Love According To Lily (23 page)

“Go to the kitchen, Mother,” Magnus said, his fierce gaze never veering from Whitby’s.

Carolyn obeyed and left them alone. Whitby stepped inside, and Magnus shut the door.

“The last time you came here,” Magnus said, “you beat me to a pulp. I should know better than to let you in.”

“You deserved it,” Whitby replied, “for what you did to Annabelle.”

A dark satisfaction stole through Magnus’s eyes. “Contrary to what you think, Annabelle very much enjoyed what I did to her.”

Before Whitby had a chance to even contemplate a reply, he punched Magnus, who took it without flinching. Magnus stood soundly where he was, cupped his jaw in a hand, and moved it from side to side to make sure it wasn’t broken.

He smiled faintly at Whitby, appearing pleased that he had evoked such a reaction in him, even though it had cost Magnus a punch in the face.

But it had cost Whitby a great deal, too—for the sudden movement had made him unsteady on his feet. He had to struggle to hide the fact.

Whitby turned from his cousin and walked into the front parlor. Not much had changed in the past five years. The rug still needed to be cleaned. It was discolored with ground-in coal dust.

Whitby faced Magnus again. “You thought the earldom would be yours, and you came to my home and asked to see Annabelle, after giving me your word you would never contact her again. What were your intentions?”

“To propose of course. When I took over the estate, I could hardly turn her out, could I?”

Whitby swallowed over his pungent ire. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

Whitby shook his head at him. “You seduced Annabelle five years ago only to injure me.”

“Yes, I did. And it worked, didn’t it? It’s
still
working, I’m glad to see.”

Whitby turned his back on Magnus and walked to the mantel, staring for a moment at a painting of a fisherman in a small boat on a lake. Mist floated over the calm water. The painting had a unique tranquility about it.

Whitby’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown. The painting did not suit the room, for the room was not tranquil. This fine painting deserved to be elsewhere.

Whitby took a moment to gather back his calm, but glanced over his shoulder when he heard the floorboards creak under Magnus’s shoes.

Magnus approached Whitby. “If I had married Annabelle, you would have rolled over in your grave, wouldn’t you?”

Whitby faced his cousin. “But as you can see, I am not dead.”

“No, you are not, sadly so. And from what I understand, you are a married man now.”

Whitby made no reply.

“A duke’s sister, no less. Well done. I hear she’s pretty. I’d like to meet her.”

Enough was enough. Whitby could take no more of Magnus’s insinuations. He had come here to put an end to this situation, and he was going to do just that. He took a step forward to glare at his cousin, only inches away from his face. Magnus stood tall and steady. He did not back away.

“Indeed I am married,” Whitby said, “and we expect a child in the nursery before a year can pass. You will soon find yourself knocked out of your position as my heir, so I ask you—as a
gentleman
—to leave my family alone and take your ambitions, for lack of a better word, elsewhere.”

Magnus turned and crossed to the other side of the room. “Where would you like me to take them?”

Whitby remained calm. “Anywhere you like. For years you have been cut off financially and socially from the family, and while I will never apologize for that, I would prefer to think of the future now, rather than the past. I’d like to wipe the slate clean and provide you with an income—as would have been appropriate had your father been less of a…
disappointment
to our grandfather. On one condition. You leave England.”

Magnus glared hotly at him. “How much?”

“Five thousand a year.”

Magnus chuckled. “Not enough.”

“Ten thousand,” Whitby said.

Bloody Christ, he hated this. He hated negotiating with this black-hearted, conniving snake. A month ago, he would never even have considered such a thing, and he wanted to take the offer back. He wanted to walk out of here and declare open war upon his cousin.

But he could not. He could not, because of Lily. He did not want a war in her backyard. Magnus had very likely killed John; Whitby couldn’t be sure the man wouldn’t do something like that again.

He wanted only for Magnus to disappear.

Magnus paced around the room, rubbing his chin in an irritatingly exaggerated manner, and spoke with a mocking tone. “Ten thousand you say? My, my, that is tempting. Mother and I could see Rome.”

Whitby clenched a fist again. He had to work hard to remember what he’d just said to himself— that Lily’s safety was the only thing that mattered. Because right now, his loathing was about to bust out of his head.

Magnus stopped pacing and pursed his lips. “Tempting, yes, but no thank you. It’s not enough.”

Whitby gritted his teeth. “How much would be enough to get rid of you?”

Magnus considered it. “The five thousand a year sounded interesting, so here are my terms.
You
take the five thousand a year, and you can keep the title and house because the law says you must, but I will manage it for you and
you
will leave England.” Magnus gazed off to the side, then smiled back at Whitby. “Oh, and one last thing. I will have Annabelle.”

The room seemed to turn red before Whitby’s eyes as he stared enraged at his cousin. He had come here to put the past behind them. He had been willing to give back to Magnus a piece of what had been taken from him and his father years ago—their financial connection to the family, even though that connection had been severed for good reason. Magnus had heard Whitby’s offer, and had all but spit in his face.

The time for gentlemanly negotiations was over. Whitby took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then he took two long strides toward his cousin and spoke with resolve.

“I came here today to put an end to the feud,” he said, “but I see you don’t want it to end. That is your choice. But rest assured, if you ever take one step in the direction of my wife and future heirs, I will kill you.”

“And I would be grateful for the opportunity to kill
you
while defending myself.”

Whitby supposed that was what separated him from his cousin. Whitby did not enjoy this antagonism; he did not enjoy the fight. But Magnus did.

Whitby turned and left the house, then strode to his coach. As soon as the door to the vehicle slammed shut behind him, he collapsed onto his back on the upholstered seat and fought a violent spinning sensation.

“God, get me home,” he whispered, as he closed his eyes, feeling the coach lurch into motion. “And thank you for not letting me collapse in the yard.”

Chapter 26

Lily had vowed to walk into Century House with optimism and high hopes—and in her opinion, she had done so quite successfully. She was very proud of herself, in fact. When she had been shown to her room the day before, she told herself over and over that everything was going to be fine. When she’d dressed for dinner, she’d remembered that Whitby had assured her he did not regret marrying her, hence she had nothing to fear. They were going to be gloriously happy here together.

But when she woke on her first morning alone in her new room—in an unfamiliar bed with blankets that weren’t quite warm enough—she found herself wondering uneasily what had become of her husband the night before. He had missed dinner, and she did not know why. All she and Annabelle knew was that he had gone to London regarding a personal matter.

Consequently, Lily had Iain awake until past two in the morning, disappointed that he had left, for she had something to tell him. She wanted to give him the happy news that as of yesterday, her courses were three days late, and she was never late.

At the same time she did
not
let herself worry that he might have gone to London to engage in his usual nightly entertainments. She’d squashed those thoughts instantly, every time they snuck into her brain.

It was late in the afternoon when she was sitting in the drawing room waiting for Annabelle to join her for tea, when she walked to the window and sucked in a quick breath at the sight of an approaching carriage.

It was him.

Her stomach flared with both excitement and nervous apprehension, and she picked up her skirts to dash down to the main hall and greet him. She would ask him where he’d been and what he’d been doing.

No. He might find that smothering. She would simply throw her arms around his neck and kiss him a hundred times, and of course tell him her happy news.

Oh, she was far gone, she thought, as her feet tapped down the corridor. Most women would be angry with a husband who left without a word.

She was on her way down the stairs, her feet still drumming a rapid tattoo, when she saw Clarke walk calmly to the door to greet Whitby, who handed over his coat and hat. Lily halted halfway down.

Whitby and the butler spoke quietly, then Whitby headed toward his study on the first floor, but stopped abruptly when he looked up and caught sight of Lily. He looked hesitant. A second or two later he smiled at her. “Good afternoon.”

She smiled in return, though she had to force it. She felt a little afraid, for something about her husband did not seem right. His smile did not seem real. “Good afternoon.”

Whitby held out his hand. “Come.”

Trying to appear relaxed, she descended the stairs. When she reached him, he set his hand upon her cheek and gazed at her for a moment. He kissed her lightly on the lips.

“I missed you,” she said.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, and Lily felt suddenly as if they were strangers. It was not how she had felt when he’d made love to her at Wentworth. When they’d made love there, she’d felt as if she knew everything he wanted, and not just the wants and needs of his body. They seemed to join with each other in those wonderful moments and days, unlike now. Suddenly, they were stumbling over what to say to each other.

Lily groped for words to fill the silence. “Where were you?”

There it was—the question of a smothering wife.

He hesitated, and she regretted asking the question. “I’m sorry,” she said, before he had a chance to answer. “It’s none of my business.”

He studied her face briefly. “Of course it’s your business. You’re my wife. I went to London because I had to deal with… a difficult thing.”

Lily’s eyebrows lifted. “A difficult thing? Did something happen?”

“Yes. It is rather scandalous, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” she replied.

He shook his head. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I had to go and speak to my cousin, Magnus.”

“To tell him about our marriage?”

“Yes, and to make sure he stays away in the future.”

Lily felt a momentary panic. She hadn’t realized Magnus was still such a threat. “You went to his house?”

Whitby put his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “Yes. I went to see him because he had somehow learned of my illness and was no doubt already rearranging the furniture here in his mind. I felt it necessary to inform him that he will very soon be giving up his position in line to my title, and I wanted to ensure that he would never so much as glance in your direction.”

Lily understood the basis for his concern, for she knew what Magnus had done to Whitby’s brother John, and how he had hurt Annabelle. But she did not like the idea of her husband being in the same room with such a man.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” she said.

A shadow moved across his face. “No, it has not been easy.” He paused, his fingers playing through her hair. “I’ll never forgive myself for what happened with Annabelle, and I have vowed never to let anything like that happen again.”

Lily cleared her throat nervously. “Well, Magnus may be nudged out of his position as heir sooner than you think. I wanted to tell you last night… There is a chance, you see, that we were successful over the past few weeks.”

“Successful?”

“Yes,” she replied, wondering why she was so uncomfortable delivering this news. It was what he wanted after all. An heir. And Lily wanted to please him.

“My courses were due a few days ago,” she said, “and I am never late. I think it is possible I am with child.”

He stared at her blankly.

She felt her smile die away. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

He took a moment before he replied. He’d gone pale, and looked almost shaken.

She too felt shaken. She had thought it was what he wanted, but now, she wasn’t so sure, and it made her heart twinge uncomfortably.

“Indeed it is good news,” he finally said. “Very good news.”

He reached up and removed her hand from his cheek and gently rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I’m quite tired,” he said. “It’s been a long day and I suppose I’m not fully recovered yet. I think I will rest. Perhaps you could spend some time with Annabelle.”

“All right,” she replied, struggling to keep her tone light. “Of course, you must be exhausted.”

But her heart did not feel light, because despite all the times her husband had tried to tell her that he did not regret marrying her, she had to acknowledge the fact that she still did not believe it. She sensed it was all a lie, and that she, too, had been lying to herself. Her desperate hopes and her burning love for him had made her blind to the truth—that he did not want to be close to her the way she wanted to be close to him. And now her heart was breaking, because she was skeptical that he even wanted to have a baby with her.

Whitby sat down in his desk chair, rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward to drop his head into his hands. He shut his eyes.

Lily was pregnant, and all he could think about was his beautiful mother, lying on her bed with the sheet being drawn up over her pale, ghostly face.

His heart began to pound. It had all happened so fast. He’d thought he was dying. Then he’d learned he was not, and now he felt like he’d awakened from a dream to discover he was a husband—to Lily—and she was pregnant.

Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be her?

Christ, he’d barely had a chance to get used to the idea and brace himself.

He looked up toward the bright window, feeling his eyes burn with sleeplessness. He had to figure out how he was going to get through this, because he had to get through it—for Lily. He could not let himself wish that everything was the way it was before he’d become ill, when he was a man without a care in the world. For he was no longer that man. He
did
have a care—a momentous one. Which scared the devil out of him.