The Secret Heart, page 17
He smiled faintly. “Mother. You only say that because you never before inquired what they were.”
“You mean you will finally dare to do something once your father is dead?” she snapped.
“No, Mother. I don’t mean that at all. I believe that is Dr. Gordon coming up the drive. Shall I take him to his lordship?”
His mother shrugged, and he rose to his feet. Halfway across the room, he paused and turned back to her.
“It will be a release for you, too, you know. Freedom to go where you wish and do what you wish. Who knows? Perhaps you will finally be happy.”
She looked merely affronted at the accusation that a noblewoman of her stature should aspire to anything as vulgar as happiness. But when he glanced back before closing the door, her expression was thoughtful.
A smile flickered across his lips as he went to greet the doctor.
“To be honest, I did not expect him to survive the night,” Dr. Gordon confided when Torbridge asked about his father’s condition. “Perhaps he has been hanging on to see you and your siblings.”
Torbridge made a noncommittal noise.
To his surprise, they discovered Lily in the sick room, sitting by the marquess’s bed. The old man was awake, and they seemed to be deep in conversation. Lily glanced up and smiled, melting his heart as she always did.
His father seemed to be staring at him as if he didn’t know who he was. Oh, yes, the old man was dying. Fast.
Lily made way for the doctor, letting Torbridge escort her from the room.
“Is he saying much?” Torbridge asked her. “Is he making any sense?”
“Mostly, he listens,” she replied unexpectedly. “But his responses are perfectly lucid.”
“The doctor is surprised he’s still alive.” He grimaced. “He imagined the old man was waiting for me.”
“In a way, perhaps he was.”
Torbridge regarded her with curiosity. “What did he say to you?”
“Oh, he asked about my life, and Millie, and you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. Will you stay and talk to him?”
Torbridge shrugged. “If he wants me. Which is unlikely in the extreme.”
Unlikely or not, the doctor emerged into the dressing room, looking very solemn and said, “He wants you both. I’ll just step downstairs and have a word with her ladyship. Oh, I’ve given him a heavy dose of laudanum, so he may fall asleep.”
Lily smiled at Torbridge triumphantly, and there was nothing for him to do but follow her back into the bedchamber.
His father was propped up on the pillows, his breathing labored. “Read to me, Lily, if you can. The Odyssey. It’s on the bookshelf in the other room.”
Obligingly, Lily tripped back through to the dressing room.
“Is she really an innkeeper’s daughter?” his father wheezed.
“Not by birth.”
“And she’s not Millie’s find, either, is she? She’s yours.”
“I brought her to Millie,” he admitted.
“Why? What do you want with her?”
“To marry her,” Torbridge said.
The old man stared at him. Lily came back in, carrying the large, leather-bound tome that contained both the original and the translation of the Odyssey. She sat down beside the bed and began to read in English.
After a few moments, Torbridge lowered himself onto the side of the bed. His father’s eyes began to close, no doubt as the laudanum began to take effect. But he seemed still to be listening to Lily’s voice. As she read on, his hand moved feebly across the top of the coverlet until it touched Torbridge’s, slid over it, and rested.
Torbridge stared at his father. The man he’d never truly known and who’d never known him. And now they never would. He swallowed. Slowly, he turned his hand and clasped his father’s.
The old man’s lips twitched. Torbridge had never seen him so peaceful. Lily read on.
Torbridge slipped his fingers over the pulse in his father’s wrist. Just for a moment, he closed his eyes, then opened them and released the lifeless hand. “Lily.”
Lily stopped reading and met his gaze. She knew at once. Tears started to her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“You brought him peace at last. Even with me.”
“I tried.” She put down the book and rose to put her arms around him, drawing his head to her breast. He held her for a long moment.
Then, as the new Marquess of Hay, he stood and went to tell his mother and sister that his father was dead.
*
When she arrived with her husband and family around teatime, Ella wept to hear that her father was dead, though fortunately, she was easily distracted by the needs of her children. Lady Hay regarded the children with odd fascination and occasional irritation, but it was noticeable she did not ask Ella to take them away.
With everything already set in motion for the burial and the reading of the will, the family retired early—all except the new marquess, whom Lily found walking laps around the outside of the house, deep in thought. He carried a lantern with him, for the whole house was in darkness.
He smiled when she joined him but did not stop, merely took her hand, and threaded it through his arm so that they could walk together.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Lots of things. But chiefly that I don’t know my own name anymore. I have been Torbridge as long as I remember. Now I’m Hay.”
“They’re only your titles. You still have the same name. But I take your point. You have always been Lord Torbridge to me.”
“How silly,” he said, stopping by the broad arch that led into the courtyard. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and the lantern light flared over his handsome face, emphasizing the high, sharp cheekbones. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I have kissed those lips, and they have never even called me by my Christian name.”
As if he couldn’t help it, he bent and kissed them again.
“Randolph,” she whispered, and his lips smiled and sank deeper.
Almost abruptly, he straightened and started walking again. “I have plans for this place, for the house and the estate. All the estates. Do you think the house will ever be comfortable?”
She knew he didn’t refer to the physical furnishings, but to the atmosphere of the place.
“When you make it yours,” she said. “Like the London house. You might stay there, but you do not live in it.”
“They need a wife, children. Love.”
She nodded, smiling, although she couldn’t prevent the pain twisting through her stomach to her heart. It was his duty to marry, but she could never be his wife. Even though she rather suspected he loved her. Perhaps he would grow to love another. She tried to hope so, for she couldn’t bear the thought of another generation brought up by cold parents without love for each other. At least he would love his children and show it.
“Your father died proud of you,” she blurted.
He glanced at her uncertainly, as though he didn’t quite understand why he wanted it to be true. “What did you tell him?”
“About you. The things he didn’t know, didn’t see, had long stopped looking for. The things you hid from him in your perverse pride.”
He was silent for a little. “Did it give him peace?”
“I believe so. I think he did love you, all of you, in his own way.”
“Perhaps.” He walked faster, but his hand closed over hers, squeezing, drawing her with him.
She had never felt so close to him as now in the midst of his conflicted grief and sense of freedom. Stepping into his father’s shoes was a new challenge, a smaller cause, perhaps, than the one he had taken on for his country, and she knew he was already planning ways to do justice to both.
Entering the house, he closed and bolted the door, then lit two candles from the lantern, which he then blew out and left by the door. She took one of the candles from him, and they walked through the dark house hand-in-hand.
Just for these moments, she let doubts about the future go. There was something very natural, very right, in treading these passages, climbing these stairs at his side. This house could be a warm, loving home, full of fun and laughter.
She didn’t recognize the corridor in the darkness, for they had approached from a different direction, but she had seen the table littered with candle stubs before and knew that opposite it was her bedchamber door.
Her heartbeat quickened.
He set his candle down on the table and turned back to her. “It has been a strange day. I am so churned up inside, I don’t know what I would have done if you were not here.”
“You would have coped, as you always do.”
His hand lifted, touched her hair. “And yet, you have become as necessary to me as breathing.” His quiet voice grew husky. “And if I kiss you now, I don’t believe I’ll be able to walk away.”
Her heart seemed to dive into her stomach, spreading heat and desire. She understood him, and she ached for him. She had always ached for him.
Mutely, she lifted her face to his and parted her lips. For two heartbeats, he didn’t move, although she could feel his labored breath on her skin. And then he groaned softly and buried his mouth in hers.
She reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair, drawing him closer, wishing she could simply drop the candle she still grasped and hold him with both arms. His hands on her hips held her so close against him that she could feel his hardness. Heat surged through her, and she stumbled back against the bedchamber door. His hand moved, opening the door, and they almost fell inside the room. Without breaking the amazing kiss, he kicked the door closed, took the candle from her at last, and set it on the table by the door.
A long moment later, he disentangled their lips and tongues, but only to throw off her cloak and kiss her throat instead. He traced a line of fire across her shoulders. And downward to her breasts, where the fabric of her gown got in the way. Even through the layers of clothing, his mouth thrilled her. Then with another groan, he straightened and pressed his rough cheek to hers, holding her to him while his breath came in pants.
“I can’t do this to you,” he whispered. “If something happens to me, like Mrs. Bradwell’s captain, killed three days after their parting… My selfish comfort is a small thing.”
“It doesn’t feel small to me.”
Surprised laughter hissed between his teeth, stirring her hair. “We shall have such fun, you and I…”
“If you are not killed in three days? Do you expect to be?”
“No, of course not. It’s just an example of the uncertainties of life. And I will not take advantage of your pity.”
“Pity?” she repeated, drawing back to stare at him.
“Deny that it’s there,” he challenged, and, of course, she couldn’t. His difficult father was dead, and even without the confused emotions of that, his life was changing forever. Of course, she pitied him. And wanted him.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His mouth hovered over hers. “And I love you. More than my life,” He kissed her as if it were the sealing of an oath and slowly, reluctantly, released her. “Soon,” he breathed, another promise, and then he left, unusually clumsy as he fumbled with the latch and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
The old marquess was buried in the family vault in the village churchyard, and his will read to his family and friends by his solicitor from London. There were, apparently, no surprises, despite the length of the instructions for his heir and a sizeable sum left to Gilbert, the younger son currently fighting in Spain. His wife received an equally large stipend, guaranteeing her independence to live where she chose. She declared her intentions to remove to Bath for the next month while the Dower House was prepared for her.
“I may not stay there for long,” she told her son. “But I take it I am at liberty to do so for as long as I wish.”
“I have already said so,” he replied. “I shall be away for at least a week or two myself, with matters to attend to in London. And elsewhere.”
“We’re going back to London tomorrow,” Sir George said. “Come with us, if you like. I suppose you will be with us in any case, Cousin Lily.”
Since the marchioness was moving around the drawing room some distance from the others, perhaps working out which objects were her personal property and which the estate’s, Lily replied low. “You have been so kind to me, far beyond what his lordship asked of you. But my task is finished. It’s time for me to go home.”
She almost saw the readjustment to reality cross their faces as they remembered she was not really their cousin or even Millie’s paid companion. She was just an innkeeper’s daughter with a talent for mimicry.
The new marquess—Randolph—said, “I will take you on my way to London.”
“It isn’t on the way,” she pointed out.
“Yes, it is,” he said gently.
“We will take her,” Millie pronounced. “Imagine what it would do to the poor girl’s reputation for you to drop her off after all this time.”
He opened his mouth, then hastily closed it again, a frown of rare irritability on his brow. Lily was sure he had been going to say it didn’t matter. And in truth, she was finding it very hard to care. She was in the midst of an internal struggle with Randolph at its center.
They left Hayleigh the following morning in a large cavalcade of coaches. Lily, gazing out of the window, was sorry not to have seen more of the countryside and the people. She glanced back at the house once, wistfully, for it came to her at odd moments how to soften its appearance, make it welcoming and warm. But whatever she became to the marquess, such matters would never be for her.
They stayed the night at a coaching inn, which Lily found herself examining with professional criticism, and in the morning, the Barhams went on to London, while everyone else took the back road to Finsborough. Lord Hay drove his curricle, which had been brought to him at Hayleigh from Pennington Place, and she, Millie, and Sir George took turns joining him there for a breath of fresh air.
“Will you stay?” she asked once.
“Tonight, I will. I need to speak to your parents. But I need to be on my way tomorrow.”
“There will be much for you to do,” she agreed, trying desperately not to be disappointed.
Was this where it was to end after all? Perhaps the Hart would work its magic. It would need to, for she could find no way out of this but parting. It seemed he had come to the same conclusion. He could not marry her, and he would not dishonor her.
She was with Millie in the carriage when the Hart finally came into view, solid and unpretentious. And abruptly, everything else flew out of her mind. She could not wait for the steps to be lowered but threw herself out of the carriage and into her parents’ arms, laughing and crying at once.
She was home.
*
Millie, every inch the gracious lady, thanked the Villins profoundly, and in full hearing of several customers and Jem the ostler, for lending her their daughter. She exclaimed with delight over all the ways Lily had helped her whip her life into order and look after her and her father on his deathbed.
And not one word was a lie. Randolph—he could not yet think of himself as Hay, but he was no longer Torbridge—stood back, with no need to intervene.
They were given bedchambers and the private parlor, where they dined and then drank the excellent brandy Lily brought them. It felt odd to be served by Lily now, odder still to watch her walk out of the room, back in her old work-a-day dress.
Millie and Sir George watched her, too, suddenly uncomfortable with this reality of her life. Fortunately, they retired early to their chamber, and after a few minutes, Randolph strolled across to the taproom, where Villin was throwing out a few customers with too much ale inside them.
“When you have a moment, Villin, step into the parlor, if you would,” Randolph said amiably. “Mrs. Villin, too, when she’s available.”
Within five minutes, they had joined him, and he quickly got the business part of their arrangement out of the way. He had already paid to employ a maid for a month to replace Lily, but he now pushed a purse across the table to them for Lily’s salary.
“She was invaluable,” he said warmly. “To both my sister and to me. You may believe, if you keep it to yourselves, that the country is safer and Bonaparte nearer defeat because of your daughter. I added a bonus because of her additional help when my father died.”
“You do not need to pay her for that,” Mrs. Villin said stoutly. “Of course, she would help at such a time.”
Randolph smiled. “Of course. You have brought her up to be a kind and compassionate young woman, as well as an efficient, intelligent, and educated one.”
The Villins exchanged proud and gratified glances.
Randolph sat back in his chair. “Does she know you adopted her?”
Both heads jerked to face him, stunned.
Villin was the first to recover. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said loftily.
“Yes, you do. You adopted her from an unmarried lady—we will not name names, but I have this from her—who gave birth here at the Hart and left her child with you, along with a pendant and a coral teething stick.”
Mrs. Villin so far forgot herself as to lean across the table and grasp his sleeve. “You have not told Lily this? We would not spoil her life with discontent and wishing for more than we can give her.”
“When I first suspected, I asked her if you were her birth parents. She answered indignantly that you were. I was sure she believed it, but I did not.” He regarded the agitated hand on his sleeve but did not draw free. “As to what you could give her, you have already given her more than most of everything that truly matters.”
“Then you will not try and take her from us?” Villin blurted.
“Don’t be silly,” Randolph replied. “I could not take her from you if I tried. You are her parents, and she loves you.”
Mrs. Villin released his sleeve, and they both relaxed.
“However,” Randolph said ruefully, “I think you should tell her the truth. Her mother is now married with a family of her own and will not hurt them with this revelation. But there is also her father’s family.”
