Once an Heiress (15 page)

Thorburn sighed heavily. “Well, she isn’t. She’s an opera singer and a mistress, and a glorious liar, too, I suppose. Come on.” He took her elbow and steered her to an exit, whereupon he
did
summon a hackney and virtually toss her into it.

Lily sat stock straight, numb with shock. “Aren’t you going to escort me home?” she managed.

Thorburn gaped at her in disbelief. “Do you really care to make the scandal worse?” He shut the door and gave the word to the jarvey.

As the carriage started forward, Lily blinked. “Scandal?” she breathed. She’d been seen publicly reveling in the company of a married man, his mistress, and an unmarried gentleman. Then she’d been caught in a passionate kiss with said unmarried gentleman.

So, yes, she supposed she had ignited a scandal. “Oh!”

Lily awoke with a pounding head, a roiling stomach, and the crystal-clear certainty that she was ruined. She’d heard too much alcohol could cause forgetfulness. Unfortunately, merciful oblivion had not found her. Every sordid detail of the previous night surged upward as she came to consciousness, along with bile burning its way up her throat. She made it to the basin just in time to retch into it.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her shaking hand, she turned to look about her bedchamber. The only blurred memories came at the end. She dimly recalled stumbling into the butler, Wallace, when he’d opened the door for her. Her parents’ worried faces floated in her vision. The scolding voice of Moira, her maid, rang in her ears. Lily patted her hair. Pins from the previous night’s coif were tangled in her locks, evidence of her inability to remain upright long enough to have her hair brushed.

Hot shame washed over her. Lily sat at her vanity and began pulling the pins out. The delicate tinkle each made as it dropped into the cut glass bowl in front of the mirror grated against her sensitive ears. She slowly brushed through her matted tresses.

The reflection in the mirror told a sorry tale. Dark shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks attested to illness, but it was one she’d brought on herself by over-indulging in wine and champagne. Her lips were swollen and flushed — another effect of the wine, she wondered, or the result of the wanton way she’d thrown herself at Thorburn?

The brush fell to the vanity with a clatter as Lily dropped her face into her hands. Her eyes felt like tiny deserts, incapable of producing drops equal to the sorrow she felt.

“You don’t deserve to cry,” she muttered.

Tears were for grief, not for foolish women who threw their own reputations away like the contents of last night’s chamber pot. Her stomach lurched again, but Lily ruthlessly clamped down on the sensation. “No,” she forced through clenched teeth. She wouldn’t give in to her weak stomach — not when she’d done it to herself.

She raised her head and met her own glassy gaze in the mirror as she took several deep breaths. Last night, she’d let herself loose. There would be hell to pay today, but after that —

“Never again.” The words carried the weight of a vow. Lily Bachman wasn’t cut out for fast living. One ill-advised night of it had taught her that much. From now on, it would be business as usual. There would be a little rough patch waiting for the gossip to die down, and then —

A gentle knock sounded at the door. It opened a crack and Moira stuck her head in. The middle-aged woman sidled in. “I expect you’ve something of a headache.”

Lily nodded and winced.

“Would you like some tea? Toast?”

“No,” Lily grumbled. “I don’t think I can ever eat again.”

Moira’s lined lips and chin pulled downward into a frown. “Mr. Bachman wants to see you, Miss Lily, soon as you’re ready.”

Lily swallowed around a lump of apprehension in her throat. She knew her father must be upset with her — it was the unknown extent of his upset that had her worried. Well, the sooner she found out, the sooner everything could go back to normal.

Moira helped her into a morning dress and wound her hair into a simple knot at her nape. Her complexion still had a waxy sheen to it, her eyes were bloodshot, and she didn’t know if her mouth would ever again not feel full of cotton, but at least she was presentable. With a final calming breath, Lily steeled herself to face her father.

Wallace stood beside the door to Mr. Bachman’s study; he opened the door as Lily approached. A moan from the sofa immediately caught her attention. Mrs. Bachman reclined on the furniture with a folded cloth draped across her eyes. Her father sat at his desk, head bent as he wrote. Papers stood in a neat stack at his elbow. A good sign, she decided. Her careless outing hadn’t brought the world to an end — life went on.

Mr. Bachman looked up at her entrance, and then glanced at his wife. “The future Lady Thorburn graces us with her presence, my dear.”

She halted in her tracks, as stunned by his words as if he’d struck her. He couldn’t mean that!

Mrs. Bachman pulled the cloth from her face. Her eyelids were puffy and her cheeks blotched. She took one look at Lily, covered her mouth, and let out a ragged wail.

Lily sighed. “Mother, please … ”

“Have a seat, Lily,” Mr. Bachman ordered.

She woodenly approached her father’s desk. He laid his pen aside and gestured to the chair across the desk. Her eyes skidded to the place he usually made for her at his side, now woefully empty. She sank into the chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her innards twisted under Mr. Bachman’s intense glower.
Never
had that look been aimed in her direction; it was reserved for political enemies, or business associates who refused to make good on a contract. Not for his daughter — never for her.

“Papa,” she started, “I can see you’re angry, but if you’ll just let me explain — ”

“I cannot
conceive
of the explanation that would make this mess acceptable. But please, try.” His lips drew together in a thin line and his cheeks around his graying sideburns colored.

Lily quailed at his bitter tone.

Behind her, Mrs. Bachman sniffled. “It’s my fault,” she said in a thick voice. “If I had been a better mother … ”

“Why?” Mr. Bachman demanded. “What on earth possessed you to take leave of your senses?” Lily opened her mouth, but her father drove on, his voice rising in pitch. “Have you any idea how worried your mother and I were last night? When you two didn’t appear at the Ainsley’s, I came home — only to learn you’d been sent on to the ball but failed to arrive. Your poor mother was quite certain you’d been absconded with, and at this point, I’m not sure that wouldn’t have been preferable to the truth. So, let’s hear it, Lily. Why did you go to Vauxhall Gardens instead of meeting me at the ball, as you’d been instructed to do?”

“We were lied to!” Lily protested. “Both of us.” She twisted in her chair to look at her mother. “She said she was Lady Umberton, and we believed her. She told us they were going to the Ainsley’s, too. We can’t be faulted for that!”

“It
is
my fault.” Mrs. Bachman struggled to sit up. Her head lolled to the side and she turned eyes brimming with misery upon Lily. “If I hadn’t been in such a state, I never would have believed that woman was Lady Umberton. No gentleman in his right mind would ever marry an Italian.” She collapsed against the arm of the sofa and wept.

Mr. Bachman cast a fretful look in his wife’s direction, then rounded on Lily. “So you were duped into a carriage ride with Lord Umberton’s mistress. If that had been the end of it, we would not be having this conversation.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Help me understand, Lily, because for the life of me, I cannot make sense of this. When you arrived at Vauxhall Gardens, why did you not come straightaway to the Ainsley’s?”

Lily squirmed in her seat. Perhaps it was just a fancy, but the chair felt more uncomfortable on this side of her father’s expansive desk. What was she to say? That she wanted to spend time with the handsome viscount — the one man whose attention she sought, but who had so maddeningly withheld it?

Her shoulders slumped. “I thought it would be fun.” Her words sounded hollow, inadequate, even to herself.

A long silence followed, in which the only sound was Mrs. Bachman’s incessant lamentation.

Mr. Bachman’s chair creaked as he shifted. He cleared his throat. “Well, Lily, I hope it was the most fantastically marvelous night of your life, because it came at a dear price. You may now consider yourself engaged to Thorburn. You will not leave this house unaccompanied until the wedding, which I daresay will not be long in coming.”

Lily extended a trembling hand. “Papa, please, there’s no reason for such a rash — ”

His fist crashed against the desk. She startled back, nearly toppling her chair. “Indeed there is!
You
are the one who decided to stay at Vauxhall Gardens, unchaperoned and in the company of persons of dubious character.
You
were caught in Thorburn’s arms, behaving in the most disgraceful fashion.
You
are the one whose name is splashed all over the papers.”

“What?” she shrieked. Lily leaped out of her seat. The chair fell backward, landing with a heavy thud on the rug.

“See for yourself.” Mr. Bachman reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a folded paper, which he tossed across the polished desktop with a flick of his wrist.

Lily snatched it up. It was a gossip rag, the kind that reported on the minutiae of society affairs. She’d earned a column on the side of the front page, outshone only by an account of the Prince Regent’s most recent public gibe about his wife, Princess Caroline.

She cringed as she read the florid description of her arrival with Lord Umberton’s party, which included his mistress —
the beautiful opera singer, Ghita Bellisario and the perennially debt-ridden Lord Thorburn,
the article stated. There was even a quote from “a reliable source” — she thought blackly of Lady Elaine — offering salacious information about her and Thorburn:
“I saw them in the gazebo, and I do not think it would have been very long before their encounter escalated to utter indecency, though what I saw was bad enough.”

“
The matter is quite out of your hands now,” Mr. Bachman said. “You have no more say.”

She closed her eyes against hot tears of shame. That her parents should have to read such a lurid account of her evening was humiliating beyond whatever gossip the
ton
cared to spread. Lily had never given a snap for the opinions of the dissipated aristocracy, but to have sunk in her father’s estimation was almost beyond enduring.

“How
could
you?” Mr. Bachman asked. “The papers have followed you all season. Vauxhall Gardens is a natural draw to society reporters just looking for something sensational to write. Such an egregious misstep on your part is beyond irresponsible.”

Lily turned at the sound of her mother’s pained whimpering. Mrs. Bachman struggled to sit up again. She caught her daughter’s gaze and mustered a tiny, wavering smile. “At least you’ll be a viscountess,” she said. “And someday, the Countess of Kneath.”

Lily’s hands balled into fists. “No, I won’t,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “I’m not marrying Thorburn — or anyone else.”

Her mother’s eyes widened with dismay. “What are you saying?”

She crumpled up the gossip rag and flung it into the fireplace. “I’m saying this is garbage. It’s stupid, vapid talk from people who have nothing better to do than tear each other down. They’re a flock of bleating sheep and I hate them all. I don’t
want
to marry one of them, and if you try to make me — ”

Mrs. Bachman’s face drained of color, and then she cried out as she twisted. Lily recognized the attack of muscle spasms.

“My dear!” Mr. Bachman hurried to his wife as she contorted unnaturally again. He put an arm around her shoulders and made a shushing sound. Lily reached out to offer assistance, but Mr. Bachman snapped, “Haven’t you done enough?”

Lily drew back, stung by his words. She yanked the bell pull. Wallace materialized, and together the two men half-carried Mrs. Bachman toward her room. Mr. Bachman looked over his shoulder. “Stay here. I’m not done with you.”

She stood, staring after her parents. Her father held her mother close, with an arm around her waist, and his other hand gripping hers. The simple display of affection was startling. For years, Lily had been so busy regarding her mother as a silly, frivolous woman, she’d paid little attention to her parents’ marriage. Yes, Mr. Bachman was the stalwart intellectual, a formidable master of industry and political maneuvering. Perhaps he
needed
Mrs. Bachman’s lightheartedness to keep him afloat, to stop him from doing nothing with his life but work. Theirs was a quiet affection of fond smiles and easy companionship. Lily was so used to it, she’d never stopped to think about it. She had foolishly assumed her father shared her annoyance for her mother’s more superficial traits.

While she waited, she righted the chair she’d toppled. Then she sat back down in it and stared at her folded hands. It never crossed her mind to put the chair on her father’s side of the desk — she no longer deserved that familiar privilege.

About ten minutes later, Mr. Bachman returned. “You’re going to make an invalid of her,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry.”

Her father did not return to his desk. Rather, he paced across the rug. Lily stood and turned to face him.

“Papa,” she started, “I know I made a horrible mistake yesterday. I apologize for causing you and Mama so much trouble. Please believe that I would take it all back in an instant if I could, and dance every set at the Ainsley’s like I should have done. But this idea about …
marriage —
” She could barely scrape the word off her tongue. “Surely there’s no need for that. I’ll keep my head low for the rest of the season, concentrate on getting the school up and running — ”

Mr. Bachman cut her off with a bitter, humorless laugh. “You still don’t understand, do you?” At her blank look, he continued, “This is your second season out, my dear; you’re a woman of three-and-twenty, and have already buried a fiancé. Foolishly, perhaps, I told you I would not pressure you in the matter of marriage after we lost Ensign Handford. I thought allowing you your choice would somehow make it up to you. Well, that decision has now come back to haunt me in the most visceral fashion. I suppose I’ve only myself to blame, for an incident like last night’s was perhaps inevitable, the longer you went unwed. Your marrying has never been up for discussion, only the who and when of it. Well, the who is Thorburn, and the time is now.”