His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(56)
“Listen discreetly, or I’ll thrash you.”
Worth socked Hessian on the arm. “Love you too.” He strolled away, his cane propped against his shoulder.
Hessian paused before his own front door, battling the temptation to keep walking until he was in the Leggett mews. He could toss a few pebbles at Lily’s window and recite whispered poetry to the night air, and otherwise…
Make an ass out of himself. He had no idea which window might be Lily’s, and tossing pebbles in the dark of night was no way to reliably hit a target in any case.
He nonetheless sat for a moment on his own front steps, pondering the conversation with Worth. Lily was not the woman Hessian would have said that difficult, overindulged little girl should have become. She was far more sensible and likable.
More trustworthy. A boy hadn’t dared turn his back on the young Lily Ferguson. She could throw rocks with an accuracy that daunted a young male’s fragile consequence.
Hessian rose and dusted himself off, anticipating the joy of peeking in on a sleeping Daisy. His last thought before surrendering his hat, gloves, and walking stick in the foyer was to keep a lookout for that birthmark on the inside of Lily’s elbow.
If fate was kind, he might steal a peek at the relevant part of her anatomy in the very near future.
*
No fairy tale told Sleeping Beauty what to do with a case of insomnia. The handsome earl—prince, rather—came along and disturbed her slumbers with his kiss, and then what? How did the poor woman return to the blessed oblivion of her dreams?
The best part about sleepwalking through life, about focusing on only the nearest perceived worry, was that Lily hadn’t realized how carefully numb she’d become to anything else.
To her own emotions, to her body, to her world.
“It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” she asked the earl.
Hessian Kettering sat his horse as if born to the saddle. He was blessedly oblivious to the depth of havoc he’d wrought in Lily’s life, while she could think of little else.
“All mornings have a lovely quality about them,” he replied. “Even during the roughest patches of my life, even when I thought I’d made a muddle of everything, mornings still had a sense of hope and possibility.”
He brought his horse to a halt and sat quietly. Lily did likewise with her mare. They were nowhere in particular—a leafy patch on a quiet bridle path in Hyde Park, a groom trailing a discreet distance behind—but Grampion was right. Lily had risen lately with a sense of hope and possibility—also, more anxiety than usual.
“Are we having a moment of prayer?” she asked.
“We’re having a moment of reflection, for certain geldings have acquired the habit of leaning on the reins, which is a very ungentlemanly behavior indeed.”
The ride had begun with a thundering gallop, Grampion’s horse was apparently eager for another run, just as Lily was eager to return to that secluded corner of the earl’s conservatory.
“He’s fit,” Lily said. “Unlike my poor mare. One gallop isn’t enough for him.”
His lordship turned his face upward, as if admiring the arches of a cathedral rather than the plane maples. Sunshine slanted in golden shafts amid the greenery, and sparrows flitted aloft.
“How are you, Lily?”
“How am—?” The question was intimate. A lover’s query. “I am lonely for you, every moment we’re apart.”
That was not a reply Lily would have known how to make even a month ago. Now she couldn’t keep such sentiments to herself, and that was a problem.
“As I am lonely for you. Let’s move along, before the groom is upon us. My motivation to speak to your uncle has become pressing.”
The morning’s possibilities and hopes dimmed. “You’re returning to the north?”
“No, love. I’m losing my wits. I hope you aren’t inclined toward a long engagement.”
“My uncle might try to put you off.” Had promised to not only put Grampion off, but dissuade him entirely. “He’s fond of managing my fortune.”
The rest of the tale begged to tumble out: It’s not my fortune, you see. It belonged to my mama, then to my half-sister, then probably to King George or my sister’s Irish relations, but not to me. Never to the unacknowledged bastard.
“I have the impression Walter Leggett is more fond of managing you.”
In that quiet observation, Lily realized why Hessian Kettering’s kiss could wake a slumbering princess.
He loved.
His life was not a series of entertainments, as Oscar’s was.
He did not spend his energies in bitterness and vengeance, as Mrs. Braithwaite did.
He was not obsessed with getting, spending, and scheming, as Uncle was.
Hessian Kettering cared for those around him. He was devoted to his younger brother, to Daisy, to responsible stewardship of his resources, to even his horse. He paid attention, he was awake, and his sense of focus and investment in those around him was contagious.
“Uncle did not ask to be burdened with a young niece who dealt badly with being orphaned.” Walter had spent two years’ worth of correspondence reminding Lily of the nobility of his sacrifice. Only after hearing a few muttered asides from Tippy had a more mature Lily suspected Walter’s motivation was pure greed without a scintilla of avuncular affection.