It Happened One Autumn by Lisa Kleypas
Taking the glass from her, Westcliff eased her down to the pillow and waited until she could bring herself to look at him once more. Smiling, he stroked her burning cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Wishing that he wouldn’t appear so damned pleased with himself, Lillian scowled. “My lord—”
“Not yet. We’ll talk after I’ve taken care of you.”
She yelped with dismay as he pulled the sheet away from her body, exposing every inch of her skin to his gaze. “Don’t!”
Ignoring her, Westcliff busied himself at the nightstand, pouring steaming water from a small jug into a creamware bowl. He dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and sat beside Lillian. Realizing what he intended, she knocked his hand away reflexively. Pinning her with an ironic glance, he said, “If you’re going to be coy at this point—”
“All right.” Blushing wildly, she lay back and closed her eyes. “Just …get it over with.”
The hot cloth pressed between her thighs, causing her to jerk in response. “Easy,” he murmured, bathing her smarting flesh with tender care. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. Lie still.”
Lillian put her hand over her eyes, too mortified to watch as he molded another hot compress over the dull ache of her private parts. “Does that help?” she heard him ask. She nodded stiffly, unable to produce a sound. Westcliff spoke again, his voice colored with amusement. “I wouldn’t have expected such modesty from a girl who frolics outdoors in her undergarments. Why are you covering your eyes?”
“Because I can’t look at you while you’re looking at me,” she said plaintively, and he laughed. Removing the compress, he freshened it with a new splash of scalding water.
Lillian peered at him from beneath her fingers as he pressed the soothing hot cloth between her legs once more. “You must have rung for a servant,” she said. “Did he—or she—see anything? Does anyone know that I’m with you?”
“Only my valet. And he knows better than to say a word to anyone about my…”
As he hesitated, obviously searching for the right word, Lillian said tensely, “Exploits?”
“This wasn’t an exploit.”
“A mistake, then.”
“However you define it, the fact is that we must deal with the situation in an appropriate manner.”
That sounded ominous. Removing her hand from her eyes, Lillian saw that when Westcliff withdrew the cloth, it was dotted with blood. Her blood. Her stomach felt hollow, and her heart pounded in an anxious tempo. Any young woman knew that when she slept with a man outside the bonds of wedlock, she was ruined. The word “ruined” had such an intractable feel to it …as if she had been permanently spoiled. Like the banana at the bottom of the fruit bowl.
“All we have to do is keep anyone from finding out,” she said warily. “We’ll pretend it never happened.”
Westcliff drew the sheet up to her shoulders and leaned over her, his hands placed on either side of her shoulders. “Lillian. We’ve slept together. That is not something that can be dismissed.”
She was suffused with sudden panic. “I can dismiss it. And if I can, then you—”
“I took advantage of you,” he said, making the worst attempt she had ever seen at trying to appear remorseful. “My actions were unforgivable. However, the situation being what it is—”
“I forgive you,” Lillian said quickly. “There, it’s settled. Where are my clothes?”
“—the only solution is for us to marry.”
A proposal from the Earl of Westcliff.
Any unmarried woman in England, upon hearing these words from this man, would have wept with gratitude. But it felt all wrong. Westcliff wasn’t proposing because he truly wanted to, or because she was the woman he desired above all others. He was proposing out of obligation.
Lillian eased herself to a sitting position. “My lord,” she asked unevenly, “is there any reason other than the fact that we just slept together that has moved you to propose to me?”
“Obviously you are attractive… intelligent …you will undoubtedly bear healthy children…and there are benefits to an alliance between our families…”
Spying her clothes, which had been neatly draped over a chair by the hearth, Lillian crawled from the bed. “I must get dressed.” She winced as her feet touched the floor.
“I’ll help you,” Westcliff said at once, striding to the chair.
She remained by the bedside, her hair tumbling over her breasts and down to the small of her back. Carrying the clothes to her and laying them on the bed, Westcliff let his gaze sweep over her. “How lovely you are,” he murmured. He touched her bare shoulders and let his fingers slide down to her elbows. “I’m sorry to have caused you pain,” he said softly. “It won’t be as difficult for you the next time. I don’t want you to fear it …or to fear me. I hope you’ll believe that I—”
“Fear you?” she said without thinking. “Good God, I would never do that.”
Easing her head back, Westcliff looked at her while a slow smile spread across his face. “No, you wouldn’t,” he agreed. “You’d spit in the devil’s eye if it suited you.”
Unable to decide whether the comment was admiring or critical, Lillian shrugged away from him uneasily. She reached for her clothes and fumbled to dress herself. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said. It wasn’t true, of course. But she could not ignore the feeling that it must not happen this way…that she shouldn’t accept a proposal that was so obviously duty-driven.
“You have no choice,” he said from behind her.
“Of course I do. I daresay Lord St. Vincent will accept me in spite of my lack of virginity. And if he doesn’t, my parents are hardly going to toss me out into the streets. I’m sure you will be relieved to know that I release you from all obligation.” Snatching her knickers from the bed, she bent to pull them on.
“Why do you mention St. Vincent?” he asked sharply. “Has he proposed to you?”
“Is that so difficult to believe?” Lillian retorted, tying the tapes of her knickers. She reached for her chemise. “He has asked for permission to approach my father, actually.”
“You can’t marry him.” Westcliff watched with a scowl as her head and arms emerged from the chemise.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re mine now.”
She made a scoffing sound, even though she felt her heart give an extra beat at his possessiveness. “The fact that I slept with you does not constitute ownership.”
“You could be breeding,” he pointed out with ruthless satisfaction. “This very moment, my child might be growing in your belly. That constitutes something of a claim, I should think.”
Lillian felt her knees quiver, although her tone matched his for coolness. “We’ll find out eventually. In the meantime, I’m turning down your offer. Except that you haven’t really made an offer, have you?” She shoved her bare foot into one of her stockings. “It was more like a command.”
“Is that what this is about? That I haven’t worded things to your satisfaction?” Westcliff shook his head impatiently. “Very well. Will you marry me?”
“No.”
His face turned thunderous. “Why not?”
“Because sleeping together isn’t sufficient reason to chain ourselves together for the rest of our lives.”
He arched one brow with impeccable arrogance. “It’s sufficient for me.” Picking up her corset, he handed it to her. “Nothing you say or do will alter my decision. We’re going to marry, and soon.”
“It may be your decision, but it isn’t mine,” Lillian retorted, sucking in her breath as he took hold of the laces and tugged them deftly. “And I would like to hear what the countess will say when she is told that you intend to bring yet one more American into the family!”
“She’ll have an apoplectic fit,” Marcus replied calmly, tying her corset laces. “She’ll go on a screaming tirade, at the end of which she’ll probably faint. And then she’ll go to the continent for six months, and refuse to writ
Chapter 19
“L illian. Lillian, dear…you must wake up. Here, I’ve sent for tea.” Daisy stood over her bed, her small hand gently shaking Lillian’s shoulder.
Grumbling and stirring, Lillian squinted up at her sister’s face. “I don’t want to wake up.”
“Well, you must. Things are happening, and I thought you should be prepared.”
“Things? What things?” Lillian lurched upward and put her hand to her aching forehead. One glance at Daisy’s small, concerned face caused her heart to thump unpleasantly.
“Sit back against the pillow,” Daisy replied, “and I’ll give you your tea. There.”
Accepting the cup of steaming liquid, Lillian painstakingly gathered her thoughts, which were as fuzzy and scattered as rolls of carded wool.
She had a vague memory of Marcus secreting her in her room last evening, where a warm bath and a helpful housemaid waited for her. She had bathed and changed into a fresh nightgown, and had popped into bed before her sister had returned from the festivities in the village. After a long, dreamless sleep, she might have convinced herself that the events of the previous night had never happened, if it wasn’t for the lingering soreness between her thighs.
What now? she wondered anxiously. He had said that he intended to marry her. In the light of day, however, he might very well reconsider the offer. And she was not certain whether it was what she wanted. If she had to spend the rest of her life feeling like an unwanted obligation that had been forced upon Marcus…
“What ‘things’ are happening?” she asked.
Daisy sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. She was wearing a blue morning gown, her hair pinned untidily at the nape of her neck. Her concerned gaze fastened on Lillian’s weary features. “About two hours ago, I heard some kind of to-do in Mother and Father’s room. It seems that Lord Westcliff asked Father to meet with him privately—in the Marsden parlor, I believe—and then later Father returned, and I poked my head in to ask what was going on. Father wouldn’t explain, but he seemed quite excited, and Mother was having conniptions about something, laughing and crying, and so Father sent for some spirits to calm her. I don’t know what was said between Lord Westcliff and Father, but I rather hoped that you would—” Daisy broke off as she saw that Lillian’s cup was rattling on the saucer. Hastily she reached over to take the tea from Lillian’s nerveless hands. “Dear, what is it? You look so strange. Did something happen yesterday? Did you do something that Lord Westcliff took exception to?”
Lillian’s throat closed hard around a wild laugh. She had never felt this way before, caught in the perilous margin between anger and tears. The anger won out. “Yes,” she said, “something happened. And now he’s using it to force his will on me, whether or not I wish it. To go behind my back and arrange everything with Father… Oh, I won’t stand for this! I can’t!”
Daisy’s eyes turned as round as dinner plates. “Did you ride one of Lord Westcliff’s horses without permission? Is that it?”
“Did I…God, no, if only that were it.” Lillian buried her scarlet face in her hands. “I slept with him.” Her voice filtered through the cold screen of her fingers. “Yesterday, while everyone was gone from the estate.”
A shocked silence greeted the bald confession. “You… but…but I don’t see how you could have…”
“I was drinking brandy in the library,” Lillian said dully. “And he found me. One thing led to another, and then I was in his bedroom.”
Daisy digested the information in wordless astonishment. She tried to speak, then took a sip of Lillian’s discarded tea and cleared her throat. “I suppose when you say you slept with him, it was more than just a nap?”
Lillian shot her a withering glance. “Daisy, don’t be a pea wit.”
“Do you think he’ll do the honorable thing and make an offer for you?”
“Oh yes,” Lillian said bitterly. “He’ll turn ‘the honorable thing’ into a big fat bludgeon and batter me over the head with it until I surrender.”
“Did he say that he loves you?” Daisy dared to ask.
Lillian made a scornful sound. “No, he didn’t utter a single word to that effect.”
A puzzled frown creased her sister’s forehead. “Lillian…is it that you’re afraid he only wants you because of the perfume?”
“No, I… oh God, I didn’t even consider that, I’ve been too scattered…” Groaning, Lillian snatched the nearest pillow and crammed it over her face as if she could smother herself. Which, at the moment, didn’t sound half bad.
Thick as the pillow was, it didn’t completely muffle Daisy’s voice. “Do you want to marry him?”
The question caused a stab of pain in Lillian’s heart. Tossing the pillow aside, she muttered, “Not like this! Not with him making the decision with no regard for my feelings, and claiming that he’s only doing it because I’ve been compromised.”
Daisy considered her words thoughtfully. “I don’t believe Lord Westcliff will characterize it that way,” she said. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would take a girl to bed, or marry her, unless he truly wanted to.”
“One could only wish,” Lillian said grimly, “that it mattered to him what I wanted.” She left the bed and went to the washstand, where her own haggard reflection glowered back at her from the looking glass. Pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl, she splashed her face and scrubbed at her skin with a soft square of toweling. A fine cloud of cinnamon powder wafted into the air as she uncapped the small tin and dipped her toothbrush into it. The crisp bite of cinnamon banished the sour, pasty feeling from her mouth, and she rinsed her mouth vigorously until her teeth were as clean and smooth as glass. “Daisy,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “would you do something for me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t want to talk to Mother or Father just now. But I have to know for certain if Westcliff really did offer to marry me. If you could manage to find out—”
“Say no more,” Daisy replied promptly, striding to the door.
By the time Lillian had finished her morning ablutions and had buttoned a white cambric robe over her nightgown, her younger sister had returned. “There was no need to ask,” Daisy reported ruefully. “Father is gone, but Mother is staring into a glass of whiskey and humming wedding music. And she looks positively blissful. I would say beyond a doubt that Lord Westcliff made an offer.”
“The bastard,” Lillian muttered. “How dare he leave me out of everything as if I were incidental to the whole business?” Her eyes narrowed. “I wonder what he’s doing now? Probably ensuring that all the loose ends are tied. Which means that the next person he’ll want to speak to is—” She broke off with an inarticulate sound, while rage pumped through her until it seemed to steam from her pores. Controlling wretch that he was, West-cliff would not leave it to her to end her friendship with Lord St. Vincent. She would not be allowed the dignity of a proper farewell. No, Westcliff would take care of everything himself, while Lillian was left as helpless as a child in the face of his machinations. “If he is doing what I think he is,” she growled, “I will brain him with a fireplace iron!”
“What?” Daisy was obviously bewildered. “What do you think he—no, Lillian, you can’t leave the room in your nightclothes!” She went to the doorway and whispered loudly as her older sister stormed into the hallway. “Lillian! Please come back! Lillian!”
The hem of Lillian’s white gown and robe billowed behind her like the sails of a ship as she stalked through the hallway and descended the great staircase. It was still early enough that most of the guests were abed. Lillian was too incensed to care who saw her. Furiously she charged past a few startled servants. By the time she reached Marcus’s study, she was breathing heavily. The door was closed. Without hesitation she burst through it, sending it crashing into the wall as she crossed the threshold.
Just as
Lillian stared into St. Vincent’s impassive face. “How much has he told you?” she demanded without preamble.
Adopting a neutral and pleasant facade, St. Vincent replied softly, “He’s told me enough.”
She switched her gaze to Marcus’s unrepentant countenance, perceiving that he had delivered his information with the lethal efficiency of a battlefield surgeon. Having decided on his course, he was pursuing it aggressively to ensure victory. “You had no right,” she said in seething fury. “I won’t be manipulated, Westcliff!”
Deceptively relaxed, St. Vincent stepped away from the desk and came to her. “I wouldn’t advise wandering about in dishabille, darling,” he murmured. “Here, allow me to offer my—”
However, Marcus had already approached Lillian from behind and had placed his coat around her shoulders, concealing her night garments from the other man’s view. Angrily she tried to knock the coat away. Marcus clamped it firmly on her shoulders and pulled her stiff body back against his. “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he said close to her ear. She arched furiously away from him.
“Let go! I will have my say with Lord St. Vincent. He and I both deserve that much. And if you try to stop me, I’ll simply do it behind your back.”
Reluctantly Marcus released her and stood aside with his arms folded across his chest. Despite his outward composure, Lillian sensed the presence of some strong emotion inside him, one that he was not entirely successful at controlling. “Then talk,” Marcus said curtly. From the stubborn set of his jaw, it was obvious that he had no intention of allowing them a moment’s privacy.
Lillian reflected that there were few women who would ever be foolhardy enough to think that they could manage this arrogant, bullheaded creature. She feared that she might be one of them. She shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Do try to keep from interrupting, will you?” she asked smartly, and turned her back to him.