Lily and the Lion (4 page)

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Clarke, observing the yellow-striped cat with mild interest. "I do believe Simon's taken a fancy to you, Lord Ashton. I hope you don't mind?"

Then, without waiting for his reply (perhaps assuming that he didn't mind in the least, or perhaps thinking he was positively mad for cats), Mrs. Clarke smiled and said, "I'll have Cathy bring you some tea. You must be hungry, too. Sweet biscuits will be the very thing."

"Really, Mrs. Clarke, that won't be necessary," Julian demurred, raising a hand in polite protest. "You can imagine that I'm most anxious to see my nephew. How is he?"

Vicar Clarke, who'd been helping Rachael out of her coat, her mittens, her boots, and the several yards of scarf wound about her head, came and stood beside Julian at the fireplace, while Rachael sat beside her mother on the sofa. Rachael and her mother looked very much alike. They were even dressed similarly.

"Peter is doing well," said the vicar, stretching his hands to the fire and turning them up, then down, then up again, just as though he were toasting bread. "But he was in very bad shape when we found him lying by the side of the road on the outskirts of town, and I don't think you should expect too much when first you see him."

Julian felt a tremor of foreboding. "Peter indicated in his letter that he had not suffered any permanent injuries. May I believe his report?"

"You may, but he's still very weak. Thank goodness the blow to his head did not remove his memory. We were afraid at first that it had. He was terribly befuddled for so long. But then he slowly regained his senses and is now as lively and mentally alert as one could wish for. As I said, however, physically he's quite weak. He sleeps a great deal, but that is as it should be."

Julian nodded, impressed with the vicar's calm, unadorned statement of facts. "I understand. Can you tell me where he received the bullet wound?"

"In the left shoulder. It's still a little stiff, but our Dr. Payne assures us that in time he will regain all of his former strength and movement in that joint." The vicar smiled reassuringly. "Time. That's the ticket, LordAshton."

While Julian pondered the irony of a physician named "Dr. Pain," a quick step was heard in the hall and he glanced towards the door in hopes of seeing his valet. While his backside was nearly dry, water squished between his toes most uncomfortably. But instead of Pleshy, in strode a young woman in a yellow dress as simply tailored as her mother's.

Yes, there could be no mistaking that this young woman was daughter and sister to the two other females in the room. She had the same shiny, chestnut-coloured hair and the same almond-shaped dark eyes fringed with thick lashes. Her figure was trim and pleasing. Her carriage was feminine and light, but, in Julian's opinion, a trifle too "bouncy," as if she were bursting with that most unfashionable sentiment called enthusiasm. Horrors! Julian had a constitutional distrust of undiscriminating cheerfulness! Was this "bouncy" young woman the infamous Lily who'd beguiled Peter's susceptible heart? She
was
pretty, but certainly not out of the common way.

"Goodness, Papa!" she exclaimed before she'd taken more than three steps into the room. "How do you dare keep Lord Ashton downstairs when you know Peter is positively
wild
to see him?" She stood in front of her father, but turned her wide, curious gaze to Julian and smiled. "And I would wager that Lord Ashton is just as anxious to see Peter!"

"Peter knows that his uncle is here, then?" queried Mrs. Clarke from the sofa as she composedly brushed and arranged Rachael's snow-dampened hair into a neat plait. "But he must wait, because Lord Ashton fell victim to your unruly brothers and needs must change his clothes."

"I know," revealed the young lady, with a definite twinkle in her expressive eyes and a suppressed grin lurking at the corners of her mouth. She tucked a stray strand of smooth hair behind her ear. "I saw the rumpus from the upstairs window. A dreadfully shabby way for my ramshackle brothers to welcome a guest to the house, I must admit. But a little dampness does not signify, does it, my lord? Cannot you change your clothes later? Peter is beside himself with impatience to see you!"

"Lord Ashton, this is my eldest child, Lilith," said the vicar, gazing fondly at his daughter, and seemingly unmoved by her forwardness in speaking so frankly to a gentleman to whom she had as yet not even been introduced. But, Julian admitted to himself, her forwardness did not strike him as being of the flirtatious variety, like the archness sometimes assumed by the brassy little coquettes who were invariably part of the London Marriage Mart. Miss Lilith Clarke just seemed to be uncommonly friendly and outspoken. Horrors! he again thought. Such excess of amiability could be quite fatiguing.

"If anyone would understand my wish to be comfortable, Miss Clarke," said Julian, with a slightly mocking edge to his voice, "it would be Peter. Before he was a soldier, he was a rather spoiled tulip of the ton. Comfort was a priority with Peter, and probably still is. I understand you have stood as nurse to him. I hope he's not been too demanding?"

Miss Clarke raised her brows, as if surprised and a little disbelieving. "Indeed, I'm amazed to learn that Peter has ever been spoiled. He's been an exceptional patient." Now her brows drew together and she added musingly, "No doubt his experiences in the army have cured him of that sort of selfishness, for I perceive no overconcern with his own comfort now. Peter has withstood a great deal of pain and discomfort for several weeks with scarcely a complaint."

Julian observed to himself that Peter must have been acting the Trojan to gain Miss Clarke's approval. Never mind, it probably had done the fellow good. But now it would seem completely frivolous and selfish if
he
were to insist on changing his clothes before visiting Peter. Truth to tell, he really was extremely anxious to see his nephew and could, indeed, tolerate a little dampness for a while.

"Will you take me to his room, Miss Clarke?" Julian asked her.

"Certainly I shall," she replied, smiling happily. "You're the best medicine Peter could possibly have today! Are you ready, then?"

"Ready and willing," he said amiably, but with a wry undertone. Miss Clarke seemed to catch the nuance of mockery in his voice and she flashed him a searching look. So, Miss Clarke was no thimblewit. That was a surprise, because it had been his opinion that most determinedly cheerful people were prone to be silly and addle-pated. How interesting that she appeared to be neither.

Pulling his gaze reluctantly away from Miss Clarke's intelligent brown eyes, he turned to Vicar Clarke, and without a trace of his former mockery, feelingly thanked him. "I am deeply indebted to you and your good wife for saving my nephew's life. My sister sends her warmest thanks, too. Indeed, I believe she is planning to pen you a letter expressing those sentiments. She and I are both painfully aware that if you hadn't come along that night and found him, then took him in–"

The vicar smiled and waved his hand dismissively. "We did nothing beyond what any good Christian would do. And we've all grown very fond of Peter. He's a brave lad."

Julian wondered if Miss Clarke was even fonder of Peter than were her parents. He hoped not, because despite his growing good opinion of the Clarke family, Julian still believed that Lily's provincial upbringing would make her an unsuitable wife for Peter, who was very much a man of the Town. He pondered these thoughts as he followed Miss Clarke into the hallway. There he saw his valet finally coming through the door with his portmanteau. Pleshy, half-French, half-Scots, cut rather a dash amongst the servant set with his thick black hair and engaging manners.

"Just a tad late, Pleshy," he murmured placidly as he followed Miss Clarke up the stairs. The yellow-striped cat came fast and silently on his lordship's heels. Behind him, Julian could hear his valet indulging a violent fit of sneezing. Ah, yes, now he remembered. Pleshy was physically intolerant to cats.

* * *

H
OLDING UP HER SKIRTS
with both hands as she ascended the stairs to the upper floor, Lily glanced over her shoulder at Lord Ashton. He was studying the landscapes hanging on the wall, or at least appeared to be. Lily wondered if such a proud-looking, elegant gentleman was capable of feeling the apprehension that would be natural under the circumstances. She wondered if he were frightened of what he might see when he entered Peter's room.

When she'd first seen the viscount in an upright position, standing in front of the fire, she'd thought he was quite the tallest, most imposing personage she'd ever encountered in the entire course of her one-and-twenty years. It was no mystery to her why the ton had attached to this nobleman the glorious epithet of "The Lion." But, goodness, she had not expected him to so vividly live up to Peter's proud description of him!

They were at the top of the stairs now and she motioned that he should follow her down the hall. She smiled at him, but he seemed preoccupied, aloof. The passage was wide and they walked abreast, so she took the opportunity to dart a glance or two at him before they reached Peter's room at the end of the hall. The burgundy jacket he wore encased his broad shoulders precisely. An ivory brocade waistcoat and meticulously tied, blindingly white neckcloth brought out the winter-whipped hue in his high cheekbones. And the buff-coloured pantaloons and well-polished boots clung to the lean, muscled lines of his legs to such an exactness... Well, Lily quite blushed at her own brazen appreciation of a man's attractions!

From a high forehead his wheat-coloured hair fell in full, graceful waves down to his collar in the back. His brows were arched and at least two shades darker than his hair. His nose was straight and slightly long, his lips firm and narrow, his chin and jawline strong, hinting of stubbornness. His eyes...

She opened the door to Peter's bedchamber. Lord Ashton's eyes—those odd, golden eyes—had been cool, reserved, assessing as he walked the length of the hall. Now as he regarded Peter, these same eyes lit and darkened to sparkling amber. The firm lips parted over straight white teeth. To see his lordship's striking features so animated made Lily's heart actually flutter! Emotion transformed him from a well-sculpted but stone-cold statue to a devastatingly handsome, warm human being.

* * *

S
TANDING AT THE DOOR,
Julian looked about the small bedchamber with a mixture of curiosity and intense anticipation. The furniture was heavy and old-fashioned, bathed in the sunshine that streamed between the open draperies of two forward-facing windows. A calico cat reposed on the window-sill, and the yellow-striped torn that had followed Julian from the parlour joined a black kitten at play on a sunny patch of wood floor by the armoire.

A stout, bespectacled gentleman stood by the bed. But with the exception of a grey cat stretched out at the foot of it, the bed was empty. Julian's anxious gaze darted about the room till it lighted on Peter, sitting in a rocking chair drawn comfortably close to a brisk fire. He was facing away from the door and did not immediately perceive that Julian had entered the room.

Even from an angle, Julian could tell that his nephew was a haggard shadow of his former self. But when Peter turned and saw him standing there, his voice rang out with all the youthful verve Julian remembered. "Julian! You've come!"

Joy and pain struggled together for the upper hand—joy to see Peter, pain to see him so wasted, so pale. Julian moved forward, towards the thin figure tucked all round with a heavy brown coverlet. He forced a smile to his lips, then felt it become mote genuine the closer he got to his nephew.

When he reached the chair, Julian drew Peter into a smothering embrace, tempering his strength when he felt the frail frame of his nephew tremble beneath his large hands. "God, Peter, we thought you were... I can't tell you how much... Your mother..."

" Julian, it's so good to see... If you only knew how I've longed... Mother, how is... ?"

Somehow it didn't seem important that neither of them could finish a sentence. They were communicating quite well, anyway. Despite his misgivings about Peter's appearance, and despite his poor opinion of forced or arbitrary cheerfulness, when Julian at last drew back, he determined to look as cheerful as possible.

"So, my good fellow, are you ready to come home with me? Your mother awaits us at Ashton House and has promised to skin me if I don't deliver you to her by Christmas!" He shifted his gaze to the bespectacled fellow in the rumpled frock-coat, whom he assumed was the doctor, partly because he wished to speak with him and partly because he needed time to compose himself. It would never do to show such strong emotion to Peter. Julian itched to get him home to Ashton where he could fatten him up with Cook's most tempting cuisine.

Julian stepped forward and extended his hand. "How do you do? I'm Lord Ashton. You must be the physician who has been taking care of my nephew."

"An honour, my lord," the doctor replied respectfully, taking Julian's preferred hand and shaking it firmly. "But I merely oversaw Captain Wendover's progress—
amazing
progress that was accomplished by the assiduous care given him by Miss Clarke." The doctor nodded his head in deference to Miss Clarke, who was busily tucking Peter's blanket more snugly about his feet.

"The angel of mercy I wrote you about, Julian!" said Peter, bestowing a fond smile upon his benefactress as she straightened from her task. "I told you she was pretty, didn't I?"