One Night for Love

by Mary Balogh

  Sheer stubbornness kept her going. She would not admit defeat. She even insisted upon sitting at her lessons all through the morning following the ball even though it had been almost dawn when they arrived home and Elizabeth had suggested sending a note to stop the tutor from coming.

  And she sat at her music lesson immediately after luncheon. The pianoforte was proving equally frustrating. At first it had been wonderful just to be able to depress the keys and learn their names. She had felt that she had somehow begun to unravel the mystery of music. It had been exhilarating to learn scales, to practice playing them smoothly and with the correct fingering and the fingers correctly arched, her spine and her feet and her head held just so. It had been sheer magic to play an actual melody with her right hand and to be able to tell herself that she could play the pianoforte. But then had come the demon of the left hand, which played something simultaneously with the right hand but different from it. How could she divide her attention between the two and play both correctly? It was akin to the old game the army children had used to laugh over—of trying to rub one’s stomach and pat one’s head both at the same time.

  But she persevered. She would learn to play. She would never be a great musician. She probably would never be good enough even to play to a drawing room audience, as most ladies seemed able to do. But she was determined to be able to play correctly and somewhat musically for her own satisfaction.

  She had been playing the same Bach finger exercise over and over for half an hour. Every time her teacher stopped her to point out an error or commented adversely on what she had done when she played through it without interruption she felt ready to indulge in a tantrum, to hurl the music and some abuse at his head, to declare that she never wanted to touch a pianoforte keyboard ever again, to yell that she just did not care. But every time she listened and tried one more time. She recognized her tiredness—not only had the night been short, but she had lain awake thinking about him—and her anxiety. He was to call later. He had a gift for her. How could she see him again without crumbling, without showing him how very weak she was?

  But she played on. And finally she succeeded in playing, not only without interruption, but with what she considered more competence than ever before. She lowered her hands to her lap when she was finished and waited for the verdict.

  “Wonderful!” he exclaimed.

  Her head whipped back over her shoulder. He was standing in the open doorway of the drawing room with Elizabeth, looking both astonished and pleased.

  “This is what you have been doing with your time, Lily?” he asked.

  She got to her feet and curtsied to him. If there had been a deep black hole at her feet, she would gladly have jumped into it. She had been caught practicing an exercise that a five-year-old would surely be able to play with twice the competence. She glanced reproachfully at Elizabeth.

  “I believe, Mr. Stanwick,” Elizabeth said to the music teacher, “Miss Doyle will agree to release you early today. Lily?”

  Lily nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Stanwick.”

  Elizabeth went, quite unnecessarily, to see him on his way, and did not come back immediately.

  “That sounded very pretty,” Neville said.

  “It was a very elementary exercise,” she said, “which I played indifferently well, my lord.”

  “Yes,” he agreed gravely, “it was and you did.”

  And so he had taken argument away from her as a weapon. She felt indignant then. Had he paid her a compliment only to withdraw it?

  “And all within one month,” he continued. “It is an extraordinary achievement, Lily. And you have learned how to mingle with high society with grace and ease—as well as how to dance. What else have you been doing?”

  “I have been learning to read and write,” she said, lifting her chin. “I can do neither even indifferently well—yet.”

  He smiled at her. “I remember your saying—it was at the cottage,” he said, “that you thought it must be the most wonderful feeling in the world to be able to read and write. I missed my cue then. It was no idle dream, was it? I thought all you needed was freedom and the soothing balm of wild nature.”

  She half turned from him and sat down on the edge of the pianoforte bench. She did not want to be reminded of the cottage. Those memories were her greatest weakness.

  “How is Lauren?” she asked—had she asked him that last night?

  “Well,” he said.

  She was examining the backs of her hands. “Are you—is there to be a summer wedding?” she asked without ever intending to.

  “Between Lauren and me?” he said. “No, Lily.”

  She had not realized how much she had feared it until she heard his answer, though of course he had not said there would not be an autumn wedding or a winter one or …

  “Why not?” she asked him.

  “Because I am already married,” he said quietly.

  Lily felt as if her insides had somersaulted. But it was exactly the way he had talked at Newbury. Nothing had changed. If he were to ask her again what he had asked there, her answer would be the same. It could not change.

  “I have brought you the gift I mentioned last evening,” he said, walking a little closer to her. Glancing at him she could see that he carried a package. He held it out to her.

  He had said it was nothing personal. If it were, she must refuse it. He had bought her clothes and shoes when she was at Newbury Abbey, and she had kept them. But that was different. She had thought herself to be his legal wife at that time. Now she was a single woman in company with a single gentleman and could not accept gifts from him. But she lifted one arm and took the package.

  She knew what it was as soon as she opened the wrapping, even though it was faded and misshapen and unnaturally clean. But she asked the question anyway as she set her hand flat on top of it.

  “Papa’s?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am afraid the contents are all gone, Lily. This is all I could retrieve for you. But I thought you would wish to have it anyway.”

  “Yes.” There was a painful aching in her throat. “Yes. Thank you. Oh, thank you.” She watched a dark wet spot spreading on the pack and blotted it with one finger. “Thank you.” She stumbled to her feet and had her arms about his neck and her face among the folds of his cravat before she realized what she was doing. His arms came firmly about her. She clutched the pack tightly in one hand and felt the link of security there had been during those years in the Peninsula—her father, Major Lord Newbury, and herself. They had not been carefree years—war could never be anything but horrifying—but nostalgia washed over her nonetheless. She had her eyes tightly shut almost as if she were willing herself to be back there in that life when she opened them.

  He let her go when she had recovered herself, and she sat on the stool again.

  “I am sorry about the contents,” he said. “I am sorry you will never know what your father kept there for you.”

  “Where did you find it?” she asked.

  “It had been sent to your grandfather at Leavenscourt in Leicestershire,” he told her. “He was a groom there. He died before your father, I am afraid, and his son, your father’s brother, died soon after. But you have an aunt still living there, Lily, and two cousins. Your aunt had the pack.”

  She had relatives of her own—an aunt and two cousins. The thought should excite her, Lily supposed. Perhaps in time it would. But she was too full of grief for her father at the moment. She had never properly grieved for him, she realized. She had married a mere three hours after his death, and a few hours after that the long, long nightmare had begun when she had been shot above the heart. She had never had a chance fully to realize the enormity of her loss.

  “I miss him,” she said.

  “I do too, Lily.” He had gone to lean against the far end of the pianoforte. “But you have at least something now by which to remember him. What happened to your locket? Did the French take it—or the Spa
nish?”

  “Manuel,” she said. “But he returned it to me when I was released. It is broken, though. The chain snapped when he tore it from my neck.”

  She heard him suck in his breath. “You always wore it,” he said. “Was it a gift from your father or mother?”

  “From both, I suppose,” she said. “I have always had it, for as far back as I can remember. Papa used to say I must always wear it, that I must never take it off or lose it.”

  “But the chain is broken,” he said. “You must wear the locket again, Lily, as a more personal remembrance of both your parents. Will you allow me to take it to a jeweler to have the chain mended?”

  She hesitated. She would trust him even with her life, but she could not bear the thought of allowing the locket out of her possession again. She had been stripped of clothes when she was first taken by the Spanish, but she had felt most naked when Manuel had torn the locket from her neck. She had felt that part of herself had been ripped away.

  “Better still,” Neville said, reading her hesitation correctly, “will you allow me to escort you to a jeweler’s, Lily, to have the chain mended? I would not doubt it can be done on the spot while you watch.”

  She looked at him and trusted him and forgot for the moment the barrier that must forever be kept between them. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Neville.” And she sucked her lower lip between her teeth as their eyes met and held. She felt as if she had spoken an endearment; he looked as if he had heard one.

  But the door opened at that opportune moment and Elizabeth came into the room, smiling cheerfully. “Oh, dear,” she said, “Mr. Stanwick does like to talk when one gives him the opportunity. Do forgive me for abandoning you, Neville. But I daresay Lily has kept you entertained. She has become adept at social conversation.”

  “I am not complaining,” Neville told her.

  “Let us all go to my sitting room for tea,” Elizabeth suggested. “There is a fire burning there. It is a rather chilly day for summer, is it not? Damp too.”

  Lily’s eyes went to the drawing room window. It was indeed a gray, cloudy day. There were raindrops on the glass though it appeared that it was not raining at that moment. The weather had depressed her all morning, she remembered. Yet she had had the distinct impression that the sun had been shining this afternoon. She had been mistaken.

  Elizabeth had always openly admitted to Neville that he was her favorite nephew. She wished for his happiness, he knew. He knew too that she was aware of the depth of his feelings for Lily. But she would not press Lily to come back to him. She had too great an integrity for that. She had set herself to giving Lily the opportunity to learn skills and acquire confidence so that she could choose her future for herself. If Lily chose to marry him, Elizabeth would be pleased. If she chose not to do so, Elizabeth would support her.

  Women, when they banded together, Neville thought ruefully, could be as easily moved as the Rock of Gibraltar.

  He was eager to take Lily to a jeweler’s. He knew that the locket was precious to her and he wanted to help restore it to her whole so that she could wear it again. That was his main motive, he was quite sure. There was also, of course, the excuse the expedition would give him to spend some time with Lily again.

  But the following day would not do at all, Elizabeth informed him during tea on the afternoon he had brought Doyle’s pack. Lily would be busy all morning with her lessons, and there was the Fogies’ garden party in the afternoon. She would need Lily to attend her for that occasion. And the following day there were the morning lessons and a dancing lesson during the afternoon. It was also to be the day of the week on which Elizabeth was regularly at home to callers, and this week she would have Lily sit with her and help her entertain.

  The best Neville could do, since he had not received an invitation to the garden party, was call at Elizabeth’s the following afternoon and sit drinking tea and conversing with a group of visitors that did not include Lily. It was not until the next afternoon that she was finally declared free to go with him to a jeweler’s. And even then Elizabeth would have accompanied them if he had not been able to assure her that he would be taking an open carriage with his groom up behind.

  Elizabeth, of course, had always been a high stickler. But she was treating Lily more like a treasured ward than a paid companion. It was frustrating, but Neville found himself glad of it too. All too many young blades had called for tea at Elizabeth’s with no other apparent reason for doing so than a wish to ogle Lily.

  The sun was shining again at last on the appointed afternoon, and Lily was wearing an attractive and extremely fashionable green dress with a straw bonnet. Neville handed her into his phaeton and took his seat beside her before taking the ribbons from his groom’s hand and waiting for the boy to clamber up behind.

  “Tell me the truth, Lily,” he said as they drove in the direction of Bond Street. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She considered her answer. “I feel … at ease,” she said. “I feel that I can now mingle with almost any company in which I happen to find myself during the rest of my life. It is a good feeling, my lord.”

  “And are you learning all you wished to learn?” he asked her.

  “By no means,” she said. “I doubt one can ever learn or even be in the process of learning all the fascinating facts and mysteries of life. I am learning far more slowly than I expected. I can barely read and yet I have been having lessons for over a month. Yet every day when I become frustrated and unhappy with myself I remember how I have always yearned for knowledge and skills. And I remember how very fortunate I am to be able to satisfy my yearning at last.”

  He sighed. “I did not want you to change, Lily,” he said. “I liked you just as you were. But when I told Elizabeth that, she pointed out to me how selfish I was being. And I must admit that it is a delight to see you at your ease, as you put it.” He smiled across at her. “And I do like your hair that way.”

  “So do I.” She smiled gaily and raised one gloved hand in greeting to two ladies who were emerging from a milliner’s shop. At the same moment George Brigham, who was passing on the street, touched the brim of his hat with his cane and inclined his head to Lily.

  She was looking like and she was being treated like a young lady of ton, Neville realized. Her own courage and Elizabeth’s encouragement had brought her out of hiding and she was at ease. He would have sheltered and protected her and made her forever uncomfortable and unhappy. It was not a pleasant admission to make to himself.

  He escorted her into the shop of the jeweler he had selected as the best and explained that Miss Doyle would rather not leave her locket to be collected later, but would like to watch as the chain was mended. And so they were given seats, and the precious piece did not leave her sight.

  The locket was gold. So was the chain. It was not the sort of trinket one would expect to have been within the means of a soldier who had not even had a sergeant’s pay when it had been purchased. Neville had seen it dozens of times about Lily’s neck. It had seemed a part of her. It had never occurred to him to wonder about it. There was some sort of intricate design on the outside of the locket, but he did not attempt to lean close enough to examine it. For some reason Lily guarded its privacy. He would respect her wishes.

  He paid for the work when it was finished, and she put the locket carefully back inside her reticule.

  “You are not going to wear it?” he asked her as they left the shop.

  “I have not worn it for so long,” she said, “that I wish to choose some special occasion on which to wear it for the first time again. I do not know when. I will think of the right time.”

  “Let me take you to Gunter’s for an ice?” he asked.

  She bit her lip, but she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, my lord. And thank you for having my locket mended. You are very kind.”

  He stopped on the pavement with her and bent his head closer to hers so that he could look into her eyes.

  “Lily,”
he said, “do not deceive yourself into thinking I acted from kindness. I have been selfish again. When you wear the locket once more, I hope—indeed, I believe—that you will remember not only your mama and papa but also the man who will always consider himself your husband.”

  “Oh, don’t,” she said quickly, gazing back at him with wide blue eyes.

  “But you will remember that, will you not?” he said.

  She did not answer him, but she nodded almost imperceptibly after a few moments.

  Lily had been dreading the afternoon. She had prayed that Elizabeth would go with them. After the question of the carriage had been settled, she had prayed for rain so that he would be forced to bring a closed carriage and Elizabeth would have to accompany them after all.

  She was so very weak. It was so difficult to see him, to speak with him, to be alone with him and not reveal her true feelings to him. It was an agony to know that these memories of him would cling about her with almost unbearable pain once he had gone home again. She did not need more memories. She already had far too many.

  But in the event she was finding the afternoon quite magical. The weather had turned summery again after several days of gloom and intermittent rain. Riding in an open phaeton and feeling the warmth of the sun and seeing its brightness gave a wonderful lift to her spirits. So did his company.

  But it was something else that created the magic. An idea had struck her and excited her, and she could not help but be buoyed up by it even though she knew she must return home and think carefully about it before in any way acting upon it.