Chapter 14 Lilly Returns to London
LILLY RETURNS TO LONDON
Lifting the knocker, Michael felt an odd familiarity.
He’d resolved to make this one morning call to Lady Sheffield’s town house in order to assure himself of the ladies’ safe arrival.
He’d also apprise Lilly of his success in recovering the documents and carriage from Hawthorne’s estate. She would want to know.
He hoped coming here was not a mistake.
How many times had he eagerly waited on this very step the season they had met? More times than he could remember.
The intensity of anticipation, of longing he’d felt upon each of those occasions, was not something one forgot.
Even when it had only been a matter of hours since they had last been together, his heart had raced and his breathing had quickened while he stood waiting to see her again.
Every time it had been the same. Her mere presence made him feel alive.
Had—that was—had made him feel alive.
This time was different. In fact, he ought to forego talking with Lilly altogether and instead, confirm their safe arrival with the butler or perhaps with Lady Eleanor.
The door opened and, with it, long forgotten emotions from his last meeting with Jarvis.
A lifetime servant of Lady Eleanor, Jarvis protected the home with the demeanor of a mean but very refined bulldog.
His singular eyebrow, along with deep forehead creases, accentuated the butler’s frown.
Two chins rested above the man’s cravat, and Michael suspected another lurked beneath.
Although the butler was short in stature, he more than made up for it with the bulk that strained his formal servant’s attire.
On that last occasion, Jarvis had informed Michael the family, including Miss Lilly, had returned to Plymouth.
It was obvious Jarvis presumed, as had the rest of her family, that Michael had been avoiding a parson’s trap.
Michael had wanted to strike out in frustration upon hearing the butler’s words.
And today, nearly a decade later, Jarvis’s demeanor revealed his opinion of Michael had not changed in the least.
“Hello, Jarvis. I’m here to see Lady Eleanor or Lady Beauchamp if she is in.” Michael handed him his calling card. The card wasn’t necessary. Of course, Jarvis recognized him immediately.
The butler grudgingly allowed Michael to enter the foyer. “A moment please, Your Grace.” He spat the words before making a half bow and then disappearing quietly.
Michael glanced around at the familiar paintings, which likely hadn’t been moved in decades, before realizing he was experiencing the same anticipation he had felt nine years ago.
What the devil?
If he could leave without making a fool of himself, in that moment, he’d be out the door already.
Instead, he cooled his heels for all of ten minutes before Jarvis returned to announce Lady Eleanor and Miss Beauchamp had gone out for the afternoon.
Lady Beauchamp, however, had consented to meet with him in the morning room.
“If His Grace would please follow me.” Jarvis’s impeccable manners conveyed distinct mistrust.
Michael followed Jarvis to a room he had entered dozens of times before. Even the scent was the same. As Michael stepped in, Jarvis backed out, conspicuously leaving the door ajar.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkened room. Although several windows opened to the back gardens, all the drapes were pulled shut. Lilly was curled up on one end of the settee.
Dressed in a simple blue muslin gown, she did not stand when he entered but greeted him with a pinched smile. Miss Fussy snored softly upon her lap.
“Please sit down, Your Grace. I am pleased to have learned your arrival in London was not delayed.” Lilly’s hand tenderly stroked the hair on her little dog’s back.
She seemed to wince slightly as she spoke.
Sitting forward, she reached for the bellpull but then hesitated before ringing it. “You will join me for tea?”
Michael sat beside her on the sofa but turned his body so he could face her. “I would be delighted.”
Jarvis entered mere seconds after she rang. “Dear Jarvis, I realize it is early yet, but would you be so kind as to have tea brought in for His Grace and myself?”
Michael remembered this about her. She didn’t order people to do things. She asked. She’d always become irritated in the presence of a person who did not subscribe to this philosophy.
Upon Jarvis’s exit, Michael studied her quietly. He had come to express his gratitude again, but instead, he said, “You did not allow my man to travel with you.”
“However…?” she urged him.
“However?”
“Yes, you paused distinctly as though there was more information needed to follow your thought.” She sounded quite innocent.
Shaking his head, Michael reclined and then crossed one ankle over his knee. “Well…as it turned out, I needed Arty after all. And for that, I suppose, I must express my appreciation.”
A smug smile danced tentatively on her lips. He was glad of that, glad to see her tension ease.
He felt it imperative to add, nonetheless, “But I was concerned for your travels and needed to reassure myself of your safe arrival.”
“We reached London last night, tired but otherwise fine.” Lilly, again, spoke softly. “My aunt has taken Glenda to her modiste. She is commissioning a gown for her—for the Willoughby ball—just as she did for me.” She looked down and continued massaging the dog’s fur.
Michael remembered her gown. He remembered how she had sparkled.
She did not sparkle today, however. In fact, she nearly faded into the material of the sofa.
“What did you discover at Hawthorne’s?”
“Hawthorne’s?…Oh yes.” Lilly would want details.
“By God, Lilly, he had it stored right there in his coach house. And the entire team too.” She seemed to take pleasure in hearing this, so Michael told her all the particulars of the caper.
She managed a slight laugh when he described how Hawthorne’s grooms had assisted them.
“Couldn’t have done it without you though, Lil.
” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“And though I could shake you senseless for sending Arty, I’ll admit he was essential to my success.
” He felt sheepish, as he bowed his head and steepled his fingertips.
“I am grateful for what you did—vouching for me to Jackson, providing me with transportation, everything—even ordering Arty to follow me.”
When she did not respond, he glanced back up and realized she was not even looking at him. Her eyes were closed.
“Lilly, are you unwell?” Her manner disquieted him. Taking her free hand, his concern grew at how cold she felt.
Lilly paused in stroking the dog and raised a fist to her closed eyes. “It is nothing. I get these awful headaches sometimes.” Miss Fussy hopped down and ran over to a large pillow in the corner of the room. Lilly pinched the bridge of her nose.
She was so pale. Michael held her hand in his and kneaded her palm, her fingers, her wrist. At his touch, she eventually relaxed into the sofa. Once her hand had warmed up, he took the other and massaged it.
“Lilly,” he whispered.
She’d apparently fallen asleep. Her head had tilted to the side, and her lips parted. Soft breaths came slow and even. Studying her hand in his, a deluge of emotion rushed over him. He lifted it to his lips and held it there.
A breeze caused the drapes to flutter and sway. It was still early spring, and a chill, if not a downright frostiness, hung in the air. Michael tucked her hand onto her lap and located a crocheted blanket. Arranging it over her, it struck him she might be more vulnerable than she would admit to.
At seventeen, she had been brave and daring. Now she carried with her a frailty that was new. When they courted, long ago, the world had been her oyster. She now seemed as though she carried it on her shoulders.
Michael kneeled on the floor and removed her well-worn half boots. He then lifted her feet onto the loveseat and tucked her skirts around her cozily. Standing up, he decided he had best make his leave. He would have Jarvis send for a maid, so that she would not be alone.
He turned to leave but then paused.
Unable to help himself, he leaned down and placed his lips upon her forehead. At the same time, Miss Fussy jumped back up to burrow in with her mistress.
At least he was leaving her in good hands.
Lilly’s wedding night, 1815
She was dreaming.
With her back pressed against the stone wall, she stood in the cave, behind the waterfall, and Michael was kissing her. But the kisses were wrong.
The lips scratched her, harshly demanding something she did not wish to give. Her teeth ground into her own gums, and she tasted blood. Blood?
Her eyes flew open in panic.
Enough moonlight flooded the room that she could see that it was Lord Beauchamp!
Her new husband had apparently decided, after all, to claim his marital rights.
Surprised, angered, and a little frightened by his treatment, she pushed him away.
“That hurts. Please, stop. You are hurting me.” His breath reeked of spirits as he thrust his tongue into her mouth.
She tried turning her head away, but he would not allow it.
It was just light enough that she could see his eyes. They were clouded with, not desire, but some form of hysterical lasciviousness.
“Rose.”
His hands went to pull her nightgown up. His own weight hampered his effort so he had to tug at the offending garment a second time, ripping the material as he did so.
This was not right.
This felt horrible. Horrible and degrading. His frenzied hands moved over her body with what felt like a bruising intent.
She began to feel very afraid.
Although not a large man, Lord Beauchamp was considerably stronger than Lilly. She tried pushing him off, but he thwarted her efforts. He seemed disoriented, even to himself.
“Rose.” He said it again.