Love According To Lily (11 page)

Neither of them said anything for a moment, while Lily struggled to find a way to put her feelings and desires into words. She loved Whitby; she’d never loved any other man and could not imagine she ever could. She wanted to be a part of his life, even if it was only for a short time.

If she’d learned anything over the past few days, it was that life was too short, and you had to make the most of every day. She wanted to love Whitby, to give herself to him completely and hold nothing back, because she didn’t want to someday regret what she had not been courageous enough to say or do. She knew all too well that the clock could not be turned back.

“Annabelle,” Lily whispered, “there’s something I want to offer, and I need to tell you what it is. Come and sit with me.”

Lily led Annabelle to the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. She folded her hands on her lap and whispered, “I spoke to the doctor this evening, and he said it would not be impossible for Whitby to… to conceive a child right now.”

Annabelle’s eyes revealed immediate understanding, but she said nothing. She sat very still, waiting for more of an explanation from Lily.

“I could try to give him an heir,” she said daringly, and the words sounded unbelievable even to her own ears.

Annabelle continued to stare at her blankly in the dim, flickering firelight. Then her brows drew together with concern. “Lily, that is too much to offer, too much to give of yourself.”

Lily shook her head. “I know it looks that way, but I confess, I am not just being generous or selfless by wanting to help you and Whitby—though I
do
want to help you. But the true foundation of my desire is less charitable. I
want
him, Annabelle, desperately. I’ve wanted him all my life and lately my feelings have grown to such enormous heights that I can’t bear the thought of never touching him or kissing him or telling him that I love him. I am in hell right now, being so separate from him, when I’m afraid that I’m going to lose him forever. I want his child in my womb to have after he is gone, whether God takes him now or years from now. I love him, Annabelle.”

Annabelle bowed her head. “I’m so sorry that you are in pain, Lily, and I understand. Honestly, I do. If it were up to me, I would say yes. Do it. Marry him and love him and bear his child. Don’t let anything stand in your way. But it is not up to me. It is up to him, and he will never agree. He would never want to use you that way, especially if he thinks he will not live to take care of you and the child.”

“He would not be using me,” Lily said. “He would be giving me a beautiful gift and happiness for the rest of my life.” She realized what she was saying sounded ridiculously idealistic and romantic.

Annabelle covered Lily’s hand with her own. “As I said, it is not up to me. He’s the one you need to convince.”

Lily nodded. She knew it was true, though perhaps a deep, frightened part of her had hoped that Annabelle would think it a marvelous plan and talk Whitby into it herself, thereby sparing Lily the task of allowing herself to be so vulnerable by revealing her heart to Whitby, who had the power to break it. It was the more likely outcome, after all— that he would refuse and reject her. He had rejected her before, hadn’t he, when she’d made overtures?

Perhaps she
had
lost her mind, she thought suddenly, feeling her heart sink like a stone. Maybe she should plead with Annabelle to forget they’d ever had this conversation and put the ludicrous plan out of her head.

Annabelle stood. “I must go and get some rest. I’ll be able to sleep, Lily, knowing you’re here with him.”

Lily merely nodded. She stood and walked Annabelle to the door, but Annabelle paused in the corridor before she left. “Talk to him tonight, Lily. What have you to lose by trying?”

“My dignity. My pride.”

Annabelle shook her head. “No one can take that away from you. No matter what happens, he’ll respect you for your courage and he’ll treasure you for offering such a beautiful gift.”

Lily imagined talking to him about this and realized that if nothing else, it was a chance to be intimate with him, and speak of honest, heartfelt things. Even if that was all that came of it, it was more than she had now. It would be something to remember.

She glanced back at him, sleeping soundly, then met Annabelle’s compassionate gaze.

“I will talk to him,” she said finally. “I will tell him everything, and I will try to convince him. Even if it is hopeless.”

Chapter 13

Lily stood over Whitby, gazing down at his handsome face as he slept, and felt a deep, soulful love that eclipsed everything in her world—her mother’s disapproval, Lily’s own duty to her family, and even her fear of talking to him about her proposition. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that she desired him beyond any imagining. What she wouldn’t give to climb into this bed beside him and feel his arms around her, to hold him close to her body and her heart. She would give anything for one night in his arms. She would pay any price.

Gently brushing the hair off his forehead, she laid a hand on his cheek. He did not feel as hot as he had last night, though he was still warm. She touched his forehead, too, and his neck.

Would she be brave enough to confess her deepest, private feelings? she wondered nervously, imagining what she would do if he woke right now.

She did not need to wonder long, however, because Whitby stirred and opened his eyes, wetting his dry lips.

“Lily,” he whispered, his voice deep and husky, not weak. Even when he was ill, he was vigorous, and she realized that was the strength and allure of his character. He was captivating, in any state of health.

She leaned forward, drawn in. “Yes, I’m here.”

“I need water.”

Quickly, she turned and poured him a glass from the pitcher on a tray beside the bed. He leaned up on his elbows, and when she tried to hold the glass for him and tip it over his lips, he politely took it from her.

“I can do it, thank you,” he said, taking a few sips and handing it back.

She set it on the tray. “How are you feeling?”

“Bloody awful.” He lay down again. “I despise this.”

“I know you do.” She paused for a few seconds, then sat down. “Annabelle told me about your cousin.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, combing it off his forehead. “Did she indeed? It’s a filthy business, really—my tragic family. Quite the motivation to get well, wouldn’t you say?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, and I’m glad to hear you say that.”

His eyes narrowed questioningly. “Why? Did you think I was just going to give up and die?”

Knowing what the doctor had said was a possibility—that Whitby could be dead in as little as three months—she tried to word her answer carefully.

“You’ve been very sick, that’s all. But you don’t feel quite as hot tonight.” She put her hand on his forehead again.

He did not take his eyes off hers. He simply lay there, looking up at her.

She was shocked by the fact that his illness hadn’t diminished his powerful masculinity, nor her inappropriate awareness of it—now, of all times. To be honest, she was ashamed of herself for thinking of her desires when he needed care, yet she couldn’t ignore the way he made her feel when she stole a glance at his nightshirt, open at the neck, and the sheets tangled about his hips. Even now, he excited her, aroused her, by doing nothing but lying there damp with sweat, looking at her.

They were quiet for a few minutes until Lily forced herself to gather up the courage to say what she’d come here to say. “Whitby, I need to talk to you about something.”

He stared at her in the dim firelight, while she could not meet his eyes, because she was fighting a swarm of butterflies in her stomach so intense it was making her sick.

She swallowed hard, fearing that her voice was going to quaver when she spoke, or that her heart was going to give out. Her body felt like a stick of dynamite about to explode.

How in God’s name was she to say this?

“What is it, Lily?” he asked as the seconds and minutes ticked on.

She cleared her throat, and with her eyes lowered, realized there was no proper way to say it. He would surely laugh in her face if she did. It was such a preposterous plan. First of all, he would never agree, and even if he did, there was no guarantee that Lily would conceive, and even if she did, she could not be sure the child would be a son and solve all their problems. Good God, her pulse was galloping.

She shook her head, telling him without words that she could not say it.

“Tell me, darling,” he said in a gentle voice that made her melt like butter before him.
He’d called her darling
. “Don’t be afraid.”

When she still could not say it, he asked, “Is it something the doctor said? Is there bad news?”

Realizing she had given him reason to worry, she looked up quickly, and before she even realized what she was doing, she had taken hold of his hand. “No, no, it’s not that.”

She continued to hold his warm hand in hers, running her thumb over his firm knuckles, relishing again the simple fact that she was here alone with him, gazing into his eyes. She had never felt a greater longing in all her life. She felt as if her insides were being pulled painfully from her body. She wanted so desperately to touch all of him.

He stroked her hand in return and sat up slightly, still waiting with curious eyes.

“Whitby,” she whispered.

Then something in his eyes changed. He knew what she was feeling, he could see it, and apprehension passed like a cold breeze over his face.

“No, Lily,” he said, and she heard a gentle warning in his voice. He was telling her not to do this. Not to express what she was about to express.

Not just that. He was telling her not to feel it.

Tears filled her eyes, and when she looked into the depths of his, she saw only his continuing warning, telling her no.

“I can’t help it,” she said firmly. “I’ve never been able to help it. I’ve tried. Honestly I have.”

“I’m not the man for you,” he said. “I’m a worthless rake.”

“You’re not worthless.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve never been faithful to any one woman, I drink too much and gamble too much. I neglect my duties as a landlord—my estate is a bloody mess—and now I’m probably dying. I’m not the one for you, Lily. You deserve better.”

She lowered her head to rest on his hand. “I don’t want anyone else.”
She couldn’t believe she was saying it
.

His fingers moved over her hair. She could feel the apology in his touch.

“Why did you never tell me this?”

She lifted her head to look at him. “I couldn’t. You always considered me a child, and you were always with other women and barely ever noticed my presence.”

“That’s not true. I’ve always cared for you.”

“Like a sister,” she said, her heart burning in her chest.

“Yes.” His tone was firm.

She was breathing hard now, as if she were climbing a steep hill. But she would not give up. “Even this week? When we spoke in the drawing room? I sensed there was something more than a brotherly regard. I began to hope…”

“No,” he replied, cutting her off.

For a long moment she sat there, trying to accept this, but she could not. She loved him.

She breathed deeply, working hard to calm the ferocity of her emotions and the violence of her need for him. She closed her eyes and laid her cheek on his hand again, realizing that love combined with sexual desire was a fierce and potent thing. It was pummeling her standards and morals. Right now, she would settle for being one of the many women he would casually bed.

But she knew he would never treat her that way.

As she sat there with her cheek on his hand, stroking his index finger with her thumb, her whole body pounded and quaked with a fiery, passionate yearning. Then she remembered what she had originally planned to say to him, but hadn’t.

She had wanted to offer to give him an heir.

It seemed impossible now. And foolish. He would never agree.

Feeling all hope slip away like a flower floating downstream, she touched her lips to the back of his hand. She kissed it slowly, achingly, again and again until she heard herself make a sound—a sigh, a tiny breath of sensual pleasure. She continued to kiss his hand, making a trail to his wrist, then slowly up the firm bands of muscle on his forearm.

He did not stop her, which surprised her, so she continued to take all she could from this strange, desperate joy—from kissing him at last, after all these years dreaming of it.

“Lily,” he whispered gently.

But she did not want to listen. She loved him.

Her hungry mouth reached the inside of his elbow, and she slid her hands up to push the loose cuff of his nightshirt upward and out of the way. Eyes closed, she kissed the soft skin there and felt gooseflesh beneath her fingertips on his forearm.

She waited for the word “stop” to come, and when it did, she would obey. She would put all this foolishness to rest and accept that he did not return her feelings.

Because she could not force him to love her.

But he did not say stop. He said nothing.

When the rejection did not come, she felt as if she’d been given a gift—another moment of this bliss.

Her body, feeling warm and supple, tingled all over with a sensual delight she had known only when she was alone in her bed, dreaming of him. Dreaming of doing this and so much more.

She daringly parted her lips and tasted the inside of his arm with the tip of her tongue. She kissed and gently suckled the tendons in the juncture between his forearm and upper arm.

Then she heard him whisper: “God, Lily, you really need to stop that.”

She glanced up to see his head tipped back on the headboard, his eyes closed. When he realized she’d stopped, he lifted his head, and his eyes were drowsy with desire. It was a look she had never seen before, on anyone.

Surprised, dumbfounded, she continued to stare at him, her chest heaving with her own unconquerable desire, her heart pounding with hot, fierce arousal.

They stared at each other intently for a few seconds, and Lily felt the distance between them like a canyon.

She licked her already moist lips and left them parted. His eyes fixed on them, then he sat up, and quickly but smoothly took her face in his hands and pulled her toward him, covering her lips with his own.