Page 112 of Wild Lily
Chapter 15
“Your breakfast, Your Grace, as you wish here.” The Seton butler gave small bow to Lily, his scowl a storm upon his brow. He wasn’t pleased that the new young duchess did not stay in bed to break her fast as the lady of the manor should. He was inconvenienced to the nth degree, the intrusion to his day putting her in mind of a bothered scorpion. Silent, stealthy, stinging her with a subtle lash of his rectitude, he’d sneak up on her anywhere in this eerie carcass they called Broadmore House. Like the insects who lived in the southern Texas plains, he’d better learn how to scurry away from any retaliatory strikes. For as sure as the sun rose and set, one day she’d rebel and dress him down like the duchess she’d become.
After three weeks here at Broadmore, being stung by him and hobbled by the Dowager Duchess of Seton, alone save for Julian’s arms circling round her at night, Lily was in no mood to tolerate much more nastiness.
“Wonderful, Perkins.You and the footman may leave me to dine alone.” Lily spoke to the under servant, embarrassed to ask the question which she had asked of him yesterday. “Forgive me, what is your name?”
But it was the butler who cleared his throat in a most reproachful manner and answered her. “Finch, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” She brought herself up short. Orders from Julian’s mother were she was not to acknowledge staff. In any way. “I shall remember it next time.”
The footman hastened to pull out her chair for her, then pour her tea.
“Put the pot there, Finch. I will serve myself.”
Perkins glared at her. That, she was certain, was not what butlers were allowed to do. The dowager duchess influencing his attitudes, perhaps? She gave him the arch of a brow.
He demurred, unhappily so, but nonetheless. He puttered about after the exit of the younger man and finally, he closed the double doors upon her.
She was blessedly alone.Again.In the dining room. With the grim countenance of one of the forbearers of the Ash family staring down upon her. He—name as yet unknown to her—loomed over her, six feet tall with lace cuffs dripping down to his ruby-laden fingertips. In his ornate vermilion velvet suita laone of Charles the Second’s cavaliers, he looked so fancy, he might have been a woman going to a ball.
Lily snorted and consoled herself with a satisfying drink of her tea. Her toast stood in a little silver contraption they called a caddy. She picked up one triangle. And dropped it. Cold.Again.
Is there nothing warm in this entire mansion?Not toast. Not portraits. Not rooms. Not husband.
Not even my husband. Not as he was during their first few weeks together.Attentive, madly passionate but silent as he took her in his arms each night, he made love to her like a man possessed by demons. She had pressed him for causes. He had not shared them. So be it. She did not question him further for the cares that lined his forehead as deeply as the Broadmore butler’s.
She might understand Julian’s troubles, his added responsibilities now as the new Duke of Seton, but she did like his withdrawal. She vowed to approach the matter, but looked for an suitable opportunity. One bit of news that would brighten his days was her purchase of the Irish lands he’d wanted his father to sell through Leland.
Phillip had arrived yesterday to prepare for the reading of the will tomorrow. Early this morning, he had sent her a note via the butler through her maid Nora that the sale had completed. She was now the proud owner of eight-thousand acres of prime farmland near Tipperary.
That news would lift her husband’s spirits.
She scraped back her chair and headed for the sideboard. The silver salvers had better have kept the heat in the eggs and bacon or she would scream.
The door squeaked open. Angry that Perkins would disturb her, she whirled around.
Her mother-in-law stood upon the threshold.
Well, that put an end to any hope of a peaceful meal.
“Whatare you doing?” The woman virtually seethed the words.
Obvious, isn’t it?
Her plate full, Lily resumed her chair. She would not be bated.
“I asked you a question.”
“Have you had your breakfast yet, madam?” Lily had not been invited to call her anything else, nor would she ask for any moniker more informal for a long time.
After the woman had heard her husband pronounced dead in the parlor in London, she’d fainted at her departed husband’s feet. Lily and Marianne had run into the room to see the duke upon the carpet. Julian had caught up his mother and put smelling salts to her nostrils. The duchess struggled up from the floor. Then in a manner Lily understood most staid ladies of the upper crust would eschew as the lowest form of crassness, she wailed as Julian pronounced her husband’s death.
Like a dervish, she’d ordered the service in the Broadmore family chapel and burial in the family mausoleum. She’d moaned, dabbed her cheeks, and told tales of how happy she and her husband had been. “Until…” she said with malice, mystery and a dab of melancholy. “Until he ruined us…”
On, she’d ranted and raved as if she’d lost a cherished partner. To have torn at her hair like ancient mourners might even have been in character for the woman, had she indeed cared for the man. But Lily had seen no devotion between them. For the greater realm of the duke’s and duchess’s social circle, the woman’s drama may have convinced them of her anguish. To Lily however, the lady’s actions were a play. A tragedy. A lie.
Nor had she stopped. One day after the duke’s demise, the woman had led a procession of the family up to Broadmore with the body of the duke leading the way in a black bunting-draped caisson. The dowager rode with Julian and Lily in the Broadmore coach. Elanna and Carbury, their honeymoon cut by the death, followed in Carbury’s carriage. Those two had stayed only two days and at Carbury’s insistence, had departed for the coast of France. If Lily thought that Elanna might be pleased to have some solitude with her groom, she might have envied the young bride’s escape. But that was not the case. As the couple left for Dieppe, Lily witnessed a new resentment take hold of the dowager. Indeed, the woman added another note to her repertoire. Suddenly, she concentrated less on mourning and more on making Lily’s life miserable.
