The Lily Brand (16 page)

A mottled color rose in the woman’s face. “Well, I say!” she huffed.

Lillian took a tiny step toward her, all the while smiling down in that chilly, chilly way she had come to learn so well. “And in the future you will call me ‘my lady.’” Lillian deliberately intensified the smile. “For I
am
the countess. Your
mistress
. And you would do well to remember that.” Abruptly, she clapped her hands together and had the satisfaction of seeing the housekeeper flinch. “Now go.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick scurried past her, a fat old goose with ruffled feathers. Lillian waited until the sound of footsteps receded down the stairs before she raised her eyes to look at her old nanny.

“Well done,
chou-chou
. Well done.” Chuckling, Nanette rose from her chair. “I really cannot stand the old bat.” Yet then she turned a worried eye toward the bed. “She is right, however—Lord Ravenhurst has demanded your presence downstairs. You should get ready.”

At the mention of her husband, Lillian’s anger drained away. “He has guests?”

“Friends of his, Hill said.” Nanette went over to Lillian and helped her with the buttons at the back of her dress. “The kitchen is in upheaval.” She gently tugged at a strand of Lillian’s hair. “Daisies?”

Hearing the amusement in the old woman’s voice, Lillian could not help smiling. She put her foot on one of the chests and started to undo the lacings of her muddied boot. “I am afraid I won’t have time to comb out my hair.” She straightened and wriggled her foot free of the boot.

Another tug at her curls made her look back over her shoulder.

“It looks very pretty, I think,” Nanette said, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “In any case, they are bound to have never seen anything like it ever before.” Her lips twitched. “My Lady Lillian of the Hundred Daisies.”

~*~

A short while later Lillian emerged from her room, clad in her pale green evening dress with the tiny, floral embroidering down the skirt. The white satin slippers as well as the long kid gloves were slightly rumpled, but then, Lillian detested the gloves anyway. Even now, her fingers itched and her skin felt uncomfortably damp. Impatiently, she tugged at the gloves while she was walking down the corridor to the main tract of the house and the main staircase. She did not want to go down the tower stairs and through the servants’ hallway and thereby risk running into the housekeeper once more.

Lillian sighed, and finally let the gloves be. Clasping her hands firmly behind her back, she walked down the big staircase with its intricately carved banisters. From golden frames against salmon-colored French wallpaper, stately men peered down on her, while the blue Persian carpet swallowed up the sounds of her steps. The further she went, the taller and more imposing the paintings became until at the bottom of the stairs they covered nearly the whole height of the hall, showing larger than life men in old-fashioned high wigs and proud poses, large golden chains on their chests.

Lillian’s hand flew up to cover the golden cross, which hung on a thin chain around her neck. The small Maltese cross had been a present from Aunt Louisa, who had insisted that Maltese crosses were all the fashion for demure, young maidens.

“My lady!”

At the sound of the butler’s voice, Lillian let her hand drop to her side. Her lips lifted automatically into the little smile she had perfected for social functions. “Good evening, Hill.”

“Oh, my lady.” He hurried toward her, a horse brush in hand. His hair was ruffled, and a hint of ruddiness stained his cheeks as if he had been exerting himself. “They have been looking for you all over the place, my lady.” He blinked rapidly several times. “Are these daisies?”

Lillian rubbed the tip of one satin slipper over the pale blue floor tiles. “I have been out in the gardens.” The color of the tiles reminded her of the delicate shell of a robin’s egg.

“I see.” Hill cleared his throat, then looked back over his shoulder at the first earl’s bear in the far corner of the hall. “I…” His eyes darted back to Lillian. “Shall I show you to the dining room, my lady? I believe Lord Ravenhurst is awaiting you there.”

“That would be very kind. Thank you.” Lillian followed him through the hall. When they approached the brown bear, its nose appeared to be slightly flatter than usual. And when they got even closer, Lillian noticed that one fluffy ear had a decidedly munched-on look to it.

She frowned. “Has something happened to the bear?”

“Yes, my lady,” Hill answered in dignified tones and held up the brush. “It has been hunted down.” He heaved a deep sigh, which seemed to indicate that all the weight of the world rested on his shoulders alone. Puzzled, Lillian followed him down the corridor. However, before she could question him further, he stopped and swung open one of the mahogany-colored doors with a flourish. “My lady.” He made a small bow.

“…married her in
St. Paul’s
?”

In the ensuing silence after her entrance, the echo of the unfamiliar male voice hovered in the air for several tense moments. Then two chairs scraped over the polished wooden floor, and the two strangers at the table scrambled to their feet.

Lillian’s eyes skimmed past them to the figure at the head of the table. The candlelight sparkled on his auburn hair, lent it a fiery life of its own. Her husband, the man who bore her mark on his chest, remained firmly seated. While she looked at him, he saluted her with his glass. “Ah, there you are, my dear. Have you finally managed to find your way to dinner?”

Lillian was only dimly aware of the two other men, who had turned to stare at Ravenhurst with twin expressions of faint shock on their faces. She cocked her head to the right, all the while watching her husband sip his expensive red wine.

He was good, yet not anywhere near good enough. The words “my dear” had nearly choked him, and the skin around his mouth was stretched tight. Whatever charade he intended to play for the benefit of his friends, it would cost him dear.

A swift stab of compassion made her heart clench.

“Oh, my lady, never mind,” the handsome sandy-haired man hurried to say. “We came here unannounced, so the mistake is all ours.”

A mocking smile crossed her husband’s lips. “A fair St. George come to aid the damsel in distress.”

“Troy!” his friend protested.

Yet Ravenhurst continued, unperturbed. “My dear, your champion here is Drake Bainbridge, Viscount Allenbright. And on my left you have Justin de la Mere.”

“My lady.”

The two men bowed, and Lillian dropped into a curtsy.

The second man was as dark and sleek as a big cat. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lillian murmured.

“The pleasure is ours,” Lord Allenbright said smoothly. As if to show his agreement, Mr. de la Mere bowed again.

Lillian found them utterly charming. She gave them a shy smile before she glanced back to her husband. He still sipped at his wine, yet when their eyes met, he lifted a sardonic brow. Putting his glass back on the table, he gestured to the plates before them. “I hope you do not mind, my dear, that we proceeded to dine when your presence proved so elusive,” he drawled. “We will have another place set immediately.”

“That is very kind of you.” Lillian walked around the table to Lord Allenbright’s side to take the chair next to his. Officiously, he pulled it out for her. Yet when he did not help her being seated, Lillian turned her head to look at him.

He was staring at her hair.

She had forgotten about her hair.

A quick glance confirmed that all the men were staring at her. Even the servant who had chosen this moment to enter the room with a clean plate and cutlery, undoubtedly sent for by Hill, stopped and stared in wonder.

“My, my,” Ravenhurst purred. However, a catch in his voice rather spoilt the effect.

Lillian could have wept for him, but she had learned to act well. So she raised her brows, her face a careful mask of innocence. “Have you not heard? It is all the cry now, the look
au naturelle
.”

Justin de la Mere gave a polite little cough. “It looks rather… unusual,” he said after casting a quick glance at Ravenhurst.

“A flower-fairy,” Lord Allenbright murmured behind her.

Lillian’s husband in turn looked as if he had just sunk his teeth into a particularly sour lemon.

“Ah… well…” Lord Allenbright fiddled with his chair and sat down, a faint flush covering his high cheekbones.

All through the awkward dinner that followed, Lillian kept the smile glued to her face. While the two visitors made heroic attempts at stilted conversation, Ravenhurst assumed an air of aloofness and polite boredom. The untouched food on his plate, however, belied his pretense.

He did not look at her again.

Lillian, by contrast, repeatedly peered at him from the corner of her eyes. She noticed the whiteness around his mouth and the dark circles under his eyes, which, as the evening lengthened, became even darker, the color of rotten apples. It reminded Lillian of the testimonies of beatings and worse on his smooth skin, of the thin lines of blood, of the deeper gashes where the whip had ripped off pieces of his flesh.

The blood pounded in her head, but still she smiled and smiled and gave no indication that the food crumbled to dust in her mouth.

She heaved a small sigh of relief when finally,
finally
the servants cleared the table. She knew propriety and convention demanded she retire to the drawing room and sip some tea while waiting for the men to finish their port and cheroots. All the same, she did not think that she would be able to stand another minute of desperate attempts at normality. So she stood, smiling—of course, smiling, all the time smiling—and said, “I am afraid I am rather exhausted this evening…”

Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere stumbled to their feet while her husband again remained seated. He reached for his glass and took a sip of his dark red wine. “Tired, my dear? Then perhaps you should not exert yourself so much.” He glanced up at her, the wineglass nonchalantly balanced on his fingertips. He raised one brow in an attempt at mockery.

But it was a sad attempt, Lillian thought. The circles under his overbright eyes were like bruises, and they were the only color on his pale skin except for the feverish slashes of red across his cheeks.

Lillian’s smile never wavered. “Will you excuse me? I would prefer to retire for the night. I should think this is in accordance with your wishes, as well.”

To their credit, Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere uttered some weak protestations. Ravenhurst just stared into his glass and frowned. “So obliging, my dear?” he murmured a little hoarsely. His eyes darted back to hers. They were very blue. So blue it made her heart hurt.

“Always,” she said softly. “Good night.”

She walked out of the room with graceful strides, for she had learned how to move gracefully even when she was weeping inside. Yet just when she closed the door, she heard the violent scraping of a chair against the floor. Before she had even reached the hall, the door banged against the wall, steps sounded on the corridor behind her, and then a large hand closed around her elbow like a band of steel.

“A word with you,” her husband rasped, and wrenched her around. He towered over her, his eyes a little wild, his body so hot she thought it would sear her skin. The scent of sandalwood and oakmoss rose to envelop her.

Calmly, Lillian looked up at him.

His fingers around her arm tightened. “My friends, they are used to being themselves at the Hall. My servants are discreet. I expect the same thing from…” He stumbled over the last words. “…my wife.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do I make myself clear?”

“I do not understand—”

He shook her. “Do not pretend ignorance with me, do you hear? Not one word will pass your lips, or else…”

The muscle in his jaw jumped again. As threats went, his was not one of the best nor the most inventive. She searched his face. It seemed to her that a slight tremor ran through his body, a quiver of muscles that had his fingers vibrating on her skin.

Perhaps he realized it for himself, since he shoved her away with an expression of disgust. “Another thing,” he said, and his contemptuous gaze swept over her curls. “I expect my wife to behave with decency. I will not have you run around like a whore.”

“Of course not,” Lillian said blandly. “My lord.”

She turned and walked away.

This time, he did not hold her back.

Chapter 10

The midday heat forced Lillian back into the garden to seek the shadows of the grove at the lake. The buzz of insects sounded in her ears, the symphony of summer, and the air was heavy with the smell of dusty earth and drying grass.

She was grateful for the hint of coolness that welcomed her when she stepped through the small gate by the stone raven. Tendrils of her brown hair lay damply against her cheeks and throat, and tiny droplets of sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts.

The cows had all huddled in the shadow of the single tree on their meadow today, and the lambs had been standing listlessly around. In fact, they were no longer lambs, no longer small, woolly bundles of energy. They had grown into little sheep, strong and sturdy.

Lillian smiled a bit while she walked down the band of grass adjacent to the gravel garden path. The green stalks tickled the soles of her bare feet, and sometimes a small flower got caught between her toes.

Yet when she neared the assembly of trees around the lake and the grassy spot on the shore where she liked to sit and dangle her feet in the water, the sound of male voices hovered in the lazy summer air. A carefree cadence they had, both voices. Speech was interwoven with low chuckles.

Lillian stopped.

There on her spot of soft grass, her husband’s friends had settled down on a big checkered blanket, a basket beside them. They had shed their jackets and waistcoats, their necks were free of the restraints of cravats, and the sleeves of their white shirts were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms sprinkled with dark and golden fuzz.

Lillian put her hand to the bark of the tree beside her.