"I beg that you will stay for a while, Mama," he said, raising his voice so that it could be heard the length of the table. "And all the ladies, please. I have something to say."
His mother sat down again with a smile and all eyes turned his way. He toyed for a moment with the one spoon left on the table before him. He had not planned what he would say. He had always considered rehearsed speeches an abomination. He raised his eyes and looked about at the various members of his family. Most were looking at him with polite interest—perhaps they expected a speech of farewell to those who were leaving. A few smiled. Joseph winked. Elizabeth looked at him alertly, as if she read something in his countenance that the others had not yet seen there.
"Lily does not have a headache," he said.
The silence took on a note of decided discomfort. Uncle Samuel cleared his throat. Aunt Sadie fingered her pearls.
"She discovered this afternoon," he said, "that she is not my wife. Not legally, at least."
The silence first became tense and then was lost as everyone, it appeared, tried to question him at once. Neville held up a hand and they all stopped as abruptly as they had started.
"I suspected that it might be so on the day she arrived here," he said, and he proceeded to give them the same explanation he had given Lily earlier. It was not enough that the marriage ceremony really had occurred and that a properly ordained minister had conducted it. It was not enough that he and Lily had made vows to each other and that one of the witnesses was still alive to attest to the fact. There were formalities to be observed before a marriage was valid in the eyes of church and state. And those formalities had not been completed in their case because the Reverend Parker-Rowe had died and the papers had been lost. One of the witnesses had died at Ciudad Rodrigo a month later.
"So Lily is not your wife," the Duke of Anburey said redundantly when Neville had finished speaking. "You never were married to her."
"I say!" Hal exclaimed, sounding dismayed.
"Lily is not the Countess of Kilbourne after all," Aunt Mary said, shaking her head and looking somewhat dazed. "I do not wonder that she has the migraines, the poor dear. You still have the title, Clara."
Most of those gathered about the table had something to add—except the countess, who stared at him in silence, and Joseph, who looked at him with knitted brows, and Lauren, who gazed expressionlessly down at the table.
"But, Neville." Elizabeth had leaned forward, and as often happened when she spoke, everyone stopped to listen. "You are surely intending to satisfy the proprieties by marrying Lily again, are you not?"
All eyes turned Neville's way. He tried to smile and failed miserably. "She will not have me," he said. "She has refused me and will not be moved."
" What ? " The countess spoke for the first time.
"I planned to leave for London with her tomorrow morning, Mama," he told her. "We would have married quietly there by special license and no one but the two of us would have been any the wiser. But she will not do it. She will not marry me."
Unexpectedly Elizabeth smiled as she sat back in her chair. "No, she would not," she said more to herself than to anyone else.
It was Gwendoline who vocalized one of the implications of what they had all heard. She clasped her hands to her bosom and her eyes lit up.
"Oh, but this is wonderful!" she exclaimed, smiling warmly at her brother. "You and Lauren can marry after all, Nev. You can set a new wedding date and we can begin new plans. A summer wedding will be lovelier than a spring wedding. You can carry roses, Lauren."
Neville's hand closed tightly about the spoon. He drew breath to reply, but Lauren spoke first, her voice breathless.
"No," she said. "No, Gwen. The past nine days cannot simply be erased as if they never were. Nothing can be the same as it was before." She raised her eyes and looked into his. "Can it, Neville?"
He did not know if she wished him to corroborate her words or if she was begging him to disagree with her. He could only give her honesty. He shook his head.
"The truth is," he said, "that I made vows to Lily in all good faith. I fully intended to honor them for a lifetime. Does it make any difference that they are not legally binding? Are they not morally binding? And would I wish them not to be? I consider Lily to be my wife. I believe I always will."
Lauren lowered her eyes again. It was impossible to know if she was satisfied or disappointed. One rarely did know with Lauren what her deepest feelings were. Dignity always came first with her. She was dignified now—and pale and beautiful. He felt an ache of deep affection for her. And a yearning to release her from the pain she surely must be feeling. But he was helpless to do anything.
"That is absurd, Neville," his mother said crisply. "Are you above the state? Above the church? If the church says you are not married, then of course you are not. And it is your duty to marry a lady suited to your station and able to give you heirs."
Lily was not a lady; she was not suited to his station; by her own admission, she was incapable of giving him heirs. But Lily was his wife.
"The whole thing will be a nine days' wonder, I daresay," the duke said. "The ton will be delighted by the story and will forget it as soon as some other sensation or scandal rears its head. Your mother is right, Neville—you must resume your former way of life as soon as possible. Marry someone of your own kind. I do not wish to be unkind to Lily, but—"
"Then do not be, Uncle Webster," Neville said quietly but so firmly that his uncle stopped midsentence and flushed. "If anyone has slurs to cast upon Lily, I beg to inform that person that I will defend her honor in any way I deem necessary—just as surely as if the whole world acknowledged her as my wife."
"Oh, I say," Richard Wollston said. "Bravo, Nev."
"Hold your tongue," his father instructed him sharply.
"Tempers are becoming frayed," Elizabeth said, and proceeded to bring up another pertinent point that no one else seemed to have considered—though it had tormented Neville ever since Lily had left him in the library earlier in the afternoon. "What is to become of Lily, Neville? What will she do? As I understand it, she has no family that she knows of in England."
"She wants to go to London to look for employment," he said. "I dread the thought. I hope she will agree to allow me to make a settlement on her and find her a decent home somewhere. But I am afraid she will not agree. She is a proud woman and a stubborn one, I believe."
Gwendoline's eyes were swimming in tears. "I am so ashamed," she said. "My first thought was for what this could mean for our happiness—Lauren's and Nev's and mine. I did not even wonder what would happen to Lily. I wish—oh yes, I do wish—that she had not come into our lives at all. But she has come and I have liked her despite myself. Now I feel dreadfully sorry for her. She will not simply run away, Nev?"
"She has promised not to," he assured her.
"Neville," Elizabeth said, "perhaps I can do something for Lily. I have connections in London and a great liking for her even if she did come along to dash the happiness of my poor Lauren. Will you allow me to talk with her?"
"I wish you would, Elizabeth," he said. "Perhaps you could persuade her to change her mind? To marry me after all?"
"Do nothing in haste, Neville," the duke advised. "You have been given a second chance to choose your countess wisely. You would be well advised to take time to make the decision with your considered judgment rather than with your raw emotions."
Elizabeth got to her feet. "Where is she?" she asked. "In her room?"
"I believe so," he said. One could never be sure with Lily, but that was where she had been when he came down for dinner. She had been curled up on a chair close to the window, gazing out. She had not turned her head to look at him or responded to any of his questions except to shrug her shoulders in a defensive rather than a careless gesture. She had changed, he had noticed, into her old cotton dress.