Passionate (2 page)

“Most are old men. Of those still left…” His uncle pursed his lips. “I do recall one. Sir Edward Strathmore. He and your grandfather corresponded regularly. He seemed an amiable fellow when we met. I could write a letter of introduction.”

“Good. Send it today.”

“You’ll go, then?”

James rose, feeling more himself than he had in months.

“I will.”

Chapter 2

Lily Strathmore touched her brush to the paper, streaking crimson highlights along the petals taking shape on the page. She had finished the technical studies and now was painting for her own pleasure, letting the lush, perfumed warmth of the conservatory transport her into the heart of the flower. She stepped back from the easel and considered the rich red of the
Amaryllis
. Yes, that would do nicely.

“Lily?” Her cousin Isabelle stirred on the nearby chaise.

“Do you really think your parents will take you back to London with them? The expedition wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“They won’t if I have any say in the matter. I’ve only been here a week—hardly long enough to make a start painting your father’s new specimens. I’ll find some way to stay. I always do.” Lily set her paintbrush down and smoothed back her unruly chestnut hair with both hands. “Mother only wants me back in town because she has some scheme in mind—something matrimonial, no doubt.”

“London isn’t all bad, surely. If you return you’ll be able to attend the balls and parties. While you’re dancing with dashing gentlemen, I’ll be carted around Italy with father’s precious roots and twigs.”

“At least you won’t be required to dance and make conversation with them. I’d much prefer to travel about the continent with your family. Collecting and painting flowers is far more interesting than trying to impersonate one in a ball gown.”

“So you have told me, for the hundredth time. But what about suitors? Surely you have scores of them?”

Lily exhaled. “Hardly scores. And being pursued is not so enviable when it is your mother selecting the pursuers.” Lady Fernhaven had an unerring eye for the most placid, staid, and well-bred gentlemen society had to offer. None of the men who had been allowed to present themselves over the last four seasons had made Lily feel even a momentary flutter of emotion. No, that was not precisely true. Not if one classified boredom as an emotion.

“Don’t worry,” she added, seeing her cousin’s serious expression. “When your season comes you’ll have a lovely time and dozens of handsome suitors, I promise.”

“Do you think so? I will pass?” Isabelle was due to make her come-out next year and cherished notions of London.

“Quite well.”

Isabelle’s sparkling nature, her golden hair and fair complexion, would be well received by society. No doubt her cousin would have a throng of suitors. Lily did not envy her at all.

She took up her brush again and swirled it in a pan of deep green—the leaves needed more shading to bring the flower out. The delicate brushwork took all her attention.

A gentle hand fell on Lily’s shoulder, drawing her out of the world of shadow and tint and back into the conservatory. How long had it been? She looked up to see her Aunt Mary smiling.

“The painting is lovely, my dear,” her aunt said. Her gaze shifted to her daughter. “Isabelle, your brother is about to go riding and wonders if you would join him.”

“Of course.” Isabelle jumped up. “It must have stopped raining.”

Aunt Mary took the seat her daughter had vacated and gave Lily a searching look. “Your parents seem set on taking you back to London.”

“No doubt Mother has another perfect prospect waiting. Perfect, that is, until we actually meet. With all the men in town, you’d think there would be someone. At this rate, I won’t ever marry.”

“There is no one? With your younger sister now wed, you are the only daughter left at home. Have you considered what that means?”

Lily set her brush down. “In what way? I don’t relish the idea of ending up a spinster—but at least there would be plenty of time for painting. Life without a husband is better, in my estimation, than life with the wrong husband.”

“That seems a lonely choice, my dear.”

Lily shrugged. “I have come to terms with the idea.”

Her hand smoothed her painting apron. She had always thought there would be someone for her, and children, too. But, as her mother so frequently reminded her, she was four-and-twenty—perilously close to being on the shelf. Her chances of making a match that would satisfy both her mother and herself were growing slimmer each day. Yet she could not bring herself to encourage the stuffy, self-absorbed aristocrats she was paraded before. She knew her duty was to make a match that would enhance her family’s status and her father’s position in Parliament, yet she had always believed that there should be something more.

Aunt Mary studied her. “You realize your sister’s marriage changes your own situation.”

“How so? Beyond the fact that I will now bear the full brunt of Mother’s matchmaking.”

A look of sympathy passed across her aunt’s features. “You are the last unmarried daughter. Your mother may soon stop trying to see you wed and instead turn her focus toward seeing that you are ready to tend her—and your father—into their old age. The freedom of spinsterhood comes only after your obligation to your parents has ended. That might be very late in your life.”

Or not at all. The muscles in Lily’s jaw tightened. She had not fully considered it before, but her aunt was right. Horribly right.

Her mother was never an easy person to live with. The thought of playing the dutiful daughter, of fetching and carrying and accompanying her on an endless round of social calls…Lily shook her head. It was simply impossible.

“I’d imagined the opportunity to travel, to paint—not play nursemaid and companion to my parents.”

Aunt Mary met her eyes directly. “I thought it best that you understand the situation clearly, my dear, especially with your parents’ visit coming to a close. They would like a word with you in the drawing room. I expect you’ll want to freshen up.”

Lily entered the drawing room to find her father standing before the window, staring out at a patch of blue framed by dark clouds. Her mother sat in the wingback near him, hands folded in her lap, waiting. To pounce, no doubt. They were both dressed for travel, Lady Fernhaven, as always, in the first order of fashion. Her sea-green silk walking dress was a perfect match for her eyes—an unusual hue that Lily had inherited.

“There you are, darling. Come in. Your father and I have been discussing your future. You know we only have your best interests at heart. Really, you cannot afford to rusticate out here any longer. Look at you.”

Lily followed her mother’s gaze down to her hands. Despite her efforts she had not been able to completely remove the crimson and viridian stains the paints had left on her fingers. She curled them into her palms and met her mother’s eyes.

“Mother, I came here to document Uncle Edward’s new botanical specimens. It’s important work. The publications of his papers with my illustrations have been well-received.”

Lady Fernhaven’s lips tightened. “That is all very well, but you have more important things to consider. Time is not standing still, Lily. I fear soon it will be too late.”

Usually Lily had a ready reply, but her conversation with Aunt Mary had been sobering. She looked at the woman before her, tense as a coiled spring, then to her father standing motionless and unreadable. Then past both of them.

Outside, the gardens at Brookdale Manor were awakening. Hardy green spikes of woodland hyacinth poked through the brown carpet of leaves and the thin spears of crocus were well up, bearing their promise of jewel-bright yellow and purple flowers.

What promise did her future hold? None—unless she chose a different course. Spinsterhood would be a marriage of sorts, a marriage to her father and mother—chilling thought. She might not be able to find that elusive someone, but she could certainly do better than these two. Truly, they were partners even less suitable than the gentlemen who had called upon her. As a married woman she would at least be a lady in her own right.

Lily focused back on her mother. “Who is it this time? You no doubt have someone in mind, having eliminated the fortune-hunters and untitled younger sons, of course.”

Lady Fernhaven fixed her with a sharp look. “I am sure you recall my dear friend Countess Buckley. We find ourselves with a similar problem. Her son, Lord Gerald Buckley, is a most agreeable young man. The two of you would suit admirably, Lily. He is heir to a very respectable estate and title. You are the daughter of a marquis, a lady of good family and breeding.”

Her father left his refuge among the curtains. “I have to agree. We fear you are heading for spinsterhood if you do not mend your ways. At your insistence, we have given you a great deal of freedom—perhaps too much. It is past time to take up the responsibilities of your position in society.”

Lily tried to read his face, searching in vain for the understanding she usually found there.

Lady Fernhaven continued. “Lord Buckley is presently sightseeing in America. His mother assures me he intends to call upon you when he returns. They correspond regularly and the situation appears very promising.”

“Very promising? Is he kind, Mother? Does he treat his servants and horses well? Will he love his wife and children more than a bottle of brandy?”

“Really, Lily, you do carry on. You are the most particular girl a mother could be burdened with. The Buckleys are a very old and well-respected family. He’ll be an earl, for goodness sake.”

Lily folded her arms. She knew very little about Lord Buckley, and only vaguely recalled sitting at supper with him—had it been last season, or the one before? He had not left a
bad
impression. He had not left much of an impression at all. She knew he did not spend much time in London, but then, neither did she. Did he also flee a mother who sought to manage his life? Lily was acquainted with Countess Buckley—it was entirely possible.

“And if I refuse to entertain Lord Buckley’s company?”

Her father spoke. “Then I hope you had the foresight to pack your valise. You will return with us to London immediately and remain there.”

She narrowed her eyes at him—the betrayer—but his jaw was set, his mind made up.

“What about my painting? And the botanical expedition? Uncle Edward needs me.”

“We have spoken to him,” her father said. “He understands the situation—understands that he will have to find another illustrator.”

“You aren’t serious. You can’t be. It isn’t necessary—”

“It is necessary. I’m sorry, Lily.”

She turned and began pacing, a habit her mother deplored. Her parents were determined. And united. It was so uncharacteristic of them. No wonder her aunt had tried to prepare her. Now Lily was fenced in by her mother, and her father guarded the gate.

Could any husband be more intolerable than this pair? Maybe she had been wrong to reject all those men. There had been some kind ones, some handsome ones—there must have been. She should have just chosen one and been done with it.

Possible and probable futures swirled through her mind. The room was suddenly quiet but for the coal hissing in the grate, the swish of her skirts and the sound of her pacing feet. Whichever step she took—right now, under the combined scrutiny of her parents—could set her course for the rest of her life.

Which life did she choose?

Lily pivoted to face her mother. “When is Lord Buckley due to return to London?”

Calculation leapt in Lady Fernhaven’s eyes. “Sometime mid-season, I believe. June at the latest. What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything—not yet.” She could not endure the triumph unfolding across her mother’s face. Lily began pacing again. “And he has expressed interest in, ah, arranging a union?”

“Yes.” Her mother leaned forward in her chair.

Lily’s heartbeat sped faster than her steps. Marriage was the only way to avoid becoming a spinster. She shot a glance at her mother. And becoming a spinster was not an option. While she had not anticipated that today would be the day she agreed to wed, there did seem to be advantages. What better way to avoid the pressure to make a match than by making one?

She stopped in front her parents. “If Lord Buckley and I had an understanding, it wouldn’t be necessary for me to spend the season in town. It wouldn’t even be wise for me to dance and converse with other unmarried gentlemen while he was away.”

“Where are you headed with this?” her father asked.

“If I’m agreeable and Lord Buckley is agreeable, then there really is no reason to parade about the salons and ballrooms of London. I might as well continue here, painting.” She widened her eyes and looked directly at her father. “Don’t you think?”

“Well…” He glanced at Lily’s mother. “She does have a point.”

“No she doesn’t. She will just waste the season painting pictures of foliage and then refuse Lord Buckley when he returns.”

“I will not refuse him, mother. I’ll accept Lord Buckley’s suit—on the condition that I can remain here to finish my work, and accompany Uncle Edward’s field expedition next month.”

There. It hardly seemed possible she had said the words.

“You will?” Exultation flashed in Lady Fernhaven’s eyes. “You will!” Turning to her husband, she said, “Didn’t I tell you she would come around if only you would side with me?” She rose with a rustle of silk and took Lily’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “You will not regret this, darling. Lord Buckley is a very wise choice. If you will agree to his proposal of marriage, then I think you may be spared the rigors of the London season. In fact, you are right. With Lord Buckley away, your absence will be all to the good. We will, of course, expect you back in town upon his arrival.”

“Of course, Mother.”

Her father stepped forward and took Lily by the shoulders.

“We will hold you to your word.”

“I know. I intend to keep it.” Oh heavens. What had she just done?

He pulled her into an embrace. “We’ll see you in town before you go abroad.”