The Duke Is But a Dream--A Debutante Diaries Novel Page 20

  “Where will you be?”

  He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “In the taproom for a while. I’ll probably spend the night in the stables.”

  “Why?”

  “There aren’t any more rooms,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  “Don’t you want to stay here with me?” she asked, detecting a note of hurt in her own voice.

  He hesitated for several seconds as he stared at her, his eyes glowing like burnished gold. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “I don’t understand.” Lily’s own eyes stung. “We shared a bed just last night.”

  Nash closed the door to the room, and she sank onto the edge of the mattress. “Last night feels like a lifetime ago,” he said sadly. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay with you tonight—I do. But now that we know who you really are, we need to be honest about what we want from each other and what we can give.”

  “I have been honest with you,” she choked out. “I’m still me. Caroline, Lily, whatever name I go by, I’m the same person inside.”

  Nash sat in the chair across from her and looked directly into her eyes. “I know. I’ve tried to be honest with you too,” he said, his face awash with regret. “I wanted to believe that we could go on as we were—and that it would be enough for you. But I think we both know that it’s not.”

  She opened her mouth, wanting to deny it—but couldn’t. She needed him to love her with his whole heart, freely and unreservedly. And that wouldn’t be possible till he let go of the past—and his guilt.

  “What we shared was special,” he said earnestly. “And true. But when I read Delilah’s note today, it was like a splash of cold water on my face, reminding me never to fall too hard. Never to lose my head. I came dangerously close to doing that with you.”

  “I would never hurt you.”

  “I know that,” he said. “I trust you … but I don’t trust myself. The passion I feel for you could easily overpower my good sense and make me careless in my duties—to my title and to my sister. I’m all the family Delilah has left. I can’t risk doing something rash and destructive. I can’t do to Delilah what Emily did to me.”

  * * *

  Lily sat across from Nash, her knees a mere foot away from his. She’d tossed her shawl onto the mattress, and several thick curls dangled around her shoulders, too heavy to be confined by her hairpins. In spite of her wrinkled gown and the dark smudges beneath her eyes, she looked achingly beautiful.

  “You’re lucky that you were able to stop yourself from falling in love.” Her green eyes flashed defiantly. “It’s too late for me.”

  “Lily,” he pleaded. “Don’t do this.”

  “It’s too late for me,” she repeated, “because I already love you. With my whole heart.”

  He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the chair, so he wouldn’t haul her into his arms. “I can’t love you back. Not like you want me to.”

  She continued talking as though she hadn’t heard him. “Do you remember that first night when I woke up in your house? I couldn’t remember anything, and I was terrified. But then I saw your face. I heard your voice. And I knew I was safe.”

  “I was partly to blame for what happened,” Nash reminded her. “The least I could do was take care of you. It was my duty,” he added—so she wouldn’t mistakenly believe he’d been bewitched by her courage and wit. Or dazzled by her smile.

  She stared at him, unpersuaded. “And the night I kissed you in your study—that was my first real kiss. You were my first for … everything.”

  Nash pressed his lips into a tight line. “I know you don’t want to hear this now, but you will meet someone else, Lily. Someone far better than I.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head slowly, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “You treated me—a woman you found in a tavern dressed as a chimney sweep—with compassion and respect. And the more time I spent with you, the more I came to care for you. Even at your grumpiest, you could always make me smile, always make me feel special. And that’s why I fell in love with you.”

  It killed Nash to see her hurting—which only proved his point. Love always led to pain. “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly, handing her his handkerchief.

  She dabbed at her eyes and swallowed bravely. “We’ve both had a long day.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m going to go downstairs so you can rest.”

  “Will you return later?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He stood and stepped to the door before he lost his resolve. “Try to sleep.”

  Chapter 25

  “Be aware of the pressure of his hand on yours. It should be warm and firm. Easy, yet exhilarating. The mere touch of your palms should cause a flutter in your belly.”

  —The Debutante’s Revenge

  Lily ate a few bites of the stew that Nash had sent up, then placed the tray in the hallway. Without him, the tiny room seemed so empty. Too quiet. Normally, she didn’t mind solitude, but the ache in her chest wasn’t from being alone … it was from being lonely. She was miles away from her sister and her dear friend Sophie. Worse, they had no idea of all she’d been through.

  Nash was the one person who could know what Lily was feeling—but he refused to acknowledge it. Refused to accept what they meant to each other.

  She took off her slippers and stockings, wriggled out of her gown, and hung it from a hook on the wall. After changing into her soft nightgown, she carefully removed each pin from her hair and ran her brush through her curls. And when she could think of nothing else to do, she turned down the lamp, slid beneath the bed’s quilt, and stared at the ceiling, waiting, hoping, that Nash would return.

  Sounds from the taproom drifted through the window and walls—boisterous conversation, drunken song, and clanking glasses. But, eventually, the noise dissipated.

  The air in the room grew chilly.

  A single shaft of moonlight slanted across the bed.

  Lily was on the verge of succumbing to sleep when a knock sounded at the door. “Caroline.” Nash’s voice was muffled and filled with angst.

  Heart pounding, she leaped out of bed, padded to the door, and opened it.

  His cravat was askew, his hair stood on end, and he leaned against the doorjamb like it was the only thing holding his body upright.

  She supposed this was Nash at his worst—and yet, his dashing good looks still had the power to take her breath away.

  “Are you all right?” She reached for his arm, and though he flinched when she touched him, he didn’t pull away.

  He blinked and swiped a hand across his face. “You’re wearing a nightgown.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “That’s because while you were in the taproom drinking, I was in bed. Don’t stand out there. Come in.”

  * * *

  Nash staggered into Caroline’s room. That is, Lily’s room. He knew Caroline wasn’t her real name, but after a few pints of ale, his stubborn mind wanted to return to the way things were—when she was Caroline.

  When she was his.

  She shut the door and locked it before sitting on the edge of the bed across from him. Her long hair hung loose around her shoulders, bare but for the lace straps of her white nightgown. The gown’s neckline dipped low across the swell of her breasts, and a ruffle at its hem grazed her shapely calves. Nash’s heart thudded in his chest.

  Scowling at his own weakness, he slumped onto the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Her brow furrowed in concern. “Does your head ache?”

  “Aye.”

  “Don’t move.”

  He tried not to stare at her swaying hips as she walked to the washbasin. Tried not to watch the graceful movements of her arms as she wrung water out of the cloth. And, heaven help him, he tried not to gape at the subtle bounce of her breasts as she glided back to him.

  She gave him the cloth. “Hold this over your forehead and eyes.”

  He did as she instructed, letting the coolness numb his
pain and the darkness heighten his senses.

  “Lean back,” she said. He did, and a moment later, her nimble fingers untied the knot of his cravat and gently removed it. “There,” she murmured, caressing the side of his neck. “That’s better.”

  He shifted in the chair and started to remove the cloth from his eyes, but she pressed a fingertip to his lips. “Stay still. Let me take care of you.”

  Sweet Lucifer. He felt her stand and move behind him, felt her breath near his ear. “Don’t think about anything. Try to relax.”

  Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, kneading the tight muscles beneath his jacket and draining the pain from his body. She hummed softly, lulling him into a dreamlike state—where nothing mattered but the feel of her hands on his shoulders, arms, and neck.

  She massaged his nape and gently traced the shells of his ears. She slid her hands beneath his collar and the front of his shirt, leaving his skin tingling in the wake of her touch. She speared her fingers through his hair, lightly rubbing his scalp till the pounding in his head subsided.

  “Let me remove your jacket,” she whispered, pushing it down his shoulders and off his arms. When it was gone, she unbuttoned his waistcoat too. Her palms skimmed over his chest and abdomen, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. “Come, lie down,” she urged—and he was powerless to resist her.

  He tossed the cloth on the table beside the bed and sprawled on the mattress, sighing the moment his head hit the pillow.

  She pulled off one of his boots, then the other. When she was done, she perched beside him on the bed, gazing at him with shining eyes. Her hair glistened in the moonlight; her heart-shaped face shone with compassion. Between her diaphanous shift and luminous skin, she looked like an angel.

  But even if she were, he was beyond saving.

  She moved closer, running her fingers across his forehead, down his cheeks, and along his jaw. With every caress, she quieted the demons in his head. Healed the raw wounds on his heart.

  “Close your eyes,” she murmured softly. “You need to sleep.”

  “It’s your bed. I should go.”

  “Do not go for my sake.” She leaned over him and pressed her lips to his cheek in a kiss that was tender and all too brief. “I will feel better if you put your arms around me and sleep more soundly if you stay.”

  He laced his fingers through hers, savoring the familiar, perfect fit of their hands. “One more night,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

  A winsome smile lit her face as she laid beside him and nuzzled his shoulder. He pulled her close and pretended for a moment that everything was right with the world.

  And maybe, for that fleeting second, it was.

  Her lush curves pressed against his side. Her breath soft and warm on his neck. Her heart beating in time with his.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled the light floral scent of her hair.

  And slept peacefully until dawn.

  * * *

  Over the next two days, Nash and Lily stopped at every inn on the way to Gretna Green, looking for Delilah with little luck. Occasionally, a tavern owner or barkeep claimed to have seen a young woman matching her description, but it seemed Delilah was always one step ahead of Nash, just out of his reach. With every hour that passed, he grew more anxious. He told himself that as long as Delilah was safe and happy, he would be happy. But if Brondale had hurt her in any way … the bastard would pay.

  Being angry at Brondale was easier than worrying about his sister.

  It was also easier than thinking about his relationship with Lily.

  Ever since the first night of their journey that they’d spent together at the inn, he’d managed to keep a respectable distance. They slept in separate rooms and avoided touching each other. But it wasn’t easy.

  Especially when she sat across from him in the coach, as she did now, her expression full of longing and … something else.

  He looked away so he wouldn’t have to analyze it too closely. “We’ll drive as long as we can—a few more hours at least—and stop at an inn tonight. We should arrive at Gretna Green by tomorrow morning.”

  She nodded and peered out the window at the deep orange horizon. “I can’t explain why, but I feel like Delilah is close. Maybe she’s looking at the sunset right now too.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said, trying not to sound cynical. If not for Lily, he’d have spent the last three days brooding nonstop. She always managed to look at the bright side of things. Always tried to make him feel better. But today, she’d been serious and thoughtful. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, searching her face. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

  “I’ve been remembering,” she said. “It turns out that losing my memory may have helped me solve a twenty-year-old mystery … about where I came from.”

  * * *

  Nash leveled his golden gaze at her, curious. “What do you mean? You weren’t born in London?”

  Lily cleared her throat. Not many people knew the truth about how she’d come to live with the Hartleys. Just her parents, Fiona, and Sophie. “I’m not a Hartley by birth. I was left on their doorstep when I was a baby.”

  Nash blinked. “They adopted you?”

  “Yes. I found out when I was seven.” Lily could still remember how the news had shaken her. Her stepmother unceremoniously mentioned it in the same offhand tone that she might have used to announce that they’d be having ham for dinner. “Our butler was the one who discovered me outside the door in a basket. No one saw who left me there, but two clues were nestled beneath my blankets.”

  Nash listened intently, and Lily could almost see his mind piecing the information together, reaching the same conclusions she had. But it still felt good to say it. To have all the facts exposed.

  “The first one was a note. I still have it at home, and it says, ‘Please take care of my darling Lily.’”

  Nash shot her a soft smile—as if he understood what that scrap of paper meant to her. A name was something. It was an identity. And having lost hers for a little over a week, Lily knew just how important an identity was. How it connected you to the people and world around you. How it made you unique and human and alive.

  Maybe it was naïve, but she’d always taken comfort in the knowledge that someone—probably her birth mother—had given her that name. Surely a woman who’d gone to the trouble of naming her daughter and using an endearment like “darling” had felt an inkling of motherly love. Even if she had left her infant in a straw basket on a stranger’s doorstep in the wee hours of the morning.

  Nash sat back and rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “I think I can guess the second clue.”

  Lily nodded, reached into her bag beneath her seat, and pulled out the baby bootie that Serena had given her. Made of cream-colored silk with light green stitching and a white ribbon lace at the instep, there was nothing terribly exceptional about the bootie—except that it was an exact match of the one she’d been wearing on the morning she’d been found. “I was only wearing one bootie when the butler picked up my basket—and it looked just like this.” Lily smiled to herself, thinking of all the stories she and Fiona had spun about the missing bootie.

  Fiona had said that Lily was just like Cinderella and claimed to be desperately jealous of that tiny shoe. Even if she was only saying that to be nice, it had made Lily feel a little better. Her favorite theory—concocted by Fiona when she was nine—was that Lily’s mother was a royal princess who’d been forced to flee her kingdom and needed a safe place for her daughter to grow up. They’d imagined that one day the princess would return for Lily, the matching little shoe in hand.

  The truth wasn’t quite the storybook tale, but perhaps there were some parallels.

  Nash sat across from her, eyes wide with a mix of wonder and disbelief. “Serena knew about your birthmark.”

  Lily nodded. “She said she knew me as a baby.”

  “And she had the matching bootie.” Nash leaned forward, his gold eyes looking
deep into hers. “That means Serena could be…”

  “I think she must be.” Lily felt a warm glow in her chest. “Serena Labelle is my birth mother.”

  Chapter 26

  “Violence is rarely the answer; however, it is sometimes the only answer. Every young lady should possess some means of defending herself, and in the absence of a rapier, the pointed end of a parasol may prove quite useful.”

  —The Debutante’s Revenge

  The moon had started to rise in the sky outside the coach, and bluish beams fell across Lily’s face, illuminating the cautious joy in her eyes. Nash could feel both her relief and her excitement over the discovery that Serena was her birth mother.

  But he knew more about Serena than Lily did—namely, that she was the madam of a brothel—and he needed to share that with Lily as directly and tactfully as he could.

  “I’d begun to think that I’d never learn the truth about who left me on the Hartleys’ doorstep,” she said. “If I hadn’t lost my memory and we hadn’t placed the ad, there’s a good chance I never would have.” She stared at the tiny bootie in her hand. “Serena held on to this for twenty years. Surely that means something.”

  Nash nodded, sympathetic. “She certainly sounded eager to meet with you—but only if and when you feel ready to.”

  “The thought makes me anxious,” Lily admitted. “But I have so many questions—and Serena’s the only one who can answer them.” The vulnerability in her voice made him want to pull her into his arms, but he resisted—barely.

  “She seems kind,” Nash said, “and concerned for your well-being. Both of those traits make me inclined to like her.”

  “I liked her too,” Lily mused. “But I don’t understand why she felt the veil was necessary—or why she didn’t leave her name initially.”