One Whisper Away (22 page)

To her surprise he smiled after that little speech. It wasn’t much, and there was still a grim glint in his eyes, but he gazed at her and smiled.

She was such an utter, besotted fool.
This
, she thought
, is why I’m in love with him
.
Because he isn’t just handsome and titled and has other assets any young woman would value, but because ultimately, he is a decent man.

“If you are wondering why she is more drawn to Augustine than you, I confess I don’t understand it either.”

Oh, dear
. This time it wasn’t so much what she said, but the
way
she’d said it.

There was a slight pause and then he said slowly, “That is a very generous compliment, my lady. Thank you.”

It was tempting . . . very tempting, to just ask him candidly why he had at one time seemed to be leaning toward a possible courtship between them but then changed his mind. It wasn’t an overwhelming desire for Cecily; his reaction to her engagement to another man bore out that assumption.

But she was afraid of the answer.

Until something interesting happened. Never once, in all the time they’d known each other, passed pleasantries at different events, even gone riding alone at the ducal country estate, had he ever looked at her except with polite attention. But for a moment, just a fleeting moment, his gaze flickered to her décolletage, then immediately returned to her face.

He was hardly the first man to admire her bosom, but it was the first time she didn’t mind at all. At least he knew her as a person as well. Flustered, she murmured ridiculously, “I think I see my grandmother. She specifically said she wanted to leave early this evening.”

He recognized a dismissal when he heard one. “A pleasure to see you as always, Lady Eleanor.”

Then Lord Drury bowed and walked away.

 

It was a late hour to have a caller. Lillian had already donned her nightdress and was half asleep when the maid knocked on her door to announce who was downstairs, asking for an audience.

Needless to say, she dressed as quickly as possible, slipping into a floral day gown, because she was not going to put on an outdated ball gown at this hour or for this visit, running a brush through her hair and twisting it into a careless chignon. She checked her appearance in the glass just to make sure it was acceptable and then reminded herself wryly that her visitor wouldn’t care. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty; she knew she was in the way of having nice bones, chestnut hair and blue eyes and clear, unblemished skin, but it didn’t matter. At one time her heart had fluttered each time he called, but truly, now, and back then also, though she didn’t know it, what she looked like was not something he cared about one way or the other. They had been friends, nothing more.
She
was the one who had misread his intentions.

What did Arthur Kerr, otherwise known as Lord Sebring, want?

There was only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath and moving at a deliberately sedate pace, she went downstairs.

He was in the informal drawing room at her request, the dimensions not so shadowed and overpowering as the main public drawing room used to receive guests. The light tap of the rain at the windows made a soothing background sound. The maid had heeded her request and brought a bottle of claret on a tray with two glasses, and also lit several lamps, so the space was cozy enough with its brocade-covered sofas and intimate seating groups. She stopped in the doorway, admiring the clean line of Arthur’s profile with a pang as he stood and stared at one of the portraits over the unlit fireplace, his expression remote, his shoulders set.

The sight of him was so achingly familiar; yet again he was like a distant figure in a dream.

Once, she’d loved him. Not lightly, but completely, with all the passion a young woman could feel.

But she hadn’t known him, not the real man, and it made her distrustful that her judgment was sound, not to mention that men in general were honest. Even if it weren’t for her disgrace in the eyes of society, she was resistant to the idea of ever embarking on another romance. Spinsterhood was not completely without its merits.

She hadn’t seen him since his marriage, so it took some courage to square her shoulders, walk into the room, and say calmly, “You look well, Arthur.”

He turned, his gaze skimming her casual mode of dress, and a well-remembered smile graced his finely modeled mouth. “So do you, Lily. As beautiful as ever.”

Was he telling the truth? It was hard to say. A multitude of lies lay between them.
She
wasn’t being sincere. He looked tired, maybe even a little haggard. Still strikingly handsome, of course; not as tall as Jonathan, but well built, with even features and expressive brown eyes, his hair always a little long, his dress impeccable at all times, the height of fashion in the line of his dark coat, embroidered waistcoat, fitted breeches, and Hessians. His neck cloth was a spill of linen edged with lace, and the ruby stickpin nestled in the snowy folds the epitome of elegance. It was unfortunate, but she still experienced a pang in his presence, when she had been so sure she was done with the regrets.

It still hung there in her past—her disastrous elopement and what had happened between them that night at the inn. There was no question of it—whatever Jonathan thought, she
had
lost her innocence that night because of Arthur, and it had changed her world forever.

“Thank you.” Her voice was, thankfully, tranquil. She moved into the room, outwardly serene. “Would you like a glass of wine while you tell me why you’re here?”

“No.” His breath hissed outward in an agitated exhalation. “I mean, yes.”

Lillian glanced up, about to pick up the antique crystal decanter.

“Yes to the wine,” he said in a subdued voice. “But I confess I don’t know quite why I’m here.”

“I don’t either.” She carefully poured wine into their glasses. “But let me venture a guess. Because you need to talk to someone who knows you.”

He moved to take the proffered glass, his smile rueful and holding a hint of regret. “You are right, of course. We always did talk, didn’t we?”

Yes, they had. And laughed. It was why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place, for however charming her other suitors were, she’d been very comfortable with him from their first introduction.

The settee by the small polished table in the middle of the room was too close, so she chose a chair nearby and balanced her glass of wine in her palms. “What has happened?”

Arthur took a gulp from his glass and sat down. When he swallowed, his face was averted. He spoke abruptly. “The doctors think Penelope might be barren.”

Now she understood, or least had a fair idea, of why he had called.

It was a bitter bit of news, she knew, for he’d married his wife for two reasons: her father’s connections and to beget an heir. Though the former was the advantage he’d hoped it would be if his ascent in Parliament was an indication, she knew the latter was important to him as well. Lillian looked at the ruby liquid in her glass. “I see.”

“She desperately wants a child.”

“That does not surprise me.” She still cradled her wine, but didn’t drink, watching his face. At best his expression could be described as . . . tortured. And as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t hate him for what had happened between them. “Most women do.”

“For that matter
I
want a child. We’ve been trying.” Arthur was not quite able to meet her eyes, staring at a small figurine on the table instead. “But in three years it hasn’t happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

His gaze finally came up to meet hers. “Yes, I believe you are. One of the many things I admire about you is the generosity of your spirit.”

She finally lifted her glass to her lips. It was something to do rather than look into his eyes and mutter another platitude. The rain in the background did not help lighten the mood either.

“We just returned from Vienna. . . . There’s a doctor there who is said to work miracles, but he didn’t have any particular words of wisdom we hadn’t already heard. It was a disappointing venture.”

She could say she was sorry again—but she needed to manage more than another two-word response. In truth she
was
sorry, but generous spirit or not, this was not the easiest topic for her to discuss with the man she was once convinced she would marry. “I can understand how you might be disappointed.”

“Yes.” He looked at her intently. “You do. Perhaps that is why I am here. Because you do understand, Lily.”

“Not entirely.” Her smile was forced. “Knowing something and understanding it are two different matters.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

There was enough desolation in his voice that she winced. Still, after all that had happened, she couldn’t bear hurting him. “Tell me, did you ever consider talking to your wife about…your feelings?”

The sound of moisture dripping from the eaves and tapping against the glass was suddenly loud in the resulting quiet between them. He finally shook his head. “No.”

“Is she that . . .” She wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. It was no small part of the reason she’d distanced herself from even the remotest fashionable circle—she had no desire to meet Lady Sebring, for reasons both complicated and emotional.

“. . . blind?” he finished for her, his voice gentle and despondent. “Willfully so, if I had to guess, but in answer to your almost question, no, I would never trust her to try and find a glimpse of sensitivity if I confessed that the reason I didn’t marry you was more out of love than anything else. As it is, she’s horribly jealous and your name has been thrown in my face more than once.”

“I can’t see she has reason to be jealous of me. I am, after all, the jilted fiancée.”

Arthur gazed at her. “She has reason. You are the only woman I have ever loved.”

But never loved in the way that she had thought he did.

She set aside her wine, for truly she had no desire for it. “What will you do?”

“If she never gets pregnant?” His laugh was mirthless. “I don’t know. Truly, Lily, I don’t know.” He stopped, and then shook his head and exhaled heavily. “Going to her bed is so distasteful to me I am not sure I can continue the pretense. She will hate me if I decline to continue to try, and she will hate me even more if she discovers why. I shouldn’t have married her.”

Was it vindictive of her to agree? Perhaps—and she’d had four years to forgive him. She couldn’t imagine how his wife would feel about this conversation. “You shouldn’t have married
anyone
.”

“I have a title and a fortune, Lily. It was my duty. My father expected it.”

She had a dozen arguments against that. Honesty. Integrity. The vows he’d taken . . . but she also knew the strict standards of their class, and as much as she could, she understood his reasons. “I suppose it would have taken a great deal of courage to not take the accepted path.”

A humorless smile curved his mouth, but to give him credit, he did not avoid her gaze. “For what it is worth, it took a great deal of courage to tell you the truth.”

“Maybe you should lend your wife the same consideration.”

“And explain to her that my preference is not women? That the nights when I declined to bed her because I claimed to be too tired, or too foxed, really were because I had no desire for her? No. I have lived with her now for three years and can say with some measure of certainty that she is not compassionate enough to understand.”

“But I am?”

“Yes,” he said gently. He stood then, his expression bereft. “I should not have come here, should I?”

After his departure Lily sat, staring at their two wineglasses, one on each end of the table.

Both were half empty, which was rather symbolic.

She was tired of her life being that way.

P
erhaps it was the rain.

Perhaps it was the challenge.

Perhaps it was the woman.

The last
, Jonathan decided as he contemplated exactly how to accomplish his mission. One part of it was simple. The back garden wall was nothing he couldn’t circumvent with ease—and he had, so easily done and not a problem. It was more a matter of how to find Cecily’s bedroom, and then, of course, how to get to it.

Actually, considering the English habit of letting foliage grow up the walls of their homes, that was hardly going to be an issue either, but he certainly did not want to burst in on the duke, or her brother, who barely hid his antagonism as it was, or Lady Eleanor.

So he stood there in the dark garden, more at home than he had ever been in the crowded ballroom earlier, the smell of wet earth and damp foliage more pleasant than any delicate perfume.

Cecily had never answered his question. And having asked it, he
needed
an answer.

I want you to marry me
.

Perhaps that wasn’t a question after all. A declaration was more like it. A statement of what he wanted, but what Cecily wanted had not yet been established.

So he waited, soaked but ignoring the discomfort, because waiting was part of any warrior’s game. He considered the weather balmy compared to that of New England, and despite his sodden clothing he was in good spirits. After all, he thought, crouched behind a drenched yew that lifted its dripping branches, she had not said no. Quite the opposite. She’d dared him to seduce her.

He certainly hoped his future wife understood he wasn’t one to deny a contest, especially not one with such a tantalizing prize in the balance.

Actually, he thought she’d known exactly what she was doing.

A part of him sensed he’d already won her, and another, more primitive part wished to claim his prize at once. That single waltz had been a lesson in restraint as he’d taken Cecily in his arms for the first time in public.