Love According To Lily (25 page)

Lily gazed with parted lips at him. “You have reservations about our marriage.”

Yes, he did. But he did not confirm it with words or gestures because he knew it would hurt her.

Regardless of that, she knew it—as if he had said it aloud. She always seemed to know things about him, to sense things, which was somewhat disturbing. It made his plan to spend his life trying to convince her he was happy seem like a daft waste of time.

“You told me that you did not regret our marriage,” she said, “but I have not been able to believe it.” She looked down at her hands. “There is a part of you that wishes your life was the way it was before you traveled to Wentworth and became ill. Isn’t there?”

But
did
he really wish that? he wondered suddenly as he stared into her worried eyes. A part of him did, yes, especially now that she was sick. But another part of him did not.

“No, Lily, I don’t wish that.”

“Because I would give you an annulment if you wanted it,” she replied, as if he hadn’t spoken. As if she were not carrying his child.

He saw passion in her eyes, a desire to argue with him. It was the old Lily he used to know, the little girl who demanded he chase her, even when he was not in the mood.

“I want to be your wife more than anything,” she said. “I’ve always wanted that, but I would never want to be a burden to you, and I’m beginning to fear that I can’t live here with you if you don’t truly want to be with me.”

He took her face in his hands. “I do want to be with you.”

Her eyes did not soften. He began to see she had been suppressing some anxiety for a number of days now, and she was going to blow.

“Only in bed,” she said firmly. “But we never talk about anything important. You never tell me how you feel about anything, nor does anything ever seem to bother you. But I want to know you better. I want to know about your childhood and your parents—”

“None of that has anything to do with our marriage.”

“It has everything to do with it! James told me about all the nannies you had.”

He gave her a fierce, warning look that chilled her blood before he turned away from her.

Lily stared at him in dismay. After a long moment, she bowed her head in defeat. “I feel like all the smiles over the past few weeks have been a charade, and I’ve been trying to be patient and accept it, but now I don’t think I can, not if we can’t be together at night. I know that’s not your fault—my illness is contagious—but I need the truth out in the open, Whitby. All I’ve ever wanted was honesty and openness in a marriage. I’m tired of pretending that everything is fine.”

He faced her again and shook his head at her.

“What truth? I don’t understand what you want from me. Do you want me to say that I wish I’d never married you?
Do
you? Because I won’t say that.”

“Even if it’s true?”

He had no answer. Whitby stood up and walked to the window.

Lily tossed the covers aside and stood up also. “We both know you wouldn’t have married me if you hadn’t thought you were dying. I knew it and I married you anyway, so there’s no point trying to deny it. We both entered into this with our eyes open. But now I sense that you feel trapped, that you feel you’re stuck with me and you have to stay here and do your duty and nurse me while I’m ill, when what you really want to do is be a free man again.”

He felt his temper rising. “Where the hell is this coming from? I don’t want to be a free man!”

No woman had ever pushed him so far or so hard before, and now—more than ever—he did not want to be pushed. Not when he had already given so much. Bloody hell, he had given up his freedom for her. He had spoken vows of fidelity under God, and he had put a child in her womb.

Was that not enough?

“The point is,” he said, taking an angry step toward her, “that I
did
marry you, and it doesn’t matter why or how. That is in the past. What matters now is that you are my wife and you are expecting my child. And
dammit!
I have done everything I can to make you happy and be the husband you want me to be. I come to your bed every night.”

Lily stared at him, her frustration still evident in her fiery blue eyes. “There it is. You do all that because you think
I
want you to, not because
you
want to. All I want is for you talk to me. I want to know what you’re feeling.”

When he said nothing, she turned away from him and dropped her gaze to the floor. Her voice softened. “I believe we have both put ourselves in a difficult situation. You are stuck with a wife you never wanted, and I am stuck with the knowledge that I was naive and didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Everyone tried to tell me that, but I wouldn’t believe it. I just wanted
you
, at any price. But now, I’m not so sure.”

“Not so sure?” he replied furiously. She had told him she loved him, no matter what. And contrary to what she thought, he had loved her in return. He
had!
He had loved her the only way he knew how. He’d married her, for God’s sake! Now she was changing her mind?

White-hot anger coursed through his veins. He had not asked for any of this. He did not want to feel this. “You’re the one who came to
me
, wanting only to give me an heir. Remember?”

She nodded. “Yes. But you were different then— the way you held me, the way you talked to me. I believed you
could
really love me. But I fell in love with a man who doesn’t really exist. That man died when you found out you were going to live.”

Good God, he had not deserved that. “We’ve been married less than a month, Lily,” he said. “You expect too much. I can’t change who I am overnight. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Is it me?” she asked, and he wondered if she was hearing anything he was saying. “Am I not the kind of woman you find interesting?”

God, this was a nightmare. “Of course I find you interesting. I just don’t understand what you want from me. I’m giving you everything I can. I made you my countess. I make love to you every night. I’m not unkind to you.
You want too much, Lily
!”

She stood dumbfounded, her chest rising and falling with deep, panting breaths, then she sank into a chair. “Yes. I do. I
know
I do. I want more, Whitby, because something is missing. But the worst part is, I don’t even know what it is, because I’ve never had it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, laboring not to feel too surprised by this. He had known he would not be able to make her truly happy. Intimately happy. He just did not know how to love that way.

Whitby turned from her and walked to the door. “Get some sleep. You need your rest.”

Speechless, she watched him. “You’re leaving?”

He heard the shock in her voice, but something very intense was compelling him to leave. He couldn’t fight it. The ceiling was coming down on his head. He didn’t know what to say to her. He couldn’t fix what was wrong. He had to leave. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“Yes, there is.”

He stopped with his back to her, holding onto the doorknob, waiting for her to speak.

“At least when you were dying, I didn’t feel like you were lying to me.”

He paused for a moment, then turned to face her with one last word. “Lily, you said whatever I could give you would be enough. So it appears that I am not the only one who lied.”

With that he walked out and shut the door behind him. He paused in the corridor, however, and laid a hand over an unfathomable ache inside his chest, because for the first time, he
did
regret marrying Lily. And he wanted his old life back.

Chapter 28

In the days following, Whitby gave Lily a wide berth. He increased his involvement in estate business, and found himself almost obsessively wanting to take care of things that had been too long neglected.

He spent every possible minute with George Gallagher, his steward, visiting the tenants and finally seeing for himself where the rents were coming from and who was plowing his fields. He’d insisted upon learning how the account books were kept, and went over them himself at night after Gallagher was gone, making sure everything made sense.

Whitby realized that this fixation on his duties as landlord was a direct result of his argument with Lily, for he had developed a rather sudden awareness of his shortcomings and how he had failed those who were dependent upon him. He’d been a frightfully incompetent landlord, and he could still do with some fundamental improvements as a husband. He just didn’t know how to fix that aspect of his life quite yet. Account books were easier.

He was contemplating these changes and deficiencies in himself as he arrived home chilled one afternoon after a long ride across his estate. Handing his horse over to one of the grooms, he strode across the courtyard to the back entrance of the house.

He blew into his gloved fists and rubbed his hands together, suspecting that snow was little more than a week or two away. He could smell it in the air.

Taking two steps at a time up the back veranda, he stopped when he noticed Annabelle standing alone in her hooded cloak, her back to him while she gazed out over the terraced garden.

Whitby removed his hat and approached her. “Annabelle…”

She turned to him with a strangely hopeful look on her face, but it disappeared when their eyes met. She lowered her hood and smiled. “You’re back.”

“Yes,” he replied, removing his gloves. “I had a productive day.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She walked toward him and they sauntered casually across the veranda together. “Everyone is very impressed with your new interest in the estate,” she said. “My maid told me you’ve been the topic of discussion at the servants’ table.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? I suppose they’re not accustomed to seeing me up before noon.”

She laughed. “No, they are not, and neither am I. I’m very proud of you, Whitby, and happy for you. I knew there was a dedicated, responsible man in you somewhere.”

He smiled faintly at her to acknowledge the compliment, then turned his gaze toward the horizon in the distance. “How is Lily?”

Annabelle shrugged. “She’s as well as can be expected. She’s been sleeping for the past couple of hours. Did you know she’s been ill in the mornings? The doctor says it’s normal.”

He stared at her for a few brief seconds before replying. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, maybe you should go and talk to her. I know the doctor said you should limit your contact with her because of her illness—but I don’t think he meant you had to avoid her altogether. The only time you see her is at dinner, and you’re barely within hearing range at the other end of the table.”

Whitby leaned on the balustrade, cupping the rail with both hands. He crossed one ankle over the other. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“What do you mean? Of course it is.”

He squinted in the other direction. “Things are rather strained between Lily and me at the moment.”

“It’s strained because you won’t talk to her. She thinks you’re sorry you married her, and that you’re not in love with her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No. She’s very loyal to you, Whitby. She doesn’t talk about you or say anything derogatory about you behind your back, not even to me. But I can see it as plain as day. She did not marry you for position or money. She married you because she loved you, so you need to be there for her and reassure her that you’re not sorry you married her, and that you do care for her.”

Whitby sighed and shifted his weight on the balustrade. “I assure you, Annabelle, that’s been my intention all along. And I’ve tried.”

She narrowed her gaze at him, looking perplexed. “Then what’s the problem?”

He squinted at the horizon again. “She doesn’t believe me. She can bloody well see through me.”

“See through you?” Annabelle’s shoulders rose and fell with a disheartened sigh. “Do you mean to tell me that any reassurances are untrue? That you do regret being married? Whitby…”

He bowed his head. “No, Annabelle. I needed to get married. I wanted to. I was just having a hard time taking the step. So I don’t regret it entirely. I’m glad it was forced upon me. I’m not sure I would have done it otherwise.”

“
Forced
upon you. Good God, don’t ever say that to her. It’s not the kind of thing a woman wants to hear.”

He slowly blinked. “So I’ve learned. But regardless, it wouldn’t matter if I said it or not. She knows. That’s the problem with marrying someone you’ve known forever. They don’t believe your lies.”

Annabelle moved to lean next to him and rested her gloved hand on his knee. “Whitby, you’re not lying to her, are you? You do care for her.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why do you avoid being with her? If you are happy with her, she will see it and feel it.”

“And how do you know so much about love?”

She was silent for a moment as a chilly breeze swept at her skirts. “Because I did love once— foolishly, mind you—and I have many regrets about it. I’ve had years to reflect upon it and imagine how my experience of love
should
have been.”

Whitby recalled the day he had learned what had occurred between Annabelle and Magnus…

He turned toward her and took her hand. “I’m surprised to hear you use the word love. You hated him.”

She looked down at their entwined hands. “Yes, I did, and I hate him now, knowing the truth about him as I do. But for a brief time—before I discovered what kind of man he truly was—I loved him quite passionately, and I remember all too well how it felt.”

Whitby stared with melancholy at his sister.

Annabelle stood up and turned toward the garden, resting her hands on the rail. “He did break my heart, but you do not have to fear heartbreak like that with Lily. She is a wonderful woman, completely devoted to you. Appreciate her. Appreciate what you have. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Whitby thought about that for a long time before he replied. “There are many different kinds of heartbreak, Annabelle.”

With a furrowed brow, she studied his eyes as if trying to decipher his true meaning. “Are you worried about her having the baby?”

He shrugged, though he knew she would not buy into the dismissing gesture.

“She’s healthy and strong, Whitby.”

“No, she’s not.”

Annabelle reluctantly nodded, conceding to Whitby’s point only briefly before she picked up her argument again. “She will be when it comes time to bring the baby into the world.”

“Perhaps.”

“
Is
that the problem?” Annabelle asked. “Because if it is, you should tell her that. She would understand, and I believe it would ease her mind. It would let her know you truly care.”

“I can’t tell her that,” he said harshly. “I don’t want her to know I’m worried. I don’t want her to spend the next nine months distressing herself about having the baby.”

“She’ll stress about something else if you don’t, and I believe that will be worse. Trust me in that regard.”

He noted the grim expression on his sister’s face. It was the look of a woman who had lived once, but was now merely coasting through an existence toward the end.

Whitby pushed himself away from the balustrade. He reached for Annabelle’s gloved hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it affectionately. “Thank you for trying to help. I do understand what you have said, and I will give it some thought. Truly, I will.”

Annabelle responded with only a nod and a sad smile.

There was no place setting for Lily that evening at the table, for she had informed her maid that she was not hungry. As a result, Whitby found himself eating his own dinner in heavy silence, contemplating everything Annabelle had said to him that day, while he stared at his wife’s empty chair.

He realized suddenly that Annabelle was right. He needed to talk to Lily and smooth out their problems. And besides that, he missed her. He wanted to go to her bedside and apologize.

When dessert was served, he declined and excused himself from Annabelle’s company. Annabelle understood, of course, and was more than happy to see him go.

He headed toward Lily’s rooms, wondering if she hadn’t come to dinner because she was still too angry with him. Or had she not come because she was so weak, she couldn’t even rise from bed just to sit in the company of others for a short while?

The possibility that she
was
that weak sent a sickening lump of dread into his gut. He quickened his pace down the dimly lit corridor.

When he reached her rooms, he knocked, but no answer came. He did not knock a second time. He pushed the door open and walked straight in.

The room was quiet, lit only by one lantern. Lily was alone, sleeping on her side, facing the window. Whitby walked softly to her, not wanting to wake her, but when he came around the foot of the bed and saw that her face was ashen and her hair damp around her forehead, he wanted very badly to wake her—
so
badly that his breath caught in his throat.

He went to her side and shook her. “Lily…”

When she did not stir, he placed a hand on her cheek to check her temperature. The heat from her clammy skin nearly scorched him.

“Lily,” he said again, shaking her harder, but still, she did not move.

He charged from the room and dashed down the corridor and stairs, through the main part of the house to the servants’ wing. He ran to Clarke’s sitting room.

“We need the doctor,” he said quickly to the man, who was sitting at his desk with a pen in his hand. “Send a groom on the fastest horse… Tell him to take Steamer. Lady Whitby has come down with a fever.”

Clarke stood immediately and made haste to see that his master’s firm instructions were carried out, while Whitby turned from the room to go and fetch Annabelle. He hurried back to the dining room where she was sitting by herself, quietly eating her dessert. She turned in her chair when she heard the commotion of his intrusion. “Come quickly,” Whitby said. “It’s Lily.” Annabelle stood and dropped her napkin onto the table. She picked up her skirts and ran to follow him upstairs.