Love According To Lily (26 page)

Time slowed to a plodding, sluggish pace after that, while they waited in Lily’s bedchamber for Dr. Benjamin to arrive. Annabelle busied herself by putting cool, damp cloths on Lily’s head and chest, while Whitby moved from the chair at her bedside to the window to watch for the doctor, then back to Lily’s bedside again.

Finally after an hour or so, the doctor’s carriage arrived. Whitby greeted the man at the door and led him upstairs to the room where Lily lay motionless on the bed.

He remembered his own mother lying motionless on that very bed, twenty-six years ago. She’d lost her baby, and Whitby, only seven, had been called in to see her before God came to take her.

The doctor was quick and thorough with his examination, and his diagnosis held nothing that could be considered a surprise. Lily’s illness was progressing, and there was nothing to be done but wait and keep her comfortable and pray that her case would not be worse than Whitby’s.

“What about the baby?” Whitby asked directly.

“She is young and strong, my lord,” the doctor replied, not meeting Whitby’s gaze as he put his instruments back in his bag and closed it. “I see no reason why she and the baby shouldn’t pull through this.”

But he was guessing. Whitby could hear it in his voice. He didn’t know the first thing about this illness. He was as baffled as Dr. Trider had been.

Whitby forgave the doctor, however, for he knew there was no other reply. It was what must be said to all those with sick loved ones in times such as these, and it no doubt comforted most who heard it. But Whitby did not possess the optimistic hope of the common man. Whitby had suffered too much loss to believe that all would work out.

The doctor walked to Whitby and squeezed his shoulder. “I recommend that you go back to your own room tonight, my lord. You must get your rest. Consider also that this disease is contagious.”

Whitby did consider that. He had thought about it very carefully, in fact. He had also realized that no one but Lily had caught it from him, even though others had tended him, so he couldn’t help but suspect it was not something passed on through casual contact.

The doctor stayed for a short while and gave them instructions to continue keeping Lily cool with damp cloths. He promised to return in the morning to check on her.

After seeing Dr. Benjamin to the door, Whitby returned to Lily’s room and told Annabelle that he would stay all night, and he would prefer it if she went to bed and got her rest, so she would be able to help in the morning.

He was genuinely sincere in the fact that he did not want Annabelle to become overtired, but the true basis for his request was a powerful need to be alone with Lily tonight, to be the person caring for her.

A short time later Annabelle left, and Whitby sat at Lily’s bedside. As the clock ticked slowly in its case on the mantel indicating each hour as it passed, he rose only to change the cloth on his wife’s forehead, or to add another log to the fire.

He spent the night leaning forward in the chair, touching Lily’s hot, damp cheek with the back of his hand, pushing her hair off her face, but never kissing her.

He prayed. He prayed all night long, perching his elbows on the bed and resting his head on clasped hands. He asked God to watch over her and help her get well. He apologized for all his sins. He made promises of all sorts and sizes.

He also spent a great deal of time staring at the wall, remembering the pains of his childhood. He remembered the midwife wiping blood off the floor when he’d been taken in to see his mother; he remembered the long line of carriages accompanying his mother’s coffin to the family tomb, and not long after, his father’s coffin and then his brother’s.

Though others had wept, Whitby had not shed a tear. He’d been too numb to feel anything. He still felt numb like that much of the time now, though he was experiencing more than a little sensation tonight—the disturbing, choking feeling of fear, the familiar dread of grief in the offing.

He did not enjoy it. He did not want to feel it again. And somewhere within the dizzying realm of his consciousness, he felt something inside himself wanting to take a step back, to retreat from all this.

When dawn finally broke and light found its way into the dark bedchamber, Whitby clasped Lily’s hand. Feeling weary both physically and mentally, he rubbed his stubbled jaw and bowed his head. He wanted to kiss her hand, but resisted.

Just then, he felt the miracle of her body stirring, and heard the sweet murmur of her voice. He lifted his head and stood quickly, leaning over her. “Lily, darling, I’m here.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, disoriented. “Was I ill?” she asked groggily.

He smiled down at her. “Yes, but you’re better now. The doctor will be here to see you very soon.”

She glanced around and tried to sit up, and Whitby helped move her pillows. “I’m thirsty,” she said.

He poured some water and helped her hold the glass. She took a few sips, then lay back down again and closed her eyes. Whitby felt her forehead. She was not so hot now. The fever had broken.

Just then, Annabelle knocked and entered. She walked to the side of the bed. “How is she?”

Whitby could not speak. He swallowed hard over the aching knot of relief in his throat, taking a moment to gather words in his mind…

Lily opened her eyes again. “I’m fine,” she said, then turned onto her side, facing away from them. “I just need to rest a little longer.”

Annabelle touched her forehead, then gazed up at Whitby with a happy glow in her eyes. “She’s much better.”

“Yes, she’s better,” he replied. “Perhaps you can stay with her now. I’ll go and get some sleep.”

“Yes, you should, Whitby. You look exhausted.”

He had no doubt that he did look like death himself. He’d been up all night, after all.

He thanked Annabelle for coming so early, told Lily he would be back later to see her, then went to his own private bedchamber and wept.

Chapter 29

Three months later

Lily stood at the drawing room window with a cup and saucer in her hand, staring absently out at the overcast morning. There was no color in the distant forest, only the grayness of dormant trees with a white dusting of snow on the ground. Winter had finally descended upon them.

She took a sip of tea and looked up at the low cloud cover, expecting snow to fall again today.

She laid a hand on her belly and wondered when she would feel the baby kick. Soon, she hoped. She was four months along. At least the morning sickness was gone now, and she was fully recovered from her illness. She had her appetite back, though she was still fatigued. The doctor assured her that fatigue was a normal part of her pregnancy, however, so she felt little concern when she took long naps in the afternoons.

Though life was far from perfect, she had grown comfortable in the house during her long recovery. She wrote frequent letters to Sophia and James, though she never expressed her unhappiness. Perhaps it was her pride. She had fought so hard against her brother and mother to let her do as she wished.

She also received many letters—though never any from her mother. She tried not to let it matter, but it did, because she hated this animosity between them, this silent punishment. If only her mother would bend just a little, Lily would be willing to bend a little, too.

But she knew that would never happen. Her mother did not bend. Not when it came to her precious duty. So Lily swept that hope as far away as she could.

On a happier note, Annabelle had become invaluable as a friend and sister, taking over Lily’s duties while she was ill and making sure everything ran smoothly in the household. Lily had come to depend upon her, and they enjoyed each other’s company, whether they were discussing the tedious details of the dinner menu, or the titillating chapters of a scandalous novel.

And Whitby had come regularly to visit her each afternoon when she’d been ill. He had read to her from a book or played cards with her. The dynamic between them had become rather…
relaxed
. They had become friends. They never discussed the argument they’d had. She had known he had not wanted to upset her, and to be honest, she had not wanted to upset herself.

The illness, she knew, had taken the wind out of her sails. She’d grown tired of fighting for what had been forever elusive in her life, and she had begun to believe that she would find happiness if only she could accept life the way it was, and let go of her stubborn and perhaps greedy desire for something more—something she didn’t really understand anyway, because she’d never had it.

And life was not so bad.

As a result, Lily had managed to ease into a comfortable routine, spending all her time waiting— waiting for spring, waiting to have her baby, waiting for the awkward gap between herself and her husband to disappear. For it was certainly awkward in one respect: they had not made love since she’d been ill.

Even after she’d regained her strength, her husband had not reclaimed his place in her bed. They had become mere companions, seeing each other only in the drawing room in the evenings, while he read a book, and she and Annabelle sat together on the sofa reading or taking turns at the piano.

Lately, however, her body was remembering the pleasures they’d given each other in the early days of their marriage. She felt hungry for the physical act of sex, and she wondered if it was the pregnancy causing it.

She felt especially hungry for sex now.

She took a shaky breath and wondered where her husband was. He usually went off with Gallagher in the mornings, or he was in his study, taking care of estate business. It was chilly this morning. Perhaps that’s where he was.

She raised the cup to her lips and discovered that her tea was cold. Setting it back down with a clink onto the saucer, Lily wet her lips and put it on the tea cart.

Feeling exceedingly restless, she left the drawing room and went to Whitby’s study, knocked firmly on the door and heard his voice from the other side. “Enter.”

Lily pushed the door open. Her husband was seated at his desk with his gaze downcast, writing something. He raised a finger to say “one moment,” then finished what he was writing before he looked up.

Their eyes met, and he was surprised to see her, which was no great shock, considering she had not allowed herself to seek him out like this since before that horrible night when they’d argued. Her pride had made her wait for him to come to her.

But today, she could wait no longer. Her body needed him, and nothing else seemed to matter— not her pride or her loneliness.

Lily walked in and closed the door behind her, while she simply looked at him. He stared at her for a moment, then set down his pen. He pushed his chair back and stood.

Lily inched along the wall, her hands clasped behind her back. She said nothing, asked for nothing.

As he moved out from behind his desk, his eyes glimmered with a clear awareness of what she had come for—how did he know?—and the absolute confidence that he could satisfy her in that regard at least.

He sauntered toward her without a word, only the heated intensity of their locked gazes, the subtle yet bold connection of their sexuality. Breath held, Lily watched him approach, her heart pounding like a hammer in her chest. Never taking his eyes off hers, he walked to the door and locked it, then came to stand before her.

“Good morning,” he said in a quiet, husky voice.

Ah, this is what she wanted—a piece of the connection they had once shared—and the pleasure of knowing he still wanted her in this way at least.

His unsmiling gaze roamed over her face, and she felt as if she hadn’t seen him
once
in the past three months, even though she had.

She experienced a sudden urge to ask him why he had not come to her bed yet to make love to her, but resisted it. She was in the mood for sex, not conversation, and she could see in his eyes that he wanted the same thing.

Lily slid along the wall, tilting her head. Her husband let her go almost out of reach, then took hold of her wrist and smoothly dragged her back to her spot in the shadow of his large frame. His expression was dark and stern.

He leaned into her, pressing his rock hard erection up against her pelvis. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face.

He bent at the knees and swept his body down to kiss her, while she wrapped her arms around his neck. He thrust his hips in a slow, tantalizing rhythm that promised to satisfy all the erotic longings that had been assaulting her lately like a madness.

She wanted sex—raw, unbridled sex with him. That was what she had come for, yet still, at the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tried to resist it, she wanted so much more and could not keep herself from hoping that these wild moments of rampant pleasure would lead them in that direction.

He slid his hand down her leg and gathered her skirts in his fist, lifting them. Lily could feel the heat of his fingertips on her thigh, and yearned to feel them probing between her legs. She reached down to take hold of her skirts herself and hold them bunched up around her waist, while he tugged her drawers down. He kissed her again while she stepped out of them, then he kissed down the front of her gown to kneel before her.

Oh, yes
, Lily’s mind whispered, as she tipped her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. She wanted Whitby with the unstoppable fury of an inferno… here… now… She wanted to feel the tingling rapture of his mouth upon her, working its incomparable magic.

Shamelessly she wrapped her hands around the back of his head and pulled him close, crying out when he pushed her thighs apart, and his lips and tongue found the core of her desire.

She raised a leg up over his shoulder and brought one hand back to grope for the chair rail on the wall to steady herself.

Orgasmic sensation quenched all conscious thoughts in her brain. The room brightened to a white glow—only desire existed for her—and soon, she was overcome by a powerful climax that shot through her body in a trembling blast of release, and she cried out in breathless delight.

She lowered her leg and reached for him, pulling him to his feet. “Make love to me,” she whispered against his cheek as he kissed the side of her neck.

Answering to her impatient need for immediate action, he quickly unfastened his trousers with swift, expert hands, bent slightly at the knees, and entered her in one smooth, steady thrust, proving to her that he had all his glorious strength back, and more.

He groaned and held her close in his arms, thrusting her firmly but gently up against the wall. Lily closed her eyes and reveled in the exquisite friction between her legs, and the incomprehensible pleasure of the rhythm of their bodies in sync—the wicked allure of being thumped up against the wall, though he was never rough.

He drove into her again and again, until she was panting with each slick, surging penetration. Another climax came upon her and she threw her hands back against the chair rail, trying to hold onto something while he thrust harder and deeper, finally throbbing inside her and spilling his seed into her. Then his body relaxed and he buried his face into the crook of her neck.

“Ah, Lily, I missed you,” he whispered.

The sweet sentiment, uttered so softly and sincerely after such a violent assault on her senses, sang in Lily’s ears like a heavenly choir of angels. She wanted to shout out loud.

“Did you really?” she asked, hugging him tight.

He nodded, his lips still touching the side of her neck. “Yes. The past few months were like death for me.”

Oh, this had to be a dream. He had missed her and he had told her so. Was this all she’d needed to do? Go to him and offer her body to him?

Lily sighed. She reminded herself that what he’d just said to her was not a declaration of his undying love, and she must not forget her instinctive need to be cautious and realistic where her husband was concerned. He had broken her heart once already, and he had told her that he had no understanding of what she wanted.

“I missed you, too,” she said nevertheless. “I’ve missed this.” Not just the sex, but being held by him. “And I’m sorry.”