He drew his shoulders up and let out his breath with a sigh. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and now she had annoyed him. He looked around the chamber and back at her. "It is an awkward thing to play newlyweds when you are little more than strangers. I hope it will be less so in time. I will arrange for a bed and I won't have you protesting over it. But perhaps for now, to escape Mrs. Gertrude's scolding, you can sleep on the divan in there. Or the floor, if you wish."
Her gaze flew to his. He teased again. His sly, subtle humor fascinated her. She laughed and inclined her head. "I may choose the floor, if the divan is too lumpy."
"We have only the finest, non-lumpy divans at Lilyvale."
They laughed together at that as he led her to the door.
"Good night, Lily." He stood close to her. She gazed up into his eyes and for that moment she could see all the emotions he tried to hide. Gratitude, regret, embarrassment. Kindness and understanding.
"Good night, James." She ducked her head and went into the other room before her own gaze gave away how she felt. There was no denying to herself that he already had her halfway charmed.
But it was no shocking thing that they got on well. He was a lonely man and she was lonely, too, and now they were co-conspirators in a broad deception. Of course they must stick together, above all else.
Chapter Three: Hearts
By week's end, the household was fully staffed again and Lily was sleeping in a bed in the room adjoining Lord Ashbourne's. The arrangement had proved awkward the first night, but a bit less awkward each night after that. They fell into a routine as the late summer days passed and cooler fall breezes began to blow in the windows.
Each night Lily would retire first, bathing and dressing for bed with the help of the lady's maid Lord Ashbourne had hired for her. Amazing, that Lily Kendall might have a lady's maid to attend to her every need. Matilda was polite and eager to please, but Lily was so used to caring for her own person she hadn't many duties for her to help with, aside from the rows of buttons Lilliana seemed to have favored on her gowns. Lily had told Lord Ashbourne as much, entreating him not to go to the expense of keeping her, but he'd told her politely but firmly that her lady's maid would stay. Lily had a feeling Matilda's presence was more a function of propriety than practicality anyway.
To her relief, he remained true to his word and saddled her with no "expectations." In fact, he maintained such a polite and cordial deference in his interactions with her that any remaining worries of unwanted advances ebbed away. Before she even realized what was happening, the worry turned to a kind of fascination with the man to whom she played wife.
Long after her lady's maid withdrew and left her to her rest, Lily would lay awake until Lord Ashbourne retired in the adjoining room. She'd lie still as a statue to listen to the soft rustles and creaks as he settled into bed, the whoosh of the curtains as Hanover drew them closed. She wished she were bold enough to leave the door ajar one night, just a little bit, to hear him better.
She told herself it was only simple curiosity, but in her heart she knew it was more than that. Lord Ashbourne was not only handsome and friendly--he was an enigma. His polished manners seemed to hint at something underneath, some power or vitality that other men of her acquaintance did not possess. By day she watched him furtively, trying to put her finger on this quality that enticed her, and at night she thought of things that made her blush. She'd contemplate the solid feel of his arm as he escorted her from the dining room, or remember the brush of his fingers against hers when he tutored her in chess. "Not that move," he would say, placing his fingers on her hand and stilling her. "Look and think again."
Think again. How could she be expected to think with those deep blue eyes pinning her down? But she thought as well as she could in order to please him. When she figured out the strategies he hinted at, his warm smiles and approving nods always stole her breath. Her chess game improved, and those expressions haunted her dreams when she finally managed to sleep.
Then, every morning Lord Ashbourne would awaken early to bathe and dress, attended by Hanover, and Lily would lie still and listen to the low male voices on the other side of the door. The conversations were usually short, concerning the weather or household matters. Hanover was in charge of the new staff and reported about the latest hires and how they were fitting in.
After the men left and the adjoining chamber grew quiet, Lily would lie abed in her nightdress pretending to read a volume of fables until Matilda arrived. Well, not completely pretending. With Lord Ashbourne's help, it had taken Lily only a few days to memorize most of the letters and the sounds they made. Now the challenge was sounding out each word until it made sense to her, a painstaking process that didn't always produce a word she recognized. But in some cases she got very quick with words she came to know. Her progress delighted him, which gave her all the more incentive to slog along.
Once Matilda arrived, she helped Lily choose and don a gown based on a host of factors that chambermaids were apparently trained to take into consideration. Weather, the day's social activities, and which color clothing Lord Ashbourne had chosen for the morning. It was a completely different experience from putting on her workaday gowns at home in London. Lilliana's gowns were the height of fashion. Ruffled, ruched marvels with high waistlines and low necklines, made with yards of airy fabric, and fancy corsets and matching chemises that seemed to float against her skin. Ornate trim, buttons and laces.
Of course there were more elaborate gowns for calling or going into the village, which they did not do very often, and less elaborate gowns for riding or sitting about her chambers. As Lily had never been on the back of a horse, she used the riding gowns for mucking around in the gardens. She felt awful the first few times she'd soiled the gowns in her work, but found them back in the armoire a few days later cleaned and good as new. Lord Ashbourne employed not one, but two laundresses in addition to Mrs. Gertrude, who helped out with all the household tasks.
In fact it was often Mrs. Gertrude who served them breakfast in the parlor. They preferred to eat there, as it was more comfortable and they were both light eaters for the first meal. After breakfast, Lord Ashbourne liked to walk, and Lily went with him unless the weather was terribly unpleasant. The first day they had walked together after breakfast--the third day she'd been at Lilyvale--her heart had nearly burst with a shuddering, rising happiness. The fresh country air, the balmy morning breeze, the lovely scenery, and Lord Ashbourne's quiet conversation about the most wonderful things.
He liked to talk about life and ponder conundrums. He talked about things like the nature of happiness, about courage, about whether God was a man or a woman. That had shocked her, but by the end of the conversation her mind had certainly opened up to new possibilities. That was the thing about talking to Lord Ashbourne. He had a way of making her thoughts begin to turn, a way of making the world look new and different to her eyes. But not every topic was surprising or complicated. Sometimes he only asked her about trivialities. Her favorite color, her favorite holiday and why she liked it. Her favorite animal. He asked some more questions about her family and she gave guarded replies, telling as much as she could.
She was always disappointed when they returned home, but Lord Ashbourne had work to do too. From what Lily could gather, he preferred to stay busy and not just gad about like so many of the wealthy gentleman of the ton. He sent off correspondence, attended meetings with local landholders, even did business in London through countless messages and notecards. They came addressed to The Right Honorable the Earl of Ashbourne, or Honble. William James Atherton, the Earl of Ashbourne, or sometimes Atherton or simply Ashbourne, depending on who wrote and what they wished from him.
He did other silent, involved work in ledgers and journals with the library doors closed. Lily used that time to garden in her plainer gowns and sunbonnets, or work in the greenhouse before the sun rose too high in the sky. Then she'd bathe before luncheon, dress in her fancier "afternoon" gown, and go
to the dining room. Lord Ashbourne was usually there, although he sometimes continued to work throughout the meal, reading papers and dictating notes to his solicitor, an elderly gentleman named Mr. Rodrick. Lily liked to watch him then too. He had an air of quiet authority and intelligence that captivated her.
The afternoons seemed long. Sometimes Lily spent more time in the greenhouse. Other times she went walking alone or went into town to visit the shops with Mrs. Gertrude or Millie, the cook's assistant. On rainy afternoons, she often curled up in the library to read. Sometimes she read there while Lord Ashbourne was still working, stealing glances at him from under her lids.
Then, as the light began to weaken, he would put his work away and Lily would feel a surging wave of anticipation. Hanover would come to light the lamps and Lily would sit next to Lord Ashbourne on the divan and read to him. At first she read simple children's books and fables he had brought her from Smeeth. One wonderful day, he presented her with Mrs. Wells Loudon's Gardening for Ladies, and she was able to read it quite well. As her reading skills grew stronger, he praised her and presented her with slightly harder works. Mysteries and mythology, some Shakespearean sonnets that made her blush.
When he praised her, she felt absolutely transported. She had never imagined she might learn to read, that she might enjoy the wondrous stories and essays he shared with her. Afterward, they would discuss the finer points of the literature and again she would be amazed by his intelligence, by the things he gleaned from the poetic, artful words. He taught her about meter and metaphor, about literary themes and conventions and ideas she hadn't even considered. Sometimes he would grow so animated and expressive that he wouldn't even notice how much closer he moved to her, or that his entire leg was pressed against hers. She would hold so still, so he wouldn't become aware of his proximity and shift away to a more proper distance. She would think to herself that she hoped Lilliana never returned.
Lilliana was the ghost that moved between them. Sometimes a pall would fall over Lord Ashbourne's face and she'd know he was thinking of her. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, so much Lily did not understand. How could Lilliana have refused such a man for a mere tradesman? Lord Ashbourne seemed the kindest, most congenial husband possible, and he had courted Lilliana, she knew. How had the woman resisted his charms? Perhaps he was a bit stuffy at the neck sometimes, but in general he was most solicitous. He had even refused to outfit Lilliana's room with a bed in favor of keeping her always at his side. It was one husband in a hundred that kept to his marriage bed and not the whorehouses or the beds of mistresses--even among the lower classes such poor marital behavior was all too common.
So why had Lady Lilliana run away across the Channel to exile in France with someone else? It made no sense, and Lily often felt a sense of indignant outrage that the woman she impersonated had behaved so badly. And not an hour went by that Lily didn't think about her returning. Whenever callers rang the bell, Lily's heart froze like a block of ice in her chest until a familiar voice or greeting thawed it. She was not ready yet to stop living this dream.
And it was a dream, pure and simple. If her father and sisters could see her now, they wouldn't believe her life. She couldn't believe it herself sometimes. And him… When she and Lord Ashbourne dined in the evenings, the candlelight would cast shadows upon his broad, impassive face, his piercing blue eyes. She would think he could never look more beautiful, and then, an hour later at chess when he smiled at her like a rogue and took her queen, she would think, Oh, yes. Even more beautiful still.
* * * * *
James rubbed his eyes and shifted in his chair. It was impossible to concentrate on work matters with her sitting across the library in her dinner dress and her little slippers crossed under her skirts. And her hair, mussed and loose as always, Mrs. Gertrude's ribbons and flowers ineffectual in taming the auburn locks. She was Lilliana, and yet not Lilliana at all. She was reserved in contrast to Lilliana's boldness, introvert to her extrovert. True to her false.
He was quite happy with the way things had sorted out. After Lilliana's betrayal, a great part of him had frozen solid, unfeeling. Every moment he spent with Lily, he felt a little of that brittle ice thaw. He was certain she felt at ease, happy, and he himself felt a great deal more relaxed too. When he wished company she was there, smiling and gazing up at him with that bright, attentive manner she had. When he wanted privacy and silence she went out of her way not to bother him. In the evenings, they retired to adjoining chambers after a cordial "good night" to one another. Then he lay in his bed and stared at the door and burned for her.
It seemed absolutely criminal that she was there, right there, and yet so untouchable. A thousand times he had reasoned that he needed to, he had to move her into a room farther away from him. But some masochistic side of him couldn't bear not to have her near, even if she wasn't available. She played the doting, amiable wife so well in every other quarter. But he was tortured every night by the idea of how she might play the wife in his arms.
He could seduce her with ease. It would be no great thing to lure her to his bed and make it so enjoyable for her that she would return willingly, night after night after night. He had imagined the very scenario a thousand times--tender kisses, reassurances, and hours of attentive and passionate lovemaking until she was a slave to his touch. But it would be unfair to her. Dishonorable. Wouldn't it? They were not truly wed, and she was not a courtesan or woman of loose morals. She was a polite and generous gardener who had agreed out of kindness to pretend to be his wife. It would not do to repay her with licentiousness…and the things he imagined doing to her were licentious indeed.
Even the way she sat so primly and held her book, the intent way she devoured the words on the pages… He had taught her to read, an achievement that both humbled and excited him. He had brought that spark of curiosity to full flame in his student and now she was literate. He had done that, and it aroused him in no small measure to see the changes in her. Unlike most of his contemporaries, an intellectual woman stimulated him. The vapid and brainless ladies of the ton were of no interest to him whatsoever. Each night when he and Lily sat together and discussed stories and poems, he felt more dangerously drawn to her. Her intellect was not greatly developed yet, but her game attempts to follow his nonconformist and sometimes complex reasonings touched his heart.
He wanted to touch her. Even to take her hand, to pull her close as they talked. It was fast reaching the point where he could barely stand her proximity.
A log shifted, drawing him from his reveries. The weather had gone colder in oncoming autumn, and the fires in Lilyvale had begun to burn brightly. If he had been alone now, in the cold and damp, how miserable he would have been. Lily put down her book and looked to the fire too, then crossed to the hearth and picked up a poker at the side.
"Lily, dearest, you must not tend the fire."
She turned to him. "It will die down if I do not rearrange the logs. I don't mind. I tended the fire at home. It was my particular chore."
He stood and crossed to her, taking the iron poker from her hands and tending the fire himself. "I do not mind doing it either, but it is not something Lilliana would have done in a century of years."
"Oh." She looked embarrassed.
"It is no matter when we are alone," he said in a very gentle tone. "But it's something you wouldn't want to do in company."
"Of course not. Sometimes I forget, even now."
"It is no matter at all," he said, poking the logs into submission. "It comes on cold now, does it not?"
"Yes, sir." Lily returned to the divan and James returned to his work, feeling awkward and frustrated. She still "Yes sir'ed" and "No sir'ed" him to distraction and afforded him the same deferential courtesy she would extend to an employer. He'd hoped they would be friends, and he supposed they were very much like friends. But sometimes, to his chagrin, that didn't feel like enough.
He cleared his throat and refocused himself on his accountings. Money b
alances and wages to be paid. He ought to hire someone to do it but he had always enjoyed the running of his households himself. It was a welcome escape from his political work in London. Politics, especially progressive politics, were like quicksilver--never in your control, running in and about your hands. The governing of the country was complex and his goals as a politician never quite reachable. The running of his manor was simple and he could have it just as he liked. Well, with the exception of a wife running off.
But even that he had managed to repair quite nicely, for the moment anyway. He glanced up at Lily once more and decided it was best to just put away his books for the evening. He looked over at the parcel he had brought back from the Tunbridge bookstall, a collection of ghost stories he had bought in honor of upcoming All Hallows' Eve. He knew they would delight her, and that would delight him as well.
At his rustling and rearranging, she looked up expectantly. He smiled and took the parcel over to present it to her with a bow he hoped she found dashing. She accepted it with an excited smile. So grateful for everything--that too set her apart from the dull ladies of the ton who had, from birth, been given everything on a silver platter. Perhaps that is why he wanted to give her so much now.
"Open it, my dear."
She undid the seal and waxed paper. She knew it was a book, as he bought them for her often. His library continued to grow. But he would let her take them when she went, let her take as many and whichever books she wanted. He didn't care to think about her leaving though, not at times like these. She clasped the book and read the title embossed across the front in bold gothic lettering.
"Ghost Stories! Oh, James, how absolutely wonderful. Might we read some right now?"
"Of course. Let's read now, in the dusk, before Hanover lights the lamps. It will be wonderfully spooky. I hear this book is the most terrifying volume in the shops just now."
She pretended a shiver and they began the first story. She read aloud as he listened. The ghost tale began in a couple's parlor. Wind was dashing rain against the windowpane and a black fog was driving in from the wood.
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