Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  “Not even Rose makes promises she cannot keep,” Lily said, feeling a fresh stab of guilt when she remembered her own broken promise. But it was a little stab, because she knew she and Rand belonged together, and because she also knew that all her anguish of the past few weeks was inconsequential compared to what they were facing now. “Yes, we were each left ten thousand pounds. The money won’t be mine until I turn twenty-one, but perhaps…no, I’m certain my father will allow me to have it early. We can give it to your father, to save Hawkridge, and then we’ll be able to marry.”

  Rand looked stunned. “You had plans for that money. You were going to build a home for stray animals. And use the rest of your funds to run it for many years.”

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. “So I’ll find another way,” she whispered. “I love animals, but I love you more.”

  His eyes grew suspiciously glossy. She’d never seen a man cry. She moved onto his lap, kissing those eyes, his nose, his cheeks. “How much is Margery’s fortune?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe more. But if the marquess cannot save Hawkridge with thirteen thousand pounds, he’s not the man he pretends to be.” When he kissed her back, she felt his lips curve into a smile. “It should certainly keep Hawkridge from ruin and set it on the road to recovery, and then I’ll be able to persuade him to bless our marriage.”

  She smiled, too, and kissed him again, thrilling when he deepened the caress. She would never get enough of this, enough of him. Her worries fled and her head was filled with only Rand.

  But then a thought intruded and her heart plunged. She broke the kiss. “What about Margery?”

  “What about Margery?”

  “We need to consider her, too, don’t you think? After all, she just lost her betrothed, and she’s expecting to marry you.”

  He tensed for a moment, but then relaxed and kissed her again. “What my father expects and what Margery expects are two different things. She hasn’t seen me in eight years. I’m certain she will think me no great loss. With her fortune, she can find herself a much better man. Someone important.”

  “You’re an earl,” she reminded him. “And someday you’ll be a marquess.”

  “But at heart, I’m a professor.” He skimmed a finger over the dent in her chin. “That you would offer me your inheritance…” His eyes glazed over again. “It’s overwhelming. And in the face of that generosity, I just know that everything will turn out fine.”

  Lily wished she could be so confident.

  Thirty-Nine

  LIKE THE REST of the house, the dining room was beautiful. Lily had glimpsed an enormous, lavish banqueting hall upstairs, but this chamber was much more intimate.

  As Rand walked her in, her heels clicked on the two-toned parquet floor. She stopped to run a hand over the patterned design on the walls, surprised to find it was gold stamped on brown leather. “It looks like gilded wood!” she exclaimed.

  “The leather is supposed to absorb the smells of food.”

  She’d never heard of such a thing. “It’s lovely. All of Hawkridge Hall is lovely.”

  “It’s a lovely prison,” he muttered back darkly. “It was my prison for fourteen years, and I’ve no wish to return.”

  In opposition to the prison that was Hawkridge Hall—a prison designed and paid for by his father—the Oxford house was one-hundred-percent Rand’s. A symbol, Lily suspected, of his hard-won independence.

  “I want to live in your new house, too,” she assured him. Kit had told her that he and Rand had spent months designing it before the cornerstone was laid, because Rand had wanted every square foot to be perfect. And it was. “It’s so modern, so simple and classic compared to this mansion. And so empty. I’m so looking forward to filling it over time, making it ours.” She was about to add more when Rand’s eyes widened in alarm. She swung around to see his father. “Oh! Good evening, my lord.”

  “My lady,” he grunted. “Shall we be seated?”

  Lily wondered how much the man had heard as they all took their places at the oval cedarwood table, the marquess seating himself at the opposite end from his son.

  There were eighteen matching caned chairs around the table in this “family” dining room, and in Lily’s opinion, a family sat together to better enjoy each other’s company. At least her family did. Mentally shaking her head, she took a chair beside Rand rather than one in the middle—then pretended not to notice when two footmen had to scramble to move her table setting.

  Being not so nice was feeling better and better.

  Supper was an awkward affair. The marquess was dressed in black mourning and seemed offended that Rand was not. Other than a few minutes of desultory conversation about the man’s beloved mastiffs, Lily couldn’t get him to talk about anything. Both she and Rand were reluctant to bring up Margery or marriage, so the time passed mostly in silence punctuated by the clinking of Hawkridge’s custom-designed silverware.

  Though the house was magnificent, there was something about it Lily didn’t like. Something dark and forbidding. Maybe it was the deep colors on the walls and all the somber, oak-framed paintings. Maybe it was the studied formality. Or maybe it was just that she’d never been anywhere before where she’d felt so very unwelcome.

  When the meal finally drew to a close, Rand pushed back his chair. “Lily plays the harpsichord beautifully,” he said as a sort of invitation.

  “I have work to do,” the marquess replied and left the room.

  While Lily wished Rand and his father would act more like a family, in truth she felt mainly relief. “When are you going to tell him about my inheritance?” she asked.

  A footman entered to clear the table, and Rand cleared his throat. “Would you care to walk in the gardens?”

  Holding her tongue, she went with him outside.

  He led her through the more formal gardens and into an area of grass walks lined with hornbeam hedges and field maples that enclosed many small, private gardens. The late-night summer sun was sinking, but not yet so low that she couldn’t see and appreciate the beauty of the individual compartments, each of which contained not only a variety of rather wild-growing plants, but also a surprise. Some hid copies of famous statuary, one offered a sundial, and another a cozy bench for two. The one Rand led her into held a tiny round gazebo.

  A narrow seat curved around the inside. The structure was so small that when they settled across from each other, their knees touched.

  Rand reached to take Lily’s hands. “We won’t be overheard here. He has spies.”

  “Spies? I don’t think—”

  “You always look for the good, sweet Lily,” he interrupted. “And you don’t know him,” he added, leaning close to press his lips to hers.

  The warm caress set butterflies to fluttering in her stomach. She wondered if he’d come to her tonight in his father’s house. Part of her was horrified at the notion, but another part, a much larger part, hoped very much that he’d risk it.

  Now that she knew, really knew, what it could lead to, it seemed a single kiss was all it took to set her blood on fire.

  She struggled to pull herself together. “When are you going to tell him he can have my money?”

  Lady flew into the gazebo’s opening and landed at their feet, but Rand didn’t seem to notice let alone recognize the bird. His hands tightened on Lily’s. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. After I talk to Margery.”

  It was the first hint she saw that he suspected this might not all work out as planned. Suddenly her stomach wasn’t filled with butterflies. More like lead.

  What if Margery wanted to marry him? Rand had said Margery had been raised right here at Hawkridge. With him. Was it such a stretch to believe she might have come to love him?

  He was, after all, utterly lovable. Generous and caring, strong and successful, self-sufficient where it showed, but with that hurt little boy hidden inside. What woman could truly know him, as Margery must, and not wish to wrap him in her arms and heal that hurt?
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  And with both Lord Hawkridge and Margery against her, would she, Lily, stand a chance?

  She tried to search Rand’s eyes, but the light was failing outside, and here in the gazebo it was even darker. “What if she wants to marry you, Rand?”

  “She won’t.”

  “But what if she does?”

  He scooted around the circular bench until his thigh rested against hers, feeling warm even through their clothes. “I’m marrying you. No matter what the marquess wants. No matter what Margery wants. I love you. You, Lily. And do you realize…you may even now be carrying my child?”

  A tiny gasp escaped her lips. She hadn’t realized. Of course, she’d known it was a possibility, but she hadn’t thought about it. She’d had no time. It had been only twice, over two short days, and so much else had happened…

  And at the time, she’d been sure they were marrying anyway, so it hadn’t really mattered.

  But now it did.

  She laid a hand on her middle. “Oh goodness, Rand, what if I am?”

  “We’ll love it, of course. Her.” He grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the night. “She’ll have dark hair and gorgeous blue eyes, just like you. In truth I’d rather have some time alone with you first, but if a child comes, well, it would be meant, would it not? And we’ll love her—”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

  “I have, in the short time since we first loved. I’ll admit the idea took some getting used to, but—”

  “But what happens if you have to marry Margery?” Panic was rising in Lily’s chest, into her throat, a lump that seemed to be choking her.

  She stared blindly at the ground between their feet. Her family motto might be Question Convention, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be so unconventional as to raise a child alone.

  “Can you not see?” Rand touched her chin, that special spot that usually made her shiver, but not now. When she didn’t look up, he sighed. “Lily. This is the best thing that could happen. If you’re with child, the marquess will have to allow us to marry.”

  She wished she could believe that, but the Marquess of Hawkridge didn’t strike her as the sort of man who felt he had to do anything. She tried to swallow the lump, failing miserably.

  Rand slid a hand into her hair and tilted her head until she met his eyes. “Stop worrying. Your money will save Hawkridge and ensure everyone’s future. We’ll marry and live happily ever after.”

  She hoped so, and when he kissed her, she believed him for a moment. But when he stopped, she couldn’t help wondering if he was wrong.

  Her life so far had been happy and uneventful, like one of the baskets her sister used for flower arrangements, perfectly woven. Was this where it would unravel? Was losing Rand the price she would pay for disregarding her sister’s feelings? For breaking a promise? For being selfish instead of nice?

  “Now,” he said, his tone changing to one that implied the matter was settled, “since the marquess is uninterested in entertainment, will you play the harpsichord for me alone?”

  “In my bedchamber? I don’t think your father’s household would feel that’s proper. You said he has spies.”

  He laughed as he drew her up and out of the gazebo, linking his arm with hers. “There’s a second harpsichord in the north drawing room. But I will come to you tonight. In your bedchamber. And damn the spies.”

  Crossing the gardens, she laughed, too.

  Things couldn’t be as dire as they seemed. She and Rand were just too perfect together.

  Forty

  UPSTAIRS IN Hawkridge Hall, the second harpsichord was even more beautiful than the first, all inlaid with different colored woods.

  “Johannes Ruckers,” Lily breathed, reading the name painted above the keyboard.

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally.” She grinned at the mere idea. “But Flemish harpsichords are said to make the most beautiful music, especially those built by the Ruckers family.”

  “Try it,” he said, seating himself in an amazing chair that was gilded, silvered, and painted in marine colors to suggest dolphins sporting in the ocean.

  She sat on the petit point stool and ran her fingers experimentally over the keys, enjoying the rich sound of the rare instrument. A small smile curved her lips as she launched into the tune she’d been practicing.

  Rand smiled in return, tapping a toe in time to the music. Until he bolted out of the chair. “Where did you learn that?”

  She continued playing. “I taught it to myself. Worked it out, I mean. As a surprise for you. It’s the tune you often hum, isn’t it?”

  “Do I?” His lips twitched. “Perhaps I do, from time to time.”

  He hummed along for a few bars, then leaned an elbow on the harpsichord and set his chin in his hand. His head was nearly level with hers, his eyes commanding her to look up.

  “What?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Do you know the words?”

  “Does it have words?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Well then, sing them, won’t you?”

  “Start over at the beginning,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

  When she did, he began singing.

  “Come my honey, let’s to bed,

  It is no sin, since we are wed;

  For when I am near thee by desire,

  I burn like any coal of fire.”

  Rand’s voice was so rich that Lily found herself transfixed. She didn’t register the actual words. Just the tone, the depth…the sound seemed to go right through her, into her, warming her.

  She couldn’t care less where she lived, she thought dreamily. Hawkridge, Oxford, a hovel…if only Rand would sing to her every night, she’d be happy all her days.

  He raised a brow. “This next verse is yours.”

  Her fingers still picking out the jaunty tune, she smiled. “Even if I knew the words, I cannot sing. You sing it.”

  “Hmm…” He raised his voice an octave and warbled a bit as he continued.

  “To quench thy flames I’ll soon agree,

  Thou art the sun, and I the sea,

  All night within my arms shalt be,

  And rise each morn as fresh as he.”

  Lily giggled at his game attempt to sound like a woman. She caught a few of the words and thought she knew why Rand liked this song. The woman wanted to spend the night in the man’s arms—and goodness, did she identify with that.

  “The final part is supposed to be sung together,” he said.

  “Is it?” She continued playing, her fingers flying over the keys. “I’m listening,” she said, determined to pay attention to the lyrics this time.

  One of his boots tapped in rhythm as he waited for the right place in the music.

  “Come on then, and couple together,

  Come all, the old and the young,

  The short and the tall,

  The richer than Croesus,

  And poorer than Job,

  For ’tis wedding and bedding,

  That peoples the globe.”

  Lily’s fingers stilled as she gasped. “Couple together? Wedding and bedding? Whoever wrote a song about that?”

  “Anonymous. He writes a lot of songs.” The mischievous glitter in Rand’s eyes belied his mock-serious tone. “Are you scandalized?”

  “Yes. No.” She laughed at herself—no need to play coy with Rand. “Well, maybe I’m intrigued. Would you know more songs like this one?”

  “This one is mild—the couple is married, after all.” He raised a roguish brow. “I know hundreds, most of them much worse.”

  “Hundreds?”

  “Well, I cannot remember them all. But I have a book.”

  “A book?” What a sheltered life she’d led. “Someone wrote these down?”

  His eyes sparkled with undisguised mirth. “Oh, yes, with the music and all. The book is called An Antidote Against Melancholy, and I understand it sells very well. Let me see if I can reme
mber another.”

  He hummed beneath his breath for a while, then he nodded.

  “As Oyster Nan stood by her tub,

  To shew her vicious inclination;

  She gave her noblest parts a scrub,

  And sigh’d for want of copulation.”

  Lily gasped again and felt heat rush into her cheeks. Feeling both a bit naughty and more lighthearted than she’d have thought possible earlier, she began picking out the simple tune while he sang another verse.

  “A vintner of no little fame,

  Who excellent red and white can sell ye,

  Beheld the little dirty dame,

  As she stood scratching of her belly.”

  He stopped there.

  “That cannot be all,” she protested, still playing and insanely curious as to how the story might end—not to mention what titillating words might be used to tell it.

  Rand walked behind her, knelt down, and slipped his arms around her waist. Sweeping her hair aside, he nuzzled her neck. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

  She could but nod.

  He sang softly by her ear.

  “From door they went behind the bar,

  As it’s by common fame reported;

  And there upon a Turkey chair,

  Unseen the loving couple sported;

  But being called by company,

  As he was taking pains to please her;

  I’m coming, coming, Sir, says he,

  My dear, and so am I, says she, Sir.”

  She stopped playing and turned on the stool to face him. “Now,” she said, “I’m scandalized.”

  “Are you? You’re pink.” He grinned. “I like you scandalized.”

  “I want to see the book.”

  He laughed, clearly tickled by her reaction. “It’s packed away with everything else I had to store from my old house. You’ll have to wait until we move to Oxford.”