Mary Balogh - One Night for Love

What farce was this? Neville wondered, not taking his eyes from her face. Her own eyes had widened at the sight of him and become fixed on him and she flushed—she had not been warned that he was to be here, then. But she did not lose her composure. Instead, she curtsied prettily.

"My lord," she said, first to Joseph and then to him.

He found himself bowing formally, becoming an actor in the farce. "Miss Doyle?"

He had never called her that, he realized. He had always liked her and always respected her as Sergeant Doyle's daughter, but he had always called her just Lily, as he would surely not have done if she had been the daughter of a fellow officer. He had always treated her, then, as less than a lady. Had he?

"Yes," she was saying in response to some question Joseph had asked her. "Very much, thank you, my lord. Everyone has been most obliging and I have danced all three sets so far. His grace was kind enough to lead me into the first."

How was she different—apart from her hair, which looked very pretty indeed, though Neville felt that he would mourn the loss of the wild mane once he had been given a chance to think about it. She was different in another way—oh, in a thousand other ways. She had always been graceful. But tonight she seemed elegantly graceful. There was something too about her speech. It had always been correct—she had never spoken with a vulgar accent. But tonight there was a suggestion of refinement to her voice. The main difference, though, he realized without having to give the matter a great deal of thought, was that she did not look lost or bewildered as she had always looked at Newbury Abbey. She looked poised, at her ease. She looked as if she belonged here.

"Will you dance with me… Miss Doyle?" he asked abruptly. The sets were forming, he could see.

"I am sorry, my lord," she informed him. "I have already promised this set to Mr. Farnhope."

And sure enough, there was Freddie Farnhope, hovering and looking uncomfortable but determined to stand his ground.

"Perhaps the next," Neville said.

"Thank you," she said, placing her hand on Farnhope's outstretched wrist—where had she learned to do that? "That would be pleasant, my lord."

My lord . It was the first time she had called him that. She was being formal and impersonal, as he had been with her. As if they had just met for the first time. Could Lily dance a quadrille? But it was clear to him from the first measure of music that she could. She danced it with competence and even grace—and with an endearing look of concentration on her face. As if, he thought, she had only recently learned the steps—as was doubtless the case.

Elizabeth and Lily, he understood then, had not been idle during their month in London.

The realization hurt in a strange way. He had carried on with his life at Newbury out of necessity, but he had pictured Elizabeth carrying on with hers while Lily hovered unhappily and awkwardly in the background. All month he had been contriving ways of persuading her to come back to him, ways of making life at Newbury Abbey less daunting to her. Or, failing that, he had been trying to think of what kind of life and environment would suit a young woman who had lived a sort of nomadic existence away from England all her life. He had been determined to settle her happily somewhere. He had dreamed of being her savior, of setting her own happiness above his own, of doing what was right for her.

But all the time Elizabeth and Lily between them had been doing what he had never once considered—indeed, he had resisted his mother's attempts to do so. They had been making her into a lady .

Surely she could not be happy, he thought, gazing at her sadly as she danced. Could she? Where was Lily, that happy, dreamy little fairy creature whom he had used to watch in the Peninsula with such a lifting of his spirits long before he fell in love with her? The nymph with the long hair and bare feet who had sat on the rock in Portugal, watching a bird wheeling overhead and dreaming of being borne on the wind? The bewitching woman who had stood in beauty beside the pool at the foot of the waterfall, telling him that she was not just watching the scene but was it?

She had become the dainty, elegant, alluring lady who was dancing the quadrille at a ton ball in London, smiling at Freddie Farnhope and concentrating on her steps.

"By Jove, Elizabeth," Joseph was saying, using his quizzing glass again, "she has turned into a rare beauty."

"Only to eyes attuned to ballroom beauties, Joe," Neville said, more to himself than to his cousin. "She always has been a rare beauty."

"Neville," Elizabeth said, "you may escort me to the refreshment room, if you please."

He offered her his arm and led her back toward the doors.

"Louisa must be very gratified," she said as soon as they had moved to the relative quietness of the landing beyond the ballroom. "Her ball is even more of a squeeze than it usually is. Or perhaps it is just that most people have been crowding the ballroom itself instead of wandering off to the card room or the salon as they usually do."

"Elizabeth," he asked, "why are you doing this? Why are you trying to change Lily? I liked her just as she was."

"Then you are being selfish," she said. "Yes, the refreshment room is this way. I need a glass of lemonade."

"Selfish?" He frowned.

"Of course," she said. "Perhaps Lily was not happy with herself just the way she was. But there is no question of my changing her, Neville. When one learns, one adds knowledge and accomplishments to what one already is. One enriches one's life. One grows. One does not change in fundamentals. I liked Lily as she was too. I like her as she is. She is still Lily and always will be."

"She hated being at Newbury Abbey," he said, "even though everyone tried to be kind to her. Even Mama was kind after she had recovered from the shock. She was quite prepared to take some of the burdens of being my countess off Lily's shoulders. But Lily hated it anyway—you knew that. She must hate this. I will not have her unhappy, Elizabeth, or bullied into doing what she does not want to do or into being who she does not want to be. I will settle her somewhere—in some country village, I believe—where she can live her own quiet life."

"Perhaps it is what she will choose eventually," Elizabeth said. "But perhaps not. Perhaps she will choose employment of some kind—even possibly as my permanent companion. Or perhaps she will marry despite her lack of fortune. There are any number of gentlemen this evening who appear fascinated by her."

"She will not marry," he said between his teeth. "She is my wife ."

"And you will challenge to pistols at dawn any man who feels inclined to dispute that fact," she said cheerfully as they entered the refreshment room. "Lemonade, if you please, Neville."

She was smiling when he came back to her, glass in hand.

"Thank you," she said before sipping her drink and resuming their conversation. "The point is, Neville, that Lily is twenty years old. In two months time she will be of age. Perhaps you should begin to consider not what you wish for her future but what she wishes."

"I want her to be happy ," he said. "I wish you had known her in the Peninsula, Elizabeth. Despite the conditions of her life she was the happiest, most serene person I have ever known. I want to give back to her that life of simple pleasures."

"But you cannot," she said. "Even apart from the fact that you have no say in what she does, a great deal has happened to her since those days—the death of her father, marriage to you, captivity, arrival in England, all that has happened since. She cannot go back. Allow her to go forward and find her own way."