by Lauren Royal
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. Rose was chiefly engaged in ogling the Nesbitts’ solid gold plate and staring daggers at her younger sister. Meanwhile, Lord Hawkridge was dressed in black mourning and seemed offended that Rand was not. Lily still cherished hopes of getting father and son to reconcile, but other than a few minutes of desultory conversation about the marquess’s beloved mastiffs, she couldn’t even get them to speak. The party sat 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.
Rand didn’t look sorry to see the back of him. “Rose?”
Her chair scraped the parquet as she stood. “I’m going to bed,” she said flatly.
Lily’s eyes followed her out. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “This morning she seemed…well not quite friendly, but at least civil.”
Rand covered her hand with his. “Give your sister time. It’s still been less than a week since our betrothal.”
“Goodness, has it? It feels like a lifetime.” She sipped wine from a Venetian glass goblet. “Have you told your father about my inheritance?”
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 air was taking on a twilight chill, but the kiss warmed her all the way down to her fingers and toes.
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 jaw tensed. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. After I talk to Margery.”
It was the first hint she’d seen that he suspected this might not all work out as planned. Suddenly she didn’t feel so deliciously warm. She felt numb.
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 lost 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 little boy?
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.” Rand slid a hand into her hair and tilted her head until she met his eyes. “We’re going to marry and live happily ever after. I promise.”
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 Rose 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 others are uninterested in entertainment, will you play the harpsichord for me alone?”
FORTY-ONE
LILY LEARNED there was a second harpsichord in the north drawing room. Inlaid with different colored woods, it was even more beautiful than the first.
“Johannes Ruckers,” she 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 a breathtaking 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.”
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.
Wait…
Lily’s fingers stilled as she gasped. “Is this song about—?”
There was a mischievous glitter in Rand’s eye. “Are you scandalized?”
Lily felt heat rush to her cheeks. “Whoever wrote a song about that?”
“Anonymous. He writes a lot of songs.” Grinning, Rand reached around her to hit a key. “You’re pink. I like you scandalized.”
She giggled. “Where did you learn such a song?”
“From a book.”
“A book
?” What a sheltered life she’d led. “Someone wrote this down?”
“Oh, yes, and hundreds more. The book is called An Antidote Against Melancholy.”
“And you own a copy?”
“Not myself, but I have a friend with an extensive library.” His eyes sparkled with undisguised mirth. “Would you like to hear another song?”
Lily hesitated. She had to admit to feeling intrigued, but…
She must have had a terrified look on her face, because Rand burst out laughing. “I can see you’ve heard enough for one night. Perhaps the book would make a good wedding present, hmm?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
The playfulness suddenly drained out of her. “If we make it to our wedding.”
“Of course we will.” He rose, pulling her up with him. “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, baron, marquess, Hawkridge, Oxford…I don’t care. I care only that we’re together.”
He searched her eyes for a long, solemn moment, and then he yanked her against him and crushed his mouth to hers.
This was what mattered, she thought wildly—this pull, this overwhelming need. This longing to share hearts and lives. Where was just a tiny, insignificant detail.
Then she ceased thinking at all. She stopped thinking and just kissed Rand, for a minute, or an hour, or maybe…
“Lily,” a strangled voice said in her ear, “what on earth are we doing?”
Startled from the kiss, she froze. Rand’s surcoat was in a heap on the floor, and her hands held bunches of his shirt—where she’d been pulling it out of his breeches. Shocked, she let go and stumbled back until her legs hit the stool. “I…I don’t…”
“It’s all right,” he soothed, tucking his shirt back in. “We just got a bit carried away.”
“A bit?” She sank onto the stool, trying to catch her breath. “It’s not all right, Rand. Kissing when we’re weeks shy of our wedding day is one thing, but right now we can’t know for sure if we’ll ever be married.”
“What are you saying?”
She bit her lip, gathering her thoughts. “I don’t think we should be close right now. It feels wrong. What if things don’t work out for us?”
“I’ll never let that happen.”
“Never say never,” she quoted softly.
The light went out of his eyes.
They were silent a while, their breathing sounding harsh in the still room.
“No,” he said at last. “This time I say never.”
FORTY-TWO
“HOW IS HE?” Joseph asked, looking up from his book.
Sighing, Chrystabel lowered herself to the plush stool at her dressing table. “Brave, but not a particularly gifted actor. The ankle was obviously still paining him, so I gave him some sack to help him sleep.” She began preparing herself for bed.
“You’re fretting, Chrysanthemum. I can hear it in your voice.” Joseph removed the reading spectacles his son-in-law had given him this past Christmas. “Don’t be such a mother. Rowan will be fine.”
“Hmm?” Chrystabel dipped her fingers in a bowl of lavender water, then dried them on a clean cloth. “Oh, I grieve for poor Rowan’s discomfort, but it’s not him I’m fretting over. Lily—”
“Is with Rose. I’m sure they both arrived safely at Hawkridge.”
“Indeed, that’s just it.” Dampening the cloth, Chrystabel began to wash her face. Was it her imagination, or were those hollows under her eyes? “Lily is off with her betrothed unsupervised, and, given the way his son speaks of him, I can hardly trust Lord Hawkridge to have a care for her reputation.”
“If you’re so concerned, why did you let them go?”
“I didn’t feel I had a choice. Lily was clearly determined, and we did raise our daughters to make their own decisions. But now I wonder if I was rash.” Chrystabel heaved another sigh. “Meanwhile, I cannot account for Rose’s part in this at all. I’m very much mistaken if she’s forgiven Lily, yet she claims to have volunteered to bear her company.”
Looking thoughtful, Joseph chewed on one end of his eyeglasses frames—a new habit that secretly drove Chrystabel wild. “Are you suggesting that Rose may have some other agenda?”
“No—maybe—I don’t know.” She turned from the mirror to meet her husband’s eyes. “I don’t like to think her capable of deliberately sabotaging Lily’s happiness, but she’s definitely hiding something from me.”
“Darling, she’s your nineteen-year-old daughter. Of course she’s hiding something from you.”
Chrystabel almost smiled.
“In any case, haven’t we learned by now that interfering in their squabbles only makes things worse? They’re good girls; they’ll sort it out. Hopefully before one of them maims the other.”
Now Chrystabel did smile. “You’re right, of course. Lily is tougher than she looks, and Rose has a good heart underneath. I must let nature take its course.” The smile faltered a little. “And I must do my best to trust that Lily’s and Rand’s own integrity will keep them chaste.”
“Right you are.” Joseph put his book and eyeglasses aside. “Now come to bed. You’ve hardly paid me any notice all day, you’re so solicitous of our son. You must convince me you like him better than me.”
FORTY-THREE
RAND HAD A restless night.
His mind kept turning over all the possibilities, all the ways their plans could go awry. When he’d left Hawkridge at thirteen, Margery had been only ten. 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 seventeen and Margery not yet fifteen.
He’d known Margery the child. He’d been acquainted with Margery the girl. But Margery the young 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 was alarmed, but then a warm little weight settled across his feet and began vibrating.
Of course Beatrix had found her way to Hawkridge. Ordinarily her presence would have bothered him, but tonight it made him feel like Lily were here.
Soon after, he finally drifted off, a ghost of a smile on his face, his head full of the tune she had learned for him.
LILY SAW NO indication that anyone’s mood was improved the next morning. Lord Hawkridge had breakfasted early and closeted himself in his study before the others came downstairs. And Rose’s surliness made Lily wish she’d done the same. Would every meal here prove an ordeal?
She and Rand were about to rise from the dining table when they heard a vehicle roll up the drive. Excusing themselves to Rose, who was still picking at her saltfish, they 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 young 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, Margery 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 her 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 love of her life awkwardly patted her rival’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-FOUR
“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 girl 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 a small girl. “Whatever’s wrong, we’ll make it right.”
It seemed the old bonds were still there, 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 wasn’t sure he could.
“Shall we go inside?” he asked her.
With an obvious effort, she controlled her tears. “Is your father at home?”
“He’s in his study.”
“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.