The Lily Brand (12 page)

“No, my lady. It’s… er—”

“The Earl of Ravenhurst,” the Earl of Ravenhurst said as he stepped into the room, obviously having grown impatient waiting downstairs.

Aunt Louisa gasped.

Lillian’s fingers clenched until her nails dug painfully into her palms. With an effort she relaxed her hands, even as his gaze settled on her like blue fire. She raised her chin and met his gaze look for look. No longer shackled and bound, he exuded danger, the play of his long, powerful muscles only half hidden by his clothes.

“
Papa!
” Aunt Louisa screamed, and Ravenhurst visibly winced. “He is here!” She pointed an accusing finger at the man she had wanted to strangle not a minute before. “How dare you to come here? This is all very annoying! Papa will have to call you out now and you will fence in our drawing room and get blood all over the floor!”

From Nanette’s direction came an unintelligible mutter.

Ravenhurst merely raised his brows. “I come with the most honorable of intentions, I assure you,” he said smoothly.

Hasty steps were heard in the hallway and soon after Lillian’s grandfather appeared in the door. When he spotted their visitor, he came to an abrupt halt.

The younger man turned around and bowed slightly. “Lord Larkmoor.”

“Ravenhurst.”

Aunt Louisa hurried to her father’s side and gripped his arm. “You have to call him out, of course.” She shuddered. “Oh dear, oh dear!”

Lillian felt a most particular sensation in the region of her heart. “Grandfather…” She stood, her gaze imploringly drawn to his.

“As I just told Lady Wishart, I have come with the most honorable intentions.” The Earl of Ravenhurst’s voice was filled with subtle mockery. Yet he bowed again. “May I ask you most humbly for your granddaughter’s hand in marriage, my lord?”

Aunt Louisa, momentarily robbed of speech, gaped at him, while Lillian’s grandfather looked him up and down. “Your methods of courtship are most uncommon, my lord,” the Marquis of Larkmoor finally said in a hard voice.

“You can always call me out, of course.”

At the earl’s challenge, Aunt Louisa shrieked and made as if to faint in her father’s arms.

This particular farce, Lillian decided, had gone far enough. “
Quelle bêtise!
” she said firmly, and stepped forward, ignoring her aunt’s shocked gasps. “My lord, I would suggest that you go home now. I will not have my grandfather call you out, and I will not have
you
.”
Even though you’re bearing my mark on your skin.

He stared at her, his eyes as blue as the summer sky. Then his lips turned up into a humorless smile and he gave her a mocking little bow. “I beg to differ. It seems that I have compromised you, so my honor”—his eyes flashed— “demands that I rectify the wrong done to you.” As if by belated thought, he added: “My lady.”

“No.” Lillian shook her head. Why would he want to do such a thing? When the wrong she had done him was so much greater?

Her grandfather left Aunt Louisa standing with her mouth slightly open. He went to Lillian and took her hand to pat it lightly. “My dear, this seems to be the only solution.”

“No.”

“My dear.” There was compassion and sympathy in her grandfather’s eyes. “You have no other choice.”

“No.” She looked over his shoulder to the tall man who was watching her intently, a small, derisive smile curling his lips.

He stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and Lillian saw how broad his shoulders were. She remembered how, at another time and place, his body had been so lean that the ribs had seemed to be poking through skin, how his shaved skull had gleamed in the candlelight. Most of all, she remembered the brand, the angry red brand, the flesh puckered and raw, and the blood marring his pale skin.

He was no longer so pale, and his shock of auburn hair had a healthy glow. He was no longer a prisoner, and no dogs had torn his body to pieces. Only the eyes, Lillian saw, the eyes were still the same, always the same: an intense cornflower-blue that seemed to burn her very soul with anger and hatred.

“Grandfather.” She looked back to the Marquis of Larkmoor, whose kind eyes reflected worry and concern. “I would like to speak with Lord Ravenhurst in private.”

He searched her face. “Very well, my dear,” he finally said and released her hand. “But it will not change anything.” He turned around to face the younger man. “This time, you will behave.”

The Earl of Ravenhurst bowed. “I assure you, I will.”

“Oh, my lord!” Nanette left her needlework and rushed to Lillian. Her arms fluttered through the air like the frail wings of a small bird. “Please, my lord, you have already heard Lillian’s reasons. Please.” She glanced at the earl with something approaching dread in her eyes. “Don’t do this.”

The Marquis of Larkmoor gave her a sad smile. “I am afraid we have run out of choices, Nanette. Come.” He beckoned to her to leave the room. “We will leave these two alone for a while.”

Not one muscle moved in Lillian’s face as she watched them go out of the room. When the door closed, she turned and went back to the window, looking onto the street below, where people ambled by and life whirled past, uncaring.

“I will not marry you,” she said quietly. “I
cannot
marry you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”
Because I pressed the hot brand against your skin and witnessed what she did to you.

“Oh.” Sarcasm dripped from that one small sound. “You mean, because of our—how shall we put it—
history
?” She heard his steps behind her, and she remembered the iron grip of his hands as he grasped her shoulders and wrenched her around. And his scent. She remembered his scent, that dark, beguiling mixture of sandalwood and oakmoss, so different from the stench of prison and of fear. “Well, that’s just too bad,
Lady
Lillian. Because I will be damned if I stand aside and watch you marry that young fool of my cousin!”

She stared at his face, saw how the clear lines of politeness had shifted to reveal the burning anger below. His eyes seemed to spray blue hatred. The corners of his mouth were drawn back into a feral snarl.

“
Do you hear me?
” He shook her.

How easy it was to spark his anger. “I will not marry you.” She wrenched out of his grip and slipped past him.

It is yours, so you will have the honor of setting the mark,
the echo of Camille’s voice whispered in her head.

Mine.

My responsibility.

“So?” he growled. “And what do you think your family will do? Your grandfather is too old to call me out; I would never fight against an old man. And your reputation is now ruined in any case. The only chance you have got to avoid social death is to marry me.
Me,
do you hear me? Not Alexander!”

At that, Lillian had to fight against hysterical laughter. Did he not know that she had already turned his cousin down? And did he really think she cared about what society did or thought? But then, he would not want to hear any of this, and in the end, it did not matter. Only one thing did—

“I will not marry you,” she repeated. She turned and looked at him. “I will not.” She clasped her hands together, so he would not see them shaking, and took a deep breath. “And I am no longer a virgin. Surely you must care about that.”

A sneer distorted his face. “Did you really think I expected anything else?” he spat. “Surely not! But I have got the honor of my family to protect. And I would do much worse than marry you in order to keep my cousin safe.”

When she did not react to his barely veiled threat, he strode toward her until their bodies nearly touched. “And you?” Effortlessly he towered over her. “Have you ever spared a thought to your family? Your ruin will be theirs. Society will not just cut you.
They
will suffer, too.”

Lillian went very still. She recalled her aunt’s fear that Lady Jersey might cancel their invitation. That the other woman had come to gloat.

“But perhaps you are so cold that this does not matter to you. That they will keep to the country, exiles in their own land. And you one of them. All your clever scheming will be for naught.”

Lillian felt light, floating almost. She had not really thought about how the scandal would affect her aunt and her grandfather. She had not known that it would affect them.

Everything needs balance…

She almost laughed then. She had not wanted to ruin Alexander Markham’s life by marrying him. And now it seemed as if she had to marry his cousin so as not to ruin the lives of her family.

Everything needs balance…

She looked at him.

Camille liked her men attractive. Even shackled and clumsily shaved and much too lean, this man had been beautifully made, his body finely proportioned. With his health restored, his body would be even more beautiful now—but his back still would be marred by the scars of the whip lashes, and his chest… on his chest would bloom a lily for evermore.

A lily for Lillian.

Her mark on him.

Her guilt.

Her responsibility.

Everything needs balance…

April was a cold month. Cool drafts found their way through the slits under doors and windows. And now, Lillian reached for the chill and cloaked herself in the coldness. It seeped through her skin to the place where her heart was beating.

It did not matter.

Nothing did.

Ever.

Subtly, she straightened her shoulders and looked him straight into the eyes. “I accept your offer, my lord,” she said.

Chapter 7

On the morning of Lillian’s wedding day the skies of London were weeping. She was married barely a week after the engagement had been announced to the public in the
Morning Post
, the
Gazette
, and
The Times
. Aunt Louisa had wrinkled her nose and had sniffled a bit. At least he did something in style, she had said while cutting the articles out to put them into the box that already held the announcements of her own children’s engagements. But she did not like the fact that there would be no reading of the banns for her niece. The groom had insisted on a marriage by special license. He had insisted on quite a lot of things Aunt Louisa had not liked—to leave for his country estate directly after the ceremony was probably the worst. There would be no wedding breakfast for her to organize, which she considered a scandal, a scandal indeed.

Their steps echoed loudly in the wide, empty cathedral as Lillian walked on the arm of her grandfather up to the altar. Under the high arches to their right and left hovered shadows that the faint light of the morning was not able to dispel. The thick, solid walls of stone kept the air inside to an icy chill. With each step Lillian let the coldness seep deep into her flesh and bones until it seemed to her as if her white and silver dress had turned to woven snow on her skin.

She looked down on the posy she was holding, a cheerful assortment of red and
rosé
flowers whose names she had forgotten.

There were no roses, though. She had not wanted roses.

Her grandfather put his hand over her fingers on his arm and squeezed them lightly. When she glanced up, she saw that his eyes were dark with concern. Lillian gave him a slight smile.

The altar was so much nearer now.

Behind her she heard Nanette’s tripping steps, her worries almost palpable, and Aunt Louisa’s angry mutters at the empty church, the unholy hour of the ceremony, the lack of joyful spirit. As if it mattered.

Lillian’s gaze was drawn to the tall angels on the golden frieze above. They smiled, untouched by what happened below, and they would still smile a hundred years from now. Above them the dome rose up as if it wanted to compete with the sky itself. Below, the air grew even chillier as cold drafts from the transepts gathered in to cloak her in ice.

So it did not matter when the groomsman turned and stared at her. He was handsome, the groomsman, his dark hair cropped short to his head and his superbly fitting uniform accentuating the powerful physique of his body. But most of all, Lillian noticed that the tip of his nose was red with cold.

The groom, by contrast, was wearing what looked like a casual riding outfit with high-shafted boots, tan-colored trousers and a gray coat. He did not turn around, did not spare her a glance even as she stepped beside him.

Lillian felt her grandfather start, yet she smiled at him and gave her posy to Aunt Louisa. Smiling, she was good at smiling; and she smiled at the priest, too, when he cleared his throat to begin the ceremony.

“Dearly beloved…”

The man at her side could have been a statue carved out of stone.

~*~

It had stopped raining when they came out of the cathedral. The Earl of Ravenhurst’s coach was already waiting for them. Not one crack or scratch showed on the gleaming black, and the colors of the coat of arms looked as fresh as if they had been painted on not a minute before. One of the footmen hastened to open the side door, his stylish livery spotless.

“Oh, my dear child…” Aunt Louisa burst into tears. “How we shall miss you!” She tried to muffle her sobs behind a white, lacy handkerchief.

“It is all right, Aunt Louisa,” Lillian murmured and watched as her husband shook hands with his groomsman. He had avoided as much as possible touching her during the ceremony. The priest might have thought it strange. But then, he might have heard of the scandal at Almack’s. Lillian did not know.

The groomsman took leave of her aunt and grandfather, even bowed to her and was the first to call her “Lady Ravenhurst.” He did not offer his felicitations.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” Aunt Louisa sobbed. “How horrid this all is! No wedding party, no wedding breakfast. And where is Ravenhurst’s family, I ask you? No one there to see our poor child off. Oh dear, oh dear!”

Lillian’s grandfather cleared his throat and patted her back awkwardly. “Calm yourself, Louisa. Nanette will accompany Lillian. Everything will be fine.”

“And no wedding breakfast!” Aunt Louisa wailed. “Our poor, poor child! Not even a honeymoon. How very dreadful, oh, it is perfectly horrid.”