For the Love of Lila Read online

  He nodded.

  “Of course you are.” She smiled down into her drink, pleased that she could count on his social awareness. “Mrs. Shelley is a talented writer herself—and she’s lived an impressive life.”

  “Not everyone would call her life impressive.”

  Her smile receded, and she lifted her gaze back to meet his. “If you are one of those who believe she snatched her husband from his first wife, you likely don’t know the whole story. He had already separated from Harriet Shelley before they eloped.”

  “Perhaps you are the one who doesn’t know the whole story.”

  The archness in his tone surprised her. She watched him take another sip of claret, his eyes apparently fixed on the wine. “What wouldn’t I know?”

  “Stories not fit for your ears.”

  “Why—because I’m female?” Her back stiffened, and she stared at him until he looked her back in the eye.

  “Lila, there are rumors about the Shelleys, Lord Byron and the rest of their circle that would make your hair curl.” Mouth grim, he paused. “Did you know that by many accounts Byron’s villa in Geneva amounted to nothing less than a den of iniquity?”

  She hadn’t known, and the revelation both startled and intrigued her—but she refused to admit her ignorance. “Really, Tristan, I’m surprised to hear you repeat idle gossip.”

  He tossed back another mouthful of wine and glanced about the room. “Ah, your idol has arrived. And there goes Mrs. Douglas scurrying to greet her. I suppose this means I must acquit her husband of name-dropping.”

  She turned toward the main entrance and recognized Mary Shelley from an engraving she’d seen. Mrs. Shelley rushed into the arms of a petite brunette in a blue velvet gown. “Is that Mrs. Douglas?”

  “In the flesh.” He emphasized the last word, perhaps in reference to the creamy cleavage overflowing the woman’s bodice. “Did you not meet her when you met her husband? Or was she occupied elsewhere at the moment?”

  She contemplated his profile, wondering what he meant to insinuate. Before she had a chance to ask, Mr. Douglas walked up beside her.

  “Miss Covington, would you care to come with me so I can present you to Mrs. Shelley?” He had an unusual voice, throaty and soft-spoken. “I believe you and she would enjoy each other’s acquaintance.”

  She nearly leapt out of her skin. “I know that at least one of us would.”

  He smiled and turned to Tristan. “Would you like to join us, Mr. Wyndam?”

  Attention centered on something across the room, he didn’t appear to hear the invitation.

  “Tristan?” Lila tapped his arm. “Mr. Douglas has offered to introduce us to Mrs. Shelley.”

  “Pardon? Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Douglas.” He bowed to the man but stole another glance at whatever had captured his notice. “Unfortunately, I must first attend to another matter. Pray excuse me. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Lila watched, mystified, as he hurried off through a door that led into the main hall. “He’s in an odd humor tonight. I hope you’ll forgive him, Mr. Douglas.”

  “Of course,” he said, offering his arm. “At times, we all have reason to be preoccupied. I hope nothing too serious is the matter.”

  She glanced back toward the hall but was too eager to meet Mrs. Shelley to go after Tristan. Vowing to check on him as soon as possible, she latched onto the crook of Mr. Douglas’ elbow.

  The man did have an oddness about him, she conceded, as they traversed the room. From so close beside him, she couldn’t help but note that he stood no taller than she, and his slumping posture made him look even shorter. She felt strange arm-in-arm with him, almost as though she were walking with another woman.

  “Mary, dear!” he called as they approached the author. “I’d like to present an aspiring young writer to you.”

  Lila curtsied as he made the introductions, and Mrs. Shelley greeted her with a smile that carried up into her large brown eyes. Mr. Douglas went on to relate what Lila had told him earlier about her work, while she stared down at the parquet floor in embarrassment.

  When he concluded, Mrs. Shelley said to her, “I’d like to hear more about your novel, Miss Covington. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”

  Mr. Douglas excused himself, and Lila followed at her idol’s heels, hardly able to believe her good fortune. The two women took a table adjoining the doors to a terrace.

  At first, she could scarcely speak about her work without stumbling over her words, but Mrs. Shelley questioned her with such apparent interest that she gradually grew comfortable. The author even deigned to make suggestions for parts of the story Lila hadn’t yet configured.

  “I love the plot,” Mrs. Shelley said after they’d spoken for a quarter-hour. She took a sip of lemonade. “I can tell by your enthusiasm that you’ll write the story with passion. You must let me know when you’ve completed the manuscript. I’ll see about recommending it to my publisher.”

  “You will?” Her mind reeled. “That would be splendid beyond anything—to see an original work of mine in print! And the income from it wouldn’t go amiss, either, I confess. I’m doing all I can to live independently, and a bit of extra money would come in handy.”

  “I cannot promise he’ll buy it, of course.” Mrs. Shelley’s high forehead puckered. “Even if he does, I fear there’s not much to be earned from writing. Do you have any other source of income, Miss Covington?”

  “I’ve a trust coming my way, but ‘tis not nearly enough to cover a lifetime of autonomous living.”

  “Fortunately, it’s unlikely you’ll have to pass an entire lifetime with no one to share your expenses.” Her brow smoothed, and she lifted a biscuit from a tray on the table. “Given a little luck, you may even marry a wealthy man.”

  Lila’s jaw went slack. “Oh, no, I shall never marry. Marriage is not an institution I condone. I’m a dedicated disciple of your mother’s.”

  Mrs. Shelley swallowed a bite of biscuit, traces of dimples forming in her cheeks. “But my mother did marry eventually. And though I once felt as strongly as you do, I married as well. The alternatives to marriage are not easy for a woman.”

  Lila knew that her new friend had been shunned by her own father for living as Shelley’s mistress before the couple had wed. She curbed a swell of curiosity, the issue being far too personal to probe. “I shall be very careful in regard to what choices I make. I’m determined not to compromise my principles.”

  Her companion lifted her gaze again, her smile widening. “I thought as much myself, before I met Shelley. You may feel differently if you ever meet a man you love and admire with all your soul.”

  The thought of Tristan popped into her mind. She scanned the room for him and noticed he hadn’t returned.

  “I had to make compromises for Shelley’s sake on more than one occasion,” the widow continued. Her voice grew quiet. “I’ve never regretted it.”

  Lila looked back at her, reflecting on what she knew of the author’s past. Yes, she had married Shelley—but only in an attempt to help him gain custody of the children from his first marriage. And, by that time, she had already lived openly as his mistress, making a point to the world.

  In contrast, her own situation presented no opportunity for taking a stand. If she married Tristan—assuming he would even want to marry her—she would have to play the politician’s wife, forever treading carefully. As sympathetic as he was to her philosophy, he’d surely want her to disguise her beliefs, the same way he’d wanted her to travel disguised. She could not do so in good conscience. A life with him would be in direct conflict with her personal goals.

  She surveyed the room again but still didn’t see him among the others. Where on earth could he be? She hoped he had not taken ill.

  * * * *

  Tristan peered around a corner into a hallway that cut through the back of the house. He caught a glimpse of Mrs. Stark, accompanied by one of the male guests, just as the pair entered a room. The man, a fellow he
recalled arriving with a wife in tow, pulled the door shut behind them.

  Positioned this far away from the din of the party, Tristan could hear the lock clicking into place, then a muffled feminine giggle. He pulled back into the main hall and leaned against the wall, staring at a painting that hung opposite him. This rendezvous confirmed the suspicions he’d formed while observing the couple over the last hour or so. The social circle Lila had entered looked worse and worse all the time.

  “Mr. Wyndam, I didn’t realize you took an interest in art.”

  Startled out of his thoughts, he turned to see his hostess approaching. A young matron with a mop of blond curls and

  pronounced dimples in her cheeks, Mrs. Danby beamed at him and motioned toward the painting in front of him. “Portraits are fascinating, are they not? They allow one to look into the eyes of someone who is not actually present at the moment—sometimes not even alive any longer.”

  “Yes, that is interesting.” He looked back at the work, which depicted a frowning old codger in a powdered wig. “Is this gentleman a relation of yours?”

  “My husband’s late paternal grandfather. Fortunately, Charles hasn’t inherited the same demeanor.” She gave a girlish giggle that made a refreshing contrast to the sly amusement displayed by other women he’d met lately.

  He returned her smile. “No, Mr. Danby seems a good deal more congenial than this man appears.”

  “He is, I assure you.” She took a few steps and stopped in front of a cluster of smaller paintings. “‘Tis a shame we don’t have a proper gallery for you to view. Most of our collection remains at our country seat in York.”

  “Then you don’t mean to live in Paris permanently?” he asked, following her up the hall.

  “Goodness, no. We plan to return to England directly after my husband has settled an estate claim he is pursuing here.” She leaned forward, peering at one of the miniatures. “Here’s a portrayal that may interest you.”

  Curious, he bent to take a look. The painting depicted Felicity Childers, seated with a child of about five or six years of age. “Who is the little girl?”

  “Rebecca.” Her tone indicated she expected her one-word explanation to be sufficient.

  He glanced up at her with a raised brow.

  “Felicity’s daughter.” Again, she spoke in a matter-of-fact manner.

  “Oh.” He tried not to show his astonishment, averting his face to peer more closely at the portrayal. Good Lord. Felicity had a child. Lila had no idea what sort of social circle she’d joined. He cleared his throat. “But, of course. I should have surmised. She favors her mother a good deal.”

  “Yes, and she’s inherited her mother’s charm, as well.” Mrs. Danby said in a fond tone. “Too bad that she’s away at school now, or you might have got to meet her before you leave Paris. Her mother insists on sending her to the finest girls’ seminary in France. Personally, I’d want a lovely daughter like Becky at home with me, but I suppose raising a child is hard for Felicity, with Becky’s father having passed on.”

  He straightened up again and ventured to meet her gaze. “How long ago did he die?”

  “Oh, when Becky was a mere babe, from what I understand. This was well before I knew Felicity. I have the impression that the poor child doesn’t even remember her father. A terrible shame, really.”

  “Indeed.” He couldn’t help wondering how well Felicity remembered the man. And he rather doubted that the fellow was truly dead.

  “I’m afraid I have little more in the way of artwork here to show you,” Mrs. Danby said. “The only other painting of note is a portrait my husband and I posed for, completed only last month. We’ve hung it over the fireplace in the back of the drawing room. Did you happen to notice it there?”

  “No, but I’d like to take a look—and perhaps we ought to return to the rest of the party, anyway. I shouldn’t keep you from your other guests.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  They walked back to the drawing room together, and she directed him to the portrait. While they stood discussing the artist’s technique, the housekeeper appeared with questions for Mrs. Danby about food preparation. The hostess ended up excusing herself to consult with her cook in the kitchen.

  Tristan scanned the rest of the room and spotted Lila, still in discussion with Mrs. Shelley. As she spoke to the author, her eyes sparkled—and his stomach fell. He would be the one to ruin this glorious moment, surely the most exciting of her life, with the shocking truth about her cousin. For an instant, he wondered if he might put off the task, but the sooner she knew, the better chance she had to protect her own reputation. To do so, she would have to return to London with him as soon as possible.

  Beyond the pair of conversing writers, he saw Mrs. Stark returning to the room alone, her expression that of a canary-eating cat. Surveying the room, she gave her bodice a straightening tug. Her gaze locked on someone, and she strode across the floor.

  She approached Felicity, who spoke with a tall, dark gentleman with thick, graying hair. As she joined the pair, the two women exchanged lingering grins. Mrs. Stark made a remark that Tristan couldn’t hear—but he had no trouble catching the loud laughter with which all three responded. He frowned as he watched the man lean close to Felicity and whisper in her ear. She smirked and swatted him with her fan.

  Not a doubt remained that the women who had taken in Lila boasted some of the easiest virtue he’d ever witnessed.

  “Where have you been?”

  He spun around to find Lila herself beside him, her cheeks flushed with high spirits. Imagining the blood draining from them as he told his news, he steeled himself for an emotional encounter. “I must speak to you.”

  Her gaze linked with his, and her smile vanished. “What is it, Tristan? What’s wrong?”

  He glanced around the drawing room and fixed on a set of doors leading to the terrace. “Can you join me outside for a moment?”

  “Of course.” She conducted the way herself, letting in a swish of cool air as she opened one of the doors. They stepped out onto a wide veranda, dark except for the area running along the ballroom windows. She turned to him, her face ghostly in the faint light. “What’s the matter? Is everyone at home all right? Or is it your father’s business concerns? One of the ships?”

  “No, no, ‘tis none of that.” He put one hand to his temple, blinking at her while he tried to form a sentence. As she watched him, her eyebrows drew together, and he couldn’t bear to look at her, knowing that his news would crumple her life’s plans. Instead, he stepped to the rail of the terrace and faced the shadows of the garden.

  She slid up beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Tristan, please tell me. What’s happened?”

  “Oh, Lila.” As he turned back to her, a breeze blew a tendril of hair across her cheek, and he resisted the urge to trace its path with a finger. He hated to have to upset her, but delaying the news had already frightened her. Taking her hand from his shoulder, he brushed her fingers with a kiss, then enclosed them with his own. The tentative smile that touched her lips nearly crushed him. “It’s about Felicity. I’ve learned something disturbing about her past.”

  “Her past?” Her smile fled again, but she looked more confused than alarmed. “What part of her past?”

  He cleared his throat and forced himself to forge on. “Lila, the best I can do for you is broach this subject without delay. I’m afraid that your cousin has a daughter.”

  “No, she doesn’t, Tristan.” The confusion on her face deepened. “Where on earth did you get such an idea?”

  “There’s a portrait of them in the main hall here. Mrs. Danby pointed out the painting to me. She obviously believed I knew about the child.”

  “But how could this be?” She pulled her hands from his and took a step backward. “Felicity hasn’t mentioned anything of the sort. And she certainly has no daughter living with us.”

  “Apparently the girl is away at school. Mrs. Danby believes the father passed o
n years ago, though I suspect he may simply have left Felicity. I mean, your cousin has never been married, has she?”

  She shook her head, her expression blank. “Not as far as I know. Indeed, I’d think not, as she still uses her maiden name.”

  He swallowed, waiting for her reaction to set in. As he watched her, she turned away from him and stared out at the silhouettes of trees and bushes.

  “Goodness,” she murmured. “Felicity has a daughter she didn’t tell me about.”

  He started toward her but stopped again. She wouldn’t have looked away if she didn’t need a moment to herself. The best thing to do was let her absorb the news.

  “Well...at least she’s done nothing criminal.” She glanced in his direction and gave a nervous laugh. “When you said you’d learned something about her past—and in such a dire tone—I didn’t know what to think.”

  The mildness of her response surprised him, especially the relief she showed simply because her cousin had done “nothing criminal.” Even if Felicity had committed a felony, her chance of acceptance in society couldn’t have been much worse.

  Lila leaned her elbows on the rail, looking back out into the darkness. “How old is the girl?”

  “About five or six years in the portrait I saw, though I can’t say how long ago they sat for it.”

  “So she is at least six now, maybe older. Hmm.” She continued looking out into space, while he waited for the full significance of the news to dawn on her. “This may explain why Felicity left home—to be with the child’s father.”

  He frowned. Her line of thinking didn’t flow at all in the direction he expected. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  She shook her head slowly, paused, then repeated the gesture. Finally, she let out a sigh.

  “Don’t worry.” He longed to pull her into his arms but didn’t know how she’d respond to physical contact at the moment. “We can leave as soon as tomorrow.”