss Trehearne.”

“Sometimes Clay has a loose tongue,” Lily said faintly.

“Yes, he does. Which is fortunate, considering that Devon never tells me anything.” The two women regarded each other gravely.

“Whatever must you think of me,” Lily murmured.

Lady Elizabeth spread her hands. “Quite honestly, I don’t know what to thinkof you. You’re more intelligent than I though you would be; I can tell that from your face. No less beautiful—but Devon likes beautiful women.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Did you come to tell me something in particular?” Lily inquired finally.

“Yes, I did. But I imagine you can guess what it is.”

She didn’t look away. “I imagine I can.”

Her ladyship leaned forward earnestly. “My dear child, I wouldn’t dream of hurting you, but surely you can see that a marriage between you and my son is impossible.”

Lily’s expression didn’t change, but her heart beat faster. “Has Devon said something?” she asked evenly. “To make you think that such a thought has crossed his mind?”

“No,” she admitted, “he hasn’t. But as I told you, I’m not often in Devon’s confidence. But there’s a child involved; he may be contemplating marriage for the sake of the baby.”

Lily flushed, and didn’t answer.

“I’ve come to ask you to leave here, Miss Trehearne, before the baby’s born. Before Devon sees it and decides he wants it. I’ll give you as much money as you want.”

Lily stood up abruptly, although she wasn’t angry or even particularly surprised—this was only what she’d been expecting, after all. Then why did she feel so hurt?

Elizabeth rose, too. “I beg your pardon if I’ve offended you,” she said quickly, measuring Lily with her astute, penetrating eyes. “Forgive me for speaking so frankly, but you must know that if my son married you he would become a laughingstock. He’s only just begun to live down the scandal of his first marriage. You can guess what was said—a viscount marrying a governess, a woman who proved to be little more than a whore. Now, if he were to marry a pregnant girl who was once his housemaid—”

“Please,” Lily interrupted, face flaming, “I understand you perfectly. Devon has never offered marriage, and we have no understanding. I truly believe your fears are groundless.”

“But if he did ask you?” Elizabeth pressed.

Lily honestly couldn’t answer. She made a helpless gesture with her hands.

“Do you love him?” The older woman’s face softened.

“Please,” she said again, “there are things between Devon and me that I can’t explain to you.”

“I know what some of them are, I think. Clay has told me.

Lily almost smiled. Clay again. “I wonder if he’s told you about my inheritance.”

“Inheritance?”

“In a month I’ll come into quite a lot of money—by my standards, at least; by Dev’s, or yours, it probably won’t seem like much. Nevertheless, I’ll be able to support myself and my baby. Devon knows this.”

“So you intend to go away?”

Again she couldn’t answer.

Elizabeth folded her arms. “I like you, Lily Trehearne,” she said candidly. “I admit that surprises me. I like a woman with pride. And good sense, too—it must have been hard to forgive Devon for the things he did.”

Did she know everything, then? Lily could only nod, and murmur, “Yes, it… hasn’t been easy.”

“For myself, I don’t think I could have forgiven him,” Elizabeth confessed. “If it weren’t for what the doctor told him, after all, he might still think the worst of you. I’m afraid I could not forget such a thing—or offer affection to a man who had shown so little faith in me. But I’m not much like you, Lily, I don’t think. I’m harder, and more selfish. But do you know, if my husband were alive today—” She broke off. “Well. That’s neither here nor there, is it? I’m—are you all right, child?” Lily was holding onto the back of the chair with both hands. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said carefully. “What did the doctor tell Devon?”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. Lady Elizabeth paused uncertainly. “I would be grateful if you would explain it to me.”

“I’m sorry, please believe me, I thought you knew; otherwise I wouldn’t have spoken.”

Lily waited.

“Clay’s doctor, Dr. Marsh.” She stopped again.

“Yes, I know him.”

“It was he who told Devon that Clay could not possibly have written anything in a note in the moments after he was shot. The wound to his head was devastating—he would have been incapable, of it. The injury was so severe, so traumatic that, as you know, he’s only beginning to recover the simplest faculties. So—obviously someone else wrote the note, trying to implicate you.”

She went to Lily and touched her arm. “I’m so sorry; I can see I’ve upset you.”

“Would you please excuse me?” Lily whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth repeated helplessly. She waited a few more seconds, then took pity and left without another word.