Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor, #3) (25 page)

She blinked several times. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Lady St. Cyr murmured. She leaned over and effortlessly tugged out the page. “It is yours.”

Flora accepted the sheet with eager hands and with a wide-beaming smile, returned to her study of the squall she saw captured there. The marquess pointed to the page and said something that roused a laugh from the girl.

Lily stilled, lost in the poignancy of that exchange. This charming marquess had once been friends with Derek. What would the Duke of Blackthorne have become had life not turned him bitter and he’d not removed himself from the world? Would he even now be the loving uncle pointing at obscure pictures and rousing laughter from a child’s lips?

“You are a governess, Mrs. Benedict.”

Those words, more statement than anything else, snapped Lily’s attention back to the marchioness. “Forgive me.” She cleared her throat. “I am.” In a world where she’d known the ugliness of the late Duke of Blackthorne and his mother, who was this woman who spoke to governesses with such ease? Lily felt set adrift at sea in that storm upon the page Flora spoke of.

Is that how Derek feels each day?
Her throat went tight.

“My sister-in-law was a former governess,” the young woman said gently.

Lily angled her head. “Beg pardon?” Noblemen did not wed governesses.

“You’ve heard me correctly.” A lively twinkle glimmered in the lady’s eyes. “She and my brother are very much in love.”

Unable to meet the probing stare, Lily shifted her gaze over to the lake. Yes, sometimes magical moments happened to people. A pink pelican dipped its head under the surface and fished about for its fare. He came up a moment later with his wide mouth empty. But most times, life was hard, and predictable, and predictably hard. The graceful creature delved his head under the surface once more.

To give her fingers something to do, Lily picked up the volume of
Moral Tales for Young People
and fanned the pages. “How very fortunate they are,” she said softly. There was no bitterness in that. There was a peace in knowing that sometimes those mystical moments did come.

Lady St. Cyr narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, but Flora called the marchioness’ attention and left Lily to her thoughts once more.

And just then, fate in its ultimate mockery placed a familiar, detestable figure on the riding path ahead. With his elegant, sapphire coat and fawn-colored breeches, the gentleman may as well have been any other gentleman present. She fisted the book in her hands as their gazes collided. No, this was no meeting of chance. This was a carefully orchestrated reminder of her role, his presence and, more importantly, his reach. Holdsworth gave a slight nod, a hard smile on his lips, and then shifted his attention away.

As he continued riding past, panic swelled inside Lily’s breast. In embroiling this little girl in that madman’s machinations, she’d not allowed herself to consider the possible jeopardy she placed Flora in.
You didn’t think, because all you’d cared about was your own future security.
Guilt squeezed like a vise about her lungs. She jumped to her feet. “We should go,” she squeaked.

Flora looked up, confusion and disappointment warring in her eyes. “Mrs. Benedict?”

Unable to meet the marquess and marchioness’ eyes, Lily dropped a curtsy. “I thank you for allowing us to join you under the elm. If you’ll excuse me.”

Holdsworth shot a deliberate look over his shoulder, and with her free fingers, she grabbed for Flora’s hand. “Good day,” she said quickly and fled the park.

For the truth was, there existed more nightmares than magical moments. Life had taught her that.

L
ater that evening, Lily paced the floor of her quiet chambers. The white coverlet and dove-white curtains stood as a silent mockery to the woman who now occupied these noble rooms. She wrung her hands together. In the dead of night, when the household slept, it was a good deal harder to escape one’s guilt.

She stopped abruptly and her nightshift fluttered about her ankles. On numbed legs, she walked over to the dressing table and slid into the Trafalgar chair. From the bevel glass, the face of a woman who appeared far older, far more mature than Lily’s three and twenty years, stared back. She tried to pull her gaze from the creature with wan cheeks and bloodshot eyes, but the moment was much like the day she’d arrived in London. The cacophony of shrieks and cries as a phaeton, driven by a reckless lord, tipped. Her life was that carriage accident. For gone was the girl with blush-pinked cheeks and dreamy, optimistic eyes. That woman had been killed by the ruthlessness of one rake who’d taken her virtue. Tears smarted behind her eyes and she blinked them back.

Through her blurred vision, she examined the sterling silver cloth brush and comb far grander than her own treasured pieces; pieces she’d been forced to leave behind.

Lily glanced over at the locked door and then returned her attention to the dressing table. With trembling fingers, she slowly pulled open the narrow center drawer and revealed the neat pages clipped from
The Times
. She shuffled through the pages she’d assembled; pages detailing the tragedies of one particular family. The Winters family who’d existed as nothing more than a conglomeration of individuals. She’d read through the scandal sheets about first the death of George, then the mother, and sister as all but one remained of the Winters line with a detached interest. Their tragedies had not roused the expected glee or satisfaction; for with their passing, none of them could right the wrongs once done to her.

Before, she’d been removed from who these people were. It had been far easier to hate anyone and everyone who shared George’s blood when they were mere strangers, ducal kin gossiped about in scandal sheets. It was quite another when those same strangers became people, lonely, broken, fearful. Or, as Flora had indicated in the duke’s case—a hero who now cried when he thought no one else was watching.

Her lips moved silently as she read.

Except him. The one Winters who’d lived; a figure who’d been mentioned as nothing more than an afterthought in the scandal sheets. He’d existed as another one of those who shared George’s blood and nothing more.

Lily placed the sheet down and smoothed her palms over the worn page. Such a detail about who replaced that treacherous Duke of Blackthorne hadn’t mattered. Derek had merely been a name; a cold stranger who shared the blood of the man who ruined her and the mother who’d turned her away.

Now, he was more real in ways that George and Sir Henry never had been. Her lips tingled with the remembrance of his powerful kiss and an odd fluttering danced in her belly. She slid her eyes closed and embraced those wanton, wicked thoughts of a man who’d roused a fierce desire within her—sentiments she’d never known with the men before and had never expected to know, ever.

Lily drew in a shuddery breath and forced her eyes open. It had been a good deal easier to slip into this home to commit a theft when he’d been nothing more than a man who shared the blood of dark, ugly souls who’d turned her out. Now, nothing was certain. For he was real. And he was not the same man his brother had been. For if he’d been a lofty duke who thought of only himself, he’d not have left his office and stormed into her meeting with Mr. Davies. Knowing her as little as he did, nonetheless, he’d defended her anyway to his man-of-affairs. He trusted her.

And she would repay that kindness and trust with the greatest lie and betrayal.

Her hands tightened reflexively about the page and she hopelessly wrinkled the sheet. Forcing her fingers open, she then laid the page down, smoothing it with her palm. What did it say about the weak, pathetic woman she was that after only a few days of knowing Derek, she’d abandon thoughts about her future and security?

Lily scrubbed her hands over her face. For how could she steal from him? How could she break the trust of a man who trusted none and who kept the world out, but had somehow found her a person worth defending? “Get control of yourself, Lily Louise.” Woolgathering about the man whose kiss had curled her toes would not help keep her warm, fed, and safe years from now. Except, she could no sooner stop thinking of him than she could undo that mistake she’d made with George all those years ago.

Only, in this instant, the demons that haunted her had nothing to do with the regrets of her past or the horrific memories of George’s betrayal and Sir Henry’s improper offer, and her own fall from proverbial grace. This time it was Derek. A man called monster by Society, who cried in privacy. Emotion swelled in her throat. Somehow, between the plan presented her by Holdsworth and a little girl’s ramblings, Lily’s role in this household had changed in a fundamental way.

She shoved herself up. “What alternative do I have?”

The hum of nighttime silence served as her only answer.

I can go home and beg...
As soon as the thought entered, she shoved it aside. After the Dowager Duchess of Blackthorne’s passing, Lily had penned a letter to her father, pleading with him to allow her to return. To no avail. She would not humble herself before him again. Not when he’d been abundantly clear he considered his eldest daughter, Lilliana Bennett, dead to him.

That propelled her into movement. There really was no other choice. Staying here in this fabricated role of governess to an innocent child only complicated her plans and muddied her thoughts. Lily shoved herself up from the chair and stood. The thin carpet did little to prevent the cold from seeping into her toes. Perhaps this uncharacteristic cool had nothing to do with the early spring evening and everything to do with this house. And the cold, hurt man dwelling here with an equally hurt and lonely child. Lily hurried over to the vanity and collected her wrapper from the back of the chair. She shrugged into the modest piece and bit her lip hard. She grabbed the box from the table and with the piece clutched close to her chest, carried it to the door. If she managed to locate the diamond, she could simply tuck it into the box and be on her way...and slip away to never again see Derek or Flora.

A spasm contorted her heart.
I cannot be weak...

After all, that weakness had once cost her everything. A strand of hair fell across her brow and she tucked it back behind her ear. Before her courage deserted her, she pulled the door open and peeked her head out. Heaven ne’er helps the men who will not act... She looked left and then right down the empty stretch of hallway.

She pulled the door closed behind her and started down the hall. As she walked at a brisk clip, her ragged breaths filled the corridors. When she’d received word that Sir Henry with his fat, sweaty hands had died in his clubs, she’d vowed to never, ever, ever find herself so desperate she’d spread her legs for any man. She increased her stride. The world, however, offered very few options for those unwed ladies. “Not that heaven had taken much care after I helped myself,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that, Mrs. Benedict?”

A startled shriek burst from her lips and Lily spun about. A young maid stood eying her as though she were an exhibit on display at the Royal Museum. God in Heaven, this thievery business was no easy task. “Oh, forgive me.” In an attempt to still her racing heart, Lily placed her free hand to her chest. “We have not met.” So, there was a maid, a butler, a footman, and Cook. Hardly the empty household as it had been presented.

“I am Claudia,” the girl said in a high singsong voice. Not much older than Lily had been when she’d been forced off to London to carve out a life for herself.

“Claudia,” she repeated back, softly. There were few options for vicars’ daughters without references, on their own in the world. What would her empty existence have been had she found honorable work as this girl had?

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Benedict?”

“Lily,” she automatically corrected. “Please, just Lily.” She gave her head a clearing shake as she belatedly registered the girl’s use of her name “How did you know my name?” She deliberately avoided answering the girl’s inquiry. She took to avoiding mistruths where she could. And the reality of Claudia’s question was that she had not been all right in nearly eight years.

The young woman tiptoed over with the quiet footfalls of one who feared rousing a beast. “We all know who you are, madam. That is, Harris and Thomas.” The blush on the girl’s cheeks hinted at more between the girl and the handsome footman. “And there is also Cook. Yes, we know a good deal about you.”

What was that? A whore? A thief? A liar? Her skin pricked hot and then cold with shame. “Oh,” she said dumbly.

Claudia lowered her voice to the faintest whisper. “You went down
the corridor
.”

Lily cast a confused look left and then right.

“The Beast’s halls,” the maid clarified, calling her attention back.

A slight frown pulled at her lips over the young woman’s description of her employer. It mattered not that Lily herself had the same thoughts about the bellowing lout. That unkindness, however, chafed for it hinted at
why
the duke bellowed and glowered. “You should not call him Beast.”

Claudia gave no indication that she heard the chastisement. “No one goes down those halls, miss. Well, Harris does, but only because he has no choice.”

Of course, all the servants on the duke’s staff would have the sense God gave a goat to not violate his orders. “Unlike me,” she mumbled. Who had no other choice if she were to secure that blasted diamond.

Claudia leaned close; her brow furrowed. “What was that, miss?”

“Er...nothing,” she said quickly, her cheeks warm. A dearth of friendships through the years had resulted in the rather bothersome tendency to speak aloud to oneself. It was a rather embarrassing habit—when people were around to hear it, that was.

“But you
did
go down those halls,” the maid carried on. She gesticulated wildly as she spoke. “He yelled and you did not flee as all the other governesses.”