Chapter 7
By the time the Waverly family carriage turned onto the long drive leading to Boar’s Hill, the snow was pulling at the wheels and slowed their progress to a crawl.
Lily shifted, squished as she was between Violet and Rose on one side, and Marigold, Fern, and her mother on the other.
The warmth of the confined space was a relief after the sharp chill in the air in Oxford, a fierce wind whipping down the cobblestoned streets and tugging mercilessly at the garlands hanging from streetlights and storefronts.
Violet and Rose had torn through the shops with barely contained glee, while Fern scoured the shelves for the softest fabrics for her new daughter.
Marigold and their mother perused linens appropriate for a wedding trousseau, and despite her melancholy, Lily’s heart sang knowing her sister had found happiness again.
But as they returned to her childhood home—and her husband—unease brewed in her abdomen, a mirror of the angry gray clouds gathering in the skies above.
Her mother caught Lily’s eye. “Did you find a gift for Philip?”
Marigold’s gaze shot to hers in alarm, and Violet pressed her thigh against Lily’s. “Yes,” Lily managed. “A… a book.”
“What kind of book?”
Lord, her mother had missed her calling as a barrister. Perspiration beaded on Lily’s brow despite the frigid temperatures outside the carriage. “Ah, um… on poetry.”
Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “What poet? I’m sure your father has read him.”
Now her palms and underarms had turned swampy.
The years hiding Philip’s absence and avoiding time with her family to keep the shameful secret of his abandonment had created a habit of untruth that had become ungainly to carry around.
Her mother clearly saw through Lily’s artifice but was unwilling to press her for the truth.
But as one lie piled on top of the other, her heart squeezed under the pressure of maintaining the illusion of happiness.
“Wasn’t it Yeats?” Fern asked pointedly.
Thank the heavens for her bookish sister. “Yes, Yeats. It’s… new.”
Her mother held her gaze for a long moment, and Lily fought the urge to squirm under her assessment. “I’m so pleased Philip could make it this year for the holiday.”
Lily’s jaw ticked, and she exhaled through her nose. “So am I.”
So. Bloody. Pleased.
Dawn hadn’t yet broken when she’d risen, her body accustomed to waking early to care for the horses.
But when her eyes opened to find his solid arm around her waist, she’d taken far too long to extricate herself from his hold.
For the first time in nearly a decade, she’d experienced a moment of relief, of the comfort of a lover’s touch.
With him sprawled on his stomach partially beneath the bedclothes, something in her chest cracked open.
Frustration warred with affection, a longing for what could have been and what still could be.
Then she remembered what he’d done, the pain he’d caused, and she’d escaped to the refuge of the stable to cool the heat in her blood.
It was easier to continue hating him. She knew how to hate him, to curse his name and very existence.
The man who left was a devil, a rogue unworthy of her time or love.
This man, the one who broke himself open to share his darkest secrets with her, was far harder to hate. She didn’t know what to do with him, and that terrified her.
The viscountess layered one hand over the other on her lap primly. “Aunt Margaret said Philip looked tired at breakfast. I hope you didn’t stay up all night… reconciling.”
Lily’s stomach plummeted, and she held out a hand to stop her mother.
Rose giggled. “Reconciling?” The glee in her tone was unmistakable.
“Not like that!” She sucked in a breath, hoping her pulse would slow. “He had a difficult time sleeping, that’s all.”
Marigold’s stare burned Lily’s cheek as she looked out the carriage window, fiddling with the handle of the reticule in her lap.
The layer of snow blanketing the rolling hills surrounding Boar’s Hill seemed magical, a pristine winter wonderland unsullied by doubts and painful pasts.
She needed to keep it that way, for at least a while longer, until Christmas was over.
Then she could decide what part, if any, Philip would have in her life.
Her mother was silent, as though she were rolling Lily’s excuse around in her mind and deciding if she’d accept it. Apparently she did, because she switched her attention to Violet. “At least one of my girls has the sense to keep private matters quiet.”
Violet stammered, and Rose bent in half laughing.
They bickered about Violet and Callum’s lack of decorum until the carriage rattled to a halt in front of the estate, and Salisbury handed the ladies down while a footman attended to their purchases.
Lily held back as her sisters and mother entered the house, grateful for a moment of peace.
But just as she reached the front door, Cricket darted out trailed by a long leather leash, yipping merrily and snapping at the falling snow.
Reggie was next, chasing the puppy onto the expanse of snowy lawn.
Then Philip emerged, Matthew at his side, looking up at the man as though he hung the moon.
“I think Cricket could be a circus dog,” the boy was saying. “I want to teach him to ride on a horse’s back, but Mum thinks he’ll scare the horse.”
“He might,” Philip said, “but first he needs to learn how to walk on a leash—” He broke off, his steps faltering as he met Lily’s eye, and a shy smile pulled at his mouth.
Something bright burst open beneath her sternum, spilling sunshine into her darkest corners. She remembered this man, the charming rogue she’d fallen in love with. Now it seemed he’d charmed her nephew as well.
He clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, and the boy beamed. “The lads asked if I’d take them out to play in the snow.” He spoke as though he were asking her permission, and she granted it with a brief nod.
“We’re going to have a snowball fight.” Matthew’s amber eyes gleamed with mischief. “I can throw farther than Reggie—”
“But I have better aim!” Reggie called. He’d already begun amassing a snowy arsenal beside a holly bush.
Matthew screwed up his face and released a pre-pubescent battle cry before tearing across the lawn, only to trip and land face-down in the snow.
Lily winced and moved to help him, but he was already giggling as Cricket pounced on him to wrestle.
Philip clapped his palm on the back of his neck and grinned. “I’m not sure what my role is in this conflict.”
Lord, but she’d forgotten that grin. How his eyes would crinkle at the corners , his cheeks blooming pink. She couldn’t see the dimple in his left cheek beneath his beard, but if she pressed her finger to it, she would have felt the indentation.
No. There’s no place for affection. The man I loved is gone.
She squared her shoulders. “Are you going to join a side?”
“It would be unfair. I have terrible aim and would only cause harm.” He put on an exaggerated sigh, then leaned close. “If I recall, you’re a crack shot with a snowball.”
Her breath caught at the memory. The first winter they’d been engaged, when his father had just fallen ill. She’d found him on the terrace outside their estate in Lancashire with a cheroot.
“Only when you’re smoking.” Her cheek twitched. “You promised you’d stop with those disgusting things.”
“And I did.”
“Only after I knocked it out of your hand.”
His head fell back with a peal of laughter, warmer than mulled wine by the fire. “You were aiming for my hand? You hit me square on the chin!”
She bit her lower lip, but it did nothing to restrain her chuckle. “The effect was the same.”
“You’re right.” He rubbed his gloved hand over his chin as though recalling the moment of impact. “You always are.”
Had he stepped closer? She hadn’t noticed, but now the front of his greatcoat nearly touched her cloak, the tails of his scarf brushing hers. She wanted to reach out and tug the wool, loop it once more around his neck to keep him warm.
Wind licked beneath her skirt and along her calves, her wool stockings not enough to withstand the chill, and she shuddered. He stepped closer, raised a hand to lift her scarf higher over her neck.
Her fingers twitched at her side, eager to touch him, to remind herself what it felt like to have her hands on him. She fisted them and shoved them in her pockets.
“Join us,” he said, the mulled-wine sensation lacing his words. “Come have some fun.”
She barked a dismissive laugh, but it did nothing to put space between them. Invisible vines, dormant for years, were growing from the frozen earth and knitting them together. “Fine,” she managed. “But I’ll partner with one of the boys.”
A dark brow rose, making him look more roguish than ever. “Until we meet on the field of battle, milady.”
“I’m afraid we are out-manned.”
Lily glared at her nephew from her crouched position behind a copse of yew trees. Her knees ached and she was soaked to the skin, but the adrenaline pumping in her veins kept her focused on the task at hand. Namely, decimating Philip and Matthew by snowball.
“Out-manned?” She pressed a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “Reggie, is that a reference to my being a woman?”
Reggie recoiled. “Aunt Lily, I’d never say such a thing. But I failed to consider the Cricket Factor.”
He declared the last like it was a strategy taught at Sandhurst. “The what now?”
“He’s always hopping around Matthew, and I’m afraid I’ll hit the puppy when I mean to hit my brother.”
Cricket had been leaping at the frozen projectiles during every previous volley, so Lily doubted the dog would be offended by taking friendly fire. But she wasn’t about to stifle the lad’s empathy. “I see your point. What shall we do about it?”
His nod was decisive. “We need bait to lure them out.”
“Bait?” Realization struck. “Am I the bait?”
“Uncle Philip stares at you all the time, and he won’t hit you.”