Love According To Lily (13 page)

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said, barely recognizing the tenderness in his voice. He had never spoken to a woman in this way before. But he had never felt so deeply for any woman he’d been intimate with. He’d felt sexually about them of course. With Lily, it was more than that.

She nodded, and he was glad. Glad that she was willing to accept it and not try to argue with him anymore.

“Maybe you should go,” he said quietly. “I’ll be fine. The fever seems to have broken, and that’s good news.”

Though his throat still hurt.

She nodded again and even managed to give him a sad smile that told him she was not angry with him. She was accepting this.

“I’m sorry, Lily,” he said again. “I hate that I’ve hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I knew it was a preposterous idea, but I had to offer. I had to try.”

The tension he’d felt a few minutes ago dissipated, and he gave her a smile. “It means a lot to me that you did. I’ll never forget it. No one ever wanted to give me anything so precious before.”

He was still holding her chin in his hand. He hated that he had hurt her. “You’ll be all right?”

“Yes.” She put her hands on his face and kissed him on the lips—a gentle feather of a kiss. A sweet kiss. A kiss goodbye. It was not sexual.

Yet he felt it in his groin.

He kissed her back—another gentle feather of a kiss.

She smiled up at him, blinking her big blue eyes, then she kissed him again, this time letting her lips linger upon his for a few extra seconds.

He parted her lips with his own, cupping the back of her head in his hand, realizing too late that—
Jesus
!—he was kissing her again, even after he’d just explained that he couldn’t love her this way. Yet he couldn’t keep his hands and mouth off her. He was kissing her!

He pulled his lips away and rested his forehead against hers, trying to keep himself from getting another erection. It took great strength of will, but he did it.

“You’d better go, Lily,” he said.

Because he didn’t want to hurt her further?

No, not just that. She had to go because if she didn’t, he would display a very profound lack of honor.

He was more than thankful when she nodded, got up, and walked out.

Chapter 15

The next morning, Dr. Trider came to examine Whitby again. He was pleased to see that the fever had broken, but was concerned by the fact that Whitby’s throat was still sore.

He leaned over the bed and pressed upon Whitby’s neck, then upon his abdomen. He listened to Whitby’s chest with the stethoscope. After instructing Whitby to breathe in and out deeply, he put the instrument back into his black leather bag. “Your heart sounds good,” he said.

“But?” Whitby replied, raising a knee under the sheet and draping his arm across it.

James stood by the window, also waiting for the doctor’s reply.

“The fact that your spleen and your glands are still swollen is not good news,” the doctor said. “Your glands feel… It’s difficult to explain. They are more than swollen, they are rather hard and rubbery.”

Whitby glanced at James.

“Be frank, doctor,” James said, stepping away from the window.

The doctor hesitated a moment before he spoke. “I’ve felt glands like that before. This suggests there is a greater likelihood that this could be Hodgkins.”

Whitby took the news calmly and silently, though he felt as if a great weight had just descended upon his chest and was squeezing around his lungs. He had to struggle to get a full breath of air.

“But is there still a chance it could go the other way?” James asked, and Whitby was grateful that his friend had the presence of mind to think and speak for him.

“Of course, there is always hope.”

“How can you determine for sure?”

The doctor picked up his bag from the foot of the bed and held it at his side. “A biopsy would tell us.”

“And what would that involve?” Whitby asked, finding his voice at last.

“It would require a sample from your glands. It’s not a difficult procedure, but it is a surgery and all surgeries are risky. There is always the possibility of infection. I’ve seen that happen, unfortunately. A patient of a colleague…”

“When can you do it?” Whitby asked.

The doctor shifted uneasily. “I would prefer to wait at least a few days to make sure you recover completely from the fever and get some of your strength back.”

Whitby had not had his strength for more than a month. But he wanted to know. He needed to know.

“If you do this biopsy and discover it is in fact Hodgkins, will you get a better idea how much time I have left?”

“Not really,” the doctor replied. “My original opinion on the matter would still hold. It could be anywhere from a month to a year. Maybe even longer if you’re lucky.”

“You said I’d have at least
three
months last time,” Whitby said, feeling as if the clock was suddenly ticking faster than before.

The doctor gazed uncomfortably at him. “I said it depends on how quickly the disease progresses. But at the rate you’ve been going…”

Whitby simply nodded. “I understand.”

The doctor reached into his bag for a bottle, which he handed to Whitby. “For now, while awaiting the biopsy, it would be prudent to take this—an iron and cod-liver oil tonic.”

Whitby stared numbly at the bottle.

“And try to remember,” the doctor said, “that we still don’t know anything for sure. It’s important that you do not give up hope. It could simply be a very tenacious infection I am not aware of.”

Whitby was not convinced.

He thought of Lily suddenly—and what she had offered him. It was a chance to leave something of himself behind, for a part of him to go on living. A sudden irrational urge to go through with it came upon him, but he managed to remain calm and sensible. Getting Lily or any other woman pregnant would not save him or give him immortality. He would still die. If not next month, someday.

A knock sounded at the door. James went to answer it, and Sophia was standing out in the hall. She greeted the doctor who bowed to her and left, then she entered the room with a letter for Whitby.

“This came just now,” she said, handing it to him. He turned it over in his hands, then broke the seal. It was from his agent, Mr. Gallagher.

Whitby folded the letter and stared at it. He could read between the lines. The note was more than a thoughtful communication of well wishes. First of all, Whitby was not a good landlord and everyone knew it. He was absent too much of the time, seeking amusements in London.

No, this was a plea, a desperate plea for Whitby to come home and prevent a new master—a master everyone would fear and despise—from taking over the estate.

He laid the letter down beside him.

“What is it?” James asked.

“Just a note from Gallagher,” Whitby replied, “telling me to get well.”

He and James exchanged a knowing look. James, as always, understood. “Then you had best get to it,” he said.

Annabelle sat quietly by herself in her room, staring at the wall. The sadness she often felt when she was alone with nothing but her thoughts and memories was not absent today. It was hovering over her like a dark cloud.

Yet today, she was not thinking of herself. She was thinking of Lily.

She sat forward and rested her elbow on the armrest and rubbed her chin. What had happened last night? she wondered with concern, and what was Lily doing now? Was she regretting her actions, sitting in her room, chastising herself for doing or saying something that could not be undone?

Or perhaps she had done nothing. Perhaps she had not found the courage to tell Whitby how she felt. If she hadn’t…

Annabelle supposed that either way, there would be regrets.

Unless of course Whitby had said yes to her proposition. But Annabelle knew better than to speculate about that. She knew her brother too well.

Wondering if the doctor had finished his examination yet, she rose from her chair and left her room. A moment later, she knocked on Whitby’s door.

“Come in,” he called from inside, so she entered.

Whitby was in bed, sitting up on a pile of pillows propped up against the headboard, reading a book. Annabelle went to his side.

“Did the doctor come?”

He set the book down. “Yes.” He did not elaborate, so Annabelle, wanting very much to know the situation, was forced to pry.

“What did he say?”

Whitby looked intently into her eyes. “He was not optimistic.”

Annabelle felt as if a giant hand had just squeezed around her chest. She slowly lowered herself into the chair and labored to keep her voice steady. “There must be some hope,” she said.

Whitby lifted an eyebrow. “There is always hope. That’s what the doctor said.” He held a letter on his lap, and when Annabelle glanced curiously at it, he passed it to her. “It’s from Gallagher.”

She read the note. “He’s a good man,” she said.

“Yes, and his concerns are evident. I can only imagine what’s going on in the servants’ wing. They are probably all scrambling for new positions of employment as we speak. At least Magnus will not have
everything
handed over to him too easily.”

“Oh, Whitby, don’t say that. I can’t bear to think of anything happening to you, nor can I bear the thought of our family’s enemy inheriting everything, not after all the insufferable things he’s done. He is a devil, Whitby. You must get well. You cannot let it happen.”

She realized suddenly that she was asking him to control events that he could not control. Only God had the power to change Whitby’s fate.

But no, that was not entirely true. Whitby still held some power; he still had choices.

Annabelle handed the letter back. “Lily took good care of you last night?” she casually asked.

Her brother eyed her suspiciously. “Yes. But I told her she didn’t have to stay. I was fine.”

Annabelle could not keep the disappointment from her tone. “You told her to leave?”

His broad shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I take it you know what she had intended to say to me.”

“Yes.”

“Good God, Annabelle,” he said angrily. “You didn’t put her up to it, did you?”

“No!” she blurted out. “It was wholly her idea. I was as surprised as you must have been.”

“You could have at least tried to talk her out of it.”

Annabelle glared at her brother. “Why should I? She’s a wonderful woman. Any man would be lucky to have her as a wife. You could not ask for anyone better.”

The anger in his voice intensified. “I have no doubt of that, Annabelle. You are absolutely right. But she, on the other hand, could do much better, and you forget I may be lying on my deathbed.”

She gave him a look that said,
Don’t be so dramatic
.

“Lily deserves better,” he said regardless.

Feeling her dander rise, Annabelle leaned forward. “Who are you to decide that? She’s a grown woman and can make up her own mind about what she wants. It’s her life, and if she loves you, let her give you that love. If she is denied that, she will never get over it. She will always feel dissatisfied and frustrated.”

Whitby looked away. She could see that he did not want to discuss it further, but Annabelle could not let it go. Not yet.

“She could give you a child, Whitby.”

His gaze darted angrily at her. “Has everyone lost their minds? I could not use her that way, just to keep my title out of the hands of a man I despise.”

“Why not? She
wants
to have your child. It would make her happy.”

His forehead creased with both anger and confusion. “I can’t quite make out your motivation in this, Annabelle. I’m not sure if you are being overly romantic, in that you want Lily to have her own ‘happily ever after… ’ Though how happy she’ll be standing over my coffin, I can’t quite grasp.”

“Whitby,” Annabelle said.

He did not let her interrupt. “Or are you thinking of yourself and the estate? Are you desperate to do whatever it takes to prevent Magnus from achieving what would surely be the greatest, most malicious satisfaction of his life?”