Love According To Lily (30 page)

“Let’s talk about the offer,” Whitby said at last.

Magnus set down his mug. “I want to go to America. Ten thousand a year, and I’m gone.”

“Why now?” Whitby asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but there was a time I believed I would inherit the earldom. I’d watched you drink your life away and refuse to take a wife and I truly believed that you would end up in an early grave, like your father and John.”

Whitby clenched his hands into fists.

“But now you have a lovely wife,” Magnus continued, “who is expecting a child any day now by the look of things, and in case you hadn’t heard, my mother passed away two weeks ago. Hence, my ties to England are no more.”

Whitby’s anger diminished suddenly at the mention of Carolyn’s death. Though he had no affection for the woman, death was death.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “She was very devoted to you.” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

Magnus kept his gaze downcast as he took another drink. He did not even acknowledge Whitby’s condolence.

“Was she ill?” Whitby asked.

“Her heart.”

“I’m sorry,” Whitby said again.

Magnus glared at him. “So. The money. If you agree to provide me with an allowance that would have been mine had my father not been cut off from the family, I will leave England and you’ll finally be rid of me.”

This was something Whitby had wanted for a long time—to be rid of Magnus and the threat he posed. Yet while he sat here staring across the table at the man he had despised all his life, he did not feel the satisfaction he would have expected. He looked at Magnus now and saw only a bitter man who knew no joy. He had nothing but the drink in front of him.

But Whitby shook himself out of that and remembered all the reprehensible things his cousin had done throughout their lives, like the time he had attacked John and broken his nose outside their London house, and of course, what he had done to Annabelle. If he was bitter, he had brought it upon himself.

Whitby pushed his chair back and stood. “Done. I will arrange a monthly payment, the first to be dispersed immediately. I will have it in writing however, signed by you, that if you ever return to England, the payments will stop.”

Magnus glared up at him. “Fair enough. But you don’t need it in writing. I won’t be coming back.”

“Regardless, I’ll have it on paper.”

Whitby studied his cousin’s dark eyes for a moment before turning and walking out.

When Whitby returned to the house, he stepped out of the coach to discover Clarke dashing quickly down the front steps to meet him. A jolt of apprehension shook Whitby, for Clarke never came running outside to meet anyone. He always waited at the door.

“What is it?” Whitby asked, removing his hat as he met his butler at the bottom of the steps.

“It’s Lady Whitby, my lord,” he replied. “She’s in labor.”

Chapter 33

Whitby stood outside the closed door of his wife’s bedchamber, pausing a moment before he knocked, realizing that he had to do it again: knock and enter and see a woman he loved—yes, loved—in labor on that bed. He could imagine Lily now, pale-faced and exhausted.

He raised his fist and rapped on the door.

“Come in!” Lily called from inside.

Whitby was surprised by the cheerful note in her voice. He reached for the knob and pushed the door open.

The room was bright with the curtains wide open to let in the sun, and Lily was walking toward him with her hands outstretched, looking happy and glowing with anticipation. She wore a colorful pink dressing gown.

“Thank goodness you’re back,” she said, clasping both his hands in hers and rising up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve been so worried. What happened with Magnus?”

His brow furrowed with disbelief. “How can you even be thinking of that now?”

She smiled. “I know. It’s happening. Isn’t it wonderful?”

She dropped her heels back down and he found himself in awe looking at her pretty face—her blue eyes and dark lashes, her creamy white skin and raspberry lips. She’d never looked more lovely to him, nor more vibrant and alive. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Perhaps this would all go smoothly, without complications.

“You surprise me,” he told her. “I didn’t expect to find you on your feet, smiling cheerfully at me. I was under the impression childbirth was painful.”

She smiled at his meager attempt at humor. “It has been a little. About every five or ten minutes, my belly aches and nothing can distract me from it, but it lasts only a brief time and then the pain goes away and I feel fine, like right now.”

Just then, her face changed and she put a hand on her belly. She looked away from him and bent forward slightly. “Oh, here it comes…”

She closed her eyes and breathed deep and slow, and Whitby’s stomach dropped like a stone. He instinctively reached for her, thinking she was going to have the baby right now, right here on the carpet.

“Should you lie down?” he asked.

She quickly shook her head, almost frantically, and did not speak or move or look up at him. She focused on a spot on the floor, then squeezed her eyes shut.

Whitby did not speak again. He just stood there until her smile returned and she lifted her gaze.

“There, it’s gone. See? Nothing to it.”

He dropped his hand to his side and exhaled a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “But are you sure you shouldn’t lie down?” he asked again.

Lily shook her head. “Mrs. Hanson, the midwife, said it’s best for me to keep moving, and that walking will help speed things up.”

“I see.” He glanced around the room. “Where
is
the midwife? Shouldn’t she be here?”

“She just went to fetch something from the kitchen. The doctor has been sent for, but was away on another call. He should be here soon, though. Would you walk with me? We won’t go far. Just down the hall and back. You still haven’t told me what happened with Magnus.”

Still feeling exceedingly tense, he offered his arm, and they proceeded out the door and down the corridor. Whitby told Lily everything—how Magnus had not been his usual self, and that his mother had died. Lily was sorry to hear that, but nevertheless relieved to hear that Magnus had agreed to leave England.

“So this is one burden you will no longer have to bear,” she said, looking up at him questioningly.

“Yes,” he replied. Though there were other, much heavier burdens today, but he did not speak of them.

They walked up and down the hall many times over the next hour, while Mrs. Hanson stood by in Lily’s boudoir, waiting patiently. Every so often, Lily would stop and rest a hand on her belly, breathe deeply and stare at the floor, then they would start walking again. They talked about baby names and dates for the christening, and what university the child would go to when the time came. Whitby thought they were putting the cart before the horse—they had to get through today, after all—but he obliged his wife and let her talk about whatever she wished.

Lily’s feet soon tired, and she decided she would like to lie down for a while. “Would you come back in an hour?” she asked, stopping in the corridor. “Assuming I haven’t had the baby by then.”

“Of course, darling.” He kissed her on the cheek and escorted her back to her room. The midwife, who had been sitting in the rocking chair, rose to her feet and took Lily’s other arm to help her onto the bed.

“I’m not an invalid,” Lily said to both of them, smirking as she awkwardly maneuvered herself into a comfortable position. “I just happen to move like a whale.”

Whitby chuckled at his wife’s sense of humor, pleased and impressed by the fact that she still had one, considering her discomfort. He gave her another kiss on the cheek. “I’ll return in an hour.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she replied, gazing up at him happily.

Lily. Brave Lily. He left the room and stopped outside the door with his hand still on the knob, suddenly wanting more than anything in the world to hold his wife and their child in his arms and devote himself completely to them. It came upon him like a great, surging wave, like nothing he’d ever experienced, and it almost knocked the wind out of him.

He supposed he’d never imagined he would consciously admit to such a momentous hope. He’d been afraid to, because he was afraid he would lose Lily.

But he had not lost her yet. He’d come close. Twice. She’d been very ill. Her carriage had just overturned. But she had survived both those things, and so had he.

He returned to his room, sat down on his bed and looked at the clock, hoping this hour away from her would pass swiftly.

As promised, Whitby returned to Lily’s bedchamber an hour later, and he and Lily paced up and down the hall again until her feet grew sore, and they decided to return to her room.

He asked the midwife to give them some privacy, then Whitby helped Lily into an upholstered armchair, sat on the ottoman before her and lifted her foot onto his lap. He removed her slipper, and for half an hour, massaged her feet and calves.

“How many children do you want?” she asked him, leaning back in the chair between labor pains and sounding dreamy.

At the moment, he wanted only this
one
, delivered safely. But he knew that was not the answer she wanted.

He stroked her arch with his thumb. “Ten.”

“And how many of those would be girls?”

He lifted an eyebrow flirtatiously. “If they were anything like their mother, I would like them all to be girls.” He tilted his head and reconsidered that. “But then I would have to fight off all the young pups in London who would want to steal my daughters away, wouldn’t I? So perhaps boys would be better.”

“You need at least one boy,” she said, being practical.

He set down her foot and picked up the other. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“I hope this is a son.”

He stopped rubbing for a moment and spoke with conviction. “I would love a daughter just as much.”

The words came out of his mouth before he had even the slightest inclination to think about what he was saying, and he was surprised. He’d used the word love.

Lily was surprised too. She didn’t say she was, but he could see it in her eyes, in the way she was staring speechlessly at him.

He began to rub her foot again. They sat in silence after that, and excepting the moments when Lily experienced pain, it was not an uncomfortable silence.

Dr. Benjamin arrived late that evening and entered Lily’s bedchamber with a pleasant expression on his face and a jolly tone in his voice. “I understand there’s a baby ready to announce that today is his birthday.”

Lily, sitting up in bed, smiled at the doctor as he approached. Whitby closed the book he had been reading to her and stood. “Indeed you’re right, but he seems to be taking his time.”

“Is that so?” The doctor set his leather bag on the bed and dug into it for his stethoscope. “Then we shall see what’s keeping him.”

“Or her,” Lily said.

The doctor grinned as he put the earpieces in place. “Or her,” he repeated.

He listened to Lily’s swollen belly, moving the scope around to different positions, then he pulled out the earpieces and let the instrument dangle around his neck. “Everything sounds fine.”

Whitby exhaled with relief.

“When did the pains begin?” the doctor asked, pressing upon Lily’s belly.

“Around one o’clock,” she replied. She explained that they had been coming steadily every five or ten minutes.

“Have the pains become more intense?” he asked.

“Not really. They’ve been about the same all day.”

“Ah. Well, I should have a look at you.” He turned to Whitby. “Will you excuse us, my lord?”

“Yes, of course,” Whitby replied, kissing Lily on the forehead, then bowing slightly before he left. “I shall await your news.”

About twenty minutes later, the doctor found Whitby and Annabelle in the drawing room, sitting before the fire. Whitby immediately stood and gestured to the chair facing him. “Doctor, come in. Please sit down.”

The doctor set down his bag and took a seat.

“How is she?” Whitby asked.

“She appears to be fine. She’s certainly in good spirits, though that might change in the coming hours when the labor pains worsen.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected,” Whitby replied hesitantly. “But I must confess, I am surprised with how easy this has been so far. It’s not what I had thought it would be.”

The doctor leaned forward and clasped his hands together in front of him, his elbows on the armrests. “I must be frank with you, my lord. It’s been easy because there has been very little progress.”

A cold knot tightened in Whitby’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

The doctor leaned back again. “Lady Whitby explained to me that her water had broken earlier today, but when I examined her, she was not dilated.”

“Dilated? Be clear with me, doctor, if you please.”

The doctor paused. “The cervix, which is the door to the womb so to speak, must open well enough to let the child through. Hers is still closed.”

“But will it open eventually?”