Lillian began to think that maybe she was wrong about Lord Wythebury. Perhaps he wasn’t as unbending as she’d thought and maybe he could change and not be so strict and serious all the time. But that thought didn’t last long. After they had stopped and feasted on the many tarts and chocolate she’d packed, the boys had all of ten minutes to run and swing before the marquis declared it was getting late. It would be dark shortly and they must go.
All too soon they were headed back to the house.
When the carriage stopped, Heron jumped down and ran toward the house. Even after the marquis had secured the carriage and helped her down, Fallon remained hunched in the seat. “Time to go in, lad,” the marquis said.
“No, I don’t want to get out,” he answered.
“What’s wrong?” Lillian asked, sensing something wasn’t quite right.
Fallon drew his feet up and balled lower into the corner of the seat. He closed his big brown eyes and said, “I don’t feel well.”
The marquis reached over and laid his open hand on Fallon’s forehead. “I think he has a fever.”
“No, he can’t,” Lillian said, grabbing the Lord Wythebury’s arm and pulling him out of the way so she could get closer to Fallon. “He was just running and playing. Let me see.” Quickly, she took off her glove and pressed her hand his forehead. “It’s not even warm. It’s cold.” She then touched his cheek. It was cool to the touch too. “But his lips are pale so something is wrong.”
“I knew he would get sick when I heard his feet got wet,” the marquis murmured.
“No,” she argued. “Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with what happened days ago.” Lillian then noticed crumbs from tarts on his coat. She tried to think how many he’d eaten. She didn’t remember, but probably too many? “Is it your stomach that feels bad, Fallon? Did you eat too much?”
He nodded, but then said, “I don’t know.”
“No matter what it is. You don’t need to be out in the cold to get sicker.” Lord Wythebury then took hold of Lillian’s arm much in the same way she had his and moved her aside. “Come on, lad, let’s get you inside.”
He reached over and picked the boy up out of the carriage intent on carrying him inside, but Fallon squirmed and said, “I can walk.” The marquis stood him down.
“I don’t see any signs of his having a fever, my lord,” Lillian said again. “He’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” he argued. “You are not a physician.”
“No, but I do know children. He would have to be warm to the touch, and he’s not. As soon as his stomach settles, he’ll be fine. You are just being a worrywart needlessly.”
His smooth brow wrinkled into a tight frown. “I do worry about him, Lillian. It is my responsibility, not yours, to see to it he stays healthy and grows up to be a fine young man, so I’ll thank you to stay out of this.”
Lillian heard a choking noise and then coughing. She spun and saw Fallon was bending over a bush emptying his stomach.
Her lips set in a hard line as an ache developed in her chest. Just when she thought the marquis might be willing to bend a little on his hardline views of life and taking care of the lads, she found that he hadn’t. A deep sadness gripped her and the pain of loss pierced her heart. She turned away from him.
No matter how divinely pleasurably his kisses made her feel, no matter that he could fill her with euphoric sensations just by looking at her, they were too different in the way they lived life to ever consider making a match. There would be constant strife between the two of them.
At every turn, they would be battling, arguing, and she didn’t want to live with a man with whom she would constantly be butting heads.
That would make for a very unhappy life together.
Chapter 7
The fire burned low.
Dinner was over. The gentlemen had retired to one of the sitting rooms and the ladies were in the drawing room chatting and listening to Mrs. Edgeworth play a soft melody on the pianoforte. Lillian stood by the fireplace thinking that it was finally late enough to excuse herself without anyone thinking she was retiring too early.
The evening had seemed to drag by for Lillian. When she’d first come below stairs, she’d caught sight of the dashingly handsome marquis talking with Crispin. She’d quickly looked away, but not before her heart told her it was useless to pretend she hadn’t fallen in love with him. After his harsh words to her when Fallon was sick, she kept telling herself that she wanted nothing more to do with him. He was a hard, unyielding man and she wished she’d never have to look him in the eyes again. But the instant she caught sight of him, she found out that wasn’t true.
She could tell herself for the rest of her life that she had no loving feelings for the marquis, but it wouldn’t make it true. She did. She loved their banter, the way he could make her smile, and the way he made her feel whenever he looked at her. But she needn’t set her cap for him. They had more differences than similarities. Her upbringing was carefree and easy, his was obviously stiff and proper. And she knew herself well enough to know she couldn’t change, and she doubted he could either.
During dinner they’d been polite but not conversational. She’d asked how Fallon was feeling, and he’d answered. For most of the meal they’d talked with others.
“You usually have a cup of chocolate after dinner.”
Lillian looked up from her glass to give her sister a wry smile. “I’ve heard a glass of port will help you sleep better.”
