Passionate (32 page)

“What an entertaining story!” Lily’s mother said at last.

“The majordomo certainly got what he deserved, I do say. And you tell it so well.”

“I was there, after all,” Lord Buckley replied, “And I consider myself a keen observer, particularly when people make fools of themselves—as they so often do.”

“Not everyone is as sensible as you, dear boy,” the countess said.

“I am sure.” Lady Fernhaven smoothed her skirts. “Shall we take a turn about the garden? The roses are at their very best.”

“An excellent plan.” Lord Buckley stood and, somewhat to Lily’s surprise, offered her his arm. “May I escort you, Miss Strathmore?”

The two of them led the way, their mothers following at a distance, heads close together in conversation. The scent of roses hung in the warm summer air and the blooms were ripe and heavy, but there was no toga-clad maiden to gather them.

“Do you enjoy traveling, Lord Buckley?”

“Yes, I do. I welcome the freedom it brings, the new vistas. And when I travel I prefer to travel in comfort. There’s nothing like a well-sprung coach. Why, mine is so smooth I can sip a whiskey without spilling a single drop.”

“Admirable.” Lily glanced down. “I don’t suppose you bring a portable bathtub with you?” She blinked away the image of lantern light dappling canvas walls.

“Why would I want with such a thing when the hotels I frequent are fully equipped with every modern convenience?”

“My aunt brought one on our expedition in Tunisia.”

“What an absurd and foolish extravagance.”

“Yes,” she said. “It was.”

Lord Buckley drew a fine handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed perspiration from his forehead. “Mother says you paint, as I recall. Landscapes, is it?”

“Sometimes—but my main work is botanical illustration. My uncle, Sir Edward Strathmore, is a respected botanist. I provide all the plant studies for his scholarly papers.”

Lord Buckley frowned. “Miss Strathmore, you will find that I am a man that speaks plainly. It is my nature and a virtue, though there will be times when it may not appear so to you. I must say I do not approve of women dabbling in the sciences. The fairer sex should tend to the domestic spheres for which they are best suited. It is where their talents lie.”

She removed her arm from his. “My talents lie in botanical illustration, Lord Buckley. And I assure you, I am well-suited to it.”

“Yes, I had heard that you were a bit…reclusive. All to the good, really. And I’m sure you can manage a household properly. Mother would not have recommended you, otherwise.”

Lily swung to face him, but he merely smiled at her, seeming not to notice her annoyance. The angry words died on her tongue. Why bother? She had not lifted a brush since leaving Tunisia. There was one thing she must know, however, before continuing any further.

“You do not object to a woman painting flowers—so long as she tends to her other responsibilities. Do you?”

He thought for a moment. “No, if they are painted for the sake of decoration and beauty. These things properly belong in the sphere of women.”

“Then you would not forbid me to paint?”

“I did not say that I would forbid you. Now come along.” Lord Buckley offered his arm once more. “It wouldn’t do to let Mother see us at odds. Our first lover’s spat.” He gave an odd little laugh.

The matter was settled, then. Lily took his arm and they resumed walking, their footsteps loud on the carefully raked gravel.

At length he cleared his throat. “Would you accompany me to the theater tomorrow?”

“I will.” It would be pointless to refuse.

“Very good. Look, Mother is beckoning to us.” He led Lily toward the countess.

Lily slipped her arm from his and paused. Cupping her hands around a full-blown yellow rose, she inhaled deeply. For one moment she was drenched in the scent, the feel of sunlight, the soft petals yearning against her hands.

Ahead, the mothers smiled expectantly.

Lily let out an impatient breath and yanked her thoughts back to the breakfast table. She had been thinking about
him
again. James Huntington. She was better off without the scoundrel. True, she hadn’t told him about her mother’s plans for Lord Buckley. And she should have, considering what had been between them.

But he was equally at fault. If he had had taken the time to discuss the matter instead of riding off into the wilds like a tribal Bedouin she could have explained. If he had made his offer for her something from the heart and not empty words dragged from his lips by guilt or obligation, then everything could have been different.

Her tea had grown cold. Lily swirled it then set it back down, untouched. She did not have much of an appetite. The last two weeks had been filled with a flurry of dinners and balls and outings with her mother and Countess Buckley and sometimes even Lord Buckley himself. She sighed.

Lord Buckley was not the suitor she would have chosen for herself—but that did not make him unsuitable. To her mind, his imperfections were precisely what made the match tolerable. She was not exactly a prize herself—not with her secrets and tattered virtue. If it were possible to love Lord Buckley then Lily doubted she would be able to go through with the wedding.

But she could not love him. She did not even pity him. He was getting what he valued—an outwardly respectable bride from a highly respectable family. She could not expect more from this arranged match. It was too much to ask that he care about her or her skills, beyond the fact that she was able to play the role of aristocrat’s wife.

And the other duties. Lily shivered. She could not imagine his soft hands on her, his fleshy lips pressed against hers, although one of her primary obligations, her chief one in fact, would be to bear Lord Buckley an heir. Still, many women who did not love their husbands managed to fulfill that responsibility, and ultimately there would be children to compensate.

At least she was not carrying James’s child.

She had not considered the consequences of her night with him, not until the morning her courses had come. She had removed her nightgown and stared blankly at the small red stain, then wrapped her arms about herself and cried, silently.

But that was done with. Lily took up her fork. She pushed her eggs to one side of the plate, then back again.

Her mother glanced up from perusing the society pages. “More kippers, darling?” she waved toward the chafing dish. “You have not seemed quite yourself recently. Not that it behooves a lady to eat overmuch at breakfast. But do have something more.”

“Yes, mother.” Lily took a slice of toast and spread it with strawberry preserves.

Lady Fernhaven continued to look thoughtfully at her. “It is your nerves, I imagine. But don’t worry darling, the time is almost right for Lord Buckley to make his offer. His attentions to you are not going unnoticed. These things take time, after all. We do not want people to form the wrong impression—which a hurried courtship and marriage can unfortunately convey.”

“Of course not.” She took a small bite of toast and then set it aside. “Mother, since things are progressing so well with Lord Buckley, couldn’t I make a brief visit to Brookdale? I haven’t seen Uncle Edward and the family since we returned.”

“Your aunt did write to tell us your uncle was fully recovered, did she not? It is best you remain in London. Especially with Lord Buckley almost brought to the point. You must be ready when he pays that important call—it will be one of the most significant moments of your life! When you are Countess Buckley you may have your uncle and the entire family to visit at your home whenever you wish—with your husband’s permission, of course.”

“I would be gone no more than two or three days.” Lily tried to keep the pleading note from her voice. She had felt so alone since returning to England. She missed them all dreadfully.

Lady Fernhaven tightened her lips. “I will hear no more on this subject.” She picked up the paper and returned to her reading.

Lily stared out the window. It was a perfect day, warm and golden. She wished the clouds would mass and cover the sun. It was far too bright.

“My goodness!” Lily’s mother exclaimed. “Lord Severn is getting married. Who would have imagined it—and to a foreigner, no less. A Baronessa Bellini.”

Lily looked up. “Did you say Bellini?”

“Yes, it is rather a thrilling tale. The page says—

“Word has just reached this author’s ears that the dashing Lord Severn has returned to London. And, what is more, that he has brought a fiancée back with him! Well may you inquire, dear reader, what lady has managed to snare the heart of the
ton
’s most fascinating bachelor.

It is none other than the charming and spirited Baronessa Bellini, who, as you may recall, spent the winter here in London and was seen once or twice on Lord Severn’s arm. Who would have suspected the depth of their attachment?

After a lover’s tiff last March, witnessed by unnamed sources, the baronessa sailed for home on the Peninsular and Oriental line. Lord Severn set off in pursuit, following his lady love back to Italy to beg her forgiveness on bended knee. He won it. And her hand as well, it seems.”

Lady Fernhaven folded the page and tapped it against the table. “I do not recall meeting the lady, myself. Was she at the Wembly’s ball, do you think?”

“I made the baronessa’s acquaintance, mother. She sailed with us on the steamer that took us to Tunisia.”

“Really?” Lady Fernhaven raised a well-manicured brow.

“What was she like? Did she seem suitable? One never knows with those foreign titles if a person is truly up to standard.”

“She is a lovely person. Warm and…discerning. And quite fashionable as well.”

“I suppose a certain continental flair in dressing is to be expected. And her choice of fiancé shows impeccable judgment.” Lady Fernhaven nodded.

Lily hoped the baronessa had made the right choice in Lord Severn. After all, she had been so wrong about James. But anyone could make a mistake. Hadn’t Lily done so herself? James had been handsome and kind and honorable—or at least had appeared to be.

Her mother laid the paper aside and took a sip of tea. “Lord Buckley is escorting us to a picnic this afternoon. And the weather is so lovely for it. We shall have a splendid time.”

“Oh yes, a perfectly splendid time.” Lily wasn’t sure she could bear another outing. Perhaps she was developing a headache. She drew her brows tightly together. Yes, there it was now.

“I am not feeling quite well, Mother.”

Lady Fernhaven gave her a sympathetic look. “Nerves again, darling? Go and rest. I hope you will be recovered in time for the picnic. It would be a shame to miss such a pleasant afternoon with your suitor.”

“Yes, a rest will do me good.” Sleeping seemed the one thing she excelled at these days.

The butler entered the room, bearing a silver salver piled with correspondence. “The morning post has arrived, my Lady.”

“Very good, Edwin.” She riffled through the stack. “My goodness. Well, Lily. You have certainly cultivated the right acquaintances lately. An invitation…” she held it up proudly, “to the betrothal ball of Lord Severn and the Baronessa Bellini. Well done, darling! We shall attend, of course. Everyone will be there.”

Chapter 21

“James! You’re back!” Caroline dropped her fork with a clatter and rose from her chair. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming home? We’ve been so worried since the Strathmores returned without you.”

He caught his sister up in an embrace. “Caro—it’s good to see you!” He held her close for a long moment, then set her back on her feet. “Hello, Uncle. I see I have arrived in time for dinner.”

Lord Denby rose to greet him. “Welcome home, James. I must say it is good to see you have returned in one piece. Did you just arrive in England?”

“No. I had urgent business with Sir Edward and went directly to Brookdale.” He smiled at his sister. “I was only there long enough to finish my business before I came racing back to see you.”

It was true. He could not have stayed another day at Brookdale Manor even if he had a mind to. A weight had lifted from him upon seeing Sir Edward in good health, but the manor held too many reminders of Lily for him to linger.

Lord Denby rang for a servant. “I’ll have another place set. Do join us.”

Caroline folded her arms. “I’m not sure he merits it, the way he disappeared without a word to his family. What happened, James? Your last letter said you were leaving Tunis, then we get a note from the Strathmores saying there had been an attack and you were not with them—that you had ridden off into the wilds. Alone!”

James swept her up again—he couldn’t resist.

“I’m certain you’re ruining my gown,” she said. “Put me down, you oaf, and come sit. I want to hear everything.”

When they were at the table his uncle lifted his glass. “A toast James, to your safe return.”

“To safe returns.” James drank.

“And how goes your work with your charitable societies, Caroline?” he asked when his plate had been set before him.

“Are you still intent on founding a school on Malta for the orphans of British soldiers and sailors stationed there?”

“Of course. Did you think I’d given it up for needlepoint in your absence? I will happily talk for a week or more about the work, but not before you tell us about your adventures. What happened?”

“Yes, James. How fared you in Tunisia? Were you successful?”

“I can hardly rate it a success. The expedition itself was a disaster.” James paused for a moment, trying to push thoughts of Lily from his mind. No matter how he tried, how much he knew that she had lied to him from the start, he would never be able to forget the feel of her body against him as he held her beneath the stars.

“Go on,” Caroline said, her eyes full of questions.

He gathered himself and continued. “At least I can confirm that grandfather’s stories about his adventurous youth have some basis in fact. The flower he found does exist and truly
was
an undiscovered species. I brought back a specimen for Sir Edward, who was overjoyed at the sight of it. He’s now working on a monograph to present to the Royal Horticultural Society. The working title is
‘Primula mercerium:
A New Species Discovered by the Huntington/Mercer Expedition of 1792 and Collected by the Huntington/Strathmore Expedition of 1847.’ Catchy, don’t you think?”