The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

He pushed from behind his desk and strode from his private study. He climbed the steps rapidly and made his way to his bedchamber. It was empty. Biting back the frustration, he spun on his heel. He would check the drawing rooms, and perhaps the gazebos outside. An awareness had him faltering, and he spun around to consider their connecting door. He prowled over to it, and faint sounds reached his ear. Without knocking, he opened the connection and hesitated at the threshold of his marchioness’s chamber. She was sitting on the sill of the large window overlooking the graceful gardens of Belgrave Manor. There was an air of melancholy about her he did not like.

No more. He would not have a marriage that was cold and filled with doubt and fear. He was not his damned father, and if his marchioness was disgusted by his constant depraved demands, he would do everything in his power to curb his dark needs. She had always been genteel, and he had corrupted and debauched her purity with his unceasing lust. His Lily was worth anything, even giving up the desires he thought he couldn’t do without. Nor would he take a mistress if she wanted a gentler brand of loving, and it was time he proved it to her.

…

The joy had slowly been dimming in Lily’s heart, and as she rubbed the ache in her stomach, which heralded the arrival of her monthly courses, the last vestige died. She had been the Marchioness of Ambrose for nine months, and her husband made love to her with unwavering passion almost every night. She adored him with a breadth and intensity she had not thought possible, and she had failed him. The loss of something that she hoped so much for was unbearable. How silly it had been for her to believe not one, but two husbands had been the failure and not her. And her foolish hope had allowed her to commit a most unforgivable and grievous sin. How would she inform Oliver?

The fear and doubt that knotted through her was crippling, and she wanted to sink to her knees on the plush carpet. Instead, she remained frozen where she sat, overlooking the beauty of their estate. A light snow blanketed the landscape, the blood red roses a shocking contrast to the white purity. Lily hugged herself and struggled for strength. How long could she continue to keep her silence? The more time she allowed to pass, the more Oliver would judge her.

Taking a deep breath, she stood and squared her shoulders. The realities must be faced, and she truly could no longer continue to keep him in the dark. But first, she would respond to the multitude of invitations awaiting her and read the report from madam Marie Delacroix, the head seamstress at Lily’s shop on High Holborn. While she did not partake in the day to day running of the business, Lily sent her designs and creations to Marie, a wonderful artist who brought Lily’s genius to life in the most incredible way. She had achieved her dream and had been featured several times in fashion magazines for the daring and unique styles she wore. Little did society know that she wore styles fashioned by her, and that was why she seemed to be the pioneer of the latest fashions.

She was also due to visit tenants with Oliver before they departed next week to London for the season. Lily turned and gasped, her hand fluttering to her chest. Her love entered her chamber and slowly closed the door.

“You startled me, my lord. I’d not heard you.”

His expression was guarded as he sauntered toward her. “Is everything well, my love?”

Warmth tunneled through her, and she hurried to his arms. With a relieved groan, he enfolded her into a hug and pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. The tension leaked from her, and she inhaled his wonderful scent into her lungs.

“Lily, my darling, you’ve been out of sorts for a while now, and I can see your unhappiness.”

She lifted her lips to his mutely, hating that tears spilled down her cheeks. How he would resent her once she admitted her sin. Why had she persuaded herself that it would be different? Dear God, why? The anger and disappointment he would feel that she could not do her duty to him would be horrible. If her marquess so desired, he had the wealth and power to divorce her and find another who would be more suitable to be his marchioness. But the resulting scandal would be terrible. More so than Oliver marrying his mistress, a woman of inferior rank. No doubt those who did not approve of their unlikely match would now celebrate.

He eased her from him, his thumb caressing the tear across her cheeks. “Have I been too rough with my passions?” he asked gruffly. “That night in the gazebo…”

Her heart lurched. “No! You were more forceful, but I loved every moment. When I am in your arms, it’s the best place on earth. I thought the four times I climaxed was proof of that.”

He lifted her chin with his finger, and his eyes searched her face in a thoroughly disturbing fashion. “Then why have you been pulling from me? Why do you creep from my embrace and come to this room to weep as if your heart is breaking?”

She hadn’t realized he’d been aware she cried when she left their bed. “I…we’ve been married for nine months,” she said softly, pulling away, hating that she was leaving the safe shelter of his arms.

“I would think that was cause for celebration and not the sorrow I can see in your gaze. Tell me, my love…I will slay all your dragons.”

Unexpectedly, Lily burst into raw, ugly tears.

Alarm flared in Oliver’s eyes, and he scooped her into his arms and sat in the chaise lounge by the fire, cradling her protectively against his chest. “Lily, my sweet, you are killing me.”

“I deceived you in the most horrid manner, and you’ll have no choice but to banish me from your life and heart.”

He stiffened and then relaxed, hugging her even closer. “You are being dramatic. There is nothing in this world that can kill my love for you. Now, tell me, my sweet, why you are crying?” he asked gruffly.

A ragged breath tore from her. “Do you want children, a beloved son to groom as your heir, a daughter to cherish and spoil?

“Of course I desire children.”

She squeezed her eyes closed tightly. Taking a deep breath, she pried them open and pushed from his lap. Clasping her hand together in front of her, she lifted her chin and tried to feel brave. Instead, she felt like a prisoner going to the executioner block. “I am barren.”

He jerked as if she had punched him in the gut. “Lily, sweetheart, you cannot know that—”

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “I do know, Oliver. I’ve been married twice and have produced no issue. The vicar wanted children, so the village doctor was summoned. He confirmed that…that I cannot fall with child.”

A flash of pain, so deep it seared her soul, flared in his eyes before his expression shuttered.

Lily almost fell to her knees, wanting to scream her regret and fear. “I was never fit to be your marchioness. Perhaps your soiled dove, but nothing more, and I allowed my foolish heart and desperate hopes to convince me otherwise…and now…I’ve trapped you in a doomed marriage. How can I ask your forgiveness and expect it?” She thrust trembling fingers through her hair. “I cannot… I cannot grant you…us a family.”

He remained remarkably still.

Lily had no notion of why she waited. There was nothing he could say, for she saw the truth in his eyes.