One Night for Love (21 page)

“Certain people,” Lily understood, were those of the lower classes. Of her own class.

Lily escaped out of doors whenever she could. It was not very difficult to do, especially after the house guests had left Newbuiy. By the end of the week everyone except the Duke and Duchess of Anburey, their daughter, Wilma, Joseph, Elizabeth, and the Duke of Portfrey had returned
to their own homes—and the others planned to leave for London within a few days. Lily usually succeeded in leaving the house and returning undetected—she had not forgotten that side door and the servants’ stairs by which she had approached her room on the first day.

She explored the whole park—in sunshine and in rain. There was a great deal of the latter in the second half of the week, but adverse weather conditions never deterred Lily. She loved the beach best—though she developed the habit of approaching it with her head averted from the valley and the cottage. She loved also the cultivated lawns and gardens before the house, the dense woods that lay between them and the village and through which the winding driveway passed, and the hill behind the house with its carefully landscaped walk that formed roughly a horseshoe shape from just beyond the rock garden up over the hill to emerge in the rose arbor behind the stables. It was called the rhododendron walk.

She climbed it late one afternoon after returning from the tedious visit to Lady Leigh’s. She had changed into her old dress and let down her hair, though the chilliness of the day forced her to wear a cloak and shoes. But the climb and the view from the top and the sense of solitude she acquired up there were well worth the discomfort of the weather. She could see the sea and the beach and the cove from where she stood. If she turned, she could see fields and common grazing land stretching away into the distance.

It was not hard, she thought, closing her eyes, to feel a certain sense of belonging. This was England, which her father had so loved, and it was her new home. If only, she thought wistfully, Neville merely owned one of the cottages in the lower village and went out fishing every day with the other men. If only …

But there was no point in if onlys. She looked about her for somewhere to sit so that she could relax and let the
beauty of the scene seep into her bones and her soul. And then she spotted the perfect place. It was a good thing Miranda was no longer there to be under her bad influence, she thought ruefully as she climbed the tree, her dress hitched about her knees. A couple of minutes later she was perched on the branch that had looked so perfect from below. Her eyes had not deceived her. It was a broad and sturdy branch. She could wedge her back against the trunk and stretch out her legs and feel perfectly safe.

Now … If she could just let go of everything, even thought, and become a part of the beauty and peace of her surroundings. She drew several deep breaths, smelling leaves and bark and earth and the salt of the sea air. But the old skills would just not work for her this afternoon. She felt lonely. Neville had been very gentle with her since that dreadful scene at the cottage. Very gentle and courteous—and very remote. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid being alone with her. Perhaps he did not want to frighten her again.

He had misunderstood what had happened. He had thought she was afraid of him, afraid that he would force himself on her against her will. It had not been that at all. She had been afraid that there would be more than just the kiss, and she had been afraid to find out what it would be like. She had been afraid that the one sustaining dream of the last year and a half would be destroyed for all time and there would be nothing with which to replace it. What it had proved no different with him than it had been with Manuel? What if it had left her feeling like a
thing
, an inanimate object, which had been used to bring him physical relief? She knew it would have been different. Memory told her so. And he had been warm and gentle and had smelled clean and musky. She had felt a surge of intense longing.

But what if it
had
turned out to be ugly?

There were birds singing, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds. Yet almost all of them were invisible among the branches of the trees—as perhaps she was. But she was not singing. She set her head back against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes.

There had been another element to her fear, one she did not want to admit. She had been afraid that it would be ugly for him—that
she
would be ugly for him. She had been afraid that he would find her spoiled, contaminated. She had been with Manuel for seven months. By some miracle she had never conceived—maybe she was barren. But perhaps Neville would have remembered if she had allowed him inside her body that she had belonged, however unwillingly, to another man. And perhaps it would have made a difference. Perhaps despite himself he would have felt disgust.

She would have
known
. And she would have found the knowledge unbearable.

She would have found
herself
unbearable. She could remember after her release, during the long walk back to Lisbon, bathing in a stream and finding suddenly that she could not bring herself to climb out of the water or to stop scrubbing at herself with her folded chemise—scrubbing and scrubbing until she became hysterical. She had felt dirtier than she had ever felt, but she had been unable to wash away the dirt because it had been beneath her skin.

It had not happened again, but she had understood after she’d finally coaxed herself out of the water and lay shivering and frightened on the bank that perhaps she would never feel clean again. It was a secret fear she had learned to live with. But if he should ever come to share the feeling, she would no longer be able to do so.

She should have spoken her fears in the cottage, she thought. She should have told him exactly how she felt. She should have told him about Manuel, about her
long trek to Lisbon, about her dreams, her fears, her nightmares—no, there was only one of those. She should have told him. But she had been unable to.

That, perhaps, had been the worst thing of all. How could they ever grow close again if they did not share everything that was themselves?

Lily, opening her eyes to gaze sightlessly out over the roof of the abbey to the sea in the distance, became aware suddenly of a slight movement to her left. Someone was coming up the path from the direction of the rock garden. Or rather someone was standing off there in the distance close to a tree trunk, scanning the path ahead with one hand shading his eyes. Or hers. It was impossible to tell who it was, but it was someone tallish, wearing a dark cloak. Perhaps it was Neville, come looking for her. Her heart leapt with gladness. Perhaps they could talk after all in a secluded place like this. And he would not care that she had climbed a tree. She waved an arm even as she realized that it was not he. There was something about the way the figure stood that was unfamiliar.

The man—or woman—disappeared. Or ducked out of sight. Embarrassed, perhaps, to see her perched in a tree branch? Or perhaps whoever it was had not seen her at all.

Lily was disappointed. Being alone was obviously not the best idea this afternoon. She would go back home, she decided as she climbed carefully back to the ground and made her way down the path toward the rock garden. Perhaps Elizabeth would care to take a stroll with her.

As she rounded a bend halfway down she walked almost headlong into the Duke of Portfrey, who was coming in the opposite direction—wearing a dark cloak.

“Oh,” Lily said, “it was you.”

“I was in the stables when you passed awhile ago,” he told her, “and guessed you were on the rhododendron
walk. I just now decided to come to meet you.” He offered her his arm.

“That was kind of you,” she said, taking it. But why had he stood there so furtively, searching for her, or for someone, and then doubled back only to come onward again and pretend that he was just now coming to meet her?

“Not at all,” he said. “You were telling me about your mother some time ago, Lily, when we were interrupted.”

They had been interrupted by Elizabeth, who had told him he was being too inquisitive.

“Yes, sir,” Lily said.

“Tell me,” he asked her. “Was she from Leicestershire too?”

“I believe so, sir,” she said.

“And her maiden name?”

Lily had no idea and told him so. But the probing nature of his questions was making her uneasy.

“What did she look like?” he asked. “Like you?”

No. Her mother had been plump and round-faced and rosy-cheeked and dark-eyed. She had been tall—or so she had appeared to a child who was only seven when she died. She had had an ample and comfortable bosom on which to pillow one’s head—though Lily did not add that detail to the description she gave the duke.

“How old are you exactly, Lily?” he asked.

“Twenty, sir.”

“Ah.” He was silent for a few moments. “Twenty. You do not look so old. What is your date of birth?”

“I am twenty years old, sir,” she replied firmly, beginning to feel annoyed by the duke’s persistent questions.

They had already passed through the rock garden and were approaching the fountain. He looked down at her. “I beg your pardon, Lily,” he said. “I have been impertinent. Forgive me, please. It is just that you have reminded me of
an old—oh, obsession, I suppose one might call it, from which I thought I had long recovered until you stepped into the nave of the village church.”

She was puzzled by him. She was annoyed with him. And she was not sure whether she ought to be a little frightened of him.

“Forgive me.” He stopped at the fountain, smiled at her, and raised her hand to his lips.

“Of course, sir,” she said graciously, drawing her hand away and turning to run lightly up the steps to the terrace. She forgot that looking the way she did, she ought to have run around to the servants’ entrance. But she was fortunate enough not to see anyone except the footman, Mr. Jones, who blushed and responded to her bright greeting with an embarrassed smirk.

The Duke of Portfrey had a handsome, elegant appearance and a pleasant smile, she thought. But it would be foolish indeed to stop being wary of the man.

The following day Neville went out early in the morning on estate business with his steward. It was not quite noon when he returned alone through the village. He decided to stop at the dower house to see how Lauren and Gwen did, though they called most days at the abbey. Lauren insisted on behaving just as if nothing untoward had happened. It might even be said that she had taken Lily under her wing. She sometimes even read and played the pianoforte for her. While it might seem to be a happy turn of events, it had Neville worried.

Gwendoline was alone in the morning room. She set down a book when Neville was shown in and raised her face for his kiss on the cheek. She did not smile at him. Gwen had not done much smiling lately.

“You have missed Lily by only a quarter of an hour,” she told him. “She came here after walking on the beach. She returned to the abbey through the forest instead of going by the driveway. She is very unconventional.”

“If that is meant as a criticism,” he said, “stow it, Gwen. Lily has my full permission to be as unconventional as she pleases.”

She looked assessingly at him. “Then she will never learn to fit in,” she said. “It is unwise of you, Nev. But I will tell you something that annoys me more than I can say. In many ways I envy her. I have never waded in the sea water—not since we were children, anyway. I have never climbed that rock and tossed off my bonnet and kicked off my shoes. I have never just … walked off into the forest without taking the path.”

They looked at each other gravely for a few moments and then exchanged rueful smiles.

“Don’t hate her, Gwen,” he said. “She had no intention whatsoever of causing anyone pain. And she is dreadfully lonely. I am not sure my support is enough for her. I need help.”

She picked up some tatting from a table beside her and bent over it. “It was such a pleasant dream,” she said. “You marrying Lauren and living at the abbey with her. Me here with Mama. All of us together as we always were before I—before I married Vernon. Now it is all spoiled. And Lauren is suffering so much that she will hardly confide even in me. Nev, we have always talked about
everything.
”

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She went out a few minutes after Lily left,” she said. “She said she needed air and exercise, but she did not want me to go with her. I wish she would not insist upon making Lily a—a
project
. She needs to prove something—that she can rise above adversity, that she can refuse to bear a
grudge, that she can continue to be the perfect lady, as she has always been. If only she would—”

“Hurl things at my head and hate Lily?” he suggested when she hesitated.

“At least,” she said, “it would be healthy, Nev. Or if she would saturate a few towels with bitter tears. She has even spoken of moving back to the abbey so that she can always be available to Lily, to help her cope with her new life.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“No,” she agreed. “I will develop leprosy or something else deadly so that she will have to remain here to nurse me.”