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Two's a Crowd
Only children must be taught to share. This is an axiom Lily’s never had to personally consider, being the younger of two sisters. But she hears it from her mother often in reference to her young nephew, pitched to soothing tones so as not to aggravate Lily’s sister’s sensibilities.
“It’s important for Dudley to meet other children,” Geraldine Evans says, with that soft, watery smile Lily knows is meant to ruffle no feathers. “Remember, Pet, how you and Lily would run about the village with all the little—”
Petunia would always sniff in response. “Mother, we live in Town now. Dudley need not act like a country brat.”
He certainly acts like some type of brat, Lily has to resist saying.
But all the fault cannot be laid at the tiny feet of her five-year-old nephew. It’s clear that the blame lies with Petunia Dursley and her husband Vernon, who insist on spoiling their son silly; his state worsens each spring, when Petunia brings him to visit Geraldine and Lily.
Only, it can’t always be a parental flaw, because she has met the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorset, who are always gracious, and yet their son the earl — one Mr. James Potter — is perhaps the most insufferable man to have ever lived in Britain, if not on the earth at large. (Lily hasn’t met every one in the world; that would be ungenerous. But all the same, she feels well-equipped to make the estimate for her countrymen at least.)
Perhaps the earl doesn’t struggle with people at large. She’s seen what he’s like with others in the village — perfectly sociable, perfectly solicitous, perfectly charming. So perhaps it’s just her.
This suits her perfectly. Whatever James Potter feels for her, she feels the same thing right back — down to the last insolent arched eyebrow.
But when it comes time to depart from Lady Rosby’s ball, and the rain’s coming down in awful sheets, she’s caught between a rock and a hard place. Lady Rosby has generously offered to house her for the night, only if Lily spends a moment longer with her she’ll tear out her own hair. Lily could have gone home with her sister, only Petunia took her leave without so much as a goodbye, never mind that Lily is her charge when their mother is too tired for socialising.
(It is normally quite relieving that Petunia has cared less and less about chaperoning Lily since Dudley. Never mind that the rules in the country are rather more lax than in Town, she brings London society — in mind if not in practice — with her wherever she goes. But now Lily would love to have some way out of the conundrum that she faces.)
And yet here she is, staring helplessly at the pouring rain, and the two restless horses before her, which are harnessed to—
“A phaeton,” Lily says flatly. She draws her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
“A phaeton,” confirms James Potter, raking a hand through his damp curls. This gesture has historically infuriated Lily, and it is somehow worse now, with the rain clinging to his eyelashes, dripping from the tip of his nose.
She thinks of Lady Rosby, who is a relentless gossip, and would talk her ear off all morning tomorrow about poor Miss Yaxley, jilted, you know, and that Andromeda Black, eloping! She holds this unpleasant image in her mind as she considers James Potter’s phaeton.
Never has she travelled in one before, but Lily knows phaetons well, from novels. Heroes are always riding through rainstorms in them, on their way to propose to heroines. They are named for the son of Helios, the sun god, who drives the chariot of the sun recklessly across the sky.
Phaetons are dangerous. There is no worse time for her maiden journey in one than in the middle of this rain.
But…Lady Rosby.
There is the added point that Lily, an unmarried woman, ought not to be in a carriage with the Earl of Devon, an unmarried man. But, well, rules in the country are more lax, and Potter is hardly likely to have untoward intentions towards her, and…
“Lady Rosby,” Lily mutters.
“Did you say something?” says the earl.
“No, my lord,” is her prompt reply.
He looks like he doesn’t believe her. Fidgeting slightly, he says, “I’m happy to leave you at your mother’s door, Miss Evans.”
Lily suspects he isn’t happy to be in this position, but here she is, hovering outside Rosby Manor, waiting for an escort who obviously won’t be arriving. Gallantry is a dashed powerful thing, because he’d offered the moment he’d noticed her.
Courtesy is a powerful thing too, because she thanks him, and allows herself to be helped into the phaeton.
Thankfully there’s a cover to this one — she shudders to think of the state the rain would leave her in otherwise, given her white muslin gown. Lily has only a moment to appreciate the respite from the downpour before the phaeton rattles, and James Potter is seated beside her.
Worse than the abstract concept of sharing a phaeton is the physical reality of…sharing a phaeton. There’s no air to breathe, though of course it’s an open-air carriage, and rain is dampening the toes of her slippers. She notices the puddle of his greatcoat where it meets her skirt on the seat, and the surprising warmth of him. They are nearly shoulder to shoulder.
Then he clears his throat and clicks for the horses, the reins gripped in his left hand. Precarious, Lily thinks, only she’s not sure if she means his grasp on the leather or the roll of the phaeton’s wheels or this entire situation.
“They say you’re a sharp driver, my lord,” she remarks, if only to have something to say. She suddenly finds that the prospect of an entire journey in silence, save for the rain — for it’s quite a distance from Rosby Manor back to the village proper, where her mother lives and where she and Petunia are lodged — is unthinkable.
At this James Potter’s brows quirk upwards. “Do they? I imagined you make it a point to turn away when anybody compliments me, Miss Evans.”
It’s possible that her mouth falls open slightly. Yes, animosity crackles between them and has done since he first began his springtime visits to the countryside where his father’s ancestral seat is. But this is the first that they have acknowledged it to one another.
The earl seems to register his overstep too; his mild expression turns rueful. Before Lily can talk herself out of it, she says, “Turning away is quite useless, and I’m told it’s impolite to cover one’s ears.”
Now he looks really shocked. As he should be — here he is, escorting her home in the rain, and she’s admitting to disliking even overheard praise of him!
Well, she does dislike it. (The gracious earl, the marquess and marchioness’s darling son — as if.) But that’s a separate issue.
“Some people,” he allows, that startled expression fixed upon his features, “may believe it is.”
And again she says, without thinking, “But you don’t? That is reassuring. If I do slip and cover my ears, then, I’ll know you at least won’t consider it a breach of etiquette.”
His response comes at once: “And I’ll know to be nearby, so as to catch the compliment myself.”
She darts a glance over at him. It’s possible that he is trying to conceal a smile. Whatever is he smiling for? He hardly ever smiles in her presence, let alone in response to something she’s said.
“I am the one reassured, Miss Evans,” the earl continues. “How flattering to know my opinion on etiquette means so much to you.”
Now he’s not trying to conceal a smile, the scoundrel. There it is in full force, not because of some shared good feeling but because he thinks he has the conversational upper hand. Outrage expands in Lily’s chest. She searches for some witty rejoinder, something to say—
“And to close this delightful circle of reassurance,” says James Potter blithely, “let me tell you that I consider myself a sharp driver too. You may rest easy.”
Her exhale comes out as a childish huff. She hopes the rain beating against the carriage top masks the sound, but judging by how his smile widens, he has definitely heard.
To the earl’s credit, the phaeton isn’t so bad to begin with. The ride is bumpy, but given the weather, that’s to be expected. Lily has almost resigned herself to being wrong.
Until, of course, the storm worsens, and the carriage passes over a bump in the muddy road, and at once Potter brings the horses to heel and informs her she must dismount.
The urgency in his voice compels her, despite the rain. She’s soaked through in moments, and the countryside Lily has known all her life is dark and unrecognisable, and she pulls her shawl uselessly over her head, and surely he hasn’t decided on a whim to turn her out, here, in the middle of nowhere?
But then he reappears beside her. “It’s as I feared — the front wheel has come loose!” he shouts. “It’s far too dangerous to go on.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?” she shouts back. The panic in her chest has lessened, but it’s still there. Her clothes are beginning to stick to her skin.
As if he’s sensed her discomfort, he peels off his greatcoat and drapes it over her shoulders, his movements efficient and practical. His touch does not linger.
“I can unhitch the horses,” he says, frowning, “and we can ride…”
She’s already shaking her head. “I can’t ride in — not like this, and with no saddle.”
Forget propriety — Lily fancies herself a sound horsewoman, but she’s not sure she could keep her seat. And the idea of having to keep pace with the earl, or risk losing him in the night, is too grim to contemplate.
“Then…we’re on my lands, and there is a groundskeeper’s cottage nearby. At least if we are dry we may find a better solution.”
She agrees; all other considerations are secondary to the thought of being dry and warm, never mind the logistics of it all. So he unhitches the horses and sets her atop one, and leads both through the storm, towards a light in the distance.
***
“Ah,” says the earl, when they are close enough to see the cottage and the light that swings perilously outside it. But it’s not a relieved, triumphant sort of ah. It’s rather dejected.
Lily soon realises why: the windows are dark.
She saves her questions for after they arrive, scrambling from the horse’s back and helping to bring both the creatures to shelter, stripping them of their bridles despite Potter’s insistence that she ought to go warm up inside. Only once they are both dripping rainwater on the sitting room carpet, teeth chattering as they fumble at lighting the fire, does she say, “There’s no groundskeeper here, then.”
“No,” he says, “no, I suppose… I’d forgotten which of the estate cottages are manned this time of year.” There’s a note of apology in his voice. Lily’s certain he looks apologetic too, but she doesn’t try and confirm it. They have studiously avoided looking at one another since coming into the light.
“Dry clothes,” she says, tentatively, “if there’s any chance…”
“I’ll check.” He springs into action, disappearing through the doorway.
Lily grimaces at his back, shaking out her shawl and wringing it free of excess water. She would lay it out before the fire, but it’s so wet that it would take all night to dry completely. What she needs is a full change of clothing, so that she can set out all her things and hopefully have something to wear in the morning. For it is abundantly clear that she will be stuck here, with the earl, through the night at least.
Which brings her to the next problem. The cottage is small; in all likelihood it contains only one bedroom. Of course, Potter ought to have it, as it’s his estate, and he is the earl, but there will need to be some discussion about the arrangement, and she’s dreading it already.
She doesn’t think he will try anything untoward — after all, he has thus far not behaved in a manner reminiscent of Petunia’s stern warnings about how men are. But he may argue with her, and it’s so awfully cold, she’s not sure she can muster a proper counterargument.
He returns still fully dressed, but he has a handful of garments in one hand. Lily eyes them hopefully. He doesn’t offer them to her.
Instead he says, “I’ve started the fire in the bedroom, and there are spare clothes in the dresser. They…” He grimaces. “You ought to have the bedroom, Miss Evans. I can ride back to the castle—”
“It’s pitch-black and raining like mad out there,” says Lily, eyes wide. “It’s dangerous!”
“Well, regardless…”
She shakes her head. “You must stay. I will make do here in the sitting room—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort—”
“—I’m sure it’s perfectly comfortable—”
“—and what sort of gentleman would I be if—”
“The longer you argue with me,” she says, exasperated, “the longer we are both cold and wet!”
At that he snaps his mouth shut and gestures at the doorway.
***
Clarity is gained when Lily finds the spare clothing in the dresser. They are shirts — men’s shirts. No wonder he was so discomfited. The impropriety of this encounter compounds and compounds.
But what is she to do, stay wet? Catch cold and then a fever, and have to be nursed back to health by James Potter, the earl?
She’d rather die.
Shivering before the fire, she sheds every sopping article of clothing she has on. The dress she arranges on a chair by the fire, and fits her underthings beneath it. This will not do if she wants any of it to dry come the morning, but, well, come the morning there will be other remedies. They’re on the earl’s estate, after all. Surely he can send for a maid and some fresh clothing on her behalf? Perhaps even her sister?
Lily can envision Petunia’s horror at her circumstances. No, definitely not her sister, she hastily amends.
The cold has soaked her to the bone, she thinks. Even once she’s dry, even once she’s dressed and beneath the covers, she’s still shivering. She might still catch a chill; her hair is wet. And it’s such a tangled mess, since she’s simply too tired to take all the pins out in her present state. Suddenly Lily feels so miserable she thinks she might cry.
How did a perfectly reasonable desire to escape Lady Rosby become…this? This unfamiliar room, this strange cottage, the wind hard upon the windows…and this man who so clearly wishes he were far, far away.
There’s a knock at the door. “Are you all right?” Potter calls through the door.
“Yes, thank you,” she replies, burrowing deeper until the covers reach her chin. She’s still not warm.
“The spare bedding might be…inside. Do you mind if I—?”
Oh. Lily stares at the dresser. She should have thought of this before undressing. But oh, the last thing she wants is to get out of this bed…
She’s been silent long enough that the earl says, “Never mind. Goodnight, Miss Evans.”
“Wait!” she blurts out. “Wait, you can— I mean, I’m entirely covered, you can come in.”
This is true. Why, she’s more covered than she was at the ball. Lily knows she’s playing with technicalities now — a dangerous game, considering the lines they’ve already crossed.
But — and realising this is just as freeing as it is frightening — if people jump to any sort of conclusions about their vanishing into a storm together, they will do so regardless of if they are warm or if she has the bed or if he enters the bedroom now. The details of the story do not matter.
“Are you certain?” Potter says.
“Yes, just come in,” she says, now with a touch of impatience.
He’s an earl. She could try harder not to forget that.
Still, he cracks the door open haltingly. She wants to tell him to get on with it, so the experience isn’t this drawn-out. But he’s still in his wet clothes; and now Lily finds herself the delayer, because she says, astonished, “You’ll catch cold, my lord.”
Where that tactful my lord came from this time, she hasn’t the faintest.
He’s bereft of his greatcoat, as he has been since draping it over her in the rain, but he’s also shucked off his jacket. All that remains is his shirt, which is so wet it looks as though he never had a jacket in the first place. It clings to his shoulders, to his arms. Lily might be the one in bed, decidedly undressed, but she can’t help but feel she ought to avert her eyes.
In the end she does, training her gaze upon the cover folded atop her as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Which it isn’t, of course, not by a long shot. Not when Potter’s bent over the dresser, and his wet shirt stretches across his back…and the cold must have addled her brain, that’s all that can be said. There’s simply no other possibility.
Because this is the Earl of Devon, James Potter, whom Lily does not like at all. From the first spring of their acquaintance it’s been plain that he doesn’t care for her — that he’ll go out of his way to avoid anything but civil greeting to her, that he will only dance with her if there’s a lack of male partners, that he’ll only converse with her if they are trapped in a phaeton together. James Potter doesn’t like her, and so she doesn’t like him.
But does it affect her too much, his dislike of her? Did she enjoy too much the experience of riding next to him in the rain? Did she admire his control over the phaeton, and his smile in profile, and his quick retorts? Does she like him less because she couldn’t abide the thought of liking him better than he liked her?
Lily thinks she’s above such pettiness. She should be. But now the earl straightens and she looks guiltily away before her thoughts can progress — or before her eyes can.
“There’s no extra bedding,” he says, almost to himself.
Maybe it’s a good thing she’s spent so long staring at the bedcovers.
“There are two layers of this,” she says. “You may have the top one.”
At once he’s shaking his head again. “You’ll need both.” Must he be so obstinate?
“You’ll die overnight,” Lily says angrily, “and then I’ll have killed an earl.”
Incredulous, he says, “Is that your biggest concern?”
“Yes!”
And then he smiles. Oh, no. She much prefers his smile in profile, she decides, because it’s not nearly so…so… affecting as the full, proper thing. She wants to hide so deep beneath the covers that she’s never seen again.
“So you don’t want me dead,” the earl says, as if this is a grand discovery.
Enough of this. Enough of this silly bickering when he really will catch a fever, and she will have to nurse him to health.
“In the morning,” she begins firmly, “you need to be well enough to ride up to the castle and inform someone that you have installed me at one groundskeeper’s cottage and spent the night in another, and you will only return for me with a chaperone. You won’t be able to do any of those things if you’re ill. So I would like you, sir, to not fall ill. I will avert my gaze, and you will put on dry clothing, and lie here beneath the top sheet — and only the top sheet.”
She’s shocked him into silence.
“If you think to try any untoward thing,” Lily adds, cautiously.
“I wouldn’t dare,” the earl says immediately. He looks as though he’s considering protesting the offer. Lily knows that if anyone should hear she made such a suggestion in the first place, she’s quite done for, lax country rules or no.
But…even if she doesn’t like him (which she thinks is true), she trusts he’ll do the right thing. He has all evening. Even if he doesn’t like her.
At last he says, “All right, Miss Evans. Look away.”
She turns to face the darkened windows, heart thudding hard. At least the trepidation and embarrassment are helping to warm her up, she thinks wryly. She squeezes her eyes shut for good measure — the last thing she wants is an accidental glimpse of him. But that only reminds her of the soaked-through fabric of his shirt and how it draped over him, which she should most certainly not be thinking of, even if it helps even more than worry to keep her warm.
The sheets shift and sigh. He slides in beside her, and true to her suggestion, there is a layer of blanket between them. Safe, Lily tells herself, though she knows nothing is safe about this.
What surprises her is that this was a good idea. Her chill has become bearable already, and the situation is further improved with another body beside her, crowding out the cold emptiness. Lily has always been a poor sleeper; in the days when she and Petunia shared a bed, this made life extraordinarily difficult. She even joked once or twice to their mother that her marriage bed was bound to be unpleasant indeed.
But it’s not so bad, lying like this. He traps the blankets on one side, and she can tuck the other beneath herself, so she’s more firmly swaddled than she’s ever been before.
No — not so bad. And if his shoulder can be felt against the back of her head, she won’t say a word.
“A gentleman would offer his hand in marriage for this,” Potter says at present, jolting her right out of her thoughts.
Lily swallows. The comfort she’s been lulled into is gone at once. An ordinary country girl like her — even well-educated as she is — could never hope to marry an earl. To do so would reek of entrapment, not just in the village but also in London, where James Potter spends most of the year. And, she realises, it would be entrapment. If he proposed to her in the morning, that would be the gentlemanly thing to do, but it would not be kind, or honest. It would not be a marriage she’d want.
“If you do as I say tomorrow,” she murmurs, “we needn’t worry about it. At any rate, you wouldn’t marry someone you didn’t like.”
It’s an offhand comment, meant to make him smile like he had earlier. But Lily is so firmly turned away from him, she doesn’t see how he reacts.
All he says, a little hoarsely, is, “No, Miss Evans, I wouldn’t.”
She closes her eyes and prays for sleep to take her soon.
***
In the morning Lily is woken by two futile hopes. The first is that the storm, the broken phaeton, the deserted cottage, were all a dream. This is shot the moment she opens her eyes and sees the sun streaming through unfamiliar windows. The second is that James Potter will have risen before her and saved them the embarrassment of the morning. This is shot the moment she registers the steady, even rhythm of his breathing, close enough to stir her hair, warm against the back of her neck.
He must have turned to face her in his sleep. There is still a distance between them, but his hand curls over it, where the blanket slopes over her hip — not quite touching her, but not shying away either. This is it, she realises. She has spent a night in bed with a man who is not her husband, and the result of it is just this. His soft exhales, and the almost-feel of his fingers.
Perhaps she stirs or stiffens or makes some noise, because suddenly his breathing changes. She hears his pitched inhale as he wakes, then the resigned breath that follows. Then he’s peeling back the sheet — a momentary coolness — and dropping it once more, all in motions careful enough that he might not rouse her.
Without him to weigh down the blanket, cold air seeps in. But then he’s pushing the sheets closer to her, clumsily tucking them against her. The job isn’t perfect, but there’s less of a chill against her back for it.
Lily closes her eyes and decides she can pretend to sleep for a little longer. Because worse than sharing a phaeton with James Potter, or a cottage, or even a bed, is sharing a secret with him. And worse than sharing anything at all is wondering if their mutual dislike is quite so mutual — and whether she wants it to be in the first place.