Love According To Lily (7 page)

Chapter 8

Later in the evening, after the second theatrical performance by Lady Stanton and Sir Hatley, Lily found herself sitting alone near the fireplace. Not for long, however. The empty chair beside her was almost immediately filled by Whitby.

“I wasn’t sure,” he said, going straight to the heart of things, “if I should have interrupted you when you were in the gallery. I thought perhaps you might have arranged to meet Richard there.”

Lily’s heart began to pound, and she cursed herself for it. After all her tears today and all her grand intentions to forget Whitby, all he had to do was say two words to her, and she melted.

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t arrange it. He must have followed me when I left here earlier.”

“Yes, he did, and I noticed, so I followed
him
.”

“Why?”

He hesitated a moment before he answered. “Because I was worried he might not be entirely trustworthy. I just had a feeling.”

She’d had a feeling, too. “Why didn’t you tell James?” she asked.

“Because James would have beat him to a pulp.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “So you wanted to protect Richard, did you?”

“No, not Richard.”

Her body began to feel warm as she sat beside him this way. Wishing he did not have such power over her, she reminded herself that he had been worried about her just as he would have been worried about Annabelle, his sister.

“Well, I’m fine,” she said, which was not entirely true in every sense of the word, but she would not let him see that.

“Good. But what are you going to do about Richard? Am I right to presume you do not welcome his attentions?”

“Yes.”

Whitby looked across the room at the man. “Well, you might consider telling James. You certainly wouldn’t want to be pressured into marrying a worm.”

Lily chuckled despite herself.

Whitby leaned a little closer to her. “I can hardly blame the man, though. You look stunning tonight, Lily. He probably lost his head.”

Lily felt her brow crease as she looked at Whitby. What was he doing? When he said things like that, he made it impossible for her to get over him. Because quite honestly, right now, she felt euphoric and hopeful again, and she wanted him more than life itself.

How little it took.

“Thank you for the compliment,” she replied, but she was angry with him. Did he not realize he was playing with her feelings?

“You’re most welcome.” Then he walked off to go sit with Lady Stanton.

Whitby listened to Lady Stanton talk about Ascot with only half of his brain. The more thoughtful half was mulling over his conversation with Lily.

He wasn’t sure why he had told her she looked stunning tonight. Well, she did look stunning in that cream-colored dress, her neck dripping with pearls, but it hadn’t been necessary to tell her. Earlier in the day, he had compared her to Annabelle with the full intention of discouraging her from having any non-sisterly feelings for him—because he was not the man for her—and just now, after seeing Richard make an advance, Whitby had forgotten all that, and had said something that would likely have the opposite effect. He had paid her a compliment and he’d done so flirtatiously.

He wished he hadn’t said it. He wished he could take it back. He didn’t want her to have romantic notions about him. He didn’t want to stir her passions—however innocent they may be.

In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure how innocent Lily was after what happened three years ago with that French nuisance of a man. She had been with him in his boardinghouse and on a boat with him overnight, and everyone had been very closed-mouthed about it afterward.

The fact that he was curious about her innocence now—after not even wondering about it over the past few years—was not lost on him.

He glanced over at her. Strangely, he could not imagine her giving herself to that scoundrel, Pierre. Or that worm, Richard. Just the thought of it offended him. It made him want to strangle the both of them.

But as he comprehended the excessiveness of his agitation, he began to realize with considerable surprise and uneasiness that he was not as disinterested in Lily as he had hoped he could be.

He reached a hand up to rub the glands at his neck, then glanced over at James, his closest, oldest friend.

Whitby’s pulse began to beat erratically. This was not going well.
Nothing
about this week was going well. It seemed like everything was spiraling out of control, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The weather was overcast again the next day. It was unseasonably warm, however, and many of the gentlemen had removed their hunting jackets and wore only their shirts and waistcoats as they stood in the autumn field, firing shots high into the air over the lake as the ducks took flight.

James aimed his rifle and fired, bringing another bird down from the sky. Whitby stood beside him, the tip of his own rifle resting on the ground while he used it to lean upon.

“Good shot, James,” he said, squeezing the handle of his gun.

A hound jumped into the lake with a resounding splash and swam out to fetch the fallen bird. Whitby watched him swim past the cattails, paddling silently into the deep.

“It was, wasn’t it?” James said, grinning over his shoulder. His gaze dropped to the rifle Whitby was leaning upon. “Why aren’t you shooting?”

Whitby picked up his rifle and loaded it. “Just taking a break.” He waited for the beaters to send another flock into the air, then aimed and fired. A number of shots rang out from the other gentlemen standing a distance away.

“Well done,” James said, while they watched a few birds fall from the sky to the water.

Whitby lowered his gun while James reloaded his.

“Tell me,” Whitby said, “are you in on the plan to marry Lily off to Lord Richard?”

He hadn’t intended to talk to James about this. In fact, he’d promised himself that very morning that he would stay out of it. So much for self-control.

James cocked his rifle. “No. That’s Mother.”

Whitby was relieved. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“What makes you say that?”

More birds took flight, and James quickly aimed and fired. “Damn,” he said, missing the shot.

“Well,” Whitby replied, pausing while he reloaded, “I walked in on them last night in the gallery, and Richard was rather bold with his attentions.”

James immediately faced Whitby. His tone took on a hard edge. “Explain if you will.”

“Don’t panic. It wasn’t anything serious. It was just something in his manner I didn’t like.”

“Did he touch her?” James asked.

“He took hold of her arm to try and stop her from returning to the party when she made a move to leave. It was clear to me that Lily was uncomfortable. If I were you, I would discourage the match.”

Whitby worried suddenly that he was overstepping his bounds. It wasn’t his place to tell James who his sister should or should not marry. But hell, he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t bear the idea of her being pressured to marry Richard, and he knew it wasn’t just a brotherly protectiveness. Which was becoming very unsettling.

Or perhaps this “concern” was simply a symptom of his state of health. He’d certainly been preoccupied lately with making sure Annabelle was going to be taken care of. He’d arranged for an allowance for her, so she would not have to depend upon Magnus…

“You don’t believe she fancies him?” James asked.

“I know she doesn’t.”

“How?”

“I asked her.”

Three more ducks took off with a flutter, and both James and Whitby aimed and fired, bringing down two of them. They lowered their guns.

“I appreciate you telling me,” James said. “To be honest, I’ve wanted to clobber Richard a few times myself over the past few days. He keeps boasting about his horses. But I’ve refrained because of the possibility that he might one day be my brother-in-law.”

“He’s trying to impress you,” Whitby said casually.

“No doubt. It’s hardly working, though. Especially after what you just told me.”

The tension in Whitby’s shoulders drained away while they both gazed out at the lake.

“I’m feeling rather ready for lunch,” James said. “How about you?”

Whitby merely shrugged. “I could eat, I suppose.”

James rested his rifle on his shoulder. “I’ll go talk to Anderson and see if he’s got the table laid out yet.” He started off, but stopped and turned. “Help me keep an eye on Richard tonight, for caution’s sake. Lily doesn’t need another problem like the last one.”

“Absolutely, James.”

Whitby was only too happy to oblige. Far more happy than he should be.

Chapter 9

That evening, the ballroom was adorned with colorful flowers and greenery, tall potted tree ferns, and bolts of ivory crepe draped over the doorways and windows. The shiny brass chandeliers glittered in the light from the candles they held, and the whole room spun magnificently with the circular movements of the dancers swirling around the floor.

Lily wore a silk gown of mulberry, trimmed with lace flounces on the skirt, and she was laced so tight, she could barely breathe. At her neck, she wore a pearl choker that she had borrowed from Sophia, and on her feet, matching satin slippers with French heels.

She felt beautiful, more beautiful than on any other night, and she was thankful for that because the shooting party would conclude tomorrow, and she had come to the ball tonight knowing it would be the last time she would see Whitby before the long winter set in.

She was hoping for one last encounter with him—a dance perhaps, or a pleasant, friendly conversation free of flirtation.

She had tried for something more with him, and she had failed. He had communicated his feelings on the matter, and she had understood the message: He was not attracted to her. For that reason, tonight, she was going to finally lay her childish infatuation to rest. And she did not want him to feel that he must avoid her in the future because she was pining away for him. She could not imagine a worse fate. She did not want things to be awkward between them.

Lily spotted her mother approaching and walked to meet her. When she reached her side, she clicked open her plumed fan and cooled herself, for it was warm in the ballroom.

“You’ve had a few days to get to know Lord Richard,” her mother said flatly. “What do you think of him?”

“Honestly?” Lily replied, pausing because she did not enjoy displeasing her mother. She never enjoyed it, but she knew it was necessary in this matter. She could only pray that her mother would understand. “I don’t think he is the right man for me.”

She could sense the frustration in her mother’s long, drawn-out silence. “Lily…”

Lily faced her. “I know what you’re thinking— that I’m too fussy, but it’s not true. I just—”

“Lily, you must think of your future.”

“I am thinking of it. Please understand, Mother, I don’t care for Lord Richard.”

Marion led Lily toward the wall to speak privately. “Lily, I’m getting tired of this. You are far too romantic. Marriage is a serious matter, and I don’t think you truly understand your duty as a member of this family. You are the daughter of a duke and you are twenty-one. By the time I was that age, I had been married for two years.”

“But not happily.” Lily had never spoken so bluntly to her mother before. She could hardly believe she had done it.

Marion went pale, then her face clouded with anger. “How can you judge
me
, after all I endured? Do you think it was easy?”

Lily shuddered inwardly, regretting her words, wishing they had not been so stinging. It was all her mother had—her pride over the fact that she had never abandoned her post, no matter how horrendous it had been. She must have wanted to leave it, like a soldier in the trenches, but she had not, because she ranked duty above all else.

And she resented Lily because Lily was not so dutiful. Lily questioned her orders. She followed her heart and her desires, and her mother could not understand that. They were two very different people.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said.

She was sorry for criticizing her, and she was sorry for defying and disappointing her—for all the times in the past, and all the times she would continue to do so in the future.

The orchestra began a minuet, interrupting their conversation briefly, but not for long.

“Just give me more time,” Lily said, wanting desperately to appease her mother as best she could. “I do want to be dutiful. I want to please you, but I cannot marry Lord Richard. I’ll be successful next Season, I promise.”

Marion would not meet her gaze. She was breathing hard, angry and shaken. “Well. It’s obvious I can’t force you. I’ve learned that such tactics do nothing but cause you to rebel.” She turned in the other direction. “I must go and sit down.”

She walked away, leaving Lily to struggle with the ache that had existed in her heart since she was a child—the aching need for affection, or merely approval from her mother. Lily laid a hand on her chest to try and soothe it, and went outside for some fresh air.

On the other side of the ballroom, Whitby watched Lily with her mother. There was a marked intensity in their exchange, he noticed, though he tried not to stare. He wondered if they were talking about Richard.

Whitby searched the room for the man and spotted him not far from where Lily stood, probably waiting to dance with her. Whitby remembered his promise to James—that he would keep an eye on them—and decided he would do just that. Keep a very close eye.

Just then, Lady Stanton, wearing a sky-blue gown with a cluster of pearls at the bosom, arrived beside him. She touched his arm with one long, slender gloved finger. “Good evening, Whitby. I hope you intend to dance with me. It’s the last night of the party and we all go home tomorrow. Yet I haven’t seen nearly enough of you.”

He turned to her and smiled, though tonight it felt like a pretense, for he didn’t have the energy to be charming.

A waltz began and he held out his hand regardless, for he was never one to disappoint a lady. “Are you free for this one?”

“I believe my card indicates I am.”

Whitby led her onto the floor and took her into his arms. They stepped into the waltz and swept smoothly around the room. They danced well together, as they had danced many times before.

“I haven’t done anything to offend you, have I?” Lady Stanton asked after the first few measures.

Whitby met her troubled gaze. “What do you mean, Eleanor?”

“I had thought we might spend some time together this week. I thought you might come to my room, but I’ve been disappointed each night, and I’ve had to sleep alone.”

Whitby turned her around at the far corner of the ballroom. He recalled last year’s shooting party and remembered how he and Eleanor had amused themselves. She was a delightful woman; he knew it today just as he’d known it last year. She had certainly not offended him.

Yet he’d felt no desire to spend time in her bed this week.

“I apologize, Eleanor. I’ve not been myself. It’s nothing you’ve done. I’ve been rather unwell with a damned inconvenient sore throat.”

Her body seemed to relax in his arms. “That’s all it is? What a relief. I was beginning to fear you were suffering from a broken heart—that some woman had captured your interest while I wasn’t looking, and jilted you.”

He chuckled. “No.”

“Well, thank goodness,” she said with a smile.

As they continued to dance around the room, Whitby found himself feeling uncomfortably short of breath. He began to feel weak and light-headed.

“You know you’re welcome to come to my room tonight,” Eleanor said with an enticing tone. “My door will be unlocked for you, if you’d like some company.”

Whitby swallowed hard, barely hearing what she had just said, while he labored to concentrate on the steps of the dance.

Then he saw Lily walk alone through the open doors that led out onto the veranda. His gaze perused the room for Richard, who predictably was not far behind, following her outside.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness came over Whitby, and he was forced to stop in the middle of the floor.

“My apologies again, Eleanor. I’m afraid I can’t go on.” He turned to look for James.

Eleanor put her hand on his cheek. “Good heavens, Whitby, you’re blazing hot. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He wiped the perspiration from his brow. “It came upon me rather suddenly just now. Where is James?”

Eleanor took him by the arm and led him off the floor. He went with her, crossing the room to where James stood drinking champagne and laughing with Sophia.

“Richard just followed Lily out onto the veranda,” Whitby said, wasting not a single breath on anything but that, while he struggled not to stagger sideways.

James glanced over Whitby’s shoulder and went immediately to his sister.

Sophia took one look at Whitby and grabbed his arm. “Good gracious, are you all right?”

Whitby turned to ensure James was heading in the right direction—to the veranda where Lily had gone. When he witnessed James exiting the correct door, he relaxed at last. He turned to Eleanor and whispered in her ear.

“I apologize in advance for not coming to your room tonight. I believe I’ll be catching up on some much needed rest.” He turned to Sophia and said, “Will you call a doctor?”

Her face went pale. “Of course.”

With that, he walked out of the ballroom, climbed the main staircase, and only made it as far as the door to his bedchamber before he collapsed in a heap in the corridor.

By the time the physician arrived an hour later, Whitby was slipping in and out of consciousness. Dr. Trider entered the room and set his black bag on the side of the bed. He opened it, pulled out his stethoscope and listened to Whitby’s chest.

James and Sophia watched from opposite sides of the bed. “How is he?” James asked.

The doctor ignored the question for a moment while he moved the scope around, listening to Whitby’s heart and lungs. He removed the earpieces and lifted Whitby’s eyelids one at a time, looking at his pupils. He put his hand on Whitby’s forehead. “How long has he been like this?”

“The fever came upon him rather quickly tonight,” James replied. “Though he’s had a sore throat all week and saw a doctor for it before he came.”

Dr. Trider pressed upon both sides of Whitby’s neck, just under his jaw. “His lymph nodes are swollen.”

“What does that mean?” Sophia asked.

“It could be a number of things, depending on the symptoms he’s had.”

James raked a hand through his hair. “Well, he’s lost some weight, and he’s been fatigued. No appetite.”

The doctor nodded. “I see.” He put his stethoscope back in his bag. “Has he been in contact with anyone else who’s had these symptoms?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention anything. He didn’t seem overly concerned, but he has been drinking more than usual lately.”