One Night for Love (45 page)

“The letter was addressed to Lady Frances Lilian Montague,” Neville said. “But someone had written beneath it in a different hand—or so the vicar assured me—‘Lily Doyle.’ ”

He was sitting on the sofa beside Lily, her hand in his, her shoulder leaning against his arm. She was gazing down at her other hand in her lap. She was showing no apparent interest in the conversation. The Duke of Portfrey had crossed the room and come back with a glass of brandy, which he had held out silently to her. She had shaken her head. He had set it down and pulled up a chair so that he could sit facing her. He was gazing at her now, his eyes devouring her. Elizabeth was pacing the room.

“If only we could know what was in the letter,” his grace said wistfully.

“But we do.” Neville drew the duke’s eyes from Lily for a moment. “The letter was addressed to Lily Doyle. William Doyle was her next of kin though he had not known of her existence. The vicar opened the letter and read it to him.”

“And the vicar remembers its contents?” his grace asked sharply.

“Better yet,” Neville said. “He made a copy of the letter. After reading it, he advised William Doyle to take it over to Nuttall Grange, to Baron Onslow, Lily’s grandfather. But he believed that William had a right to a copy of it too. He seemed to feel that the Doyles might wish to claim some sort of compensation for the years of care Thomas Doyle had given Lily.”

Lily was pleating the expensive lace of her overdress between her fingers. She was like a child sitting quietly and listlessly while the adults talked.

“You have this copy?” the duke asked, his voice tight.

Neville drew it out of a pocket and handed it over without a word. His grace read silently.

“Lady Lyndon Montague informed her father that she was going to stay with an ailing school friend for a couple of months,” Neville said after a few minutes. Elizabeth had come to sit close by. “In reality she went to stay with her former maid and the girl’s new husband—Beatrice and Private Thomas Doyle—in order to give birth to a child.”

Lily smoothed out the creases she had created and then proceeded to pleat the lace again.

“Her marriage to Lord Lyndon Montague had been a secret one,” Neville said, “and both had pledged not to reveal it until his return from his posting to the Netherlands. But he was sent on to the West Indies with his regiment and she discovered she was with child. She was afraid of her own father’s wrath as well as his. Worse, she was afraid of her cousin, who was pressing her to marry him so that he would inherit the fortune and the estate as well as the title after Onslow’s death. She was afraid of what he would do to her—and the child—if he discovered the truth.”

“Mr. Dorsey?” Elizabeth asked.

“None other.” His grace had folded the letter and held it in his lap. His gaze had returned to Lily. “We were foolish enough to believe that our marriage would protect her from him. The opposite was, of course, true.”

“She was afraid to go home and take the baby with her,” Neville said. “She was waiting for her husband to return from the West Indies—she had written to him there to tell him of her condition. In the meantime she left the baby with the Doyles. She must have intended to write to her husband again after she returned home. But he was an officer and therefore always in danger of death. And she must have been very fearful for her own safety. And so she left
her locket with the baby and a letter to be given to her husband on his return or to her daughter in the event that neither of them ever came for her.”

“I always suspected,” his grace said, “that her death was no accident. I suspected too that Dorsey had killed her. She had indeed written to tell me there was to be a child—but if she wrote another letter, I certainly did not receive it. When she died there was no child within her, and no one knew of any recently born to her. She might have been mistaken when she wrote that first letter, I realized, or she might have miscarried. But somehow I have always known that there
was
a child, that there was someone in this world who was my son or my daughter. I explored every possibility I could think of—but I did not know about Beatrice Doyle.”

“Lyndon,” Elizabeth asked, “is it Mr. Dorsey who has tried to kill Lily, then? But surely not. I cannot believe such a thing of him.”

“Onslow is bedridden,” Neville said. “Probably it was into Dorsey’s hands that William Doyle placed the letter. He would have discovered the truth then, though it would not have appeared very awful to him because Lily was dead. I do wonder, though, if William Doyle’s death was accidental. He might have made some awkward claims on Onslow for the years of support given his granddaughter. The vicar at Leavenscourt is perhaps fortunate to be still alive. But then, of course, came Lily’s sudden appearance at Newbury. Dorsey was there in the church too. He saw what Portfrey saw and must have realized the truth immediately.”

“Lily.” The Duke of Portfrey leaned forward in his chair suddenly and possessed himself of her free hand with both his own. The letter slipped unheeded to the floor. “Beatrice and Thomas Doyle were your mama and papa. They gave you a family and security and a good upbringing and
an unusually deep love, I believe. No one—least of all me—is ever going to try to take them away from you. They will always be your parents.”

She nestled her head against Neville’s arm, but he could see that she had raised her eyes to look at Portfrey.

“We loved each other, Lily,” Portfrey said, “your m—Frances and I. You were conceived in love. We would have lavished all our affection on you if …” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She loved you enough to give you up temporarily for your safety. In twenty years I have never been quite able to lay her to rest or to let go of the possibility of you. We did not abandon you. If you can possibly think of her—of Frances, my wife—as your mother, Lily, if not your mama … If you could possibly think of me as your father … I do not set myself up as a rival to your papa. Never that. But allow me …” He lifted her hand to his lips and then released it and got abruptly to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Elizabeth asked.

“She is in shock,” he said, “and I am pressing my own selfish claims on her. I have to leave, Elizabeth. Excuse me? I will call tomorrow if I may. But you must not try forcing Lily to receive me. Look after her.”

“Your grace.” Lily spoke for the first time since Neville had come into the room. Portfrey and Elizabeth spun around to look at her. “I will receive you—tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” He did not smile, but he looked at her again as if he would devour her. He made a formal bow and turned toward the door.

“Wait for me, Portfrey, will you?” Neville asked. “I will be with you in a minute.”

His grace nodded and left the book room with Elizabeth.

Neville got to his feet and drew Lily to hers. He set his arms about her and drew her close. What must it feel like, he wondered, suddenly to discover that one’s dearly
loved parents were not one’s real mother and father after all? He tried to imagine discovering it of his own parents. He would feel without roots, without anchor. He would feel … fear.

“I want you to forget about the party,” he told her, “and go up to your room. Ring for Dolly and then go to bed. Try to sleep. Will you?”

“Yes,” she said.

It hurt him to see her so listless, so willing to obey, just like an obedient child. So unlike Lily. But Portfrey was right. She was in deep shock. He was reminded of the way she had been in the hours following Doyle’s death.

“Try not to think too much tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow you will better be able to adjust to the new realities. I believe you will eventually realize that you have lost nothing. It is one thing, Lily, to care for the child of one’s own seed or womb. It is another to love and cherish someone else’s child for whom one really has no responsibility at all. That is what your mama and papa did for you. I did not know your mama, but I always marveled that a father could feel such devoted, tender love for his daughter as your papa felt for you. You have not lost them. You have merely gained people who will love and cherish you in the future and not be jealous of the past.”

“I am so very tired,” she said, and she lifted her face to him—her pale, large-eyed face. “I cannot think straight—or even in crooked lines.”

“I know.” He lowered his head and kissed her, and she sighed and pushed her lips back against his own and raised her arms to twine about his neck.

He had missed her dreadfully during his journey into Leicestershire. And he had been sick with worry for her safety—especially after reading the letter. Feeling her small, shapely body against his own again, feeling her arms about his neck and her lips cleaving to his awoke hungers
that threatened to overwhelm him. But she was in no condition for passion. Besides, there was a matter of grave importance to be attended to tonight—and Portfrey would be waiting for him.

“Go to bed now, my love,” he said, lifting his head and framing her face with both hands. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow. Maybe my brain will work tomorrow.”

  
24
  

L
ily awoke from a deep sleep when the early-morning sun was already shining in at her window. She threw back the covers and leaped out of bed as she often did, and stretched. What a strange dream she had been having! She could not even remember it yet, but she knew it had been bizarre.

She stopped midstretch.

And remembered. It had not been a dream.

She was not Lily Doyle. Papa had not been her father. She was not even Lily Wyatt, Countess of Kilbourne. She was Lady Frances Lilian Montague, a total stranger. She was the daughter of the Duke of Portfrey. Her grandfather was Baron Onslow.

For one moment her mind threatened to take refuge in last evening’s daze again, but there was nothing to be served by doing that. She fought panic.

Who was she
?

All through those seven months in Spain she had fought to retain her identity. It had not been easy. Everything had been taken from her—her own clothes, her locket, her freedom, her very body. And yet she had clung to the basic knowledge of who she was—she had refused to give up that.

Now, this morning, she no longer knew herself. Who was Frances Lilian Montague? How could that austere, handsome man—
with blue eyes like hers
—be her father? How could the woman whose initial was twined with his on her locket be her mother?

They had been separated, the duke who was her father and the woman who was her mother, very soon after their marriage. Lily knew what
that
felt like. She knew the ache of longing and loneliness the woman must have felt. And they had loved each other. Lily had been conceived in love, the duke had told her last evening. They had loved each other and been separated forever. Their child had been left for what had been intended to be a short spell with the people who had become Lily’s parents.

Mama and Papa, who had loved her as dearly as any parents could possibly love their child.

The woman, her mother, must have loved her too. Lily pictured to herself how she would have felt if she had had a child of Neville’s after their separation. Oh, yes, her mother had loved her. And for over twenty years the duke, her father, had been unable to let go of either his wife or his conviction that somewhere she, Lily, existed.

She did not want to be Lady Frances Lilian Montague. She did not want the Duke of Portfrey to be her father. She wanted her papa to be the man who had begotten her. But it was all true whether she wanted it to be or not. And she could not stop herself from thinking that while for eighteen years she had had the best papa in the world and for the three years since his death had had her memories of him, the Duke of Portfrey for all that time had been without his own child. All those years, so filled with love for her, had been empty for him.

He was her father. She tested the idea in her mind without shying away from it. The Duke of Portfrey was her father. And Papa had always intended that she know it eventually. He and Mama had given her the locket to wear all her life, and Papa had always insisted that she must take his pack to an officer if he should die in battle. She did not know why he had kept the truth from her for so long or why he had not tried to contact the Duke of Portfrey. Oh,
yes, she did. She could remember how her mama had doted on her, how her papa had acted as if the sun rose and set on her. They had found themselves unable to give her up and had doubtless found all sorts of good reasons for not doing so. Papa had intended to tell her when she reached adulthood. She was sure he must have intended that.