Mary Balogh - One Night for Love

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 Spanish?"

"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.