by Lauren Royal
Rand felt as though the air had been knocked out of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open, a failing attempt to appear unruffled.
Margery. How could he have forgotten how these developments would impact Margery?
“Where is Margery?”
“In London. I sent her to obtain a proper wardrobe for mourning. She returns tomorrow.” The marquess lifted a quill, pristine white lace falling back from his wrist. “I expect you to greet her as befits a husband-to-be.”
“I cannot.” Rand had washed his hands of the marquess long ago. He wasn’t responsible for the man’s twenty-year-old agreement. “I’m sorry for Margery, but—”
“My honor is on the line,” the marquess continued as if Rand hadn’t spoken. “And the family wealth is at stake.”
Looking toward the heavens for patience, Rand waved an arm, the gesture encompassing the grandiose opulence that was Hawkridge Hall. “I cannot imagine how the family wealth could be in jeopardy.”
For once, his father looked almost uncomfortable. “I’ve never had any reason to discuss family finances with the likes of you. But you may as well know that I mortgaged the Hawkridge lands to raise funds for Charles.”
Rand knew he meant Charles I, not the current King Charles, and that the funds had gone to support the king’s side in the Civil War. The money would have been lost along with the battles, but William Nesbitt had been and still was a loyal Royalist. That he’d done such a thing was hardly surprising.
But his next words were.
“We were on the verge of ruin when Margery came into our lives.”
Margery. Rand pictured her young upturned face, her delicate features framed by the palest blond curls. Between her sporadic letters, he hadn’t thought of Margery often—he’d avoided thinking of anything at Hawkridge for years—but when he had, they’d been fond thoughts. He thought of her much like a sister.
Never, ever as a potential wife.
The marquess dipped the quill and began signing papers while he talked. “As Margery’s guardian and eventual father-in-law, I’ve managed her extensive lands along with Hawkridge’s for twenty years. The loss of those lands and income would be devastating, leading to eventual bankruptcy.”
One of Rand’s hands reached up to find the ends of his once-long hair, then fisted and dropped to his lap. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“I do not.” The marquess flipped a page.
Rand knew the man’s half attention was calculated to make him feel worthless, but it wasn’t going to work. He wouldn’t let it work.
“If you don’t marry Margery,” his father continued, “her land will be lost to us, and all of Hawkridge will suffer.” At last, he looked up. “All, Randal.”
All.
Not only what was left of the family, but the old family retainers. Etta and the other servants. The tenants, the villagers—everyone who depended on Hawkridge for their livings.
Rand knew his father was preying on his sympathies. His father bore no great concern for the people—he worried for himself, and himself alone. But that didn’t make the entreaty any less effective.
Fortunately for Rand, the choice had already been made. The marquess may have made a pledge to Margery’s father, but he, Rand, had made a pledge to Lily, and that meant his honor was on the line, too. Though he feared for the future of Hawkridge’s people, they would just have to find another way to save the estate.
“I’m not marrying Margery.”
The marquess’s quill paused in its scratching. “Have you heard what I’ve said?”
Rand rubbed his palms on his velvet breeches. “Yes, and I regret that I cannot assist in this matter, but I’m betrothed to another. Lily’s father is an earl, and she has a dowry of three thousand pounds—”
“Three thousand wouldn’t begin to make a dent in Hawkridge’s needs.” Parchment crackled when he flipped another page. “You will wed Margery.”
Rand rose from his chair and stepped onto the dais. “I will wed Lady Lily.”
The marquess finally looked up, his mouth twisted in profound disgust. “No matter the lousy chit’s pedigree, you’ll wed her over my dead body.”
Rand heard blood rushing in his ears. He leaned forward over the desk, thankful it made such a big, solid barrier between them. Because had the desk not been there, he feared nothing could have prevented him from fastening his hands around the old goat’s neck. Rand drew breath, but before he could get a word out, an aging footman entered the room.
“Forgive me, milord,” the footman wheezed, bowing to the marquess, “but were you expecting more callers today?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“IS LORD HAWKRIDGE expecting you?”
When Lily hesitated, Rose stepped forward with her nose in the air. “We’re here at Lord Newcliffe’s invitation.” In her Louis heels, she had a couple inches’ height over the butler—and she clearly wasn’t afraid to use them. “You may take us to him directly.”
“There’s no need for that,” said a familiar voice, and Lily turned to see Rand crunching toward them across the gravel. When he reached them, she instinctively took his hand. It had been a long and emotionally draining day. Though she and Rose seemed to have reached some kind of truce, their second carriage ride today had been just as uncomfortable as the first. She’d never felt more in need of Rand’s reassuring presence.
But after giving her fingers a polite squeeze, he let go. “Lily,” he said in an odd tone. His eyes flicked to Rose, registered surprise, then settled back on her with an expression of…something else. Something that made her stomach clench.
He clearly didn’t want her here.
Well, she hadn’t exactly been expecting a welcome parade, considering he’d told her not to come. But nor had she imagined a reaction like this. Was he merely annoyed that she’d defied his wishes? Or was it something worse?
When he leaned close to her ear, she winced, anticipating a rebuke. His warm breath tickled her skin. “Sweet mercy, am I glad to see you.”
She broke into a smile, her knees going weak with relief—until she noticed the man standing behind him.
He resembled Rand, except he sported an elaborate periwig, deep frown lines, and eyes that were closer to flint than silver. Those eyes examined her from head to toe, taking in the gown her mother had helped her pick out, lovely pale green velvet with a white underskirt and little white rosettes dotting the bodice. The dress struck a balance between demure and sumptuous, perfect for impressing a snobbish, fusty old nobleman—or so they’d thought. Suddenly Lily feared she looked repulsive.
“Well?” Lord Hawkridge narrowed his eyes. “Who on earth are you?”
Looking stunned, Rand set his jaw and wrapped an arm around Lily. “This is Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. My betrothed.”
The frown lines deepened. “What is she doing here?”
“My lord,” Lily said in a steady, respectful tone, “I’m from good family, and I am in love with your son.”
Lord Hawkridge’s expression didn’t thaw. “Then you will make him an excellent mistress,” he snapped.
“That’s enough!” Rand growled dangerously. “You will be courteous to my guests.”
“Your guests?” His father barked a laugh. “They cannot be thinking of staying the night.”
Rand tightened his arm around Lily. “Lily is my betrothed, and Rose will soon be my sister. If they go, so do I.”
After a moment’s thought, Lord Hawkridge apparently decided this wasn’t a battle worth fighting. He beckoned to a rather elderly housemaid. “Put them in the Queen’s Bedchamber, Etta. For now,” he added ominously.
When his cold gaze fell again on Lily, she stared back with all the steel she possessed. Rand was a warm presence at her side, and she felt bolstered to sense Rose at her back. It was amazing what a common enemy could do to help mend fences.
Lily narrowed her eyes at the old man, just as he’d looked at her. Let him do his
worst.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“DO YOU LIKE your room?”
Lily whirled to see Rand in the doorway, directing servants bearing her and Rose’s trunks.
“The chamber acquired its name,” he told the sisters, “shortly after it had been redecorated for a visit by Queen Catharine. It is also—by no coincidence, I believe—as far from my own chamber as physically possible.”
“Mum would approve,” Rose said primly, testing a richly embroidered chair.
Lily ignored her. “The room is magnificent.” She wasn’t surprised the queen really had graced the Queen’s Bedchamber, for it certainly looked like it had been decorated for royalty. Even Lily, whose own family home was worth gawking at, found this chamber astonishing.
The enormous state bed, hung with costly cloth of gold, sat on a raised parquet dais behind a balustrade in the French style. Great poufs of ostrich feathers crowned each of the bed’s four posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the furniture gilt wood. The walls were hung with rich tapestries, and the marble fireplace boasted gilded crowns over the chimneypiece and on the piers.
But above all, the position of the room demonstrated its status. Beyond its windows, as in a royal palace, the gardens and avenues spread out in perfect symmetry, from this, the exact central vantage point.
Rose stood at one of those windows, examining the view with a critical eye. “Father’s gardens are much more impressive,” she remarked.
Lily blushed for her, but Rand only chuckled. “I hope you’ll tell the marquess so.”
Along with the other priceless furnishings, the Queen’s Bedchamber contained a lovely rosewood harpsichord. No matter the marquess’s intentions in bestowing the chamber—and Lily had no doubt he’d meant to overawe his guests with a sense of his wealth and power—he really couldn’t have assigned her to a more perfect room. The thought made her smile.
Not to say that she was comfortable here. Just knowing the unpleasant Lord Hawkridge lurked somewhere in the mansion was enough to make her wish herself home. “Have you spoken with your father already?” she asked Rand as soon as the servants had left.
“A bit.” He dredged up a smile—a weak, obvious effort. “I’ll tell you about it later. I need to think. I need to…to go off by myself. Sometimes I do that.”
“All right. Where are you going?”
“I just need to run.”
“I’ll come along—”
“Alone, Lily. I’ll be back soon. I promise.” He took a step closer, leaning in to meet her lips.
Rose cleared her throat.
Rand paused, frowned, then settled for kissing Lily’s forehead.
She bit her lip, slanting a look at her sister. Rose stood at the gilt dressing table, re-pinning her hair with an air of innocence.
“Will you be all right here for a bit, Rose?” Lily asked “I’m going to walk Rand out of the house.”
Rand lifted a brow, then shrugged and turned toward the door. Lily followed him into the adjacent antechamber, where he peeled off his surcoat and cravat. After draping them over a fashionable japanned chair, he began rolling up his sleeves as he strode from the room, leaving her to hasten after him.
Lily hadn’t taken him for a moody sort of fellow, but then, she admitted to herself, in truth she hardly knew him. But she knew she loved him. And if he needed some time to himself, how could she begrudge him that?
She followed him from the chamber and down the massive oak staircase, another feature of the mansion that had clearly been built to impress. Beneath the handrails, pierced wooden panels were carved with armor, cannons, muskets, spears, and lances. Trophies of war, their details highlighted by gold and silver leaf.
A display of force and power.
Lily quickened her pace. “Can you at least give me a hint? Is he demanding you leave Oxford to live here?”
She watched his shoulders tense beneath the thin white cambric of his shirt. “That minor detail hasn’t even been discussed yet.” He sighed and stopped to wait for her. “He’s forbidden our marriage.”
Though her heart leapt into her throat, she ordered herself not to panic. Lord Hawkridge couldn’t really prevent them from wedding, could he? They would wish for his blessing, of course, but as a last resort, they could always elope. Especially given that Rand seemed to care little for his inheritance.
As he resumed his descent, she reached for his hand. “Why?”
“My brother was to wed my father’s ward, a girl named Margery Maybanks. I told you about her, didn’t I? The marquess expects me to honor that commitment.”
“Would you not make a poor substitute? She loved your brother, not you.”
A short, harsh laugh tore from his throat. “Oh, I doubt she loved Alban. Aside from my father, I’m aware of no one who did.” At the bottom of the staircase, he headed across the great hall toward the front door. “Margery’s father saved the marquess’s life in the Battle of Worcester, and the marquess promised him a boon. A few years later, on his deathbed, the man made his claim: that the marquess raise his motherless young daughter here and marry her to his heir on the day she turned one-and-twenty.”
A footman opened the door, and they stepped out. After the dark tones that dominated the mansion’s interior, Lily blinked in the sunshine. “And now you’re the heir.” She tugged on Rand’s hand until he stopped and turned to face her. “Can you refuse?”
“I have refused. But…there’s more.”
“What—”
He hushed her with two fingers on her lips. “Let me think, Lily. I’ll return soon.” He bent to replace his fingers with his mouth, but after a quick kiss, he ran off around the corner of the house, his boots loud on the cobbled pavement.
His gait looked determined. She followed slowly, rounding the corner in time to see him cross a lawn and disappear into a tangle of trees. A wilderness garden, perhaps. It seemed to be more planned than the woods that bordered Trentingham, with man-made paths cut through it.
She would honor his request for solitude. She had little interest in the gardens, and should he look back, she didn’t want him to think she was tailing him. Instead, she wandered around the perimeter of the house, vaguely following the sounds of barking dogs.
On the west side of the mansion she found a yard, bordered by several small buildings. A bakehouse, a stillhouse, a washhouse, a brewhouse, a dairy. She peeked in the diamond-paned windows of the last, seeing milking pails, pans, skimming dishes, and strainers. Inside, a young woman was bent over a cheese press. She straightened and gave Lily a puzzled look, then offered a tentative smile. Lily thought she would have been pretty if her face weren’t covered in smallpox scars.
As she walked away, her fingertips went to her own smooth skin. Would Rand still love her if she succumbed to the pox?
She rubbed the scars on the back of her hand, telling herself not to be silly. She would love him no matter what disfigurement he might suffer, for better or worse, as the marriage vows said. And when she locked her eyes on his, she knew, for a fact, he felt the same.
Behind the dairy, another fenced yard was teeming with the dogs she’d heard earlier. Despite her worries, a grin spread on her face. She gathered her skirts to climb the rails.
“They’re dangerous,” someone said, not unkindly.
She turned to see Etta, the older woman who’d shown her to her room. Etta bore smallpox scars as well, but not nearly as many as the milkmaid, and her large green eyes and curly gray hair made Lily think she had probably been lovely as a young woman.
“I’ve been sent to look for you,” Etta explained.
“By whom?”
“The marquess. He wishes to know your whereabouts.”
“Well then, tell him I’m playing with the dogs,” Lily said, amazed at her own boldness.
Why, Rose would scarcely recognize her. Loving Rand had awakened her newfound strength.
A smile twitched at the corners of Etta’s mouth. “If you won’t mind my sayin
g, my lady, nobody plays with those dogs.”
Lily turned and looked again. They were huge dogs—mastiffs—and there were more than a dozen. But she’d never met a dog she didn’t like. Or even more important, one who hadn’t liked her.
“Well, then,” she said blithely, “it’s about time someone did play with the poor creatures.”
And ignoring Etta’s gasp, she bunched her skirts and climbed over the fence.
THIRTY-NINE
WHEN RAND returned from his run, he headed straight for his old room to wash his face and change his shirt. Then he went in search of Lily, and was dismayed to find the Queen’s Bedchamber empty but for Rose napping on the opulent golden counterpane.
Not for the first time, he wondered why Rose was playing chaperone here. The Oxford excursion had seemed to take the edge off her fury, but she was still clearly hostile toward her sister. Why would she agree to do a favor for her?
Impatient to find Lily, Rand retreated to the antechamber, grabbed his surcoat off the chair, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He slipped his cravat back around his neck and strode over to a massive gilt-framed mirror to tie the neat knot his father had always required of him. In his rush, his fingers refused to cooperate.
“Trouble, my lord?”
The mirror reflected a woman poking her head through the doorway.
“Hmm?” He turned and, seeing it was Etta, experienced an absurd rush of nostalgia. She’d aged, of course, and she was newly scarred since he’d last seen her, though not too badly. She seemed shorter than he’d remembered. But the placid green eyes were the same.
Those were eyes one could count on. He hadn’t thought about Etta in years, and he felt a wave of shame for that. But he hadn’t wanted to remember the people here who’d cared for him.
The people who could be hurt if he failed to figure something out.
“Oh, please don’t call me my lord, Nurse Etta. You’re supposed to call me Randal in a stern tone of voice.”
When she laughed, it wasn’t an old lady’s laugh—it was the one he remembered from his childhood. Nurse Etta may have been stern when it was required, but most times she had been kindly and good-natured.