Passionate (13 page)

With a sinking sensation Lily glanced at her mother. Lady Fernhaven’s gaze was bright and avid. She nodded encouragingly.

“I really don’t think…”

“I will fasten it for you.” Her mother took the locket from her daughter’s hand and closed the chain about Lily’s neck. The gold-encased portrait came to rest on the green taffeta, nestled between her breasts.

“There. You can wear it near your heart.”

The weight of the locket dragged against her neck. So heavy for something so small.

What had she done?

Lily was quiet as the carriage took them home through the streets of Mayfair. Her mother was vexed with her—that much was clear in the way her lips were tightly pinched together, the way she avoided looking at her daughter.

At last Lady Fernhaven turned stiffly. “You could have been more helpful, Lily. Really, one would almost think you did not want this match to succeed. Making a mention of your botanical work after I specifically warned you—and accusing the countess of an interest in horticulture! I nearly thought she would see us out then and there.”

Lily stared straight ahead. The countess was going to have to make some adjustments to her way of thinking about lady painters. Lily had a mind to show her some of the sketches she had done illustrating the differences in root structure between hybrid and climbing roses. How refined would she consider roses once she had seen them with their earthy parts on display?

Her mother shook her head. “We were fortunate I was able to divert the conversation. It was a very narrow escape.”

“You think she approved then—despite my painting?”

“She would have never given you the locket if she had deemed you unsuitable. Still, it is a good thing you will be going abroad with your uncle. There will be far fewer chances for you to make a misstep that could jeopardize our plans.”

“Mother, I need to tell you—”

“And speaking of plans, here we are.” Lady Fernhaven pulled back the curtain as the carriage slowed.

Lily looked out the window. They were in an area of fashionable shops—nowhere near the Fernhaven residence. “Where are we?”

“Why, at the modiste’s, of course. We need to have the preliminary fittings for your wedding gown so they can begin on it while you are away.”

“You have chosen my wedding gown? But there is not even a groom yet.”

“Really, darling, one must be practical about these things. He will call on you, and he will offer. It has all been arranged. And of course I have not chosen your gown—I have merely made a few preliminary selections. Do not frown so, it is hardly becoming. I want Madame Voisseur to see what lovely features you have.”

A few minutes later Lily, dressed in her shift—and her frown—stood before the modiste. The quick, beak-nosed woman fluttered around her like a bird.

“So petite, the waist,” Madame Voisseur said as she drew the tape tightly around Lily. “You have a lovely figure—it will look well in the beautiful gown. Your husband will be most pleased to see you coming up the aisle—a vision of beauty. And your neck, so slender. Marchioness, your daughter will be a beautiful bride.” She pulled the tape around Lily’s breasts, pausing to glance at the gold locket. “Such a lovely trinket. Whose picture does it hold, I wonder?”

Lily held her breath, trying to keep her chest very still. Would this woman never be finished?

“It is a portrait of her betrothed,” Lady Fernhaven said.

Lily exhaled in annoyance. “Mother. We are not betrothed.”

“Of course, darling. Open it and show Madame Voisseur.”

The modiste craned her neck as Lily sprang the catch. “Ah
oui
. Very lordly. And the eyes—so remarkable. What a lucky girl you are.”

Lily snapped the portrait closed. “I beg your pardon, Madame, but I do not think I can continue much longer.”

“Certainly,
ma petite
. We will just measure here, and lift your arms once more.
Bien
. That will do for now.”

This was impossible. Not just the fitting—the entire production. Lily felt like a moth that had blundered into the middle of a spider’s web, and her mother was blithely spinning more plans, more sticky strands. If she remained, soon she would not be able to breathe, or move, or think. Lily touched the locket, felt its cold through the thin fabric of her shift. Already the paralysis was setting in.

The sky lowered and it began to snow on the way home from the modiste. Lily looked out at the shivering gray buildings and leafless avenue trees and imagined Tunisia: Palms capturing the red glow of sunset. Citrus and pomegranates. Ancient Roman ruins to explore and sketch. And sunlight, warm, pure sunlight on her upturned face. She should not go to Tunisia. But she certainly
could
not remain here as her last days and hours of freedom trickled away. It was simply impossible.

What right did James Huntington have to waltz into her life and do this to her? Why did his needs outweigh hers in the matter? Hadn’t her uncle begged her to reconsider the decision to stay behind? Uncle Edward needed her artistic skills for his work. And she needed to be there, with the family of her heart, if she was to have the strength to face her future.

As soon as they arrived back at the Fernhaven residence, Lily summoned Edwin. “Did the morning post go out?”

“Yes, Miss. And the afternoon post as well.”

Oh no. Lily began pacing. If only they had not stopped at the modiste…

“Are you perturbed, Miss, or are you simply expressing your distaste for the new carpet by treading upon it?”

“I am perturbed. I need to send a letter to my uncle. It is most urgent.”

“Then I will arrange for a courier to go tonight.”

She spun to face him. “Could you?”

“I have a nephew. He is young, but quite reliable, and in possession of a very fast horse. Would that do?”

Bless him. Edwin was the best ally in the whole world. “Oh yes! Thank you so much.”

He bent stiffly at the waist. “It is my pleasure, Miss Lily.”

Lily stepped into the drawing room and found a fresh sheet of paper. She dipped the pen and wrote—

I have changed my mind. Look for me at the docks on Wednesday. And don’t forget to pack the folding easel.

—Lily

Chapter 11

Southampton, England, March 1847

“That’s the last of the supplies, sir.” Sir Edward’s head gardener, Higgs, nodded toward the wooden crates being hoisted aboard the sailing steamer
Sidonia
.

Good man, thought James. Capable and reliable—just the kind he needed if he were going to haul the Strathmores and their towering piles of baggage to Tunisia and back. When he had left Brookdale with the wagon of supplies, Lady Mary had assured him they were prepared for any eventuality. Any eventuality, he thought, except one that would require them to travel quickly.

He reached into his pocket for a silver coin. “Good work Higgs. Why don’t you take the lads over for some refreshment. It’ll be the last pint you drink on English soil for some time.”

“Thank you, sir. We’ll drink to quick success and a speedy return.”

“Just keep it to one round. I want you all ready to board the moment the Strathmores arrive.” Which had better be soon—the
Sidonia
carried the British Mails through the Mediterranean and would not wait for tardy botanists.

“We’ll be just across at the Tarry Mermaid there and we’ll keep a watch out. You won’t be leaving none of us behind, sir.” Higgs beckoned to the other servants. “Come on, lads. The work’s done for a bit.”

James watched them pick their way carefully through the dockside crowd toward the tavern. They looked out of place here—men with earth seamed into their hands and green stains at their cuffs. Some of them were already as far from home as they had ever been. How would they fare plucked up and transplanted to North Africa?

“Mackerel! Fine fresh mackerel!” A fishmonger stopped his pushcart beside James. “Fish, gov’nor? Any fresher and they’d jump right out of me barrow.”

James eyed the catch. “None just now.”

The monger shrugged and continued down the dock, leaving behind a stench of things too long from the sea. The odor slowly faded, blending with the smell of tar and brine and sweat.

The ship that would carry them to Tunisia was tethered to the dock with stout hemp ropes. Amidships a walkway with railings ramped up the side. Most of the passengers had already made their way aboard and were now strolling about on deck or waving and calling out to friends and loved ones who had come to see them off. Puffs of black smoke rose from the twin stacks and several sailors were aloft in the ship’s rigging. James flipped open his pocket watch and frowned. What could be keeping the Strathmores?

A hansom cab pushed its way along the crowded quay, headed toward the
Sidonia
. It was slowed by the press, halting now for a tearful group of women embracing farewell, then again by two sailors arguing in the street. It was too small to contain the entire Strathmore family, but they could well be arriving in two vehicles.

The cab halted nearby and the footman swung down to open the door and set the steps. He moved to the back and busied himself unloading luggage—hatboxes, valises, a polished black steamer trunk. Yet no one emerged from the cab. Perhaps the ladies had arrived first and were waiting for an escort before stepping out into the crowd. James strode forward to offer assistance. Setting one foot on the bottom step, he leaned into the open doorway.

“Hello, James.”

It was a man’s voice, one all too familiar. James’s first impulse was to leap back and slam the door. It was involuntary, like that of discovering a spider crawling on one’s skin. He grabbed either side of the door, steadying himself.

“Reggie! What the devil are you doing here?”

Reginald Huntington took the cheroot from between his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Enjoying my privacy—that is, until you appeared. Tell me, coz, do you greet every arrival this way? Say, I’ll give you a shilling to carry my bags.”

James ignored the insult—Reggie was so full of them that it was useless to call him on each slight. It was the fact he had arrived with luggage that concerned James most. It left him feeling as if ice were slowly melting in the pit of his stomach.

“I didn’t know you frequented the docks,” he said. “Seems a little seedy, even for you.”

Reggie curled his lip. “It seems perfectly appropriate for you. I only wish you had the sense to realize it, instead of persisting with your sorry fortune hunting.”

The words stung even though James had endured countless variations on the theme.
Getting above yourself, James? Why James, you look almost like a gentleman on that horse borrowed from my father’s stables
. He could only imagine what Reggie would say if he learned about his attraction to Lily Strathmore—former attraction, that is. It was time to shift direction and find out what his cousin was really up to.

“So, you’ve come to see me off—how thoughtful.”

“See you off?” Reggie said. “‘Bon voyage, coz, good luck stealing my inheritance?’ I think not. You need to be watched—tiresome business though it may be. As you insist on going to Tunisia, despite my offer of better accommodations elsewhere, you leave me no choice but to come with you.”

“Steal your inheritance?” James took another step up, blocking the doorway with his shoulders. “I have no plan to cheat you out of anything, and more to the point, I have no desire to be your traveling companion. You’re not welcome here, Reggie. Go home.”

Reggie mashed out his cheroot out. “You’re hardly one to say where I can or can’t go. I’m no felon—haven’t shot the son of anyone influential lately.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “I have a ticket here that says my passage is paid. If you find my company so distasteful,
you
stay behind.”

If only it were an option. England itself seemed almost too small to contain the two of them. The last place he wanted to be was confined on ship with Reggie. “What do you hope to gain by this? You’re Lord Denby’s heir, for God’s sake. Why the obsession with one property when the entire earldom will be yours? Your father needs you—at least he would if you started acting like the heir and not a spoiled schoolboy. Go be a son to him. There’s nothing for you in Tunisia.”

Reggie laughed. “On the contrary, James. There is something I most decidedly want. The pleasure of seeing you fail. What good is my inheritance to me? I can hardly even borrow against it. Somergate would bring a splendid price—
now,
not someday in the future when my father has the courtesy to die.”

James reached and seized his cousin’s shirtfront, hauling him forward until their faces were inches apart. “How can you speak like that? Your father is alive and cares for you. Have you any idea how precious that is?” He slammed Reggie hard against the seatback. “You are a pitiful creature. I wouldn’t be you for all the wealth in England.”

Reggie wrenched himself from James’s grasp and swept up his silver-headed walking stick, raising it to strike. “I need no lecture from you, orphan. If you lay hands on me again, you will learn that I can still give as good as I get. Now stand aside before I lose my patience. I have a ship to board.”

James remained unmoving in the doorway, breathing hard, his fists doubled. He looked at his cousin in his fine coat and cuffs, knuckles white around the handle of his walking stick. How he wanted to wrench that stick out of his hands. But Reggie would not back down. Cornered, he was like a dangerous animal, and there was nothing James could do to prevent him from sailing, short of knocking him unconscious and tying him up. Tempting as that sounded, there were limits. He could not humiliate his uncle yet again by leaving the man’s heir beaten and trussed up at the docks.

Slowly, one step at a time, James forced himself to back away and out until he stood on the rough wood of the dock, arms crossed, still struggling with his own dangerous impulses. A moment later his cousin descended and straightened his coat. He held his walking stick under one arm, looking for all the world like a bored aristocrat. Only his eyes revealed his fury. When he looked at James they shone like two hard black stones.