by Lydia Dare
“Ha! I’d wake up with a knife in my back.”
Simon nearly choked. “I do believe, William, that if our dear Prisca put a knife in your back, you wouldn’t wake up, but it might well be worth it.”
“Go to hell.”
He’d already been, when he thought Lily was gone for good. He was going to have to rethink this whole sending-her-away plan of his.
What if he set her up in a little house nearby? He could visit whenever he wanted, staying away when it was too dangerous for her. It was the perfect solution.
She didn’t want to leave Oliver, and she would be close enough to see the lad as often as she liked… mostly.
He couldn’t wait for her to return from the Hawthornes’ so he could tell her.
Lily gaped at the emerald green dress Prisca held up for her perusal. The beautiful silk shimmered in the afternoon light and made her catch her breath. She’d never worn anything so exquisite, and she couldn’t believe Prisca had accomplished so much in so little time. She hadn’t even taken any measurements before she left yesterday. “How did you manage this?”
Prisca beamed. “I told you. I love to sew, and I have a good eye, even if I do say so myself. Do try it on.”
Before Lily could respond, Prisca’s lady’s maid began to unbutton the back of her serviceable, blue-sprigged muslin, which paled considerably in comparison to the work of art her new friend had created.
In no time, Lily stood before a floor-length mirror admiring herself. The green silk flowed gently down her length, while, at the same time, it forced her bosom higher. Prisca was on her knees with a pincushion, hemming the bottom of the gown.
“Hum. I thought a white ribbon would finish this nicely, but now I’m thinking gold would be better. With your coloring, it will go perfectly.” Prisca stood up to examine her handiwork. “You look stunning. Almost like a duchess.”
Lily’s face grew hot. Simon didn’t even want her to stay at Westfield Hall. He certainly didn’t want to marry her. “Oh, Prisca, His Grace isn’t… I mean I’m only at Westfield Hall so the duke can become more acquainted with my nephew.”
Prisca retrieved a wide golden ribbon from her bedside table. When she returned, she wore an all-knowing smile. “It might have begun that way, Lily, but I’m certain things have changed.”
Lily shook her head. “He wants to send me back to Essex as soon as possible.”
“But you’re still here. He’s had ample time do to so. Raise your arms.” Prisca ran the gold ribbon under Lily’s bosom. “Listen, the brothers Westfield and Hawthorne were inseparable. I’ve known Blackmoor my entire life. He’s always seemed the most serious of the lot to me, but I’ve never seen him look the way he did yesterday.”
Lily frowned. “What do you mean?”
Prisca returned to her table, retrieving a pair of sewing shears. “I thought he might tear Emory limb from limb.”
She hadn’t noticed any difference in Simon. He was just as surly as he’d been since she met him. “Why?”
Prisca giggled. “Because of his attention to you. Honestly, Lily, you had to notice. Blackmoor practically dragged you away from my brother. Had you not allowed him to shove you down the hallway, he would have picked you up and carried you.”
Lily fought back the blush she knew must be creeping up her neck as the memories of what he did to her after he had her alone flooded her mind. “He seems the same overbearing brute he always was to me.”
“He has kissed you.” Prisca’s violet eyes twinkled. “I can see it on your face.”
So much for fighting back the blush. For a moment, she considered denying it, but perhaps Prisca could help. She seemed much more sophisticated than Lily, and she did seem to know how to manage men. Lily nodded. “Then he offered me a dowry to go search out a husband.”
Prisca’s smile faded. “He did not,” she said, her voice dropped dangerously low.
Lily shrugged. “So I don’t think being a duchess is in my future.”
“The lout!” Prisca almost growled herself. Then she grumbled something unintelligible, though Lily did recognize Will’s name somewhere in her hushed rant.
“I don’t need to be his duchess, Prisca. But I don’t want to leave my nephew.”
“Go search out a husband,” Prisca repeated, a frown marring her beautiful face. “Stupid Westfield scoundrels.” She started to pace the room, and then she stopped suddenly. “If that’s how he wants to play it, Lily, I say you pick up the gauntlet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Prisca shook her head. “You are beautiful. I was quite jealous of you when I first laid eyes on you. But then you were so sweet, it would be hard to hate you.”
Prisca Hawthorne thought she was beautiful? Lily couldn’t believe it, and she gaped at her friend.
“I can make certain every eligible bachelor within three villages is at the assembly hall tomorrow. We’ll see how Simon Westfield enjoys a little competition, especially when he’s the one supplying your dowry.”
Lily’s mouth fell open. “B-b-but…”
“And you won’t go back to Westfield Hall tonight.”
“I won’t? But Oliver—”
“Survived several days in Essex without you. He can manage one night with those Westfield barbarians watching after him. They’re not completely inept, just with women.”
Lily bit her bottom lip. The chances of angering Simon were enormous, but it was worth the risk of catching him. She nodded her acceptance.
Fourteen
“BILLINGS!” SIMON BELLOWED AS HE STRODE THROUGH the corridors of Westfield Hall, growing more and more anxious with every step. He’d searched her room, the music room, and half a dozen parlors, and had even walked through the gardens, but he couldn’t find Lily anywhere. The sun was about to set, and he needed to talk to her before he no longer could.
He was impatient to tell her of the plan he’d concocted, because he knew how pleased she would be that he’d come up with a solution that solved all their problems. She would be nearby. She could see young Maberley as often as she liked. And they could be together, as often as the moon allowed.
Billings appeared as if from nowhere, answering Simon’s bellow. “Yes, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Have you seen Miss Rutledge?” Simon asked as he sat down at his desk and began to open his correspondence, all of it well over a week old.
“She is still at the Hawthornes’. She sent a note, Your Grace,” the butler informed him.
Simon shuffled restlessly through his mail. “Then where is it, Billings?” He raised one sarcastic eyebrow.
The butler coughed delicately. “It wasn’t for you, Your Grace. It was for the young earl.”
“And what did it say?” Simon snapped. Why hadn’t she sent word to him? Had he well and thoroughly terrified her last night?
“I’m not sure. I didn’t open it.” Billings grew fidgety. Obviously he knew more than he let on, which only made Simon more anxious.
“I expect better from you, Billings,” Simon growled as he walked by the butler on his way out of the study. He would find out what was in that note if it was the last thing he did.
He found Oliver in the library with William, where the two were discussing the earl’s dislike of Latin. He watched them as they leaned over the boy’s Latin text. Despite Will’s lack of decorum and teasing nature, he was quite a scholar in his own right.
“Have your studies included any text on Lycanthropic lore?” William asked as he held up one finger, silently urging Simon to be quiet. Didn’t his brother know how important it was that he find out what was in that note from Lily? Why wasn’t she home?
He interrupted anyway. “Oliver, did your Aunt Lily send a note to you today?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Oliver replied, narrowing his eyes at Simon.
“And what did it say?” He tried to force the impatience from his voice. Belatedly, he remembered that the boy had senses similar to his own and could probably smell his agitation
.
“It said that Sir Herbert Hawthorne had invited her to stay for dinner and she’ll be staying the night.”
“She said what? Let me see the letter.” He held out his hand, waiting for Maberley to show him exactly what she’d sent.
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know where I left it.”
“Your aunt should be here,” Simon said under his breath, but they all heard him. Damn those overly sensitive ears.
Simon wondered which of the Hawthorne brothers had taken a liking to Lily. Probably Emory, if the besotted look on his face when he was with her was any indication.
“Billings,” he bellowed. The man appeared. “Get my horse.”
“Stop, Billings,” William said to the butler. The man waited patiently in the doorway. “Where are you going, Simon?”
“To retrieve Lily,” Simon said matter-of-factly. As though he needed to explain? Wasn’t it obvious that she should be at home? His home. With him. Under him.
“Tonight is the full moon, Simon,” Will reminded him, nodding imperceptibly at the boy.
“And?” Simon asked, still completely focused on retrieving Lily, on seeing her again, smelling her again, holding her again.
“And she’s safer where she is.”
“Why isn’t Aunt Lily safe here?” Oliver asked, his eyes darting from brother to brother.
Simon scratched his chin and gave it some thought. She probably was safer at the neighbors’. He tried to calm his beating heart.
Then he motioned to Oliver and said, “Have a seat. We need to have a talk.”
The young man asked rather intelligent questions, Simon was surprised to hear. The most poignant question of the bunch being, “Was my father really one, too?”
Just before the moon reached its highest peak, the point where it would beckon uncontrollably to those of his kind, Simon clapped Oliver on the back and asked, “Ready?”
The boy simply nodded, worry knitting his brow. As they stepped into the garden, Simon already felt the pull of the moon, the rush of power that surged through him. He looked at Oliver and knew that he felt it, too, even though the boy probably was unable to distinguish between the wildness of the event and the act of moving from humanity to… not.
Simon wound through the woods on a trail noticeable only to those of his kind. He followed his nose, noting that an elk had recently followed a similar path. Will sniffed the air and said, “No humans.”
Simon nodded. For this one event, they would all stay together. Changing was usually a solitary moment, but they feared Oliver would need guidance and the attendance of at least one of them.
Simon and Will began to remove their shirts, boots and stockings after they reached a clearing, a place devoid of shadows so there would be no trees to obscure the light of the moon. For modesty’s sake, they left on their trousers, even knowing the garments would be destroyed when they changed. On most occasions, they removed all of their clothing and left it where they could find it before the moon sank and was replaced by the sun. They became wild before the wildness could even take them. But not tonight. Tonight, they wanted to do all they could to keep Oliver calm, so they didn’t strip but instead brought extra clothes to don later.
As usual, Simon would be the first to change. As the leader of the pack, he always felt the call of the moon a little more strongly than the others.
Simon closed his eyes and lifted his face to the moon. It was then that humanity fell away and the beast was freed. His body began to change, painful as he knew it would be. Yet he did not cry out because he craved the freedom that came with changing. He wanted the clenching of muscles. He desired the lengthening of his spine. He needed the change of his face to something that was not human.
When his change was complete, he stood still and watched Maberley’s face. Fear filled his eyes. In a singular act of goodwill, he walked closer and nudged the boy’s arm with his nose. Oliver took two steps back. Simon nudged him again. It was best to let him know that the Lycans still recognized friendships, families, and loyalty. The boy would not be alone.
Oliver watched as Will went through a similar transition, changing into something more than feral, something more than wild. Simon knew the two of them, so similar in human appearance, looked similar even in Lycan form, the only distinguishing characteristic being Simon’s streak of silver hair, which followed him even into the beastly world.
Oliver cried out as he began to change, perhaps surprised by the pain, yet oddly comforted by it, if he felt at all the same way Simon did when he, himself, changed. The boy would be fine. He would be there for him. He would nurture and tutor him. He would chew up the world and spit it back out if that’s what it took for Oliver to take part in it.
When the three transformations were complete, Oliver followed Will into the darkness. Simon crested the hill, climbing higher and higher until he stood at the top overlooking Langley Downs. There Lily slept, her beautiful head on a pillow. He could imagine her scent, her feel, and the way her skin might taste behind her ear. He licked his lips, salivating a little at the thought. Even now, he was aroused at the very thought of her.
But this side of him she could never know. She could never encounter this part of him, or she would turn from him in disgust. He raised his head toward the moon and called out to her, knowing that she would not hear, that she would not understand. Yet he did. He understood it all too well.
Lily sat bolt upright in bed. What was that? She was almost certain she’d heard Simon call her name. She was obviously a candidate for Bedlam, as he was surely sound asleep at Westfield Hall.
There it was again, a feeling as if he called out to her. Lily blinked in the darkness. Then she heard a faint howl off in the distance. She rose from bed and peered out the window. High in the night sky, the full moon illuminated the countryside.
She shook her head. It was probably her imagination.
Fifteen
PRISCA HAWTHORNE DID KNOW HOW TO COMMAND a room. Lily watched in awe as her friend deftly managed the overcrowded parlor, filled with hulking Hawthorne men.
Only Sir Herbert and his oldest son, Emory, had been at dinner the night before, but now there were three others, all of them similar in build and looks. Tall, though none as tall as Simon or Will. Dark haired, ranging from a chestnut brown to nearly black. There was Mr. Garrick Hawthorne, a quiet man who, Prisca told her, had recently taken the post of vicar in a neighboring village to be closer to his family; Lieutenant Darius Hawthorne, who had returned from Waterloo the previous summer and now spent most of his time in London; and Mr. Pierce Hawthorne, a tradesman. Prisca had whispered that bit as if it were a sin. He’d made a small fortune in shipping in South Hampton.
Lily was surprised that all of their eyes seemed to follow her, as she’d never commanded this much attention in Essex. Of course, at home she wasn’t a novelty.
Despite all the activity at Langley Downs, Lily missed Simon more than she could have ever imagined. After she’d woken the night before, she’d had a difficult time getting back to sleep. She wanted nothing more than to be back at Westfield Hall so she could tiptoe into Oliver’s room, touch his cheek, and slip back out. She wanted to argue with Simon and banter with Will. But she’d lain awake, listening to the wind buffet her window, alone.
Oliver. Simon. Will. Westfield Hall. None of those things were hers. She would do well to remember that and cease her pining for a life that wasn’t, and probably never would be, hers.
What if Prisca’s elaborate plans for tonight did nothing, and Simon still wanted her to leave Hampshire? What if all his kisses had just been something to pass the time? He was known all over England for his female conquests. Would she be just another successful tryst he could add to his list?
She made her way to the large window and stared off into the distance, toward Westfield Hall.
“Why do you look so sad, Miss Rutledge?” the vicar asked, coming to stand beside her.
Lily plastered a false smile on her face. �
�Just woolgathering, Mr. Hawthorne.”
While she should have been listening to Emory and Darius banter back and forth, Prisca watched Lily talk with Garrick and tapped her chin mindlessly. There was so much to do, and not a lot of time. She’d have to find recruits.
“…Prissy?” Darius said.
Prisca’s attention snapped to her middle brother. “I know you did not just call me Prissy.” No one did that. Not anymore.
Darius chuckled. “Indeed, it was the only way to get your attention. You must have been a thousand miles away.”
“Obviously incorrect, as I am right here, Dari.”
He shook his head. “What are you up to with Miss Rutledge?”
Prisca cocked her head toward her brother. “What am I up to? I don’t think I like your insinuation.”
Darius draped his arm around her shoulders. “You’re my sister and I love you, but there’s not one generous bone in your body. So you must be up to something.”
Beside them, Emory laughed at her expense. Prisca leveled both of them with her haughtiest look. “Something you want to add, Emory?”
“No, no,” her eldest brother said, raising his hands as he backed up a step. “I think Darius has it well under control.”
Well, fine, they all thought she was looking after her own interests. That shouldn’t bother her. This was a selfless act on her part, however, whether her irritating brothers believed it or not.
Maybe she could use their unflattering view of her to Lily’s advantage. How fortuitous. “Very well, I wasn’t going to tell either of you this, but since you seem to think I only think of myself, I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
“By all means.” Darius grinned at her.
“Lily is looking for a husband, and I don’t see why it can’t be one of you.”
“She seemed so focused on rearing her nephew.” Emory’s eyes flashed across the room, landing on Lily. Prisca had to bite back a smile. This would be too easy.
“True,” she said, sliding out of Darius’ hold. “That was before Blackmoor decided to take his guardianship seriously. Besides, the boy’s bound for Harrow for the Michaelmas term. To show his gratitude for all her years of service, Simon Westfield has bestowed upon Lily a grotesquely large dowry.”