Nearly a Lady (21 page)

Granted, his frequent looks in her direction may have been a result of wondering why the devil she kept staring at him, but she liked to think it was something more. And though their eyes caught for no more than a second or two, for those few brief moments, she could almost believe they were the only two people in the room.

Almost. It was difficult to ignore Lilly’s presence for long.

“I’ve made a list of things we must do during our visit,” she was saying over the dining table. “The items are not in order of importance, mind you, but I did categorize them according to location and a few other variables.”

Winnefred looked down at her breakfast to hide a smile. It was their last day in Scotland, and she was beginning to feel that might not be such a terrible thing. After all, once they were
in
London, Lilly would have to speak of something other than
going
to London. And that would be a fine change indeed.

“The first thing I should like to try are ices.” Lilly stabbed a bit of egg with her fork. “Well, not literally the first thing, but as soon as I can, certainly.”

“You’ve mentioned that particular desire before,” Gideon said, looking up from his plate. “How is it you missed the opportunity to indulge when you were in London?”

“My visit was cut short due to my mother’s illness.”

“Visit?” A line formed across Gideon’s brow. “I thought you were there as a child, and again for your debut.”

“No, I was a child at my debut. Only days past seventeen.”

“Seventeen? You were seventeen when you were in London? When you met my brother?”

“I . . .” Lilly picked up her toast. “Yes.”

“That would have put my brother somewhere near to twenty. I was under the impression the two of you met at a much younger age.”

“Yes . . . Well . . . Freddie, will you pass—?”

Winnefred passed the butter before her friend could mutilate her food.

Gideon tapped his fork against the table in a soft, thoughtful manner.

“Tell me, Lilly . . . Wait . . .” The line across his brow grew more pronounced. “Lilly,” he repeated to himself. “Lilly . . .
Rose
.” He stopped tapping his fork. His eyes widened to the size of saucers, and his mouth fell wide open, his lips curving up a little at the corners. Winnefred thought he looked very much like a man who had taken a sizable blow, and for some inexplicable reason, rather liked it. “Holy hell, you’re
Rose
.”

Lilly went still, butter knife on her toast.

“You are, aren’t you?” Gideon pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

Lilly’s continued silence was answer enough.

Gideon sent Winnefred a look of accusation. “You thought I didn’t need to be made aware of this?”

Stunned by his reaction, she managed little more than a shake of her head. “I . . . She . . .” She tried to remember how Lilly had made the matter seem of less consequence. “It was a very long time ago.”

“It was,” Lilly finally said. She set her knife and toast down with great care. “And I hadn’t realized Lord Engsly mentioned our friendship to anyone else.”

“Mentioned?” Gideon ran a hand through his hair and laughed. “He’s not spoken of another woman in the same manner before or since. He spoke of nothing but you in every letter.”

“He did not speak of me for long, it would seem,” Lilly murmured, “or you would have remembered my name.”

“He never told me your name, out of respect for you.”

“Respect?” Winnefred echoed.

“The ton does not look favorably upon broken engagements,” Gideon explained before returning his attention to Lilly. “He was . . . He is so in love with you.”

Lilly kept her gaze focused on the table. “As Freddie pointed out, it was a very long time ago.”

“Until recently, he thought you married.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“He thought you’d married a man named . . .” Gideon looked briefly at the ceiling, searching. “Thomas, Thompson, Townsend—that’s it, Townsend. Jeffrey Townsend.”

“I have never in my life met a man with that name. Why on earth would . . . ?” She closed her eyes on a quiet groan. “Lady Engsly. Oh, of course.”

“In this instance, I’d not be surprised to hear she was aided by my father. They had very particular plans for Lucien.”

Lilly shook her head slowly. Suddenly, her wide blue eyes filled with a kind of horrified amusement. Her lips twitched, and a small giggle escaped.

Gideon tilted his head at her. “You’re taking this rather well.”

Winnefred rather thought so too. “Are you all right, Lilly?”

“I’m sorry,” Lilly said, not sounding the least bit sorry. Another giggle escaped and then another. She put her elbow on the table and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, it’s just . . . It’s all so much like something out of a torrid novel—villains and false marriages and stolen letters.”

“It is a trifle dramatic,” Winnefred murmured, mostly because she felt she ought to say something.

“My brother will know of your presence here,” Gideon told her gently. “I sent a letter to him upon my arrival.”

Lilly waved her hand in dismissal without lifting her head.

“He’ll come to London,” Gideon added.

“It’s of no matter.” Lilly heaved a heavy sigh and lifted her head. “Truly, Gideon, it’s of no matter to me. It was so very long ago.”

Winnefred wasn’t surprised that after a moment’s hesitation, Gideon nodded in acceptance and soon after changed the subject. Nor was she surprised when he excused himself from the table five minutes later.

He didn’t believe Lilly either.

Winnefred listened for the sound of Gideon’s distinctive footsteps to disappear down the hall before speaking again. “Are you all right, Lilly?”

Lilly flicked her eyes up from her plate. “Of course I am.”

“It must be something of a relief,” Winnefred tried, “to know your separation from Gideon’s brother was Lady Engsly’s doing after all. He didn’t abandon you.”

“No, he did not.” There was a long pause before Lilly added, “Not initially.”

“That’s an odd qualifier.”

Again, a long time passed before Lilly spoke. “He didn’t seek me out, Freddie. After being told I had married another, he didn’t . . . He never came to me to ask why I had broken my promise.”

“Nor you him.”

“But I
would
have,” Lilly returned, and for the first time, a hint of anger could be heard in her voice. “Had I the funds and the freedom, I would have gone to him and demanded to know why he had ceased to answer my letters. He was the only one with the wherewithal to fight for us, and he chose instead to believe in my betrayal.”

Winnefred wanted to point out the obvious holes in that argument, but instinct told her that now was not the time for being reasonable.

“It was wrong of him not to fight for you.” It would also have been wrong of him to seek out a married woman, but that was another bit of useless reasoning.

“Yes. Yes, it was,” Lilly agreed, warming more and more to the topic. “Moreover, he had the luxury of nursing the heartache and misplaced sense of betrayal in the cradle of wealth and status, while we were here, nursing a fire without fuel and a sorry handful of turnips between the two of us.”

“You’re angry with him.” And hurting, Winnefred thought. She could see the wounded feelings through the hard words well enough.

Lilly blew out a tight breath. “No . . . Yes . . . Perhaps a trifle disappointed, that’s all.”

It didn’t seem a trifle to Winnefred. “Would you like me to recite a limerick?

The offer made Lilly laugh a little, just as Winnefred had hoped. “Not this morning, thank you.”

Though she would have liked to end the conversation with Lilly smiling, there was one other question that needed to be asked. “Will it be uncomfortable for you, should Lord Engsly return from Italy while we are in London?”

“Certainly not,” Lilly replied, and with enough emphasis to show she either truly meant it or very much wanted to. “I have known from the moment I requested we go to London that the possibility existed we might meet with Lord Engsly. Have I given indication of being anything other than delighted to go?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

And since there was nothing to gain by trying to convince Lilly that she
ought
to feel uncomfortable, Winnefred decided to entertain her friend with the bawdy limerick after all.

B
eset by excitement and nerves, Winnefred lay awake for most of her last night in Scotland. Images of Smithfield Market and Lilly on Bond Street danced alongside visions of tea-scalded guests and dance partners with broken toes. When she heard the clock in the parlor chime four, she gave up on sleep and climbed from her bed.

She took her time washing and dressing, and made her way to the kitchen to indulge in a leisurely breakfast of bread and cheese. By the time she stepped outside into the cool, dry air, the first soft light of dawn was breaking on the horizon.

She fetched Claire from the stable and began a long tour of Murdoch House land. Usually when she took a walk to ease her worries, she let her mind wander and paid little attention to her surroundings. But there was nothing she wanted more that morning than to drink in every inch of land with her eyes.

She knew every tree, every rock, every perennial bush and flower. She knew what to expect at the top of every rise, what would be waiting for her on the other side of every stand of trees. She knew where the stream would run slow and wide and where it would race narrow and deep. All around her was the familiar and the loved.

For the first time in her life, she was sorry she’d not taken up sketching or watercolors. It would have been nice to bring a picture of Murdoch House along to London. She picked a leaf she could press from a young silver birch instead. And then a second one when Claire nipped the first out of her hand and made a meal of it.

Winnefred sighed and rubbed her fingers along the leaf. She hated to leave, hated that she would miss the slow but steady transition from spring to summer. Then again, it was only for a few months, and a little time away might lend a new appreciation for everything . . . No, she thought with a small laugh, she hated to leave. Lilly, however, couldn’t be more eager, and a brief trip to London was a small price to pay to see her friend so happy.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said aloud. Claire responded by making a grab at the second birch leaf.

Winnefred snatched her hand away on a laugh. “Greedy thing. Behave, or there will be no more scraps for you.”

She tossed Claire a bit of bread and resumed her walk, following the stream to the pond. She wondered if she might see Gideon there and was disappointed when she reached the water’s edge and found herself standing alone. They’d not spoken since breakfast the day before. She’d expected him to return and ask after Lilly, but he never did, leaving her with the assumption that he’d expected her to come to him if there was something he needed to know.

She’d rather wished there had been.

Lost to her thoughts, she lingered by the water, skipping rocks and feeding Claire the last of the scraps from the kitchen until the sun was fully up.

“Time to go,” she called to Claire.

Lilly would be up by now and wondering where her charge was. Still, she took a meandering route home, and by the time she got back, Murdoch House had come alive. The front drive was a hive of activity. Footmen were loading trunks onto the carriage, maids darted in and out of the house, and to Winnefred’s surprise, Gideon was standing with a pair of men from Enscrum, both dressed to travel and holding the reins of saddled horses.

He waved at her as she approached and left the group to meet her on the lawn.

“Good morning, Winnefred.” Claire trotted over to Gideon to offer her usual greeting. He nudged her gently, but firmly, aside. “Claire.”

“Good morning, Gideon.” Lighter eyes in the morning sun, she thought with a stifled sigh. Worried the sigh may not have been as stifled as she’d like, she forced her mind to other matters. “What are those men doing here?”

“I hired them as outriders for the trip.”

She craned her neck to look around him. “Both of them?”

“It’s a long way to London. Why? Do they make you uncomfortable?”

“No, of course not,” she answered, straightening. “It seems excessive, that’s all. Two footmen, a pair of outriders, and yourself—”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of excess now and then.”

“Excess in moderation is not sound logic.”

He appeared to give that matter considerable thought, his face taking on a quizzical expression. “That’s true. Makes one wonder if Aristotle really thought the matter through.”

Winnefred wished her knowledge of Aristotle extended beyond how to spell his name.

“Perhaps you’d like to purchase of few of Mr. Howard’s hounds to run alongside as well,” she teased, hoping to change the subject before either her limited education or her embarrassment at her limited education became obvious.