Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  The playfulness suddenly drained out of her. “Will we?”

  “Yes.” He rose, pulling her up with him. “Yes, we will. Tomorrow I’ll talk to Margery, and then to the marquess. And then we’ll reclaim our lives. I want no part of this.” He waved an arm, encompassing the mansion, the estate, the title—everything.

  “I just want you,” she said. “No matter who or where you are. Professor, earl, marquess, Hawkridge, Oxford…I don’t care. I care only that we’re together.”

  He searched her eyes for a long, tense moment, and then he yanked her against him and crushed his mouth to hers.

  This was what mattered, she thought wildly—this heat, this overwhelming need. This longing to share bodies and lives. Where was just a tiny, insignificant detail.

  His tongue swept her mouth, a declaration of sheer possession. She pressed against him, her arms going around him, beneath his coat, scrambling to get under his shirt. With a groan, he broke the kiss and lifted her into his arms.

  The Queen’s Bedchamber was just around the corner. In no time at all, he was laying her on the cloth-of-gold coverlet and reaching for the tabs that secured her stomacher. Her heart hammered beneath where his fingers were feverishly working. Her entire body tingled with anticipation.

  And then she realized.

  “Rand. We cannot.”

  His fingers didn’t even falter. “We cannot what, love?”

  As he tossed aside the stomacher and reached for her laces, she sat up and pushed at his hands. “We cannot risk starting a child. If we haven’t already, I mean. Your father…what if he doesn’t agree to our plan? What if Margery doesn’t? What if you have to marry her, Rand?”

  “Bloody hell.” His hands went limp, and he dropped to sit beside her, jarring the mattress with his sudden weight. After a moment, he turned to look at her. “Nobody can force me. Not even the marquess. You’re going to be my wife.”

  “But what if—”

  “I’ll never let you go.”

  “Never say never,” she quoted softly.

  The light went out of his eyes.

  They were silent a long while, their breathing sounding harsh in the still room.

  “No,” he said at last. “This time I say never.”

  She drew a deep, steadying breath, then nodded. She had to believe him. Their love was too strong not to find a solution.

  Still…

  “I’d feel better if we waited,” she whispered. “But if you could just hold me tonight…”

  He wrapped her close.

  Forty-One

  “LILY?” RAND whispered into the darkness.

  No answer.

  How could she sleep? He’d been restless all night, holding her tight, savoring her soft warmth and at the same time gritting his teeth against the need that raged through his body.

  Sleeping with Lily—only sleeping—was proving the most exquisite torment. Worse, he wasn’t sleeping at all. His mind kept turning over all the possibilities, all the ways their plans could go awry.

  When he’d left Hawkridge at fourteen, Margery had been all of seven. Visits during his university years had been sporadic and infrequent—he’d preferred to spend school breaks with Ford’s family when possible. His last time home, he’d been twenty and Margery thirteen.

  He’d known Margery the child. He’d been acquainted with Margery the girl. But Margery the woman was a stranger.

  What if he were wrong? What if Margery the woman did want to marry him? She’d lived under the influence of the marquess all these years…

  Something shifted at the foot of the bed. At first he thought it was Lily’s toes, but then a warm little weight settled across his feet and began vibrating.

  A cat. He’d lay odds it was Beatrix, somehow found her way here to Hawkridge. And he’d wager his new house that if it weren’t so dark, he’d see Jasper and Lady on the windowsill.

  He had a cat on his feet. And its lily-scented owner in his bed. He wasn’t sure which made him more uncomfortable.

  Then Lily moved against him, and he was sure. More than sure. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.

  “Hmm?” came her sleep-slurred voice. “Is something wrong? Are you feeling badly?”

  “No, just frustrated.” He half chuckled, half groaned. “Are you sleeping?”

  “I was,” she said with a patient sigh, adding guilt to his list of discomforts. “Are you worried?”

  “Of course…not.”

  She rolled over to face him, touching fingers to his face, sweeping hair off his cheek. “Everything will turn out fine.”

  Her eyes looked black in the darkness but earnest nonetheless. “How do you know?”

  “You told me. And I believe you.” She gave him a sleepy kiss before her head fell back to the pillows. “Sleep, Rand. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

  Cradling her close, he stared into the interminable night. Margery would be here in the morning, too.

  LILY SAW NO indication that spies had reported last night’s sleeping arrangements to Rand’s father. He’d breakfasted before them—Rand had risen late—and closeted himself in his study. Neither did he appear when Lily and Rand heard a vehicle roll up the drive and hurried outside to meet it.

  As they stepped onto the cobbles, a footman swung the carriage door wide, and an oval face appeared in the opening.

  Dressed in black mourning, Margery looked dazed. She was a pale woman, ethereal almost, and Lily imagined that her recent ordeal had made her even more so. It wasn’t every day a woman lost her betrothed to violence.

  Lily could hardly conceive of how she’d feel should such a thing happen to Rand. To be planning a life and have it snatched from her so suddenly…well, she was certain she’d look pale, too. Margery currently stood in the way of Lily and Rand’s happiness, and Lily had been half expecting to resent her on sight. But now she could feel only sympathy.

  Even in her grief, the woman was beautiful. Her hair, so light it was nearly white, framed her face in perfect curls. Her flawless skin looked translucent, and her eyes were a startling deep green. Set off by Margery’s pale loveliness, they looked huge. And very, very disturbed.

  Lily’s heart went out to her…until the woman spotted Rand and her delicate face lit up. Then Lily’s heart plunged to her knees instead.

  Rand helped Margery down the carriage steps, where she promptly burst into tears, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder.

  Lily stood by while the man she loved awkwardly patted the other woman’s back. “Margery. Ah, Margery.”

  “Randy,” Margery choked out, gripping him harder.

  He’d told Lily that Margery hadn’t loved Alban, but it was obvious she did love Rand. Watching them together was more than Lily could bear. She tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be playing with your father’s dogs.”

  “Lily—”

  “No. You need to talk. If I’m not with the dogs, look for me down by the river.”

  Resolutely she walked away, hoping she wasn’t walking out of Rand’s life.

  Forty-Two

  “RANDY.”

  Despite the worried look on Lily’s face, and Margery’s obvious distress, Rand smiled at her use of the childhood name. Life might have been miserable back when he was known as Randy, but it had also been simpler. And this woman had never been part of the misery.

  “Margery.” He squeezed her shoulder, feeling responsible for her happiness, the same way he’d felt when she came to Hawkridge as an infant when he was seven. “Whatever’s wrong, we’ll make it right.”

  It seemed the old bonds were still strong, like with so many others on the estate. How could he have ignored them all these years? And if the worst came to transpire, could he walk away again, abandon them in their need?

  He knew he couldn’t.

  “Shall we go inside?” he asked her.

  With an obvious effort, she controlled her tears. “Is your father at home?”

  “He’s in his stu
dy.”

  “Then no. I’m not ready to see him. Can we just walk?”

  “Of course.” One arm around her shoulders, he drew her toward the gardens. As they rounded the corner of the house, his gaze drifted toward the dog enclosure, but he didn’t see Lily.

  Heading toward the grassy paths where he’d walked with Lily last night, he sighed. He wouldn’t lose her. That was unthinkable. But for now, he had to concentrate on Margery. She needed him, too.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he began carefully.

  “Alban?” To his shock, she practically snorted. “It was a relief to see him put into the ground.” She dashed the wetness from her eyes.

  “Then…you’re not crying because of him?”

  “Dear heavens, no.” She took a deep breath, looking better already. Some color was returning to her cheeks. “Alban was a cruel man. He was cruel even as a boy; surely you remember that.” She shuddered, perhaps remembering things that Rand would rather not know. “I never wanted to marry him.”

  “Then why did you agree?”

  “It was my father’s last wish. Not that that stopped me from begging to get out of it. But Uncle William would hear none of it.”

  The marquess wasn’t really her uncle, but she’d called him that since babyhood. To Rand, it had always sounded too friendly a name for the man.

  In a sheltered area between two rows of trees, she stopped. “Randy…”

  When she hesitated, he turned to her and smiled. “No one calls me that anymore, you know.”

  Her own smile was wan, but there. “Shall I call you Professor? Or, oh, how could I have forgotten? My lord earl.” She executed an absurd, formal curtsy.

  “Rand will do,” he told her, glad to see the old Margery peeking through all the misery.

  “Rand, then,” she repeated, growing serious again. “I shall try to remember, but you’ll have to remind me if I forget. Rand…I…are you aware that Uncle William expects me to marry you now?”

  “He’s told me as much,” he answered, suddenly apprehensive.

  She resumed walking, absently trailing one hand along a hedge as she went by. “Who was that woman with you?”

  “Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “I think so.” He watched her elegant fingers skim the leaves. Margery was beautiful, too, but in a fragile sort of way. She was taller than Lily and not as fine boned, but Margery would never allow dogs to slobber all over her. She wouldn’t climb fences or laugh at ribald songs, either. Margery could be flirtatious and saucy, but beneath it all, she was a very proper young woman.

  Well, she’d been raised in the Marquess of Hawkridge’s household, Rand reminded himself. It was a wonder she had any spunk left in her at all.

  She stopped again. “Why is Lady Lily here?”

  “She…ah…well, when I received the summons from the marquess, it said only that—”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  He met her gaze. There was no sense in lying—the truth would surely be obvious anyway. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  “Thank God.”

  He blinked, nonplussed. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t want to marry you, Randy. I mean, Rand.” A small smile curved her lips, then faded. “I didn’t want to marry your brother, and I don’t want to marry you. I love you like a sister. Not a wife.”

  “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”

  “Oh, I imagine you’re just as relieved as I am to hear it from you.” Turning to walk back toward the house, she slanted him a sidelong glance. “Did you truly believe I love you that way?”

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure, and many wed for alliance, not love, and the marquess wanted—and Lily worried—”

  He stopped, humiliated to find himself babbling.

  When a student babbled, he accused the ninnyhammer of being unprepared. Which Rand was, at the moment. Woefully unprepared to deal with this—love, pressure from his family, responsibilities he’d never wanted nor thought would be his…all of it.

  They reentered the formal gardens, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. “Well,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood for both of their sakes, “you cannot blame me for wondering if you might, after all, be besotted. I did, if you’ll remember, grace you with your first kiss.”

  That earned a good-natured smirk. “I don’t remember ‘grace’ being an applicable description. And if I recall correctly, it was your first kiss as well. You seemed to be concerned about going off into the world an inexperienced man.” Her green eyes perhaps a bit more lively than before, she glanced over at him. “Have you gained any experience, Randal Nesbitt?”

  “Oh, in the past fourteen years I’ve kissed a woman or two. And you?”

  “Besides your odious brother at his insistence?” She looked as though the memory made her gag. But then her features softened. “I’m in love with Bennett Armstrong.”

  “Bennett Armstrong?” He frowned, trying to remember. “Is he not a scrawny boy of ten?”

  In spite of her despondency, a little chuckle bubbled up. “He was when you left. He’s four-and-twenty now. And not scrawny, I can assure you.”

  Her dreamy gaze told Rand she had the same feelings for Bennett that he had for Lily. Or a shred of them, anyway. He had a hard time believing most people lived with these strong emotions.

  He attempted to picture a grown-up Bennett Armstrong. “His father is a baron, yes?”

  “Bennett is the baron now. His father died when the smallpox raged through the county. Three years ago, that was.”

  That explained Etta’s new scars, and the ones he’d seen on other old family retainers. “You never wrote me about the smallpox.”

  Margery shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  He hadn’t cared, not then. Guilt ate at his insides.

  “Bennett is a wealthy baron,” she continued. “His father left him gold and estates. I’m certain my own rich but untitled father would have been pleased to see me happily wed to such a man, no matter that Bennett isn’t an earl like Alban. Like you,” she corrected herself. “Yet I argued with Uncle William until I was blue in the face, and he refused to let us marry.” As they drew closer to the house, Margery’s feet dragged. “And now there’s the complication…”

  She seemed reticent to continue. He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “The money? He told me about that. The way the marquess sees it, this is a matter of honor and finances. Love doesn’t figure into the equation.”

  “Money doesn’t figure into it, either.” She frowned. “I told you, Bennett is a wealthy man. With land, and—”

  “It’s not your wealth the marquess is concerned with, but his own.”

  They’d reached the edge of the garden, and Margery plopped down on a bench. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t he discuss this with you?”

  “No. I’m female. And that aside, the man tends to be dictatorial.”

  With a sigh, he sat beside her. “You’re a master of understatement,” he said and explained about Hawkridge’s dependence on her property and the repercussions of losing that income.

  “No wonder he didn’t want to admit it!” Margery burst out when he was finished. “He kept mumbling about honor and the promise to my father. And now, of course, since it happened, he has the perfect excuse to refuse Bennett—”

  “Lily,” Rand interrupted her, “has a solution for Hawkridge’s finances.”

  “Does she?” Margery blinked. “But it doesn’t solve—”

  “She has an inheritance coming. Ten thousand pounds. Plus another three thousand from her marriage portion. That ought to be enough to set the marquess on the road to solvency, and then everyone can wed whomever they want.”

  Margery toyed with her black skirts. “No, Randy,” she started.

  “What the devil?” He’d heard a bark from the direction of the
river.

  There in the distance he saw Lily toss a stick, and a big, wet mastiff jump into the water to retrieve it. Beatrix sat nearby, placidly watching. Apparently the monsters didn’t eat cats, after all.

  “What are you looking at?” Margery asked.

  “Lily.” The hound scrambled up the bank and shook violently, spraying her with water that left big dark splotches on her light blue gown. He laughed aloud. “She’s playing fetch in the river with one of the marquess’s dogs!”

  The sight of her, being so very Lily, lightened his heart. She caught him watching and waved. Waving back, he turned to Margery. “I must go tell her you want Bennett, not me. She’ll be so happy.”

  “Rand—”

  “Later, Margery.” She looked so distressed. “Stop worrying. We’ll make it right.” Sudden impulse made him lean and give her a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. “For old times’ sake,” he said lightly, rising from the bench. “Was it better than last time?”

  He was gratified to see the ghost of a smile return. “Perhaps. But not as good as Bennett’s.”

  “No? I’m not sure whether I’m happy to hear that or gravely insulted.” He grinned. “I need to talk to Lily; then we’ll speak with the marquess.”

  He started off.

  “Wait, Rand, there’s more—”

  But he was already walking away, and Lily had spotted him. Whatever else Margery wanted to talk about could wait.

  Forty-Three

  THE SMILE FROZE on Lily’s face.

  He’d kissed Margery. On her mouth.

  He’d walked with his arm around her, too. Lily knew that, because although she’d been playing with the dog, she’d kept half an eye on Rand and Margery the entire time.

  Or at least while they were visible. For a while they’d disappeared into the hedge- and treelined gardens. Had he kissed Margery there, too? In the little round gazebo where she and Rand had kissed last night?

  He was going to marry Margery.

  As Lily watched him come closer, she decided she wouldn’t make a fuss. Because she was nice. Because his father wanted it this way, and if all the parties agreed, there was no point in fighting fate. Because Margery had known Rand for twenty-one years, while Lily had known him just a few weeks.