Mary Balogh - One Night for Love

"Mr. Dorsey?" Elizabeth asked.

"None other." His grace had folded the letter and held it in his lap. His gaze had returned to Lily. "We were foolish enough to believe that our marriage would protect her from him. The opposite was, of course, true."

"She was afraid to go home and take the baby with her," Neville said. "She was waiting for her husband to return from the West Indies—she had written to him there to tell him of her condition. In the meantime she left the baby with the Doyles. She must have intended to write to her husband again after she returned home. But he was an officer and therefore always in danger of death. And she must have been very fearful for her own safety. And so she left her locket with the baby and a letter to be given to her husband on his return or to her daughter in the event that neither of them ever came for her."

"I always suspected," his grace said, "that her death was no accident. I suspected too that Dorsey had killed her. She had indeed written to tell me there was to be a child—but if she wrote another letter, I certainly did not receive it. When she died there was no child within her, and no one knew of any recently born to her. She might have been mistaken when she wrote that first letter, I realized, or she might have miscarried. But somehow I have always known that there was a child, that there was someone in this world who was my son or my daughter. I explored every possibility I could think of—but I did not know about Beatrice Doyle."

"Lyndon," Elizabeth asked, "is it Mr. Dorsey who has tried to kill Lily, then? But surely not. I cannot believe such a thing of him."

"Onslow is bedridden," Neville said. "Probably it was into Dorsey's hands that William Doyle placed the letter. He would have discovered the truth then, though it would not have appeared very awful to him because Lily was dead. I do wonder, though, if William Doyle's death was accidental. He might have made some awkward claims on Onslow for the years of support given his granddaughter. The vicar at Leavenscourt is perhaps fortunate to be still alive. But then, of course, came Lily's sudden appearance at Newbury. Dorsey was there in the church too. He saw what Portfrey saw and must have realized the truth immediately."

"Lily." The Duke of Portfrey leaned forward in his chair suddenly and possessed himself of her free hand with both his own. The letter slipped unheeded to the floor. "Beatrice and Thomas Doyle were your mama and papa. They gave you a family and security and a good upbringing and an unusually deep love, I believe. No one—least of all me—is ever going to try to take them away from you. They will always be your parents."

She nestled her head against Neville's arm, but he could see that she had raised her eyes to look at Portfrey.

"We loved each other, Lily," Portfrey said, "your m—Frances and I. You were conceived in love. We would have lavished all our affection on you if…" He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "She loved you enough to give you up temporarily for your safety. In twenty years I have never been quite able to lay her to rest or to let go of the possibility of you. We did not abandon you. If you can possibly think of her—of Frances, my wife—as your mother, Lily, if not your mama… If you could possibly think of me as your father… I do not set myself up as a rival to your papa. Never that. But allow me…" He lifted her hand to his lips and then released it and got abruptly to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Elizabeth asked.

"She is in shock," he said, "and I am pressing my own selfish claims on her. I have to leave, Elizabeth. Excuse me? I will call tomorrow if I may. But you must not try forcing Lily to receive me. Look after her."

"Your grace." Lily spoke for the first time since Neville had come into the room. Portfrey and Elizabeth spun around to look at her. "I will receive you—tomorrow."

"Thank you." He did not smile, but he looked at her again as if he would devour her. He made a formal bow and turned toward the door.

"Wait for me, Portfrey, will you?" Neville asked. "I will be with you in a minute."

His grace nodded and left the book room with Elizabeth.

Neville got to his feet and drew Lily to hers. He set his arms about her and drew her close. What must it feel like, he wondered, suddenly to discover that one's dearly loved parents were not one's real mother and father after all? He tried to imagine discovering it of his own parents. He would feel without roots, without anchor. He would feel… fear.

"I want you to forget about the party," he told her, "and go up to your room. Ring for Dolly and then go to bed. Try to sleep. Will you?"

"Yes," she said.

It hurt him to see her so listless, so willing to obey, just like an obedient child. So unlike Lily. But Portfrey was right. She was in deep shock. He was reminded of the way she had been in the hours following Doyle's death.

"Try not to think too much tonight," he said. "Tomorrow you will better be able to adjust to the new realities. I believe you will eventually realize that you have lost nothing. It is one thing, Lily, to care for the child of one's own seed or womb. It is another to love and cherish someone else's child for whom one really has no responsibility at all. That is what your mama and papa did for you. I did not know your mama, but I always marveled that a father could feel such devoted, tender love for his daughter as your papa felt for you. You have not lost them. You have merely gained people who will love and cherish you in the future and not be jealous of the past."

"I am so very tired," she said, and she lifted her face to him—her pale, large-eyed face. "I cannot think straight—or even in crooked lines."

"I know." He lowered his head and kissed her, and she sighed and pushed her lips back against his own and raised her arms to twine about his neck.

He had missed her dreadfully during his journey into Leicestershire. And he had been sick with worry for her safety—especially after reading the letter. Feeling her small, shapely body against his own again, feeling her arms about his neck and her lips cleaving to his awoke hungers that threatened to overwhelm him. But she was in no condition for passion. Besides, there was a matter of grave importance to be attended to tonight—and Portfrey would be waiting for him.

"Go to bed now, my love," he said, lifting his head and framing her face with both hands. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Yes," she said. "Tomorrow. Maybe my brain will work tomorrow."

Chapter 24

Lily awoke from a deep sleep when the early-morning sun was already shining in at her window. She threw back the covers and leaped out of bed as she often did, and stretched. What a strange dream she had been having! She could not even remember it yet, but she knew it had been bizarre.

She stopped midstretch.

And remembered. It had not been a dream.

She was not Lily Doyle. Papa had not been her father. She was not even Lily Wyatt, Countess of Kilbourne. She was Lady Frances Lilian Montague, a total stranger. She was the daughter of the Duke of Portfrey. Her grandfather was Baron Onslow.

For one moment her mind threatened to take refuge in last evening's daze again, but there was nothing to be served by doing that. She fought panic.

Who was she?

All through those seven months in Spain she had fought to retain her identity. It had not been easy. Everything had been taken from her—her own clothes, her locket, her freedom, her very body. And yet she had clung to the basic knowledge of who she was—she had refused to give up that.