Passionate (31 page)

Inside lay a gold locket and a creased sheet of thick vellum.

He took the locket by its chain, lifting it out of the box. It swayed and turned, catching the lamplight. He thumbed it open. A miniature portrait of a pale, weak-chinned man stared out at him, the features unfamiliar. A nephew of Lady Mary’s perhaps? If so, there wasn’t much of a family resemblance.

He set the locket aside and unfolded the paper. It was a letter.

“My Dearest Lily,”
he read, then continued, a horrible fascination dragging his eyes down the page. The phrases leapt out at him.
“Lord Buckley…perfect time of year for a wedding…finish fitting your wedding gown.”

Bloody, bloody hell.

Lily was betrothed. Had been all along.

He was on his feet, clutching the letter. How could it be possible? When he had held her, she had been planning her nuptials. When he had made love to her under the stars, she kept the image of her betrothed clasped in a golden locket.

He felt sick. He had loved her. He had even offered to marry her. With tight, controlled motions he refolded the letter and placed it back in the box.

Hollow anguish speared him, the emotion all too familiar. He should have known better. Hadn’t those he had loved always abandoned him? His parents, Amanda…Lily.

Numbly he lay back on his cot. It took a long time for the morning to come.

Lily watched James as he rode at the front of the party. He would not speak to her—would not even look at her.

Was what they had done so terrible?

It had been wonderful. All she wanted was to be enfolded in his arms again, to know there was some surety in the world, something true and solid. She had thought she had that with James. But now, after his grim and loveless proposal by the fire, it seemed a lie.

Her uncle was gravely wounded, possibly dying, and the man she had thought she loved had not offered her one word of comfort. James had become so rigidly formal. He had not spoken to her except to mouth empty words about shame and duty. She dashed an angry tear from her eye with the back of her hand. Confound the man.

It felt as though they were traveling further and further apart with every mile they rode. Yesterday had been dreadful. And today was a hundred times worse.

Well, this was how it would be. If he wanted distant formality, she would do her best to oblige him. She would pretend her heart was not breaking, take tea and wear a brittle smile. She would ride onward, trying not to be so desperately afraid each time she looked behind her at the stretcher bearing Uncle Edward.

She could not bear to lose both of them.

They rode through groves now, and the warm, sweetly perfumed air only underscored her mood—the beauty and pain of the world side-by-side. Lily had thought she would always love the smell of orange blossoms.

“Stop! Stop the horses!” It was Aunt Mary, her voice high.

“He is stirring, I swear it. Oh, Edward…” her voice dissolved in tears.

Immediately Lily was off her horse and beside the stretcher. She took Isabelle’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Make way, now,” Mrs. Hodges said, brandishing a canteen.

“Give him some room. He has to drink something.”

Aunt Mary took the canteen and coaxed water into her husband’s mouth. At first it dribbled out, as it had before, only a small movement of his throat marking that he had taken any liquid at all.

Then, suddenly, he was gulping. She let him drink a moment more then carefully pulled the canteen away.

“His eyelids fluttered. Oh Father!” Isabelle cried.

“My love,” Aunt Mary whispered over and over, stroking his face. “Come back to us.”

A moment later, Uncle Edward opened his eyes. He looked around blearily. “Here now, what’s all the fuss?” His voice wavered, and then gained strength. “Where are we? Did we find the flower? Where’s the specimen jar? I have such a terrible headache.”

The family erupted with joy. Isabelle clung to Lily. Even Mrs. Hodges was wiping her eyes. Lily could not help glancing at James. He was smiling, his expression full of warmth and relief.

Until he looked at her.

Now she was crying too, tears of joy and grief mingling on her cheeks.

When the party made ready to ride on, Uncle Edward waved his hands in protest. “I can ride, I’m certain. Just give me a hand up, a little boost. I can manage it.”

“Out of the question,” James said. “We’ll wait until a doctor says you’re fit.”

Despite her uncle’s brave words, he looked pale as he slumped back onto the stretcher. He did not make any further insistence on riding.

By late afternoon they crossed the bridge where earlier their way had been barred. It was deserted. The horses’ hooves thudded hollowly over the stones.

“We’ll make camp in the groves ahead,” James announced.

“Doctor Fenton should meet us somewhere along the road. And tomorrow we’ll reach Tunis.”

“High time,” Mrs. Hodges said. “I’m ready to leave this blasted wilderness behind. The steamer back to England couldn’t arrive too soon for me.”

Lily glanced at the silvery rows of olive trees, the curving river and stone road. It was hardly a wilderness. Though she wanted her uncle to be safe and well-cared for, part of her ached at the thought of leaving. This journey had freed something within her—something lush and open, something that chafed and rebelled when she thought of returning to London.

But there seemed no hope of recapturing what she and James had shared. She was not sure she knew him anymore—if she ever had. Returning to England, to everything known and predictable, was the only course left to her.

She slept fitfully that night. Just before dawn she heard riders clatter into camp—Dr. Fenton and Richard, accompanied by a half-dozen men.

“You must have ridden through the night!” She heard her aunt say.

“Of course, my lady,” Dr. Fenton said, “When I heard of how grievously injured he was, I came at once. Has there been any change, any at all, in his condition?”

Lily took a deep breath of the cool night air. The breeze rustled the trees reassuringly, like a mother hushing her child. She pulled the blankets up around her chin and slept.

Late morning sunbeams slanted into her tent when she woke. Lily could hear easy conversation, the clank of cooking pots, all the sounds of a morning camp. No hurried packing or urgent voices. She took a deep breath and sat up.

When she emerged from her tent she was immediately aware of James conferring with her uncle. Uncle Edward was sitting up, his color improved. James, however, still seemed drawn and haggard, a brittleness about his mouth, a rigid set to his shoulders. His gaze moved impassively over her.

Anger and hurt warred in her. Anger won. How dare he act as though she were invisible?

James nodded to her uncle, and then strode to the center of camp. He lifted his voice. “Everyone, gather round, please. I have something to say.”

Two of the servants lifted Uncle Edward’s stretcher and set him next to James. Lily remained where she was and crossed her arms, watching as the party clustered around James.

“Dr. Fenton arrived last night. He has pronounced Sir Edward out of immediate danger.” He held up a hand to still the cheering that followed his words. “The party is a half-day from Tunis, and though we did not find the valley or the flower we sought, we can be glad that we are all returning safe.” His look grew distant. Lily caught her breath. “I will be leaving you here in the capable hands of Richard and Dr. Fenton. Thank you, all of you, for coming on this expedition. I wish you an easy journey home.”

He shrugged off the questions that followed and made straight for Lily. Now he saw fit to approach her—now that he was about to abandon them?

“So, you are leaving us.”

“Yes.”

“You will not see us back to Tunis? Not stay to make sure my uncle makes a full recovery?”

“I will not.”

His curt answers were infuriating. She wanted to grab him by the lapels and drag him close—shatter the distance between them. “Then this is how a gentleman discharges his duties. By running away.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Fury? Despair? He made to turn away, then swung back to her. “I had felt obliged to offer for you,” he said stiffly.

“Obliged!” Lily narrowed her eyes. “Is that what I am? An obligation? Some burden to carry until you can safely discard it? Well, I wouldn’t have you—even if you begged me to marry you.”

“No.” His voice was icy. “I don’t suppose you would.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass box.

Her box.

“I see you recognize it. I found the items within very…enlightening. And luckily for me, I won’t be forced into a marriage with a woman I now despise.” Contempt laced his voice. “I wish your future husband joy of you.” He thrust the box into her hands and strode to his horse.

“James, wait!” She followed him. “It’s not what you think.”

His eyes were hard. “What I think doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Miss Strathmore.” He slung himself into the saddle and spurred away, dust pluming up behind as he galloped back the direction they had come.

He truly did despise her.

Covering her mouth with one hand, Lily watched as his figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

Away from her forever.

She forced herself to remain standing. Her family was watching. She could not let them know how much she hurt.

She could see Isabelle’s mouth moving, but no sound emerged. Aunt Mary came toward her, and it was as though she swam through the air, she moved so slowly. Lily could not feel her aunt’s hand under her elbow, could not taste the water in the battered metal cup. Could not remember how she had ended up mounted again, following Richard as they clattered down the old Roman road to Tunis.

She could feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Chapter 20

London, England, June 1847

Lily sat on the chintz-covered settee, awaiting her first visit from Lord Buckley.
Her future husband
. The words rang oddly in her mind. She glanced again at the clock—half past two. The appointed hour had arrived.

She ought to be feeling something, she supposed. Anticipation, curiosity, fear. She had traveled so far to end up sitting here in her mother’s parlor, waiting for a suitor she barely knew. Lily laced her fingers tightly together and glanced at her mother.

Lady Fernhaven was seated near the window. “Now, darling, try not to look so anxious. Though I daresay you are excited about finally seeing Lord Buckley.” She gave a little sigh. “I really cannot blame you. Who would have thought you’d do so well for yourself? A future countess, only think of it!”

Lily had been doing just that.

It was high time she started using her head again. Her heart had proved an unreliable compass, poor bruised and bewildered thing that it was. A useless organ, altogether. To think she would have followed
that
man anywhere.

Since her return to England, Lily had simply passed each day as it came. There was nothing else to be done. Even painting seemed too much of an effort.

“When Lord Buckley comes in, I would like him to sit next to you on the settee.” Her mother smiled. “I am certain he will be quite taken with you. And I have noticed that your travels agreed with you. You have a certain air about you now.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lily asked, not quite sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“It’s just…oh!” Lady Fernhaven rose to her feet, her attention drawn to the window. “The Buckley’s carriage has arrived. I have instructed Edwin to show them straight in.” She bustled over to Lily. “Do try and smooth your hair—and smile.”

A few moments later the butler opened the parlor door. “Lord Buckley and Countess Buckley.”

Lord Buckley stepped inside, his mother on his arm. He was shorter than Lily remembered, and his waistcoat bulged slightly over his stomach, but he was otherwise unobjectionable.

“Welcome, welcome.” Lily’s mother beamed at their visitors.

“Lord Buckley, we are so pleased you have returned to London. Lily has been greatly looking forward to your visit.”

“Yes.” Lily smiled wanly.

Lord Buckley released his mother’s arm and bent over Lady Fernhaven’s hand. “How good to see you again. You are looking as lovely as ever.”

“You are too kind, my lord. And here is Lily.”

Lily curtsied and offered her hand. He took it, bowing perfunctorily.

“Miss Strathmore.” His pale blue eyes skimmed over her.

“A pleasure, to be sure.”

She kept herself from frowning as Lord Buckley turned back to the older women. One would expect a man to give his future intended more than just a cursory glance.

“Shall we be seated?” Lily’s mother motioned Lord Buckley to the settee. “We’d be delighted to hear of your travels. Do make yourselves comfortable.”

“Certainly.” Lord Buckley guided his mother to the settee and settled beside her. Lady Fernhaven’s brows drew together.

Lily was just as happy to take the nearby chair. She could see the garden from here.

The countess turned to her son. “Do tell them about your trip. The story of the pompous majordomo.” She turned to Lady Fernhaven. “Gerald wrote me faithfully—he always does—and related the most charming anecdotes of his travels.”

“Such devotion,” Lady Fernhaven said. “Lily includes lovely sketches with her notes home. They say a picture is worth ten thousand words, you know.”

Lord Buckley sniffed. “Actually, they say a picture is worth one thousand words, isn’t that right, mother?”

“I do believe you are correct, but if she sent ten sketches that would equal ten thousand words. So Lady Fernhaven would also be correct.”

“I suppose so. If she actually sent ten.” He turned to Lily.

“Did you?”

“Pardon me?”

“Did you send ten sketches?”

“Well, no. Not ten.”

Lord Buckley nodded. “There you have it. Miss Strathmore’s sketches are not worth ten thousand words.” Apparently satisfied that he had made his point, he launched into a long tale of his travels.

Lily leaned back in her chair. It was insufferably tedious, but this—not orange blossoms and kisses beneath the stars—was the stuff real lives were made of. She forced her attention back to the room, to Lord Buckley’s voice. It was becoming clear that her marriage would not be a silent one. Perhaps, under some circumstances, a picture
was
worth more than ten thousand words.