Lily and the Lion (17 page)

"That must have been a horrible blow to endure so soon after Richard's death! I do not wonder that you became disillusioned!"

Julian snorted. "I was more than disillusioned, Miss Clarke. I was bitterly disappointed and unhappy. I abandoned all my former lofty ambitions—though that was a moot point, since I was forced of necessity to set aside the plans I'd made before I inherited the title—and I embraced all of the profligate habits and dissipated activities I had used to think were a waste of time."

"What
were
your ambitions before you inherited the title, my lord?"

Julian gave a bark of unamused laughter. "Ha! You will be astonished! I was destined for the Church, Miss Clarke. I—the frippery fellow you see before you today—was to be the vicar of Pleasely!"

But Miss Clarke did not display astonishment, nor did she laugh. Rather he had never seen her appear so sober. His own forced merriment faltered and, as the object of her serious scrutiny, he became most uncomfortable.

"On the contrary, I am not astonished. Rather I think I understand you better. To be
so
disillusioned as you are now, you must have been at some time as full of hope as me."

"Worse than you," Julian admitted, shuddering. "Too hopeful, too trusting, too well intended. Undoubtedly I set myself in the way of disappointment."

"You would have been a wonderful vicar, I make no doubt," she said at last, her eyes narrowing speculatively. "I can just see you in your surplice. Quite handsome." Then, embarrassed, she looked away.

He was gratified and amused by her spontaneous candour, but compelled to point out, "How one looks in a surplice has little to do with how well one performs one's churchly duties."

"Which good understanding on your part makes me all the more convinced that you would have been an excellent vicar!" Miss Clarke shot back. "Still, looking well in your surplice could not have harmed your popularity amongst the petticoat set!"

Julian laughed out loud, then checked himself as Peter stirred restlessly. When Peter resettled himself and was lying still again, Julian said, "Miss Clarke, you are a parcel of diverse delights, one moment delivering me of a sermon and the next moment speaking in cant which would twist your papa's spleen!"

"And you, my Lord Ashton," she said with a wavering smile, "are just as much a bundle of inconsistencies. You claim yourself to be an uncaring man, yet you've shown a plenitude of kindness in the past couple days since I met you. You were gracious to my parents, forgiving and playfully tolerant of my brothers and sister, tenderly watchful and loving of your nephew, kind to your servants and mine, and to the Tappers, whom you don't even know. And as for Sebastian, what a fortunate cat to have crossed paths with
you!
I daresay few noblemen are kind enough to take a miscreant cat under their protection."

"I must confess, Miss Clarice, I did it all to impress you," he said teasingly. He did do it for her, he suddenly realized, but not to impress her. Rather she inspired him to do good simply for the pleasure it gave him. Good God, what a frightening thought!

"Please don't begin again with the flummery, my lord," Miss Clarke begged him, grown suddenly very shy and withdrawn. "You promised!"

"I apologize," he said to put her mind at ease. Then, briskly, "Now, who shall take the first watch?"

Lily protested, but Lord Ashton insisted that they take turns through the night in sitting with Peter, or neither of them would be worth a penny for a beggar on the morrow. Lily finally relented, having decided that Lord Ashton was as stubborn as a mule, but of equal conviction that he was entirely in the right.

After bathing Peter's face with a handkerchief soaked in lavender-water and coaxing the twitchy patient to sip a bit of barley broth, Lily lay down on the truckle-bed and tried to sleep. Miraculously, she did, and much longer than she had intended. She awoke to Peter moaning and Lord Ashton trying to rearrange his nephew's pillow so that the poor, feverish fellow was more comfortable. A hopeless task, it seemed. Peter appeared to be destined for an entire night of half deliriums and unrestful slumber.

Lily rose from the truckle-bed and immediately went to Peter's side. Working together to calm and soothe the agitated patient, Lily and the viscount were finally successful. When Peter's sleeping was relatively peaceful, Lily moved to the washstand and tidied herself in front of the mirror situated atop it. Then, philosophically deciding that her hair was hopeless and the creases in her dress quite permanent, she sat down in the chair next to Peter's bed. Lord Ashton draped a quilt about her shoulders, and she trembled when his hands rested there a little longer than necessary.

"It's rather chilly in here. I'll stoke up the fire," he said.

Peering over her shoulder, Lily looked up at him. "And then you'll lie down?" Lord Ashton's hair was tousled, as if he'd raked a worried hand through it several times. His neckcloth was undone and his jacket had been discarded. In his unbuttoned waistcoat and with his shirtsleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, he looked attractively rumpled. There was a slight shadow of whiskers on his lean jaw. Lily had a strong urge to stroke his face with an open palm and see just how stubbly his chin was.

"No, I can't sleep. I'll keep you company."

"That was not our arrangement!" Lily objected. "We were supposed to spell each other. You'll be exhausted in the morning!"

"In my opinion, there's nothing more exhausting than tossing about on a bed trying to sleep when you know you won't. I should rather sit up all night." Then he moved to the fireplace to poke at the embers and set another log on the grate.

Lily knew there was no point in arguing and, in truth, she hadn't the energy. Besides, if he kept his promise and did not talk fustian, she would be glad of his company. Peter's feverish condition was frightening her a little, and if he thrashed about and tried to get out of bed during the night, Lord Ashton's strength would certainly be useful.

The rest of the night passed quickly. There was really no opportunity for the viscount to talk fustian, since they were both of them very much involved in nursing Peter, who tossed and moaned and struggled intermittently till nearly dawn. Then, as the sun broke over the distant hillside, he seemed to take a turn for the better. He lay completely quiet for the first time since midnight and his upper lip shimmered with perspiration. The fever had broken.

The two of them stood over the bed, utterly exhausted and dishevelled from wrestling the invalid through his deliriums and forcing him to take his medicine. And from worry. Lily turned to look at the viscount and was warmed by the expression of relief and love on his face as he stared at his nephew. When he turned to look at her, a shared happiness permeated the air between them, connecting them like two ends of a rainbow.

"Thank God, he'd going to be all right!" whispered Lord Ashton hoarsely. "I can admit to you now that I've been entertaining the worst fears!"

"As was I," Lily admitted.

"We'll stay at the inn till after noon. There will still be enough daylight to get us home before dinner. I think Peter should not be moved for a few hours. He needs the rest. And so do you! Go to your room and refresh yourself and sleep at least two hours. Peter's out of danger now, so there's no reason for you to stay. Then, when you have recovered a little from this travail, you can sit with Peter while I retire to Pleshy's room, there to be restored to my usual state of order by placing myself in his capable hands! I shudder to think what he'll say when he sees me!"

"If he is as wonderful as Janet says he is, he will understand completely!"

"So that's how the wind blows, eh?" chuckled Lord Ashton. "I hope Janet is right about Pleshy in this instance. Now, do you go to your chamber immediately! The sooner you rest and refresh yourself, the sooner might I. But do not—I hope you understand me on this point, Miss Clarke! —do
not
return to this chamber till at least two hours have transpired.
Do
you understand me?"

"Of course, my lord," she murmured, moving to the door and letting herself out. She snatched another glance at the viscount before she closed the door behind her. He was smiling at her. To her he looked even more attractive in his state of disarray than in his impeccable evening clothes. And the compassionate nature of his exertions during the night, which had made such a charming mess of his person and clothes, was the most attractive aspect of all.
Yes, my lord,
she thought to herself.
I believe I begin to understand you very well!

* * *

I
T WAS HALF PAST NOON.
The morning had passed in the blink of an eye. Lily had bathed and changed her clothes, and her hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. She had adjured Janet to dispense with any effort to create a fancy style, but
t&
simply pull all the tresses together into a neat little knot.

Janet had seemed a bit miffed at first, rightly attributing Lily's reluctance for a modish style to the fact that Janet was not as yet adept at dressing hair. But Lily hadn't the patience that morning to allow her to practise. She just desired neatness and plainness in her appearance. She wanted to look sensible, thereby (hopefully) transferring that much-needed custom to her rebellious brain and heart. Lord Ashton had impressed her so much last night, he'd been so wonderful in every way, she knew that it would take very little more to make her heel over ears in love with him. That would not be sensible at all.

Lily stood in the entrance hall of the small inn waiting for Lord Ashton to descend the stairs with Peter. She had put on her grey coat and bonnet and was pulling on her mittens. She heard the clatter of hooves outside and turned to watch through a small window as the coach that carried Janet, Pleshy and Belle left the courtyard. Lord Ashton had ordered them to go on ahead so as to alert the Ashton household that Peter was soon to arrive.

It was a beautiful, clear day, with no clouds in sight. She imagined that the air was quite cold and crisp and hoped that Peter would not feel the chill too much. He had eaten a reasonably adequate breakfast and sipped some chicken broth for lunch. There was no trace of the fever left. His pulse was slow and steady. He was not very energetic or talkative, but he seemed calm and certainly more rested than the day before.

The black-and-gray berline pulled up in front of the inn, and, at the same moment, Lily heard the stairs creak behind her. She turned and watched as Lord Ashton carried Peter down the stairs, with Sebastian following, well out of the way of his lordship's feet.

Just as on that first stop in Kennington, Lily was deeply moved at the sight of Lord Ashton's gentle handling of his nephew. Not only had he to be careful of Peter's fragile body, but also of the young man's pride. So he was cheerful and nonchalant when he carried Peter, making it seem more of a game between bosom bows than an actual necessity.

Lord Ashton's chin was no longer stubbly. He was shaved and bathed and looked fresh as a nosegay in his brown jacket and pinstriped waistcoat. His hair reflected the golden sunshine that spilled through the sheer drapes at the windows and his aureate eyes — though a trifle weary-looking — returned her scrutiny with an amused twinkle. When she encountered that look, she felt the colour rise in her cheeks.

"Open the door, Miss Clarke, won't you?" he called out cheerfully when he had almost reached the last step.

Lily rushed to do his bidding, chiding herself for not thinking to do it in the first place. But the man had such an effect on her that she was not always thinking as she ought. As they passed through the door, Peter smiled at her. "Good afternoon, Lily. Are you ready to meet my mama?"

"Why, certainly, Peter. Why shouldn't I be?" she returned, exiting through the inn door and dashing ahead of them to open the coach door, then remembering belatedly that they had a groom to do that. So, instead, she stood to the side and watched, fascinated, as Lord Ashton adroitly manoeuvred his own very large frame and Peter's inside. She stepped in behind them and immediately set about the task of tucking Peter's blankets all about him and positioning the hot brick at his feet to maximize its warming benefits. This initial settling in took a few minutes, and the coach had already moved through the small town and was in the countryside by the time Peter was truly comfortable.

"I thought you might be a little anxious about meeting her, you know," Peter said, returning to the subject of Lily's inevitable encounter with his mother. He smiled knowingly.

Lily raised her brows, perfectly understanding him, but choosing not to show it. "I should only be anxious if she found some fault with the way I've cared for you. I hope I have been a good nurse to you, Peter. Your uncle approves of me. Why shouldn't your mama?"

Peter clicked his tongue with exasperation. "Oh, Lily, you know very well I'm not talking about
that!
Of course Mama will think you've done a bang-up job. As to your suitability as a nurse, that goes without saying. But..." He paused and smiled hopefully. "I thought you might be wanting her approval of you in another, er, position."

Lily's eyes met the viscount's for a brief moment. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and concern. Doubtless he was watching with interest to see how she dealt with Peter's persistence in thinking himself in love with her. She turned and fixed her gaze on the dense forest-like scenery outside the window on her side of the coach. They were already several miles from town. Nonchalantly, she said, "I do hope your mama likes me, Peter, but not for any special reason."