Passionate (11 page)

James ran a hand through his hair. Thank the gods he had found out about Lily in time.

Sir Edward had abandoned them for a serving of lobster salad, but Mr. Crawford seemed to take the loss of half his audience in stride. “A spring this early puts me in mind of ’27—that was the year of the great sheep blight.”

“Indeed.” James gave him a hollow smile. He scanned the room behind Mr. Crawford. It was not difficult to spot Lily among the lesser lights. She was beautiful, and spirited, and completely unobtainable.

What to do? There really was only one course. He would dance their final dance, bid her good night, and pray the bitter prayer that he might never set eyes on her again.

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Crawford. I have promised this waltz to a particular lady.”

“Ah, go on then, me boy, go on.”

James made his way across the ballroom to her as the musicians signaled the waltz.

“Miss Strathmore, I believe this is our last dance.”

Lily’s heartbeat sped as she gazed up at James. Didn’t the man realize how confusing everything became when he stood so close to her?

Fixing a smile on her lips, she allowed him to lead her into the center of the room. The musicians played the opening bars, the violins first sliding then soaring into the notes.

When he gathered her into his arms, she stiffened.

“Relax,” he murmured. “It will look very odd if I have to haul you around the floor like a sack of flour.”

He was right, drat him. Lily focused her gaze on his lapel and gradually let herself fall into the rhythm of the dance. He was looking at her, she knew, but she could not meet his eyes. She had regained some of her composure since they had returned from the terrace, but now that she was back in his arms she could feel it slipping away. What was it that made her susceptible to the charms of this man when so many others had left her cold?

James swept her around the room in such perfect time to the music that it seemed they were lifted, propelled not by muscle and bone, but by a swell of spirit that carried them. All around them couples swirled in a riot of color, yet the two of them moved together in the heart of the music, alone in the pure, sweet center of the waltz.

She relaxed into the movements—it seemed her heart offered no choice. Hand resting on his shoulder, she felt the play of muscles tensing and releasing beneath his evening coat. His arm circled her, guiding her through another turn. She was floating, and when his thigh brushed hers in passing, she felt the impression burning against the silk, against her skin, for long moments after.

This would never do.

Despite her best efforts, being close to James made her want things that were beyond inadvisable. The thought that had been nipping at her since their kiss on the terrace returned.

She should stay behind when the expedition left.

Acknowledging it made her heart twist, but she had to face facts—in particular, the tall, masculine one that was swooping her around the room. What else could she do? Find a way to get rid of James? Not with her uncle set on finding the flower. She had not seen him so excited in years—and that was saying a great deal.

There would be other expeditions, perhaps, if her future husband permitted. At the very least she would still have her painting, a family, freedom from her mother’s matchmaking. She had bargained for the expedition, but who could have anticipated Mr. Huntington?

“Tell me, Miss Strathmore, do you regret not accompanying your uncle to Tunisia?”

Lily blinked up at him. Goodness, could he read her thoughts? “Yes, I’m disappointed, but I see no other option under the circumstances.”

“It would be difficult to deny one’s parents.” He spoke as if daring her to correct him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your father is sending a carriage for you tomorrow, is he not? I was there when you received the letter.”

“And you thought I was returning home because my uncle was going abroad?”

“I thought your family was sending for you, that is all.”

Lily looked away. Could it be that he didn’t realize she had been planning to go on the expedition? That might explain his kisses. Well, perhaps it was better this way. She wouldn’t have to explain why she had changed her mind, at least not to him.

Wistfulness stole over her as they twirled and turned once more about the floor. This would be the last time. James would go, as he must, and when he returned she would be wed.

The music was slowing, bringing them back to a room filled with voices and laughter. Their interlude was now truly over. It would be best if she remained in England. Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she swept James a deep curtsy, silk skirts hushing along the floor.

He bowed in return. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Strathmore. I only wish it could have continued a little longer.”

James woke early to a soft, gray drizzle. The new day barely brightened the sky and the sun felt immeasurably far away. Thoughts of Lily filled his mind—the way her lovely, mysterious eyes sparkled up at him in unguarded moments, how she felt in his arms melting into his kiss, her passion, her determined self-possession.

He sat up restlessly, pushing free of the sheets. The shock of cool air against his bare chest brought him fully awake.

Lily was leaving today.

He pulled on his clothes and left the room. It was too early for the family to be stirring, especially after the late hours they had kept last night, but the house was awake. He caught the distant sound of rattling dishes and low-voiced conversation as the servants went about their early-morning duties. He padded quietly down the hall and descended the empty stairway. Without intending it, he found himself in the drawing room, its serene greens and golds nearly colorless in the wan light.

The piano lid was closed, the empty furniture waiting patiently. It was a room asleep, except for the portrait of him propped on the mantle. Sir Edward had placed it there for the family to admire the night after Lily had finished it. James could make out the strong lines of the composition even in the pale half-light.

With no one to witness but the empty chairs, he could tell the truth—his life had been undeniably richer and more hopeful since he had met her. Being near her felt like sunlight—even when she was glaring daggers at him. He hated the idea of her leaving.

No. He wanted her—wanted her with him. And if she were just Lily the artist, or even Sir Edward’s daughter, that might be possible. But she was not Sir Edward’s daughter, even if she seemed intent on playing the part.

Love was not enough. Love and property maybe—but never love alone.

He turned back to the portrait. Could it be different this time? What if against all odds the expedition was a success and he returned as master of Somergate? Would that be enough?

If only he had Somergate, and Lily’s heart, and her family’s blessing. James laughed grimly up at his portrait. “You have fine prospects, my friend.”

The image on the mantle remained silent, heart’s longing written large in its eyes.

Chapter 10

Lily stepped out into the rain, following her father’s footman to the waiting coach. What a wretched day. She shivered against the persistent drizzle and drew her thick wool cloak more closely about her. Her thoughts veered toward James—the weight of his coat around her last night, the warmth of his arms.

Why was she torturing herself this way? She had made her decision. She must not let herself think of him.

Uncle Edward walked beside her, holding a great black umbrella to shelter them both. “You needn’t make any hasty decisions about staying behind, my dear. Take a few days. Post us a letter on Monday. It would be a shame not to have you along.” He handed her into the coach.

“I know, Uncle. I will write you.” Lily pressed her lips together. She could see he was dreadfully disappointed but putting a brave face on it. She leaned out and kissed his cheek before settling back into the seats. Her maid, Bess, tucked a lap robe around her.

“The foot-warmer is just there, miss. And your aunt made sure we were well provisioned.” Bess dug through the large wicker basket beside her. “There’s scones and cakes and meat pies and, my, even oranges and a flask of wine, and some fine cheese and a fresh-baked loaf. You’d think we were traveling across the whole of England, Miss, not just up to London.”

Lily nodded. Aunt Mary left nothing to chance. How many more provisions would her aunt find necessary to bring to Tunisia? Well, Lily would not be there to find out. She sighed and turned to the window.

The coach swayed as the footman climbed up beside the driver. Lily stared out at the beloved shape of Brookdale and the conservatory, gray and wet now, but still lovely. Still home.

A tall figure near the stables caught her eye. He stood there, alone in the rain.

“Oh,” she breathed. Her fingertips brushed the glass.

The driver snapped the reins and with a crunch of gravel the coach rocked forward. When she looked out again James was gone, the sight of him lost behind the stone walls.

The coach arrived at the highway and turned toward London. Lily watched the drenched green countryside rolling past. The expedition would have been dreadful—a constant battle between her attraction to James and her duty to her future. She should be relieved that he was no longer any concern of hers.

It was over. Time to turn her thoughts ahead to London.

She would have to tell her mother about the change in plans—though she certainly would not let her know the real reason. Lily bit her lip. Not that her mother would inquire too closely—she would take her daughter’s return as capitulation. It galled, but what else could she do? She closed her eyes and let the rocking of the coach lull her into a fitful rest.

The hours rolled on heavily, with no break in the rain. Bess delighted in bringing forth offerings from the basket, which Lily nibbled at dutifully. At last the horses’ hooves rang over cobblestones. She glanced out the window to see that the fields and hedgerows had given way to tumbledown walls and dwellings. They had reached the outskirts of London. Ragged children, like flocks of dirty sparrows, chased after the coach, begging for a few pence. Street vendors called out their wares in strident tones, and the bustle and squalor of town closed in around them.

Gradually the neighborhoods turned to more genteel dwellings, the people on the street dressed in finer clothing. The coach passed well-tended parks and gardens until they made the turn into Mayfair and drew up to the pillared and ornate residence that was the Marquis of Fernhaven’s London home.

It was not the house Lily had grown up in. No, this place was far grander, as befitted her father’s advance in prestige and power. Her mother had it decorated, and re-decorated, in the latest mode. It had never felt like home, it was merely the place she stayed between visits to Brookdale. Lifting her chin, she descended the steps of the coach.

Edwin, the butler, greeted her at the tall double doors of the main entrance. Like many men in his position, he seemed to consider smiling beneath his dignity, but his eyes twinkled a welcome. “Miss Lily. Your mother awaits you in the front parlor.” He took her cloak and gloves. “Her ladyship, it seems, is extremely eager to have you home.”

“Thank you, Edwin. I shall attend her directly.” She smiled warmly at him, then turned down the hallway. A riot of color and texture assaulted her. Gold-figured wallpaper draped with emerald-green velvet swags and paintings that were eclipsed by their own carved and gilt-covered frames. There was a new lacquered table with climbing Chinese dragons for legs and a huge red urn filled with peacock feathers. None of this had been here before. Lily shuddered. Mother had been decorating again.

Lady Fernhaven turned from the window and crossed the room in a flurry of damask skirts when Lily entered the parlor. “Welcome back, darling!” She gave her daughter a quick embrace, then led her to the floral chintz settee. “Come and sit. We have so much to discuss. I hope your journey was not too taxing?”

“Mother, there is something I need to tell you—”

“And I you.” Her mother leaned forward, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Lord Buckley is amenable to our plans and will pay his addresses to you when he returns to London. Oh Lily, isn’t it wonderful!”

“He what?” Her mother’s scheme had progressed further than Lily had imagined. She had thought she and Lord Buckley would discuss the matter together and come to some arrangement.

“Countess Buckley is sure he will make you an offer. She told me this in the strictest confidence, of course, but I do want you to be able to dream about it and know your dreams are not in vain.” Her mother smiled. “You see, Lily, one can be both practical and romantic.”

She stared at her mother. “I had hoped we’d have a period of courtship before entering into the formalities.”

“Of course you will, dear. All is ready for our visit to the Countess on Monday. I have ordered you a new dress, one that is quite becoming and shall suit you perfectly.”

Lily felt a wave of weariness. She closed her eyes.

“Isn’t it splendid? You are going to be a countess!”

“Mother, it has been a long journey and I am feeling very tired.”

“Of course, darling. I was nearly overcome by the news myself. Go up and rest. Your father and I are attending a dinner party this evening. Have Cook send up a tray.”

When Lily stepped into her room she thought for a moment she had opened the wrong door. Her curtains were now a thick rose velvet, not the soothing green silk that had hung there before, and the coverlet and pillows on her bed had been changed to match. She turned in a slow circle in the center of the room. Where was her art? Her Turner and Clara Pope’s camellias? The pictures on the wall had no merit except that they harmonized with the room’s new color-scheme.

She yanked the bell-pull, now a length of knotted pink silk.

“You rang, Miss?” A breathless young maid hurried up.

“Where are my pictures? The ones that used to hang in my room.”

The maid twisted her hands in her apron. “I knew you would not like it, but Mrs. Hatcher insisted they come down.”