Love According To Lily (22 page)

She’d had a tiring day, for she’d been keeping busy with an ambitious number of charitable projects over the past week, far more than usual for this time of year, when she would normally be residing in the country.

But she did not wish to be in the country. Not now.

She entered Wentworth House and handed her cloak to the butler. “Have a pot of tea brought to my rooms right away,” she said. “I’m chilled.”

With that, she climbed the stairs and entered her boudoir. Her maid, Euphemia, a portly woman of middle age, was bending forward, placing something in the bottom drawer of Marion’s wardrobe, but she straightened quickly, appearing startled.

“I want to get out from under this ridiculous hat,” Marion said. She began to pull off her gloves as she crossed to her mirrored vanity.

As soon as Marion sat down, Euphemia made a move to pull out the hatpin, but Marion stopped her with a hand. “I can do it myself. Fetch me the paper. I’m going to have a cup of tea while I read it.”

“The paper?”

Marion’s gaze darted to Euphemia’s reflection in the mirror. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just that…” She hesitated. “It’s nothing, Your Grace. I’ll go fetch it now.”

Twenty minutes later, while Marion was sipping her tea at her desk and reading the society pages, she discovered the basis for Euphemia’s anxiety. Marion clenched her jaw as she read the most shockingly succinct announcement.

Marriage

Lady Lily Elizabeth Langdon to

Edward Peter Wallis, Earl of Whitby.

Marion leaned back in her chair and lowered the paper onto her lap. She stared open-mouthed at the wall in front of her face. So they’d actually gone ahead and done it.

She glanced back down at the announcement. No doubt people all over London were reading this and chuckling to themselves, because her careless son-in-law had probably been in the bedchamber of some flaxen-haired tart not more than three weeks ago. And he would likely be in similar places again before too long.

Marion leaned forward and rested her forehead in a hand. For a long moment she sat there, breathing hard and squeezing her eyes shut as anger ripped along her spine.

She looked across the room at the framed picture of Lily on her bedside table.
You wouldn’t listen, would you ? You just went ahead and did what you wanted
.

Marion rose to her feet. She marched over to the bedside table, opened the drawer and put the picture of Lily inside it. She couldn’t look at her daughter’s face.

She slammed the drawer shut and sat on the edge of the bed. Then she chewed on a thumbnail while she thought about Lily and Whitby together.

Were they happy? What if they were?

She sat for a long time, and contemplated such a thing.

Chapter 25

Lily sat beside Whitby in the closed coach as it clattered over a stone bridge in the forest on the way to his home, Century House, which was located in Bedfordshire, a mere three-hour train ride from London.

Annabelle sat in the seat facing them, looking out the window at the leaves on the trees, brightly colored in shades of red, orange, and yellow. Lily could smell the fresh dampness of those that had already fallen to the ground.

The carriage rolled off the bridge and Lily leaned closer to the open window to see what lay ahead.

“We’re almost there,” Whitby said, smiling at her as if he were enjoying her excitement.

The carriage left the shady forest and drove onto a lane that crossed a field of clipped green grass. The sun was shining as they traveled up a hill and finally over the top, where the house came into view on a facing hill overlooking a lush green valley below.

“There it is,” Whitby said, leaning across in front of Lily to share the view with her.

It was an extraordinary house in the shape of a U—perfectly symmetrical in the Palladian style, with identical wings on either side. A grand triumphal arch stood in front.

As they drew closer, the dirt lane became a cobbled drive, and the horses’ hooves tapped noisily upon them. Lily’s heart beat fast with excitement as they passed under the arch and pulled to a slow halt at the main entrance. A liveried footman approached and lowered the steps.

Whitby climbed out of the coach and offered a hand to both Annabelle and Lily, who each stepped out and gazed up at the front of the house.

“It’s so good to be home,” Annabelle said. “And who would have guessed I would return not only with my brother in good health, but with a new sister-in-law as well?”

Lily kissed her on the cheek.

They made their way up the stone steps to the open doors and were greeted by Clarke, the butler, just inside the grand entry hall. Clarke presented Mrs. Harrington, the housekeeper.

The servants were lined up formally, waiting to meet the new countess. Lily smiled warmly at the members of the staff, speaking to each one. She could sense they were pleased to meet her, and some of them seemed almost ecstatic in their relief. Perhaps they had been worried that Whitby would not recover from his illness, and because he had no heir, everything would come to a screeching halt at the estate.

No, she thought—it would not have come to a halt. It would have been passed on to Whitby’s cousin, Magnus. She came to the end of the line of servants and supposed that would explain their relief. From all accounts, Magnus was not a kind man.

Mrs. Harrington informed them that their rooms had been prepared and dinner would be served at eight. As they made their way toward the stairs, however, the butler requested a private word with Whitby, who politely excused himself from Lily’s company.

She watched them with evident curiosity, then accompanied Annabelle and Mrs. Harrington up the stairs.

Whitby entered his study and waited while Clarke closed the double oak doors. The butler turned to face Whitby, his expression tainted with concern, though as always, he kept his hands steady at his sides.

“What is it, Clarke?” Whitby asked. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

“Yes, my lord,” Clarke replied sternly. “I feel it necessary to inform you that Lord Magnus was here three days ago, demanding to see Miss Lawson.”

Whitby felt his hackles rise. Magnus and his father had been barred from the family doors many years ago, and Magnus had no right to come here. Especially to see Annabelle.

“He must have known I wasn’t here,” Whitby said loathingly, “to have made such a demand. Did you let him in?”

“No, my lord.”

“What did he say? Did he give any explanation for why he wanted to see her?”

“Not at first. He simply requested a meeting with her, and he seemed rather smug, a trifle too confident in my opinion, which caused me some concern. When I told him Miss Lawson was not at home, he didn’t believe me, and he informed me that I was making a grave error. He told me that when the earldom was his, I would be the first to go, and if I possessed any shred of intelligence, I would be seeking other employment posthaste.”

“When the earldom was
his
? He said that?”

“Yes, my lord. I am of the opinion that he knew of your illness. He clearly did not know about your marriage.”

Whitby felt light-headed all of a sudden and had to sit down. He was not yet fully recovered, and sometimes, just standing for a long period of time exhausted him. This news was not helping.

“But how the devil had he learned of my illness?” Whitby asked, sinking into the chair at his desk.

“No one knew, except the members of this household and some of the duke’s guests.”

“I don’t know, my lord. It appears he has a connection somewhere among those you mention.”

Whitby clenched his jaw. “This is worrisome.”

Clarke said nothing for a moment, while Whitby tapped a finger on his desk.

“Are you all right, my lord? You don’t look well.”

Whitby raised a hand to dismiss Clarke’s fears. “I’m fine.”

Clarke stared uneasily at Whitby for a moment. Whitby could feel himself breaking into a sweat. He took a few deep, calming breaths.

“Would you like me to make inquiries among the staff?” Clarke asked, returning to the issue at hand. “Perhaps Lord Magnus is offering compensation to someone.”

“How?” Whitby said cynically. “The man has barely enough money to keep his horse. He couldn’t offer much.”

Whitby turned in the chair to look out the window at his estate. “I wonder if he knows about my marriage yet. It is likely, if he knew of the illness.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Whitby opened and closed a fist, striving to keep his anger under control. He reminded himself that he could not lose his calm. He could not allow Magnus to have that effect on him; those days were over.

The priority now was to protect Lily, and to protect Annabelle from any further harassment, for events lately had obviously rekindled Magnus’s ambitions. And in that state of optimism in regards to his position on the hereditary chain, learning about Whitby’s marriage would be a great blow. Magnus would not be pleased. He might even attempt to act upon his anger, as he had in the past with Whitby’s brother, John.

Whitby loathed the idea that he would have to see Magnus again, especially in his current condition, but he needed him to know that the earldom would not be handed over to him any time in the foreseeable future.

Whitby also wanted him to know that despite appearances, he was still more than capable of protecting his wife and sister.

He opened and closed his fist again, then turned to face Clarke. “Prepare the carriage if you will.”

“My lord?”

Whitby recognized his butler’s curiosity, and did not wish to keep the man in suspense. “I intend to protect my family, Clarke, and finally put this feud to rest. I am going to London tonight and will see Magnus in the morning, and if luck is on my side, I will get rid of him once and for all.”

Magnus Wallis lived with his mother in a one-story brick house on the dingy outskirts of London, in a neighborhood most unsuitable for the grandson of an earl.

Whitby arrived in his shiny black crested coach at ten the next morning, and did not wait for the coachman to lower the steps before he opened the door himself and climbed out. He was impatient. Perhaps it was a product of his recovery from an illness he had believed would take his life. Whitby felt suddenly compelled to deal with everything in a decisive manner, and leave nothing to sort itself out at a later date, for he had learned rather abruptly that there might not always be a later date.

“
I
won’t be long,” he told the coachman, then he crossed the front yard, passing a black goat tied to a post and mewling noisily.

The musty smell of the chicken coop around the side of the house wafted to Whitby’s nostrils as he arrived at the front door, causing a gray cat to leap off a rocking chair and wander off in the other direction. The cat probably sensed the next few minutes were not going to be pleasant.

Whitby raised a fist and knocked hard upon the blue painted door. A moment later, the door opened and he found himself staring down at Carolyn, Magnus’s mother. She wore a shabby brown dress with a muddy hem, and was clutching a woolen shawl around her shoulders.

She had aged since he’d seen her last, five years ago. That, too, had been an unpleasant visit.

Whitby saw the shock in her eyes, and had to shove his shiny black boot in front of the door to keep her from slamming it in his face.

“I wish to speak to your son.”

“He ain’t here,” she said odiously. “And even if he was, I wouldn’t tell the likes of you.”

Whitby did not remove his boot, which was still wedged in front of the door. He simply stared down at the woman.

She sneered up at him. “I thought you might be dead by now.”

“Thought? Or hoped?” he replied.

“Hoped is more precise.”

Whitby inclined his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, madam. Where is your son?”

“I told you he ain’t here.” She tried to push the door harder against his boot.

Whitby leaned more weight upon it. “Then kindly inform me, if you will, where I can find him.”

The door unexpectedly opened all the way, and Carolyn looked over her shoulder. Behind her stood Magnus, towering over her, for he, like Whitby, was a tall man.

That, however, is where any similarity ended— for where Whitby was golden-haired, Magnus was as dark as night with jet black hair and eyes equally as black. Where Whitby knew how to smile and charm, Magnus knew only how to frown and look upon the entire world with disdain. Whitby had never in his life seen the man laugh—unless it was over a bug he had crushed under his shoe.

Whitby faced Magnus. He evaluated his cousin’s hostility and attempted to discern what was going through his mind. Was he surprised to see Whitby alive and well, or had he already known he’d recovered, along with the fact that Whitby had taken a wife?

Finally Magnus stepped back and opened the door. His mother did not look pleased, but evidently her opinion had no effect on her son.