Love According To Lily (2 page)

Chapter 1

Wentworth Castle, Yorkshire

October 1884

With the late-afternoon sun beaming in through the lace curtains and bathing her room in bright, shiny light, Lily Langdon sat at her desk, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor while she tapped her pen in a similar rhythm upon the letter she was trying to write. She gazed at the clock on the mantel, ticking away in the silence, while the sunlight reflected off the silver-and-gold plated face. She was anxious and edgy today. She couldn’t pretend not to know why. She knew enough about her own emotions to understand it. It was the first day of her brother James’s annual shooting party. The guests had been arriving all day. and in a very short time, she would have to begin preparing for dinner—dressing in one of her elegant gowns and donning heavy jewels.

She’d already chosen the gown for this evening— her dark blue satin Worth with the black velvet roses emblazoned on the hem. She need only select the right earrings to go with her sapphire necklace. Then she would be ready to venture downstairs and meet all the guests in the drawing room.

Lily continued to tap her pen upon her desk, still feeling frustratingly anxious. It was not something she enjoyed, mingling in a room full of strangers. Of course, they wouldn’t all be strangers. Her family would be there, and friends of her family, some of whom she had known forever…

Perhaps
that
was why she was anxious.

A knock sounded. She rose from her desk chair, crossed the room and opened the door. “Mother…”

Her mother, Marion, the dowager duchess, stood in the corridor with her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a long-sleeved black day dress, buttoned stiffly around her neck. Her dark gray hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. “Lily, I must have a word with you.”

Lily stepped back and invited her into the room.

While her mother gazed around at everything— the pile of unfinished letters on the desk, the modern novel lying open on the bed—a sense of inadequacy swept through Lily.

She quickly moved to close the book and turn it over, face down, wondering if she would ever be able to disregard the enduring weight of her mother’s disappointment in her. Lily’s mother had never understood Lily’s romantic nature, in particular when it made Lily take exception to her duties, for Marion was a strict, humorless woman, and she would never even consider questioning her duties.

Marion sat down on a chair, while Lily sat on the sofa opposite. They gazed at each other uncomfortably for a few seconds before Marion spoke.

“Lily, as you know, the guests have been arriving throughout the day.”

Lily nodded.

“As it happens, there is a particular gentleman who arrived not more than an hour ago—a young man I encouraged Sophia to invite, as I believe he is a charming and respectable young man. He is Lord Richard, the Earl of Stellerton’s youngest son.”

A youngest son. Lily squeezed her hands together in her lap. There was a time when her mother would only consider an eldest son as husband material—for Lily was after all the daughter of a duke. But Lily was twenty-one now, and not exactly without her share of knocks and scratches. She suspected her mother was becoming desperate.

“How old is he?” Lily asked, grasping frantically for calm, intelligent questions when all she really wanted to do was leap out of her chair and say, “I don’t want to be shepherded!”

But she didn’t leap out of her chair because she supposed she did want guidance. She was afraid of trusting her own judgment when it came to men. She knew how foolish one could become when blinded by passion, for she had become infatuated with someone once—Pierre, a charming Frenchman with an enchanting accent. That man had unfortunately turned out to be something very different from what she had believed him to be. Yet for a brief week or two, she had fancied herself in love with him.

And then there was Whitby. Always Whitby. But he did not see Lily as a woman. He saw her as a child or sister. To hope for something more where he was concerned was unrealistic and foolish.

So yes, she needed guidance, because she wanted to get on with her life.

“Lord Richard is twenty-six,” her mother replied. “I met him when he arrived, and I can assure you, he’s very handsome.”

Lily lowered her gaze. “You know I don’t consider that the most important quality in a husband.”

“Well, you did at one time,” her mother said flatly, revealing the embers of resentment that still smoldered over Lily’s recklessness with Pierre.

Lily wondered if she would ever be able to make up for that misstep.

“Is he expecting to meet me tonight?” she asked. “Is that why he came?”

“Yes. Like you, he doesn’t enjoy London during the Season, and he is looking for a quiet country girl.”

That sounded promising.

“What do you plan to wear this evening?” her mother asked.

“My blue Worth with the black velvet roses.”

Her mother’s gaze drifted toward Lily’s dressing room. “The blue Worth…” She pondered it for a moment. “Perhaps something more traditional. What about the green gown you wear with your cameo?”

The green gown was certainly more traditional. It had long sleeves and a lace neckline that was far less daring than the blue gown. “If you think it would be more appropriate…”

“I do. Lord Richard is a highly regarded young man, and he has just taken the chaplain’s position on his father’s estate. His father seems to think he has a bright future with the church and might one day become a bishop.”

“He sounds perfectly ideal.” Lily crossed her ankles and squeezed her hands together on her lap. “But what if he finds out about what happened with… ?”

It was difficult to say Pierre’s name. She didn’t like to think about how foolish she had been. “Lord Richard might not want me,” she said. “I might hurt his chances of becoming a bishop.”

Her mother frowned and spoke in a firm voice. “That is water under the bridge, Lily. No one knows but the members of this family—”

“Whitby knows.”

Her mother said nothing for a moment. It was no secret that she had always detested Lord Whitby, ever since the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. He was the one who had befriended James at an early age, and had exerted more influence upon him than she’d ever been able to do.

When she did speak, her voice was strained. “Yes, unfortunately he does, and I wish that were not the case. If I had had any say in the matter three years ago…” She stopped herself. “I suppose that is neither here nor there. The point is, Lily, you must move on. You were young and you made a mistake, but thankfully there were no lingering effects from it.”

Her mother was of course referring to the matter of Lily’s virginity. She still possessed it.

“But what if Lord Richard approves of me and wants to marry me? Would I tell him what I did?” An image of Pierre’s dingy boardinghouse room flashed in her mind. She thrust it away. “I can’t imagine keeping something like that a secret from my husband.”

Her mother’s brow furrowed. “Why ever not?”

Lily experienced the confusing mixture of frustration and sympathy she always felt when her mother said things like that, for she had never loved Lily’s father. She had probably kept many things about herself secret from him.

But since James had married Sophia, Lily had seen for herself what was possible in a marriage. There were no secrets between them. They loved and trusted each other completely—something she never could have imagined when she was growing up. And now she wasn’t sure she would want to jeopardize such a future for herself. She wanted openness and honesty in her marriage, just like James and Sophia had in theirs.

Oh, and passion, of course.

Yet, if Lord Richard or any other prospective groom knew about her reckless behavior with a Frenchman at eighteen, there might never be a marriage…

Lily flinched. She sometimes felt as if she were teetering on a narrow precipice, and one day soon, she would fall to one side. But which side would it be? Would she end up closed off like her mother, or open and loving like Sophia?

She felt her chest constricting under the pressure to choose the right side, before she merely lost her balance and toppled whichever way the wind blew.

“Wear the green dress tonight,” her mother said. “And the cameo. It is so becoming on you.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Lily stood and walked Marion to the door.

Later, however, while she sat at her vanity watching her maid, Aline, do her hair, she found herself wondering what
another
man would think of the green dress and cameo. She suspected that man would prefer the blue one with the more daring neckline.

But as she considered it more, she reconciled herself to the fact that Whitby would probably not even notice what Lily was wearing. He would be noticing the other women, as he always did. Which was why she had to forget him.

If she had a farthing for every time she said that…

She gazed fixedly at herself in the mirror for a long moment. She thought of her childhood suddenly, and heard the distant sound of her own laughter as she dashed about the garden, playing tag with Whitby. His visits had always been a bright, shining light in an otherwise dark existence, when she’d lived in a house without laughter.

Her heart ached suddenly with grief and a painful longing for those singular moments from the past. She laid a hand over her breast.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Aline asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied.

But she was not fine. Not really. She hadn’t been fine for a very long time.

She wished she could travel back in time and find the girl she’d once been. The girl who’d known how to skirt the shadows. The girl who was not afraid to act upon her passions. Was that girl gone? Lily wondered curiously. Or was there still a part of her alive somewhere, deep down inside? She leaned close to the mirror and looked carefully into the blue of her eyes.

Chapter 2

At quarter past four in the afternoon, a liveried footman with clean white stockings and shiny buckled shoes hurried down the steps of Wentworth Castle to open the coach door for one final guest—the Earl of Whitby, the duke’s oldest friend.

Wearing an impressive dark brown wool overcoat and matching hat, Lord Whitby stepped out of the coach and smiled up at James, who had just emerged from the house with Sophia at his side.

Whitby walked up the steps, pulling off his gloves as he approached. He stopped before James and Sophia, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep sigh.

“Well. Another year gone by, another shooting party upon us. Where does the time go?” He reached for Sophia’s hand and kissed it. “Duchess, you look stunning as always.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, Edward, give me a hug.” She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. But when she stepped away, she glanced with concern at James.

Whitby had expected such a reaction from her. He was unshaven, exhausted, and he knew he’d lost some weight since they’d last seen him.

Whitby turned to James and shook his hand. “You look well, too, James.”

James eyed Whitby curiously. “But
you
look like hell, my friend. What the devil were you up to last night?”

With one booted foot raised on a higher step, Whitby tapped his gloves on his thigh and looked toward the moors in the distance. “The usual, I’m afraid. Colchester had one of his theater parties at his country house last night. Went a little late.” Whitby returned his gaze to James and smiled. “So I just decided to stay up to catch the train this morning, rather than try to sleep. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“You slept on the way, I hope,” Sophia said.

“Yes, I did manage to get some rest.”

Which was not entirely true. Whitby had in fact sat awake all day, worrying about his sister. Annabelle.

But he did not want them to know that. They would ask why, and then he would have to tell them. And he was not ready to talk about it.

Sophia linked her arm through Whitby’s and led him up the rest of the stairs to the front door. “Well, there will be no such wild, late night parties here. We will all retire at a decent hour like the mature, responsible adults that we are. Lights will be extinguished at precisely ten o’clock.”

Whitby laughed and glanced over his shoulder at James, who was following behind them. “Who is this impostor leading me into the house? Or has your wife finally given up her American ways?”

Smiling, they entered the grand hall, their laughter now echoing off the gray stone walls and the high cathedral ceiling.

“And how are the boys—little Liam and John?” Whitby asked. “Getting into trouble yet?”

“Gracious, yes, and growing faster than weeds,” James replied. “Just the other day, Liam rode the pony without either of us holding onto him.”

“Rode the pony on his own. Good gracious, James. He’s only two, and the heir to a dukedom, might I remind you? Your mother couldn’t have been pleased.”

James smiled. “We didn’t tell her. Thought we’d spare her the anxiety.”

They walked past a shiny suit of armor on display at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, now that the pleasantries are taken care of, let’s skip to more important matters,” Whitby said. “Is Lady Stanton here?”

Sophia stopped and slapped his arm. “Lady Stanton is a married woman, Whitby. Shame on you for asking.”

“We are
friends
, Eleanor and I.” He grinned. When Sophia smirked at him, he surrendered to her proper influence. “All right,” he said. “Tell me who the unmarried ladies are. I suppose they and their mothers are waiting to wrestle me to the ground.”

Sophia shook her head at him while James looked on, amused and unsurprised. She listed off the names while they climbed the stairs, escorting Whitby to his room in the east wing.

“I promise I will dance with each of them,” he said as he entered the Van Dekker room—the guest chamber they always reserved for him when he visited. The green velvet curtains were pulled open, held back by gold braided tassels. His trunks were already waiting for him, stacked in the center of the room, as his valet had taken an earlier train.

Whitby shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the canopied bed—a massive structure made of old English oak, with a headboard that duplicated the turrets of the castle itself and bed curtains tied back at the posts. “There will be dancing, won’t there?”

“Of course,” Sophia said. “Tomorrow night. Tonight we’ll gather in the drawing room at seven and dine at eight, then we’ll play some cards afterward.”

She and James paused in the doorway.

“We’ll leave you to get settled,” James said.

As soon as they were gone, Whitby sank onto the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He inhaled deeply a few times, feeling shaky and winded after climbing the stairs. He probably should have eaten something today.

He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved his flask, and quickly unscrewed the cap. He took a sip and forced himself to swallow.

His valet walked in just then and saw his pained grimace. The man stopped suddenly in the doorway.

Whitby held up a hand. “Don’t say anything, Jenson.”

Jenson, who had been Whitby’s valet for more than twenty years, walked to the bed and picked up Whitby’s coat. “I had no intention of speaking, my lord.”

Whitby watched Jenson hang the coat in the corner wardrobe.

“It’s a sore throat,” he explained, not knowing why he felt he needed to explain himself to his valet. But what could he say? He’d lost his father at the age of eight. Jenson, now sixty-one, had occasionally filled that role.

“
Another
sore throat, my lord?” Jenson said with evident disbelief.

Whitby shook his head at him and downed the rest of the contents in the flask, finally feeling the welcome, numbing heat it offered.

It was close to seven-thirty when Lily stopped in the doorway of the crimson and gold drawing room. Inside, the heavy drapes were drawn and the room was lit invitingly by dim lamps and candles. A few young ladies were seated on the sofa with their mothers in nearby chairs, while some of the gentlemen stood next to the piano. They were laughing over something. Another group of guests, including Sophia and James, stood before a crackling fire in the hearth.

Lily wondered if Lord Richard had arrived yet. She would be glad to get the introductions out of the way.

At that moment, she felt someone approach from behind, and before she had a chance to turn, a large hand wrapped around her elbow. “Lily. Thank God, you’re late, too.”

She turned and found herself staring up at Lord Whitby, dressed in formal black and white dinner attire, his golden hair thick and wavy. He was smiling down at her, waiting for a response. She noticed he looked thin.

Tongue-tied as usual, she gazed up at him and felt instantly lost in the deep blue of his eyes and the playful allure of his smile. He was so beautiful.

She wished she didn’t feel that way about him every time she saw him. She wished her stomach wouldn’t erupt into a wild flock of frenzied butterflies. She wished she could just see him as a brother.

“What do you say we sneak in together,” he said, leaning close, “and no one will be the wiser? Come on.”

He placed his hand at the small of her back and guided her into the room.

She went, more than a little aware of the fact that she’d not yet spoken a single word. She cursed this effect he had on her. The same thing had happened to her the last time she’d seen him—a few months ago at one of the London balls. He had been flirting with someone else that night, as he always was. That particular night it had been Miss Violet Scott, who had been sure Whitby was going to propose to her. Lily had not enjoyed herself that night.

“There,” he said. “No one even noticed us.” He nodded at the footman who immediately approached carrying a tray of champagne. Whitby took two glasses and handed one to Lily. “Cheers,” he said, then he took a few deep gulps.

Once that was done, he gave her his full attention. “So how are you, Lily? You look well.”

She swallowed hard and tried to smile, but a nervous shiver was scuttling through her, and she felt her lip quiver. “I’m fine… thank you. Fine today. Are you fine?”

Good God. Someone just smother me with a pillow…

His eyes glimmered with amusement as he leaned forward ever so slightly—charming and handsome and full of life and exuberance. His lips were moist; it was intoxicating just to look at him. Lily became filled with the old familiar longing that never gave her a reprieve.

“Fine, thank you,” he whispered in reply.

He was making fun of her. She should have laughed along with him. She should have tossed her head back and slapped his arm. But she couldn’t. Her stomach was wrenching into a knot. She felt as if she’d just been dropped onto her behind on the cold, hard floor.

At that instant, James and Sophia appeared beside them.

“I thought you might have forgotten about us,” James said.

Whitby turned away from Lily. “Heavens no. I simply wanted to look my best and thought I should take my time.” He glanced over James’s shoulder. “I see Spencer is here. I heard he has a new rifle he wants to show off.”

“Indeed he does,” James replied. “Come and say hello to him. He’ll tell you all about it.”

Without so much as a glance back in Lily’s direction, Whitby followed James across the room.

Lily watched him for a few seconds while the butterflies in her tummy continued to swarm, then she took a sip of her champagne. When she looked up again, Sophia was staring at her.

“Are you all right?” Sophia asked.

Lily pasted on a smile. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sophia shrugged. “No reason. Your face just looks a little flushed.”

Wishing she didn’t feel completely mortified, Lily raised a hand to her cheek. “I was late. I had to hurry to get here. And perhaps Aline tied my laces a little too tight.”

“Lily, my dear,” her mother said, joining them.

“Come and meet the other guests. There are a few you don’t know.”

Lily followed her mother to the other side of the room, privately humiliated over the fact that she was still shaken from her brief and utterly insignificant encounter with Whitby. She had promised herself she would forget him. She had wanted to feel nothing, but that had not been the case. Unfortunately, whenever she saw him, she felt everything— every nerve in her body, every emotion in her heart, every impossible wish and every agonizing desire.