Justin de la Mere gave a polite little cough. “It looks rather… unusual,” he said after casting a quick glance at Ravenhurst.
“A flower-fairy,” Lord Allenbright murmured behind her.
Lillian’s husband in turn looked as if he had just sunk his teeth into a particularly sour lemon.
“Ah… well…” Lord Allenbright fiddled with his chair and sat down, a faint flush covering his high cheekbones.
All through the awkward dinner that followed, Lillian kept the smile glued to her face. While the two visitors made heroic attempts at stilted conversation, Ravenhurst assumed an air of aloofness and polite boredom. The untouched food on his plate, however, belied his pretense.
He did not look at her again.
Lillian, by contrast, repeatedly peered at him from the corner of her eyes. She noticed the whiteness around his mouth and the dark circles under his eyes, which, as the evening lengthened, became even darker, the color of rotten apples. It reminded Lillian of the testimonies of beatings and worse on his smooth skin, of the thin lines of blood, of the deeper gashes where the whip had ripped off pieces of his flesh.
The blood pounded in her head, but still she smiled and smiled and gave no indication that the food crumbled to dust in her mouth.
She heaved a small sigh of relief when finally, finally the servants cleared the table. She knew propriety and convention demanded she retire to the drawing room and sip some tea while waiting for the men to finish their port and cheroots. All the same, she did not think that she would be able to stand another minute of desperate attempts at normality. So she stood, smiling—of course, smiling, all the time smiling—and said, “I am afraid I am rather exhausted this evening…”
Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere stumbled to their feet while her husband again remained seated. He reached for his glass and took a sip of his dark red wine. “Tired, my dear? Then perhaps you should not exert yourself so much.” He glanced up at her, the wineglass nonchalantly balanced on his fingertips. He raised one brow in an attempt at mockery.
But it was a sad attempt, Lillian thought. The circles under his overbright eyes were like bruises, and they were the only color on his pale skin except for the feverish slashes of red across his cheeks.
Lillian’s smile never wavered. “Will you excuse me? I would prefer to retire for the night. I should think this is in accordance with your wishes, as well.”
To their credit, Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere uttered some weak protestations. Ravenhurst just stared into his glass and frowned. “So obliging, my dear?” he murmured a little hoarsely. His eyes darted back to hers. They were very blue. So blue it made her heart hurt.
“Always,” she said softly. “Good night.”
She walked out of the room with graceful strides, for she had learned how to move gracefully even when she was weeping inside. Yet just when she closed the door, she heard the violent scraping of a chair against the floor. Before she had even reached the hall, the door banged against the wall, steps sounded on the corridor behind her, and then a large hand closed around her elbow like a band of steel.
“A word with you,” her husband rasped, and wrenched her around. He towered over her, his eyes a little wild, his body so hot she thought it would sear her skin. The scent of sandalwood and oakmoss rose to envelop her.
Calmly, Lillian looked up at him.
His fingers around her arm tightened. “My friends, they are used to being themselves at the Hall. My servants are discreet. I expect the same thing from…” He stumbled over the last words. “…my wife.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do I make myself clear?”
“I do not understand—”
He shook her. “Do not pretend ignorance with me, do you hear? Not one word will pass your lips, or else…”
The muscle in his jaw jumped again. As threats went, his was not one of the best nor the most inventive. She searched his face. It seemed to her that a slight tremor ran through his body, a quiver of muscles that had his fingers vibrating on her skin.
Perhaps he realized it for himself, since he shoved her away with an expression of disgust. “Another thing,” he said, and his contemptuous gaze swept over her curls. “I expect my wife to behave with decency. I will not have you run around like a whore.”
“Of course not,” Lillian said blandly. “My lord.”
She turned and walked away.
This time, he did not hold her back.
Chapter 10
The midday heat forced Lillian back into the garden to seek the shadows of the grove at the lake. The buzz of insects sounded in her ears, the symphony of summer, and the air was heavy with the smell of dusty earth and drying grass.
She was grateful for the hint of coolness that welcomed her when she stepped through the small gate by the stone raven. Tendrils of her brown hair lay damply against her cheeks and throat, and tiny droplets of sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts.
The cows had all huddled in the shadow of the single tree on their meadow today, and the lambs had been standing listlessly around. In fact, they were no longer lambs, no longer small, woolly bundles of energy. They had grown into little sheep, strong and sturdy.
Lillian smiled a bit while she walked down the band of grass adjacent to the gravel garden path. The green stalks tickled the soles of her bare feet, and sometimes a small flower got caught between her toes.
Yet when she neared the assembly of trees around the lake and the grassy spot on the shore where she liked to sit and dangle her feet in the water, the sound of male voices hovered in the lazy summer air. A carefree cadence they had, both voices. Speech was interwoven with low chuckles.
Lillian stopped.
There on her spot of soft grass, her husband’s friends had settled down on a big checkered blanket, a basket beside them. They had shed their jackets and waistcoats, their necks were free of the restraints of cravats, and the sleeves of their white shirts were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms sprinkled with dark and golden fuzz.
Lillian put her hand to the bark of the tree beside her.
Lord Allenbright’s pale head rested on Mr. de la Mere’s lap, and he looked so comfortable as if the muscular, nankeen-clad thigh had transformed into the softest pillow. While Allenbright read aloud from a book lying propped upon his belly, de la Mere lovingly played with his sandy-colored hair, letting the short strands run through his dark brown fingers again and again. Sometimes, though, his fingers would stray, caressing forehead or temple, or playfully tapping against a cheek. Very carefully, he traced a golden eyebrow with his forefinger, only to bend forward afterwards and place a kiss on Lord Allenbright’s forehead.
Lillian blinked.
A stray sunbeam created bluish lights in de la Mere’s short black curls. Allenbright laughed, his eyes darting up to his friend’s face. The book, momentarily forgotten, fell flat on his belly when he reached up to wind a hand around the other’s neck. With a little tug, he drew de la Mere’s head downward, his fingers caressing the short hair at the man’s nape.
Their lips met and parted, nibbled and teased each other, until husky chuckles rumbled in the men’s chests.
Allenbright’s hand glided from de la Mere’s nape to his face, cupped his cheek, and finally their mouths met and clung, and the kiss went on and on.
Lillian could see the underside of Lord Allenbright’s chin, a bit of de la Mere’s cheek where his shoulder did not block the view, and her heart missed a beat. They were a statue come alive, a statue from another garden, overgrown and long forgotten, the limbs of marble lovers intertwining, a memento of bygone ages and bygone love.
I did not know… Lillian’s finger spasmed against the rough bark of the tree. I did not know such love exists for real. So beautiful it hurts… The wonder of it, and the beauty, made her eyes sting.
The men changed the angle of their kiss; a smile dimpled de la Mere’s cheek. Then they broke apart, smiling, both of them, until Lord Allenbright looked up and noticed Lil
lian standing between the trees. Abruptly, he sat up, his radiant smile momentarily dimmed. He murmured something, and de la Mere’s head whipped around, and he also stared at her. A dark frown settled on de la Mere’s features. Lillian saw his lips move, a curse maybe, and Allenbright reached over to grip his friend’s thigh.
Lillian tilted her head to the side.
It looked very much like reassurance, this gesture, intimate reassurance, a large hand curved over a thigh.
Then Lord Allenbright turned back to her, all smiles again, and waved. “A good day to you, Lady Ravenhurst.” His voice was strong and clear, yet with a hint of defiance.
Why he should feel defensive, though, was beyond her. So much beauty after all the ugliness she had seen… She felt herself irresistibly drawn to these men, as if the unadulterated joy she had just witnessed could rub off on her. Just a little bit… Her feet whispered through the grass as she approached them. “A good day to you, too. My lord. Mr. de la Mere.”
She saw how their gazes wandered from her hardly tamed curls over the grass-stained dress to her flower-bedecked feet. When he looked up, Justin de la Mere’s frown was gone. Instead, a smile tugged at the comers of his mouth.
Allenbright chuckled. “I see you really do prefer the look au naturelle, my lady.”
“Indeed I do.” She stopped a few feet from their blanket.
“And the gardens of Bair Hall are indeed a magical place.” Allenbright’s voice was laced with soft amusement, inviting her to share the joke. “Not only do elusive flower fairies tread there—no, one can also meet some… fauns.”
To her own surprise, Lillian found herself laughing. “If you say so, my lord.”
He nodded earnestly. “They meet in the garden—”
“For lunch,” de la Mere broke in, his lazy, nasal twang at odds with his twitching mouth. “Would you not like to join us, Lady Ravenhurst? We have some cold meat and chicken and Cornish pastries.”
“Oh yes, do join us.” Allenbright scrambled to his feet and offered her his hand. “Flower fairies and fauns simply must have lunch together. One of the time-honored rules of Bair Hall.”
Lillian hesitated, the joy of the moment dissolving. “I would not want… to intrude,” she said awkwardly. She took a step back. “I—”
De la Mere stood, too. “I hope you do not begrudge us our lack of manners, my lady. It would be a pleasure to talk to you awhile.”
“To get to know our best friend’s wife some better,” Allenbright added with a smile. Smiles seemed to come easily to Lord Allenbright. Charm, as well. “We would be delighted.”
Lillian twisted her hands together. “You were reading.”
“Rereading only.” One corner of de la Mere’s mouth twisted briefly.
“I see.”
“Perhaps we might discuss the joys of Mrs. Radcliffe’s literary fancies?” Allenbright coaxed. “Would you like that?”
“I…” Lillian’s gaze darted from one man to the other. They seemed genuinely friendly, these two. She dabbed at the dampness on her throat. “I am afraid I do not know any of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works.”
“Not know any novel by Mrs. Radcliffe?” Allenbright’s brows darted up. “Then you simply must join us, my lady.” Again, he offered his hand.
Lillian waited a moment more, searched his eyes. They were green and clear, without shadows lurking in their depths. Though she did not understand the powerful lure of the joy she had witnessed, she finally gave in to it. With a little sigh, she took his hand and allowed him to seat her on the blanket.
De la Mere flopped down beside her and started to rummage through the contents of the basket. “Are you hungry? With which delicacy might we tempt you?”
“Hm.” Lord Allenbright still stood, hands on his lean hips, the sunlight creating a halo of his golden hair. “Do we have delicacies that might tempt a flower fairy, Jus?” He turned to Lillian. “What do flower fairies normally eat?”
Lillian lifted her shoulders, unsure how to take their clowning. Never before had she met men like them. “Fruit,” she murmured.
“Fruit?” Golden and raven brows shot up as the men exchanged a look. Abruptly, Allenbright sat down on the blanket. “Fruit?” he repeated.
Lillian felt the hot flush of embarrassment stain her cheeks. “Fruit.” She made a vague movement with her hand in the direction of the orchards. “The raspberries have ripened. And the black currants…” Her voice trailed off. Again, she lifted her shoulders.
The men exchanged another quick look. De la Mere was the first to regain his composure. “Ahh!” he exclaimed and dived into the basket once more. “Then we’ve got exactly the right thing to tempt a flower fairy.” Triumphantly he produced a peach from the depths of the basket. “A peach!” He rummaged around some more and came up with a piece of folded white linen. “And a napkin.” With a flourish he presented fruit and cloth to Lillian.
“Thank you,” she said softly and took both.
“A Bair Hall peach.” Lord Allenbright shifted his weight and leaned back on his hands. “It’s a shame that its owner seems so reluctant to take delight in the joys of the Hall.” His voice sounded wistful.
Lillian kept her eyes downcast and watched how her hands played with the velvety soft peach. Around and around it turned, in shades of darkest red, of orange and bright yellow.
“He’s grown into a recluse, after all,” de la Mere muttered darkly. “Shuts himself up in his study all day. Works himself to death.”
Lillian suppressed a shudder. The atmosphere had changed; the clowning was gone, replaced by an almost angry intensity. She wished she had stayed in the fields and the heat. Gardens, as she should have known, provided only a false haven.
“That damned war!” Allenbright swore, but he hastened to add: “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
“It was not just the war,” his friend argued. “The war only completed what had started before. There was nothing to hold him at home.”
There was one spot on the peach where its skin was so dark that it reminded Lillian of dark, red wine. “He had his family,” she said, so softly she was surprised they heard her at all.
De la Mere’s laugh held no humor. “His family, my lady? Have you not met his family? His grandmother is a heartless cold bitch, his uncle a fat pompous ass, and his cousin a foppish young fool, more concerned with the cut of his waistcoat than the welfare of Murgatroyd.”
In London, Alexander Markham had seemed to like his cousin well enough. But then, Lillian remembered the bouts of jealousy that had surged up from time to time, when the Viscount Perrin spoke of war and manliness and the ableness of a man with his weapon.“Jus,” Lord Allenbright chided gently. “You must excuse our language, my lady. We are no longer used to a lady’s company or to refined London manners. We spend too much of our time on the wild coast of Cornwall.” There was a rueful note to his voice. “I am afraid we have spoilt our picnic party with all this talk of war and such. We planned to speak of the merits of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, did we not?”
Lillian looked up and met his earnest green eyes with her own. “It does not matter, my lord.”
“We know that you have not wed him because of any tender feelings,” Allenbright continued gently. “But you should know that Troy is a good man. The war and his imprisonment have changed him.”
The war, the imprisonment and the brand that had seared his skin.
A lily for Lillian.
Despite the warm summer day, a sliver of ice seemed to touch Lillian’s heart. Hastily, she scrambled to her feet. “I am sure you are right, my lord. Please excuse me now. I need to…” Her gaze darted past the men, even past the trees; she envisioned the small gate guarded by the stone raven, the fields and meadows that stretched far and wide. “Thank you for the… for the peach.”
Surprise registered on their faces. It did not matter. Nothing did.
Lillian felt how coldness drifted up from the earth, reached for her, seeped through her skin and chilled the blood
beneath.
“Perhaps you might want to join us again tomorrow?” Allenbright coaxed.
“Perhaps.” Her smile was fleeting, a careful show of politeness. She took a step back.
Yet her husband’s golden-haired friend was persistent. “And if you would like to read some of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, you should check the library at the Hall.” He held up the book from which he had been reading aloud before. “This one is from the library as well. Troy knows how much we enjoy Radcliffe.” He gave her one of his friendly smiles. He reminded Lillian of a puppy, all eager to please.
Suddenly, a wave of anger washed over her, anger that he could smile while for her the coldness had returned, had invaded even this garden, which she had thought safe.
“The library?” She lifted her chin. “I am afraid I do not know where the library is, my lord.”
That wiped the smile off his face.
~*~
Angrily, Lillian stomped past the fields and meadows and sought the coolness of the forest beyond. She did not mind the stones and gnarled roots that bit into the soles of her feet—indeed, the sharp little pains perfectly accompanied the bitterness inside her. The peace of her garden was disturbed, her haven destroyed.
Did they have to intrude into my world? They already have so much… The recollection of the kiss she had witnessed twisted her heart. The miracle and beauty of their love made her long for things that were not for her, had never been for her.
Lillian drew in an unsteady breath.
She felt shaken. As if her world had been turned upside down because of one little glimpse of a love so wonderful. And she, in contrast, had…
…a husband who bore her mark seared into his flesh.
No! Sick to her heart, Lillian put her hands over her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she crouched low to ground. Stop! Oh please, stop!
She willed the memories away, yet unbidden they rose, a nightmarish parade: His body, still beautiful, though shackled to Camille’s construction. The blood running down the curve of the broad back. And the mark itself, puckered and raw but the design piercingly clear.
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