Lily

by Lauren Royal

  When it came right down to it, who wasn’t odd, anyway?

  He took a seat and waited while a footman set a plate of chicken and artichoke pie before him. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asked Violet.

  “Of course,” she said. “But lust at first sight is more common.”

  A becoming blush touched her cheeks, making Rand suspect she’d experienced lust at first sight. He felt suddenly—absurdly—jealous, wishing her sister would feel the same lust for him. If his own experience was anything to judge by, lust could be a solid foundation on which to build heavier emotions.

  Love. He’d uttered that frightening word, risked baring his soul, offered his heart in his hands…and had it rejected.

  Lifting his fork, he shifted his gaze to Ford in an attempt to gauge his old friend as an inspiration for female lust. If he looked hard enough, he could almost understand why ladies might find Ford handsome, but truth be told, what he really saw was the gawky schoolboy the man had been when they’d first met.

  Who knew what drove women? Lily had allowed him to kiss her three times. Perhaps there was hope for him, after all.

  “Why are you asking?” Violet tucked a cloth under Nicky’s chin, then pulled his plate closer and put a spoon in his chubby hand. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rand said. He certainly hadn’t until recently. Besides, his first sight of Lily had been so long ago. After all this time, how was a man supposed to remember what he’d felt way back then? In the intervening years, he’d probably built her up in his mind.

  And on that flimsy basis, lately he’d found himself daydreaming about a lifetime of wedded bliss. Clearly he was going soft in the head.

  Violet speared a piece of artichoke heart. “Of course, love—sustainable love—is dependent on more than physical appearance.”

  “Which is why,” her husband said, “love at first sight is a myth.”

  “Not at all.” Her voice took on the tone of a philosopher waxing philosophical. “Love occurs when something in one person recognizes something basic and true in another. To borrow a term from my mother’s perfume-making, call it that person’s essence. One would see this essence embodied in everything the other person does—those thoughts, actions, responses, and choices that go to display her values.”

  “One cannot see all of that at first sight,” Ford argued.

  “I beg to differ.” Clearly enjoying this sort of debate, Violet waved her fork. “One person’s essence responds innately to another’s—it’s not a conscious response, nor one that knows time. Upon meeting a woman, some part of you will notice how she moves, gestures, talks, smiles—how she carries herself in general. Her essence—not only her surface appearance.” She focused back on Rand. “Take my sister Lily, for example.”

  Though the pie was delicious, swimming in rich gravy, Rand nearly choked. “Lily?” He shot a glance to Ford, whom he’d told about Lily in confidence. But his friend avoided his gaze, industriously cutting an already-small-enough bite of chicken.

  “Just as an example.” If Violet’s expression might have revealed ulterior motives, she expertly concealed it while sipping wine. “Lily is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Rand sipped from his own goblet. Lustrous mahogany hair, deep blue eyes, that irresistible face and figure…

  “I don’t expect any male would argue with you about that.”

  “And perhaps most males would notice that first, but there’s so much more to Lily. She makes beautiful music. She’s also quite intelligent. One needn’t be bookish to be intelligent.”

  “Did I ever say—”

  “Those are all obvious things, but now let’s look at her essence, those values we can see in the way she carries herself and behaves. She’s nurturing and compassionate. People feel good around Lily, because she cares. She really cares, about everyone and everything. She’s benevolent, she seeks harmony, and above all, she endeavors at all times to make the right choices. The sum of these is what makes her Lily.”

  “Her essence,” Rand murmured.

  “Yes!” Beaming, Violet set down her goblet. “And the sort of man who would recognize a kindred essence in Lily, most especially on first sight, would also recognize that she will someday make a wonderful mother.” With that, her gaze lovingly went to her babies in their cradles.

  And Rand was rendered speechless.

  He wasn’t sure he could even eat.

  He was just getting used to considering love and marriage…fatherhood was another matter entirely.

  SEVENTEEN

  “LILY, ARE YOU ready to leave?”

  “Just a moment, Mum.” With a sigh, Lily stroked Randolph’s soft brown fur one last time. She’d put it off more than a week, but she knew what had to be done. Setting her jaw, she crouched to tenderly place Randolph on the grass.

  Without so much as a thank you, the rat scampered happily into a flower bed.

  Lily sighed again and fished Beatrix out from beneath her skirts. “May I bring her?” she asked as she rose.

  “I suppose she’ll contrive to come along either way.” Chrystabel sifted through the basket on her arm, checking that all her perfumes were in order. “But you must leave her in the carriage. You know cats make Lady Carrington sneeze.”

  Half an hour later, Lily stood on the steps of Carrington House with her mother and Rose. As Chrystabel lifted the knocker, a sneeze resounded from inside.

  “Beatrix is in the carriage,” Lily said defensively. Glancing back to make sure, she saw a small black nose pressed to the vehicle’s window. Jasper and Lady sat atop the carriage’s roof, looking similarly innocent.

  The door opened, and a butler ushered them into the drawing room, where Lady Carrington was waiting with coffee, expensive imported tea, and cakes. Judith sat on a sturdy carved chair, dabbing at her nose with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  Chrystabel set her basket on a table and raised the cloth covering. “Your usual blend,” she said to Lady Carrington, handing her a bottle of scent. “And for you, Lady Judith, a new blend to celebrate your betrothal. More fitting for a lady of your status.”

  “It’s more spicy,” Rose explained.

  Judith’s eyes widened. “Oooh, may I see?”

  Lily brought the perfume to her friend, pulling the stopper out as she went. She waved the bottle under her own nose and smiled before handing it to Judith. “It smells lovely.”

  Judith dabbed a bit on one wrist and raised it to her reddened nose. “It does. Even all stuffy, I can tell. Thank you ever so much, Lady Trentingham.”

  “You’re very welcome, dear.”

  Replacing the stopper, Judith stood. “Would you care to see the fabric for my wedding gown?” she asked Lily and Rose. “And the style? Madame left a fashion doll for me to show you.”

  They followed her up the curving oak staircase.

  “I think the dress will be ever so beautiful,” Judith said, pausing for a sneeze. “Lord, I’m so excited about my wedding.”

  “You should be,” Rose said somewhat wistfully.

  The wedding dress fashion doll reclined in a place of honor against Judith’s mauve pillows in her feminine room. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  “It is,” Lily agreed softly. The doll’s gown was palest blue with a wide neckline and golden ribbons crisscrossing the stomacher. The underskirt was cloth of gold.

  Suddenly, quite unbidden, an image popped into her head—of herself wearing such a gown and standing beside Rand. The blue fabric brought out the hue in her eyes, which were fastened on Rand as she recited her vows. The golden underskirt shimmered, rustling when she moved…

  “You’re so lucky,” Rose told Judith, snapping Lily out of her reverie.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them with new determination. She should be picturing Rose standing beside Rand, rather than thinking disloyal thoughts.

  Settling into the window seat, Judith sneezed again. “Pardon me,” she said with a sniff
le. Then her voice dropped a notch. “I’m lucky about the wedding,” she mumbled, “but I’m worried about the wedding night.”

  Her heart aching for her friend, Lily forgot her own troubles. She sat beside Judith and took her hands. “You’ll be fine,” she told her with all the confidence she could muster. “All brides are nervous.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Goodness, I’m sure of it.” She slanted a glance to Rose before looking back to her friend. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “Absolutely. But I’ve seen Lord Grenville, and—”

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Lily rushed to clarify. “I just wondered if you believed. In the abstract.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” Judith had always been a romantic. “That’s why I—”

  “I believe in love at first sight,” Rose interrupted. “I fell in love with Lord Randal the very first time I saw him.”

  Despite her worries, Judith grinned. “You fall in love with every man you see.”

  “I do not,” Rose protested. “Only the handsome ones. Like Rand.”

  Rand, Rand, Rand. Lily rose and paced back to the doll, staring at its pale blue magnificence. She would never feel right wearing a wedding dress before Rose was Lady Somebody.

  “There are cakes downstairs,” Judith said into the sudden silence.

  Lily was all too happy to escape the discussion, but no sooner had they reentered the drawing room than Rose revived it. “Mum,” she asked, “do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “What nonsense,” Lady Carrington said, her chins trembling with indignation. “Love grows between two suited individuals. It was that way for me, and it will be the same for my Judith and Lord Grenville.” She brushed crumbs from her mouth and motioned her daughter closer. “Come here, dear. Have a cake.”

  Judith took two. Evidently her illness wasn’t affecting her appetite.

  “Mum?” Rose pressed.

  Chrystabel set down her teacup. “I do believe in love at first sight,” she said firmly. “I experienced it with your father.”

  Lady Carrington harrumphed.

  “Of course,” Mum continued undaunted, “dear Joseph took some convincing. I’ve yet to meet a man who believes in love at first sight.”

  Lily knew one. One who was trying to convince her.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Carrington repeated as she reached for another cake.

  Lily’s mother smiled charmingly and changed the subject. “Have you heard the latest?” she asked, lifting her cup. “Two more of my introductions are culminating in marriages. Lady Eleanor Randolph is betrothed to Lord Ducksworth. And you’re not going to believe this.” She paused to sip for effect. “I’ve managed to match the eternal bachelor.”

  Lady Carrington’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean…”

  “Yes.” Chrystabel nodded proudly. “Lord Percival Newcombe.”

  “No!” her friend gasped, a cake halfway to her lips. “To whom?”

  EIGHTEEN

  “JOSEPH,” Chrystabel said as she slid into bed beside him that night, “do you believe in love at first sight?”

  He came up on an elbow and eyed her warily. “Is this a trick question?”

  “No.”

  “Then no. I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

  “No?”

  “Yes? Is yes the right answer? I’ve never thought about it, my love.”

  She laughed. He was such a man.

  Chrystabel loved the nights, the precious hours spent alone with her husband in their thick-walled bedchamber. Here, where the sound of her voice competed with nothing but an occasional crackle from the fireplace, her Joseph could hear her perfectly.

  And he knew how to touch her perfectly, too. How to make her feel perfectly wonderful…

  He rolled closer and reached to untie the ribbons that secured the top of her night rail. “Does this have something to do with Lily and Rand? Are your plans not working out?”

  She sighed, delightfully distracted by his fingertips brushing her skin. “I’m certain he desires her.”

  “Love at first sight?”

  “Maybe. Do you remember how he looked at her, even four years ago?”

  “No. I don’t remember.” He slipped the gown from her shoulders. “I’m not sure I even noticed.”

  Of course he hadn’t. He was a man. “Well, it was quite obvious he was drawn to our Lily then, and it’s even more obvious now. Surely you’ve noticed it now?”

  “Not really.” He lowered his lips to her neck, kissing the sensitive hollow while he worked the night rail lower.

  “Even since I pointed it out?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I have eyes only for you, Chrysanthemum,” he murmured against her throat. “Only you.”

  Half charmed, half exasperated, she shivered. “Well, Lily isn’t immune to him, either—of that I’m sure. But despite all my efforts to get them alone together, the poor boy isn’t making much progress. After I noticed Rand runs every day by the river, I told Lily that Snowflake needed some exercise, but—”

  “Poor boy must not have my talents,” her husband interrupted, cupping a breast. Making skilled use of his thumb, he pulled back to grin at her indrawn breath. “Are you sure he’s good enough for Lily?”

  “You’re incorrigible,” she said. But she didn’t remove his hand, instead arching her back in blatant invitation. “I told you, didn’t I, that Violet said Lily promised Rose she’d stay away from Rand? Besides feeling bound to that ridiculous vow, Lily is genuinely concerned for Rose. I can see it in her eyes, in her attitude. She’s afraid to put her own happiness before her sister’s.”

  “Give it some time, love. She’ll come to her senses.” He lowered his mouth to where his fingers had been.

  “But Rand’s house will be ready soon,” she choked out on a gasp. “He’ll be leaving.”

  “Give it some time,” he repeated against her tingling flesh. “If he wants her, he’ll be back. You didn’t win me in a day.”

  Oh yes, she had, she thought with a secret smile as she helped him wiggle her out of her night rail. It just proved her finesse with men that he hadn’t noticed.

  NINETEEN

  ONCE IN A great while, a man had to get drunk. And it was always better to do that with a friend.

  Sitting in Ford’s laboratory, Rand stared at a nearly blank piece of paper. He blinked hard to make out the words. “We’ve been here all night and translated only a single sentence,” he muttered, finding himself fascinated, in an odd, detached sort of way, at hearing the slur in his own voice. “We’ll never finish. You’ll never make gold.”

  “What’s a few more years when these words have been waiting for four hundred?” Ford reached across the cluttered table for a decanter of brandy, impressing Rand when he didn’t knock over any of the assorted paraphernalia. He filled Rand’s beaker for the third time.

  Or maybe the fourth. Rand had lost count.

  “So you’re in love, are you?” Ford said.

  “Maybe. Probably not. I cannot be sure.” Rand paused for a sip, trying not to speculate on what chemical concoction the beaker might have held the day before. “I think so.”

  Topping off his own beaker, Ford nodded. “You’re in love.”

  “She won’t have me. It’s that older sister of hers. Rose.” Rand took another sip—or rather a gulp that he’d intended to be a sip. “She keeps pointing out how Rose and I are more suited,” he complained. “Rose sings and can speak Italian. As though I’m looking for those qualities in a lover.” Then another thought occurred to him—one that made the liquor seem to sour in the pit of his stomach. “What if she’s only using Rose as an excuse? What if she won’t have me because I’m only a professor? She lives in a bloody mansion, and I—”

  “Lily’s not like that,” Ford rushed to interrupt. “She cares about her animals. She cares about other people. She doesn’t care where she lives.”

  Rand nodded—slowly, to keep the room from blurr
ing—as he tried to believe that. He almost succeeded. “Then why does she keep bringing up Rose?”

  “Guilt,” Ford said succinctly.

  “Guilt?”

  “Look, we all know Rose wants you—”

  “Every woman wants me,” Rand said with a wide, drunken grin. He was intelligent, he was financially stable, he was charming, he was tall and—from what women had told him—apparently easy on the eyes…and as much as he hated to admit it, he had the title Lord in front of his name.

  No female had ever turned down Rand Nesbitt.

  Then his expression fell. “Except Lily.”

  “Guilt.” Taking his time about it, Ford drained his beaker. “She doesn’t want to steal you from Rose.”

  “Rose doesn’t have me. Therefore Lily cannot steal me from Rose.” Rand felt inordinately proud of that observation. “Those two statements make rational sense, don’t they? And I’m a professor of linguistics, not logic.”

  “You’re brilliant,” Ford said dryly. “But you’re forgetting something.”

  “What’s that?” Rand asked, marveling at the way the words sounded once they’d left his mouth. Whazzat. Had he said whazzat?

  “The way women’s minds work. Or don’t, as the case may be. Would you care for some more brandy?”

  Rand held out his beaker. “I think I need it.”

  Ford refilled his own, too, then leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Listen,” he said, rolling the beaker between his palms, “it doesn’t matter whether Rose has you. The salient point here is that Lily knows Rose desires you, and she’s unwilling to hurt her sister by taking what Rose considers hers—never mind that you’re not and never will be—because Lily is putting her sister’s feelings before her own. She won’t allow herself to marry—”

  “Who said anything about marriage?”

  “Hold your tongue and listen. Lily won’t allow herself to marry before Rose, most especially to a man Rose wants for herself.”