Love According To Lily (24 page)
Lily realized miserably the next day that she needed to decide how she was going to survive in this marriage.
She had almost labeled it a loveless marriage when she was out walking in the garden with Annabelle earlier, feeling sorry for herself. But that was not entirely accurate. There was a great deal of love between her and Whitby. It was just simply all on her side.
Was it possible for one person to carry a marriage? she wondered uncertainly as she walked through the house to her rooms, unbuttoning her cloak as she went. At present, she felt that she could. She would do anything for Whitby. She had told him it would be all right if he didn’t love her the way she loved him. She had believed she could live with that, if it meant she could be with him.
But now that she was here, she was coming to realize that she might not be as self-sacrificing as she’d thought. Not when it came to Whitby and what she wanted and needed from him.
She thought of her mother suddenly, and how frustrating and painful their relationship had been—and still was. All her life, it had been like living with a thirst she could never quench.
Lily had not believed she would have to endure that with Whitby. She had even thought that by marrying him, she was escaping that life. So it was breaking her heart now to realize that it was the same. It was exactly the same.
What then, could she do?
Lily entered her room and removed her hat, and set it on her bed. She sat down at her desk, rested her chin on her hand and wondered what Sophia would do. Lily knew that her sister-in-law had not had an easy time with James in the early months of their marriage. James had never intended to love her and he had told her so matter-of-factly.
But Sophia had not accepted that. She had never given up on her dream of love, and she had been patient. She did not push too hard, and she eventually won James’s heart. Now they were closer than two people could ever be, and that’s what Lily wanted and needed with Whitby.
So she wrote the word PATIENCE on a piece of paper, folded it, and decided to use it as a bookmark, so that she would constantly be reminded that there was hope for happiness in the future if not today. She’d waited all this time for Whitby. She could wait a little longer. This was still very new, after all. They had their whole lives ahead of them, and surely the hours they did spend together would foster a deeper intimacy in time.
Consequently, Lily did her very best over the following week to be content with her new life at Century House. She enjoyed daily walks with Annabelle, who was fast becoming a dear friend. She and Lily talked about books and music, and Annabelle, who loved to paint, was teaching Lily all she knew. They painted together in the crisp autumn outdoors with two easels side by side, and Lily’s attempt at a landscape was slowly turning into something—though she wasn’t quite sure what.
Whitby grew stronger every day, and as soon as he was able to ride, he began traveling about the estate, becoming more involved in its management.
One particular afternoon he rode his horse to where Lily and Annabelle were painting, and had appeared genuinely impressed with Lily’s first effort at becoming an artist.
She smiled at him and told him he should join the theatre.
He winked at her from high in his saddle and galloped off, and that was basically the way things were between them. He was always charming and flirtatious, and she was always happy and smiling, amusing him when she could in the day, giving him pleasure and taking pleasure for herself at night.
They never talked about anything of great consequence, however, other than reporting to each other about their separate activities during the day. On the other hand, they were very candid in bed, and they were honest about how they could please each other physically, and she was thankful for that, at least.
So Lily clung to the secret hope that giving Whitby a child would bring them closer. Surely it would.
Hence, she was quick to send for the physician when her courses did not come after another week, and she began to develop a sore throat.
Sadly, the news that Lily was expecting a child was not cause for celebration, for the doctor also delivered a second diagnosis: Lily was most likely coming down with the same mysterious illness that had afflicted Whitby at Wentworth Castle.
That night after the doctor left, Whitby sat in his study alone for a long, quiet hour, not moving from his chair by the fire. He stared into the flames, remembering Lily as a young girl. He had been protective of her then, and though certain very significant aspects of their relationship had changed, he still felt exceedingly protective. She was his wife.
Later, when the flames died down and he found himself staring at a single log that was pulsing with a hypnotizing red glow, he took a deep breath and rose purposefully from his chair. It was getting late. He had to go to her.
So he went to his wife’s bedchamber as he always did, though he felt very differently when he knocked on the door—for under the present circumstances, he could not seem to overlook the fact that it had once been his mother’s door. And rather than the lustful anticipation he was accustomed to feeling when he visited Lily in her bed, an agonizing dread had overtaken his senses. He did not want to make love to her tonight. He wanted only to see how she was feeling. He did not want to tire her.
“Come in,” Lily said from inside, so he pushed the door open and entered.
She was in the process of sitting up in bed to lean against the headboard. He could see by the disheveled state of her hair and the chaos of the blankets that she had been sleeping. She was smiling at him, however, trying to hide the fact that he’d disturbed her.
Like an angel or a devil on his shoulder, his old jaded self urged him to be careful and protect himself, especially now that she was ill and pregnant.
He moved fully into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I woke you,” he said.
“No, no,” she replied, “I was just resting.”
He took her hand. “How are you feeling tonight?”
“I’ve felt better.”
He took a moment or two to envision what the next few weeks were going to be like. He thought of the fever, the fatigue, and he thought of Lily struggling to get well as he had done.
“Would you like me to send word to your mother?” he asked.
“No.”
He recognized the lingering hostility in her voice. “Are you sure? Perhaps it would be a good opportunity to—”
“No, Whitby. I don’t need to see her. I don’t want to.” She lowered her gaze. “Besides, I doubt she would come anyway.”
He nodded, deciding to let the subject go for now, for he wasn’t entirely sure Lily was wrong about that, and he did not want to hurt her with such a rejection. “How is your throat?”
She swallowed with discomfort. “It’s sore. I didn’t feel like eating supper.”
He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “I remember what it was like, but do try to eat, darling, even if you don’t want to. You need your strength.”
“Yes.” Her face warmed with a smile, and she placed her hand on her belly. “I do indeed.”
Whitby gazed down at her flat stomach and found himself quite unable to comprehend the notion of a baby—
their
baby—growing in her womb. It signified a future, a life different from anything he’d ever known. It was astonishing, wonderful and frightening all at the same time.
“We were very efficient,” he said with a grin.
She raised her eyebrows playfully. “I knew we would be. We’re very good at doing what it takes to make a baby.”
He chuckled, and though he had not come here to make love to her, he nonetheless felt a rush of arousal brought on by the luscious intimation in her voice and the teasing glint in her eye. The fact that her nightgown was unbuttoned at the collar and he could see the gentle swell of the tops of her breasts made it all the more difficult to remember that he had not intended to be selfish or irresponsible tonight. He had wanted only to think of her well-being.
The scandalous fact of the matter was—he could not keep his hands off his wife, even when he wanted to back away from her. He wanted her with all the force and passion of a tempest, and when it hit, it hit hard and he forgot all things sensible. He forgot what frightened him, for when he made love to Lily, when he was inside her, he felt as if he’d found a safe harbor.
Which was why all this was so difficult to bear. He did not want to lose her.
He gazed into her eyes for a moment, trying to resist her allure because she was sick and he had to, and said, “It’s important that you get as much rest as possible. And now that we know this illness is contagious, I probably shouldn’t even be touching you. I shouldn’t come to your bed for a while.”
The happy playfulness in her eyes drained away, and her smile turned to a frown. “Oh.”
“I just want to make sure you get well.” And that was God’s honest truth.
Still, he could see the hurt in her eyes. She stared at him for an uncomfortable moment. “Whitby, if we can’t be together at night, I fear that we…”
She couldn’t seem to find the right words.
“What are you trying to say, Lily?”
She lowered her gaze. “You’ve seemed distant since we came here. It’s not like it was at Wentworth.”
He swallowed hard. How could he reply to that? His first instinct was to tell her that she was being silly—of course everything was fine.
That was how he’d intended to behave in this marriage. He had wanted to do everything necessary to make her feel happy and loved, even if it wasn’t real. He had wanted only to be charming for her and make her smile.
He was presently, however, feeling an incomprehensible compulsion to reveal himself to her— perhaps for the same goal—to reassure her and make her happy.
Such behavior with
any
woman was outside of his experience and normal realm, and when his reply made its way out of his mouth, he felt as if the world was spinning in a new direction.
“I thought I was dying at Wentworth, Lily. Strangely enough, knowing that I’m going to live and knowing that we will be spending the whole of our lives together makes everything more…
complicated
. It’s been an adjustment.”