Lily

by Lauren Royal

  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?

  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 remember 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.”

  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.