Chapter 5
“What do you mean, there are no other beds?”
Lily tugged her night robe more tightly around her chest then gestured roughly through the open door of her bedroom to where Philip’s carpetbag sat next to the armoire—her armoire, full of her clothing.
Her mother cocked her head to the side. “I don’t see what the problem is.” Her eyes brightened. “Gracious, there’s no room at the inn!”
“Perhaps he should sleep in the stable,” Lily muttered, but the unflappable Lady Redbourne did not acknowledge the remark.
How could she explain to her mother that sharing a room with her husband would be insurmountable torture?
As much as it pained her to admit it, her body and soul reacted to his presence in the stable, her nerve endings alighting at his touch while her heart ached to embrace him, to wipe away all the lies and secrets and pain that held them apart for so long.
She didn’t want him back. All she needed to do was convince herself of it.
“He snores,” Lily said. “Loudly. And passes wind.” Her mother recoiled slightly. “And I kick in my sleep.” She let out a strained laugh that sounded hollow to her own ears. “Neither of us will rest if we share a bed.”
Lady Redbourne sighed and rubbed her fingertips in tight circles on her temples. “All the available guest rooms are taken. We didn’t prepare the rooms on the third floor, and there’s no time now. Salisbury is already at his wit’s end with a full house and a reduced staff.”
A pang of guilt for causing her mother trouble gave Lily pause, but after their confrontation in the stable, how could she be expected to share a room—not merely a room, but a bed?
She forced a congenial expression onto her face. “Why don’t we move to the blue rooms?” The adjoining bedrooms would be perfect; they could maintain the illusion of intimacy without actually having to share a space.
Her mother shook her head. “Timothy and James will be in the blue rooms. There simply isn’t another option.”
Timothy and James would be sharing a bed as well, though she couldn’t tell her mother that. “Mama, I know this seems strange, but—”
“Strange doesn’t begin to explain your behavior at the door or at dinner,” her mother interrupted firmly.
“I won’t pry into what’s been going on between you and Philip when you told me everything was well.
But you won’t make anything easier by sleeping apart.
A little intimacy will…” She directed her gaze towards the ceiling as though the words were etched into the plaster above their heads, “ease the reconciliation.”
Lily hoped she had masked her surprise but doubted she’d been fast enough. If her mother knew how estranged Lily had been from Philip, she was choosing her ignorance strategically, and at times best designed to torture her eldest daughter. “But Mama—”
“Oh, look who’s here!” Her mother grinned towards the staircase where Philip had appeared, his dark brows furrowed.
Tension lined his features as he ascended the final few stairs, but he released it almost immediately, donning the casual air of a gentleman who hadn’t just argued with his estranged wife over a wheelbarrow of horse shite.
“Thank you for accommodating me, my lady. I’m looking forward to a good night’s rest.”
Lily balled her hands into fists, her fingernails digging half-circles into her palms.
Lady Redbourne patted him on the cheek as if he were a schoolboy.
“It’s never trouble to have you here, and you must remember that.
Come now, to bed with you both.” She shooed him into the bedroom like one would a wayward chicken before turning her attention to Lily, still standing wide-eyed in the hall.
“Mama—”
She lifted a single finger, halting Lily’s protest on her tongue. “It’s time for bed, Lily. Whatever needs to happen between you and your husband can take place behind those doors.”
With one last pointed look, Lady Redbourne set off down the hallway towards her own bedchamber.
As much as she longed to rage at the injustice of having to share a bed with her spouse, she swallowed her anger. Three days, then Christmas will be over and he will be gone.
Her life would return to normal. Lonely, but normal.
I don’t have to be lonely.
She flapped her hands at her sides to shake off the traitorous thought and stormed into her bedchamber, barely restraining the urge to slam the door behind her.
Philip stood with his back to her, calmly hanging his clothing in her armoire. “I hope my excessive flatulence won’t bother you tonight.”
She winced. “Oh. You heard that?”
“I did.” He shrugged off his jacket and hung it beside her dresses, as though they belonged side by side. “Do I really snore?”
“I wouldn’t know. I had only one night with you, and you were gone by morning.”
He turned, and the sight of his pained expression cut her off at the knees. “Lily, please—”
She held up a hand to still him. “I can’t argue with you any more tonight. I was up before dawn helping Reggie find that blasted puppy.”
“Of course you were. You’ve always had a kind heart for animals.” The corner of his full lips pulled up, transforming him into the charming rogue he’d been when he’d courted her.
No, that wasn’t right. He was different now, and without his coat, she could see how his shoulders were fuller, his arms and chest broader than she remembered.
His jaw seemed sharper, more defined with his neat beard, his navy irises even more dazzling.
This man was sturdier, more of a presence than the one who had married her.
He cleared his throat, and heat rushed up her cheeks to her hairline as she realized she’d been studying him like she did a piece of horseflesh before adding it to her stables. “I’m not leaving, but I also won’t cause you discomfort. I’ve done enough of that already.”
He’d pulled her retort from her lips, and her chest was oddly emptied by it, as if he’d doused some of her fury without her consent. Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t find anything to say. “Thank you” finally emerged, but it was weak.
She hated being weak.
As though he knew that about her—and, by God, he did—his brows notched as he assessed her. “I can sleep on the chair tonight.” He motioned towards the ancient piece of furniture beside the bed, the upholstery worn and stuffing flattened to the wood frame.
A snort escaped. “You’d have to fold yourself in two to fit. You’ll never rest.”
“The floor then.”
The air between them grew charged, sparking like the sky before a thunderstorm.
He was daring her to invite him into her bed, and, most humiliating of all, she wanted to.
Loneliness had become such a persistent shadow that the notion of companionship, even from him, enticed her profoundly, a craving she was nearly weak enough to indulge.
The Lily she’d once been would have welcomed him, tossed aside yet another barrier of intimacy between them.
But she was no longer that woman.
“The chair.” She marched to the armoire that smelled suspiciously like his pine scent from his blasted clothing and pulled out a quilt some distant relation had made her as a girl.
Shoving it into his hands, she lifted her chin and held his gaze as though this entire horrid situation had no effect on her, that he had no effect on her.
His lips parted—she’d forgotten how beautiful his lips were, how wonderful they felt against hers—but he said nothing, nodding at the pitiful chair.
She hurried to the other side of the bed, fumbled with the tie of her robe, then dropped it and threw herself beneath the covers as quickly as she could.
She didn’t wait to see if Philip had settled before turning off the gas lamp on her nightstand.
Her ears thrummed with the uneasy silence, then the shuffling started beside her.
“Lily?”
She wanted to put her blanket over her head and hide. “Yes?”
“May I have a pillow?”
Grinding her teeth together, she tossed one of her spares in his direction and was rewarded with an oof when it landed. His thanks was muffled.
A moment later, he spoke again. “May I take off my clothes?”
She sat up and glared at him. “Take off your clothes?” she hissed.
She couldn’t see him well enough to read his expression. “I’m fully dressed, Lily. You turned off the lights—”
“Fine.” The gas lamp, still warm, ignited quickly, but as she prepared to deliver some petulant remark, she froze.
He’d stood and was pulling off his boots, one by one, without even sitting or holding the bedpost for balance.
His back was to her, but the muscles were visible shifting beneath his clothing, fabric taut as he dropped his waistcoat and began working on the buttons of his shirt.
It fell off his shoulders first, then he shook it from his arms and set to work on his trousers.
She wasn’t the same Lily, but he wasn’t the same Philip, either.
She didn’t remember him looking like this when they’d married.
Admittedly, they shared only one night together, but she’d felt his shoulders and legs pressed against her as they danced, traced her fingers over his arms while they stole kisses in the gardens behind Boar’s Hill.
He’d once been a man more inclined to drinking in his club and racing curricles than boxing or swimming, and his body reflected the leisure due to a gentleman of his station.
This version of her husband was powerful instead of lean, muscles stretched over his shoulders and flexing in his arms in ways she didn’t recognize.
As he turned, she caught the trail of hair stretching from between his pectorals, over his flat stomach to where it disappeared into his open trousers—
Oh Christ, he’d turned around!
At his smirk, Lily did the only reasonable thing.
She threw the blankets over her head and pretended to be asleep.