One Night for Love

'Oh.' She raised her eyebrows. 'Was it? Poor Lauren.'

She said no more, but raised an arm in farewell as he mounted and rode toward the driveway.

Lily had not yet returned to the abbey, he discovered when he arrived there himself, having left his horse to a groom's care at the stables, though she had left the dower house a good half hour before he had. Where had she gone? It was almost impossible to know, but she had walked into the forest when she left the dower house. Perhaps she was still there. Not that it would be easy to find her. And not that he ought to try.

But perhaps she had lost her way. He strode off past the fountain and across the wide lawn toward the trees.

He might have wandered among them for an hour and not spotted her. It was sheer coincidence that he saw her almost immediately. His eye was caught by the fluttering of the pale blue dress that had been the first of her new clothes. She was standing very still against a tree trunk, her hands flat against it on either side of her body. He did not want to frighten her. He did not attempt to silence his approach as he went to stand in front of her. Even so, he could see the unmistakable fear in her eyes.

'Oh,' she said, closing them briefly, 'it is just you.'

'Who did you think it was?' he asked her curiously. She was not wearing a bonnet—his mother would be scandalized—though her hair was neatly dressed.

She shook her head. 'I do not know,' she said. 'The Duke of Portfrey, perhaps.'

'Portfrey?' He frowned. But she had been afraid.

'What have you done with your cloak?' she asked.

'I did not wear one today,' he replied, looking down at his riding clothes. 'It is too warm.'

'Oh,' she said. 'I was mistaken, then.'

He would not touch her, but he leaned his head a little closer to hers. 'Why were you frightened?'

Her smile was a little wan. 'I was not really. It was nothing. I am just jumping at shadows.'

His eyes roamed over her face. She looked even now as if she were afraid to abandon the safety of the tree against which she leaned. A new and painful thought struck him.

'I have thought about your captivity,' he said, 'and I have thought of you in Lisbon, trying to get someone in the army to believe your story. But there is a chunk of missing time I have not considered, is there not? You were somewhere in Spain and walked all the way back to Lisbon in Portugal. Alone, Lily?'

She nodded.

'And every hill and hollow and thicket in both countries might have concealed a band of partisans,' he said, 'or French troops caught behind their own lines. Or even our own men. You had no papers. I should have given thought to that journey of yours before now, should I not?' What sort of terrors must she have lived through in addition to the physical hardships of such a journey ?

'Everyone's life contains suffering,' she said. 'We each have enough of our own. We do not need to shoulder the burden of other people's too.'

'Even when the other person is one's wife?' he asked. She should have been able to look on the partisans as friends, of course—they were all Britain's allies. But her experience with the one group must have given her a healthy fear of meeting another band. And he had not even thought of that journey. 'Forgive me, Lily.'

'For what?' She smiled at him and looked her old sweet beguiling self again. 'These woods are beautiful. Old. Secluded. Filled with birds and birdsong.'

'Give it time,' he told her. 'Eventually you will come to believe in the peace and safety of England. And of your home in particular. You are safe here, Lily.'

'I am not afraid now,' she assured him, and her serene smile seemed to bear out the words. 'It was just a—a feeling. It was foolish. Am I late? Is that why you came for me? Are there visitors? I forget that there are always visitors.'

'You are not late,' he said, 'and there are no visitors—though there will be this evening. But even if you were late and even if there were visitors, it would not matter. You must feel free here, Lily. This is your home.'

She nodded, though she did not reply. He held out a hand for hers without thinking. But before he could return his arm to his side, she took his hand and curled her fingers about it as if touching him were the most natural thing in the world to do. It was a warm, smooth hand, which he clasped firmly as they began to walk in the direction of home.

It was the first time he had touched her since that afternoon at the cottage. He looked down at her blond head with its coiled braid at the back and felt curiously like crying.

She was changed. She was no longer Lily Doyle, the carefree young woman who had gladdened the hearts of a hardened, jaded regiment in Portugal. She had lost her innocence. And yet it clung about her still like an almost visible aura.

Chapter 12

The afternoon had turned unseasonably hot. The evening had remained warm and was still comfortably cool at a little before midnight, when Neville saw his guests on their way home from the terrace. His Aunt and Uncle Wollston, with their sons, Hal and Richard; Lauren and Gwen; Charles Cannadine with his mother and sister; Paul Longford; Lord and Lady Leigh with their eldest daughter—all had come to dinner and had stayed for an evening of music and cards.

Lily had found it a difficult evening, Neville knew. She did not play cards—poor Lily, it was yet another absent accomplishment that his friends and neighbors had discovered in her. And while she might have found congenial company with Hal and Richard or even perhaps with Charles or Paul—he had noticed without surprise that she was always more comfortable with men than with women—she had been taken under the wing of Lady Leigh and Mrs. Cannadine, who had proceeded to discover all the other attributes of a lady she simply did not possess. Then she had been borne off by Lauren to the music room, where all the young ladies except Lily had proceeded to display their accomplishments at the pianoforte.