The Duke Is But a Dream--A Debutante Diaries Novel Page 22

  They sat in silence for several moments. Lily wished she could erase the lines furrowing his brow with kisses, but he’d made it clear that he couldn’t give her the love she wanted. And as much as it was going to hurt, the time had come to say goodbye—and they both knew it.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said soberly.

  Lily’s heart pounded, wondering what it could be. “Go on,” she encouraged.

  “If you should be with child, I will marry you—that is, if you’ll have me. I will try to be the best husband and father that I can.”

  She swiped at the tears that came out of nowhere. “I’m not pregnant,” she said confidently. Her monthly flow was just ending. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Lily, I’m sorry for everything. I wish things had turned out differently,” he said, earnest. But for some reason, the platitudes stung—and only made her feel worse.

  “I have something to tell you too,” she choked out. After all they’d shared, he deserved to know the truth about The Debutante’s Revenge. “Do you remember the day when my memory came back and I said there was something about me you should know?”

  He glanced up, his expression wary. “Yes.”

  Her mouth turned to cotton. “The reason I was dressed as a boy on the night I hit my head was that I had just come from the offices of the London Hearsay.”

  He frowned slightly. “Why would you have needed to disguise yourself?”

  “Because I’m the authoress of The Debutante’s Revenge,” she said, relieved to speak the words out loud. She gave him time to absorb the news before continuing. “I know that you don’t hold it in very high regard, but it’s important to me—and it’s a big part of who I am.”

  “I … I don’t know what to say to that, Lily.” He stood and paced the length of the drawing room, scrubbing the back of his head.

  “Maybe you could say that you respect it,” she said, her voice wobbly. “Even if you disagree with some of its advice.”

  “I respect you,” he said evenly. “And I respect your right to say what you believe. But this is simply more proof that we would not suit. We view the world very differently, you and I. You believe in love that’s all-consuming. The kind that sweeps you off your feet and leaves you breathless and forever changed. And I … I don’t.”

  Lily felt as though all the air had been sucked from her lungs. This was it, then. This was truly goodbye.

  A brisk knock made her turn toward the door. A footman stood there holding her bag.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” the gangly young man said. “You left this behind in the coach.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Nash took the leather sack from the footman and crossed the room to hand it to Lily—but the strap slipped through her fingers, and most of the bag’s contents spilled onto the floor. A hairbrush, her journal, the bootie, and the rough sketch she’d carried in her pocket on the night she lost her memory.

  Nash crouched to pick up the journal, then froze. It had fallen open to one of her entries, and the heading, Dear Debutantes, was written plainly across the top. “When did you write this?” he asked, confusion clouding his eyes.

  “Shortly after Delilah gave me the journal,” she said. “It was just for fun. I didn’t know I was the author of the column, then.”

  “I see.” He closed the book and handed it to her. “Did you write about us?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Yes,” she said, unable to deny it.

  For several seconds he knelt there, silent, as though he was grappling with a potent mix of emotions. At last, he said, “I’m glad to know the nights we spent together won’t be wasted. They should provide plenty of fodder for future columns.”

  Oh God. She couldn’t let him believe that. “No. Our relationship was never about my column, Nash. It was about us—two souls, both a little lost, who found something incredibly special in each other.”

  He shrugged, clearly skeptical. “In any case, you can trust me to keep your secret. I would never expose you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  Lily’s heart felt as fragile as an eggshell, cracking all over. She needed Nash to understand he was much more to her than research or inspiration for her writing. And she needed him to know that, in spite of all his protests to the contrary, he was capable of loving deeply.

  “You say it’s impossible for you to love me the way I need to be loved, but I know that’s not true.” She leaned down to pick up the sketch of the couple and held it up to show him. “You used to look at me like this. The night we went to Vauxhall. You looked at me like I held your whole world in my hands.”

  He muttered a curse under his breath and walked to the window, gazing outside at the rustling leaves and sparkling sunlight. “I plan to set out again in an hour,” he said. “Searching for Delilah feels a little like shooting arrows in the dark, but I have to try. What will you do?”

  She swallowed the horrid knot in her throat. “I plan to go to my sister’s house. I’ll leave the address with Mr. Stodges in case you should need me. And if—that is, when—Delilah returns, I hope you’ll send word.”

  “I’m certain she’ll write to you herself.”

  “That would be lovely,” Lily said—as if his cool, distant manner hadn’t gutted her.

  Nash turned to face her. “This is goodbye, then.”

  “Yes.” Lily rose to her feet, willing her knees not to tremble. She looked into those arresting, amber eyes, searching for a hint of the tenderness that had been there before. But if it were there, it was barricaded behind a wall of pain, fear, and betrayal.

  She stood on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. He didn’t say anything or put his arms around her, but the almost undetectable tremor that went through him gave her hope.

  Hope that whatever he’d once felt for her was not entirely dead.

  Chapter 28

  “Rules dictate whom you may dance with and where you must sit and when you may pay a call. But if the number of rules begins to overwhelm you, abandon them all and remember this one thing: Be kind.”

  —The Debutante’s Revenge

  Lily’s palms were clammy as she approached her parents’ house. The place where she’d skinned her knees, learned to play the piano, and shared secrets with her sister. Her home.

  When Mr. Woodson, the Hartleys’ butler, opened the door and greeted her with a spontaneous smile, her heart lurched. It was so refreshing to be recognized—and to interact with someone who’d known her since the days when she’d worn pigtails and climbed trees.

  “Miss Lily, what an unexpected pleasure!” He ushered her into the house while craning his neck to look onto the street behind her. “But what are you doing here? Have you no maid with you?”

  “It’s a rather long story, Mr. Woodson, but no.” She smiled warmly at his wizened face and puppy-dog eyes. “How is everything here?”

  “Very well, but quiet. I thought you were staying with your sister until your parents returned,” he said, scratching a tuft of brown hair above one ear.

  Lily opened her mouth to explain, then decided better of it. She was still reeling from saying goodbye to Nash and feared she’d turn into a watering pot. “Have you had any news from Mama and Papa?”

  “We received word just this morning saying they expect to return home in three or four days. They surely miss you and your sister.”

  “I miss them too,” she said—surprised at the pang that echoed in her chest. “If you don’t mind, I think I shall go to my bedchamber to quickly fetch some items before going to Fiona and Gray’s.”

  “Of course, Miss Lily. I’ll send up one of the maids to assist.”

  She waved away the offer. “No need. I shall only be a few moments.” Lily shot him a smile and scurried up to her room before the dear man could insist that she sit down for tea and a sandwich.

  Upon entering her room, she allowed herself five seconds to soak in the sweet, familiar sight, then set ab
out stuffing her portmanteau with gowns, undergarments, and all the other necessities she could pack in it. When she was through, she raced downstairs, bid a brief farewell to the butler, and promised she’d come home as soon as her parents returned.

  She stepped out of her house into the golden, dappled afternoon light.

  She’d imagined her return home would have had more drama. That she would have had to run the gauntlet, so to speak.

  But walking back into her life had been shockingly easy. So far, at least.

  She still had to ease her way into her sister and brother-in-law’s household, but as she strolled in the direction of their town house, she began to believe that perhaps—just maybe—she would succeed in keeping her exploits of the last fortnight a secret from the ton. She would confide in her sister and Sophie, of course, but the fewer people who knew she’d been staying with the Duke of Stonebridge, the better.

  Though her heart pounded every time she encountered someone, she attempted to look assured and vaguely bored. If passersby found it odd that Lily walked through the neighborhood alone carrying a portmanteau stuffed to the gills, they said nothing. A few acquaintances nodded pleasantly, and only Lady Rufflebum—who was rather famous for her permanent scowl—looked askance. Lily called out a greeting, flashed a smile, and rushed past the matriarch.

  Fiona’s house was only a few blocks away from their family home, but by the time Lily arrived on the front steps, her arms ached from lugging the heavy bag. She heaved a sigh of relief as she set it down and lifted the knocker, shaped like a raven as a nod to her brother-in-law’s title, Ravenport. The brass bird hit the plate on the door with a loud clunk, and Lily waited.

  Once she walked through the door, her two-week adventure would be officially over.

  And though she was undeniably glad to be home, a part of her missed being Caroline—the woman who owned a sliver of Nash’s heart.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Dowding, opened the door and blinked. “Miss Lily, what a pleasant surprise! Do come in.” She frowned at the portmanteau near Lily’s feet and dragged it into the foyer. “Where is your footman? Or your conveyance for that matter?”

  “It’s a lovely day,” Lily said breezily. “I walked.”

  The housekeeper clucked her tongue in mild disapproval. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, miss, but I’m afraid the earl and countess haven’t yet returned from their trip. I don’t expect them back for at least a few days.”

  “I was thinking”—Lily cleared her throat—“that perhaps I’d stay here and wait for Fiona to return.”

  “What’s this?” the housekeeper asked. “You’ll have no one to entertain you.”

  “There’s no one at home either. My parents left for Bath”—Lily neglected to mention when—“and I’ll be less lonely if I have a project to keep me busy. Fiona’s always saying how she wants to set up the library as her drawing studio … and I thought I might surprise her.”

  “What a lovely idea.” The housekeeper beamed. “I’ve never met siblings who get along so well. The countess is lucky to have a sister like you.”

  “I’m the lucky one,” Lily said softly. “I hope it won’t be a burden, having me here. There’s no need to prepare any special meals. I’m perfectly happy to eat with you and the rest of the staff.”

  Mrs. Dowding pressed a hand to her bosom. “You shall do no such thing. It’s our pleasure to host you for as long as you wish. I always keep your room ready, so I’ll just take up your portmanteau and open the windows to air out the bedchamber a bit. I’ll send up the countess’s maid to help you unpack your things. And you must let me know what we can do to help you transform the library.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Lily replied. “I think I shall take a quick look at the room before I settle in.”

  “Please do—it’s unlocked.” The housekeeper toddled up the stairs, hefting the portmanteau behind her. Lily would have offered to carry it herself if she didn’t know Mrs. Dowding would suffer an apoplexy at the very suggestion.

  Besides, a large stack of mail sat on a mahogany table in the foyer, neatly placed on top of a silver salver. The moment the housekeeper was out of sight, Lily picked up the pile and quickly shuffled through it. But the letter she was looking for—the one she’d written to Fiona explaining her absence—wasn’t there.

  Lily went through the letters again, slower. There were notes that looked like ball invitations; a couple of missives from their friend Sophie; business correspondence for Gray. But no sign of the note she’d sent her sister. At least she’d be here when Fiona returned and could answer her questions in person.

  Next, she went to the library, shut the door, and sat at the desk beneath a window. She wrote a brief note inviting Serena to tea the following day. After signing it, she realized that she couldn’t very well ask one of Fiona’s footmen to deliver a note to an infamous brothel without raising suspicion.

  Fortunately, she still had her chimney sweep disguise—which meant she could deliver the note herself.

  * * *

  The next morning, Lily returned to the library. This time she took stock of the room, trying to envision it as a studio for her talented sister. She knew Fiona would love the tall windows, especially if the heavy velvet drapes were replaced with airy silk panels.

  Some of the books on the two full walls of shelves could stay, but Lily planned to relocate most of them to Gray’s study and the drawing room so that Fiona could fill the bookcases with her drawing supplies, framed sketches and paintings, and cherished mementos. Lily could already imagine the shelves populated with inspired collections of beach shells, dried flowers, and painted pottery.

  The desk and two massive leather armchairs would need to go, but the old, comfortable sofa would provide the perfect spot for Fiona to curl up with her sketchpad—especially if Lily replaced the worn pillows with fluffy, colorful ones.

  Lily also made a note to remove the rather grim oil painting of a hunter shooting pheasant. In fact, she might as well have all the artwork taken down so that Fiona’s gorgeous creations could adorn the walls instead.

  Only two new items would be needed for Fiona’s studio—an easel and a long table where she could spread out her works in progress and stage vignettes she wished to draw. Weeks ago, Lily had commissioned an exquisite rosewood easel from a skilled carpenter in town. She’d saved up the money she’d earned from her first columns to purchase it, and it would likely be ready any day.

  Lily whisked a sheet of paper onto the desk and began making a list of things she must do, grateful to have a project to distract her from thinking about Nash. She’d left him less than twenty-four hours ago, and she already missed his grumbly banter and grudging smile.

  Mrs. Dowding assigned a pair of footmen to assist Lily for a couple of hours. Despite their protestations that she should merely direct them to do the work, she helped box up scores of books and dusted the empty shelves.

  “Let’s try moving the sofa to the opposite wall,” Lily mused. “I want to save the space in front of the windows for my sister’s easel.” The strapping young footmen rushed to do her bidding, and—unless Lily was mistaken—flexed their arms a bit more than was necessary. She shot them a grateful smile, tilted her head, and took stock of the new arrangement.

  Not bad at all. The room was starting to look less pretentious library and more … Fiona.

  “What in heaven are you doing in here?”

  Lily whirled around at a sweetly familiar voice. “Sophie!” Lily impulsively threw her arms around her dear friend. It had only been a few weeks since she’d seen her, but so much had happened. “I’m trying to turn this room into a suitable studio for Fiona.”

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Sophie said, hugging her like they’d been apart for decades.

  “You may not feel the same way after I press you into service here,” Lily teased. She held Sophie at arm’s length, inspecting her from head to toe. As usual, she was the picture of elegance and grace. She wore a s
imple morning gown of pale blue, and her golden hair was perfectly styled into a smooth twist. But the dark smudges beneath her eyes hinted something was amiss.

  Lily thanked the footmen and suggested they resume their work later in the day. To Sophie, she said, “How is your family? I thought you were still out of town.”

  “We returned a few days ago. I came to visit, figuring I would find both you and Fiona here … and instead, I found this.” She reached into the reticule dangling from her wrist and handed Lily a folded note.

  A note she recognized quite well—because she’d written it to Fiona.

  She swallowed. “How did you…?”

  “I realized that I left my journal in this room the last time the three of us were together working on The Debutante’s Revenge.”

  “Did you find it?” Lily asked, more than a little concerned. She’d be beside herself if her own diary went missing.

  “I did,” Sophie replied. “It was sitting right on the desk where I’d left it. And your note was right next to it.”

  Lily nodded. Mrs. Dowding must have placed it there for Fiona. “You read it?”

  “I did.” Sophie winced. “I recognized your handwriting, of course. And I was terribly worried about you. Your note allayed some of my fears but raised others. Where on earth have you been for the last two weeks?”

  Lily linked an arm through Sophie’s and guided her toward the sofa. “Come sit and make yourself comfortable. It’s going to take a while for me to tell the whole tale.”

  Lily launched into the story, sharing everything—about her injury, her recovery at Nash’s town house, her birth mother, and Delilah’s disappearance.

  Everything except the part that was too raw and painful to put into words.

  The part where she’d fallen utterly, hopelessly in love with the duke.

  * * *

  Serena arrived for tea that afternoon wearing another stylish hat and veil, making Lily wonder if she had an entire chest devoted to them. Her gray and lavender gown was understated but elegant, and her hair was swept away from her face in a simple chignon. She walked into the drawing room where Lily waited looking both apprehensive and hopeful.