Lily

by Lauren Royal

  He opened the door. Inside, a fire was already lit and several candles burned merrily, but the room still seemed an empty void.

  “Oh, Rand.” She turned into his arms.

  He held her tight for a long, long time before he extricated himself. “Sleep well,” he said softly, then turned and walked away.

  Unable to watch him leave, she stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind her. Then leaned back against it, fighting the nausea that threatened when she thought of her happiness slipping away.

  Just that morning, she’d stood with Rand by the river, laughing, hugging him, so very glad to learn that Margery was in love with another man. Tonight, he’d said, after all this is settled, I’ll come to you.

  In that moment, it had seemed that life would be perfect after all. But now, instead of coming to her, he had walked away.

  To go to Margery instead? She thought not. She was far past any insecurities where Rand’s love was concerned.

  But he was an honorable man, and she knew, without a doubt, that if it meant saving Bennett’s life, he’d marry Margery instead of her.

  FORTY-NINE

  IN HIS SMALL chamber, Rand sat on the bed to tug off his boots. There must be another way, he repeated to himself over and over as he pulled off his stockings and crushed them into balls that he threw across the room with an anger he hadn’t felt since he’d last lived in this damned house. He shrugged out of his surcoat and yanked at the cravat at his throat, throwing those across the room, too. He wished he had something to break, but his chamber had been stripped of all but the furniture some time in the fourteen years between when he’d left for Oxford and now.

  There had to be another way.

  He was loosening the laces on his shirt when a soft knock came at the door. Thinking it must be Lily, his heart gave a little hitch. He wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her.

  And he couldn’t have her, not now. But neither could he turn her away. Fighting with himself, he hurried to open the door.

  Margery stood there instead.

  She was still wearing the dull black gown, the clothes the marquess had sent her to London to obtain to show the proper respect for his dead son. Her eyes red-rimmed, she twisted her fingers together. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  Though her tone sounded dire, Rand just sighed. “Come in, Margery.”

  He shut the door and led her to sit on the room’s only chair, struggling to appear sympathetic. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he’d had about all the anguish he could take—and despite her obvious distress, he couldn’t imagine anything that could make this situation even worse.

  Until he heard her next words.

  “Rand…oh, Rand, I’m with child.”

  He dropped abruptly to sit on the bed. “God, Margery.” Hardly sympathetic, but he was too shocked to know what to say. No matter that Lily might be in the same way, this was Margery, his baby sister, Margery…

  Looking even more miserable, she laid a hand on her still-flat middle. “No one else knows except Bennett. It’s why we’d planned to elope. I tried to obey, Rand, truly I did, but I just couldn’t marry Alban knowing I carried Bennett’s child. Alban was…he would have killed it,” she said flatly.

  Rand could imagine that all too well. “Well, he cannot kill it now,” he said in a way he hoped was soothing.

  “But I still…” Again, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Rand, will you raise it as yours? I know it’s a lot to ask, but we can hope it’s a girl so it won’t be your heir, and—”

  “We’re going to find another way.” Rand’s head was suddenly throbbing. “It won’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, because the child will be raised by its father.”

  “But what if, Rand?” Apparently she was quite past believing that. “Uncle William is planning our wedding for seven days hence. What if we’re forced to marry? Will you raise this child as yours? I could have hidden it from you, tried to make you believe it was yours, but—”

  “You’re not like that, I know.”

  And he also knew there was no chance he’d ever fall for such a ploy, because if, heaven forbid, he was forced to wed her, he wouldn’t be sharing her bed.

  He would never again lie with anyone but Lily.

  Margery stood and wrapped her arms around her middle. Slow tears trailed down her pale cheeks, leaking from eyes that looked hopeless. “What if, Rand? Will you be a true father to this child?”

  “Of course I will,” he said simply, because there was nothing else he could say.

  But he would find another way…because there was nothing else he could do.

  Nothing.

  FIFTY

  CLAD IN HER night rail with her hair in one long plait, Lily huddled under the covers of the giant state bed.

  Just hours earlier at Bennett’s house, she’d thought she and Margery had made an unspoken pact, come to a wordless understanding that they would fight this problem together. But perhaps that wasn’t true; perhaps it had been her imagination. Because if a silent promise had indeed passed between them, Margery had broken it already.

  Not that Lily blamed her. As she’d told Rand, were his life at risk, she’d do anything for a chance to save him. But that truth didn’t ease the distress of realizing that, other than Rand, she had no allies here at Hawkridge at all.

  Although Beatrix cuddled with her, she’d never felt so alone in her life.

  Was she fated to be alone forever?

  There must be another way, Rand had said over and over, as though he could make it so by repetition alone. But Lily was unconvinced. It seemed that no matter what solution they came up with, his father would shoot it down.

  For a long time she lay awake, stroking Beatrix’s downy fur and watching the shadows made on the walls by the all-too-cheerful dancing flames of the fire. Rand had no love for this house, and as much as she always tried to look on the bright side of things, she couldn’t help but think that in this case he was right. Although it was beautiful, there seemed something evil about Hawkridge, something that made her skin crawl. She didn’t like being alone in this room.

  She hugged herself for a long while. Then she climbed out of bed and slid a wrapper over her night rail.

  A few minutes later, she knocked softly on Rand’s door. He came to answer, wearing just breeches and a shirt that was open at the neck and cuffs. He looked as sleepless as she.

  “Rand? May I just sleep here?”

  He gathered her close. “I’m not sure,” he said with a sad little chuckle. “Last night was torture for us both.” Tilting her chin up, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I’m afraid, sweetheart, that for me, you’re too much of a temptation.”

  A heaviness settled in Lily’s chest. She stared down at his bare feet. No matter what he said over and over, he wasn’t convinced that everything would work out. Or else he would want her in his bed, and damn the risk of conceiving.

  “Oh, Lily…” He slipped his hands under her wrapper, settling them on her hips to pull her close. His fingers seemed to burn through her night rail.

  She raised a palm and placed it against his chest, inside the open placket of his shirt, where his bare skin was brown and warm. “Rand…” Shutting her eyes against the pain in his, she went to her toes for a kiss. Though his lips on hers felt achingly familiar, the caress didn’t bring the relief she was seeking.

  The kiss was hot and desperate and set her heart to pounding, but it failed to make her forget that, barring a miracle, he was going to marry another woman.

  He reached blindly to unravel her plait, his eyes still closed and his mouth still locked on hers. A pathetic little moan escaped her throat as she wondered if this was the last time she’d feel the loving tugs of his fingers freeing her hair, the last time he’d claim her lips with passionate abandon.

  Finally, with a heartfelt sigh, he broke the kiss and swung her up into his arms.

  “We cannot,” she said.

  “There are other ways
, Lily.” He deposited her on his small childhood bed and looked down on her, tenderly finger combing her hair into a halo around her head. “Ways we can be together that don’t carry the risk of getting you with child.”

  “But we cannot.” When he stretched out beside her, she turned to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t even be kissing me. Don’t you see? We cannot be together this way, knowing you might marry Margery. It would be wrong.”

  He looked away, staring up at the underside of the serviceable blue canopy. No Queen’s Bedchamber, this—no silk for Rand Nesbitt at Hawkridge Hall. His room was barely more than a closet.

  “Yes,” he agreed at last. “It would be wrong.”

  She lay back and ran a trembling hand through her hair. What if she was already with child? She had no doubt now that it would make little difference to Rand’s father—he was determined his son wed Margery. She would have to hope her womb was yet empty.

  But she couldn’t find it in herself to wish for that. If fate decreed that Rand’s child was the only piece of him she could ever have, she would take it along with the consequences and be happy for the privilege.

  “I don’t like it here,” she whispered into the silence. “This house. I cannot sleep in that room alone.”

  “Stay with me, then,” Rand said. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman, although it will probably kill me.” He snuggled against her, releasing a strangled groan. “And tomorrow, I’ll take you home. I don’t like this house any more than you do, and I’ve things to take care of in Oxford.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  RAND SET THEIR luggage by the carriage and, leaving two outriders to deal with it, headed into the house to fetch Lily.

  “You’ll be back, I presume? A week from yesterday?”

  Rand pivoted to see the marquess standing outdoors, holding two dogs by their chain collars. “Yes, I’ll be back,” he forced through gritted teeth, hoping against hope that he’d be arriving with a solution to this dilemma.

  “Sit,” the man told the dogs. “Stay.” He climbed the steps to Rand. “Margery told me you’re willing to wed her in order to save Bennett’s life. She’s very grateful.”

  Rand had nothing to say to that.

  “Son,” the marquess started—and when Rand visibly flinched, the man sighed. “I suppose I deserve that. I just wanted to say I’m impressed that you’re willing to do the right thing and marry the girl. It’s admirable, considering you had other plans.”

  Rand consciously unclenched his jaw. “Lily is more than plans; Lily is my life. And your approval means nothing to me. I don’t need the admiration of a man who ignored me all my childhood.”

  With that, he turned to head upstairs, but the marquess caught his arm. “I’m…I’m sorry for that.” Rand stared, unable to believe the word sorry had passed the old goat’s lips. He opened his mouth to voice another retort, but the man rushed on. “I was thinking, last night, about you and Alban and Margery.”

  “And how you liked the two of them better than me?”

  “Yes,” he bit out. “I did. I’m not proud of it, but there’s the truth. I always blamed you for your mother’s death. Whenever I looked at you, I was reminded, and—”

  “Her death? However did your twisted mind come up with that? I wasn’t even home when she died!”

  “Exactly. You’d run off somewhere, as was your habit in those days. She died searching for her precious younger son.”

  Rand felt like all the air had been sucked right out of him. Run off, as was your habit. “She died searching?”

  “She raced off on Queenie, her mare. The animal failed to clear a fence. Broke two legs and had to be put down. Your mother broke her neck.”

  “I…” Afraid his legs would give out, Rand retreated in search of somewhere to sit. The backs of his calves finally bumped into a hall chair, and he collapsed onto it.

  He stared at the black-and-white floor between his limp, spread knees. “I never knew how she died. I just came home and she was…gone.”

  The marquess followed him, looking down on him. “No point in telling a boy of six,” he said in clipped tones. “If I was wrong to blame you for her death, at least I wasn’t daft enough to accuse you out loud.”

  Rand looked up. “No. Instead you ignored me, mistreated me, drove me from your home—”

  “And you managed to survive regardless. And”—the man shifted on his feet—“to make a life for yourself.”

  Rand Nesbitt’s many accomplishments meant less than nothing to the Marquess of Hawkridge. “Not a life you’ll ever approve. In the world where I belong, I’m called Professor, not my lord.”

  The man’s jaw tightened. “You’re an earl now and will someday be a marquess. That’s another matter we need to discuss. Which we will, just as soon as you wed Margery and set up residence here.”

  “I have no intention of living here. I’m not in such a hurry to put myself back in range of your disapproval and abuse.”

  “I’ve said I was sorry,” the marquess muttered. He glanced through the open door. “I’ve dogs to attend to.”

  “By all means,” Rand said, waving him off.

  The man always had valued his dogs over his son.

  FIFTY-TWO

  THE RIDE TO Trentingham was awkward.

  Rand was subdued, and Lily had difficulty trying to sustain both sides of the conversation. The worst of it was that for the first time since the baptism, she found herself wracking her brain to find anything to discuss. Their ease with each other was gone, their relationship changing already.

  It was only two hours between the estates, yet the time passed like the carriage’s wheels were mired in mud. Though Beatrix rode inside, her warm softness on Lily’s lap failed to provide any comfort. When they finally rolled up before the manor, she couldn’t wait to get into the house.

  Was it but three days since she’d been home? A day in Oxford and two at Hawkridge. In that short span of time, her entire life had spun upside down.

  Just inside the door, Chrystabel met her and wrapped her in a hug. “That was a short visit.”

  Lily clung to her mother for a moment, inhaling her familiar floral scent. “It felt like a lifetime.” When she pulled away, she looked around as though seeing her home for the first time. So light and bright, the staircase off the entry fashioned of classical white balustrades instead of heavy, dark carved wood. The atmosphere warm and loving, not cold and full of resentment. “It’s good to be home.”

  Concern flooded her mother’s brown eyes. “Do you not like Hawkridge Hall? Will you not want to live there?”

  “Oh, Mum, it seems I won’t be living there even if I did want to!” Here, finally, was someone who cared. Lily had felt invisible at Hawkridge Hall—no, worse than invisible. A burden to Rand and persona non grata to everyone else. “Things have changed—”

  Spotting Rand standing in the doorway, she broke off.

  “Rand.” Though Chrystabel smiled at him, the expression in her eyes said she knew something was wrong. “How very nice to see you again. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you? Or does your father expect you back at Hawkridge this afternoon?”

  “No,” he said dully. “I’m going home to Oxford for a few days.”

  “The sun sets late this time of year, so you can stay for dinner, then, at least.”

  He shrugged as though he didn’t care. “I’m going for a run,” he said to Lily, already struggling out of his surcoat. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”

  As he turned and walked away, Chrystabel laid a gentle hand on Lily’s arm. “I can see that things didn’t go well with his father. Leave him be, dear.”

  “No.” Lily started toward the door. “I’ve let him be quite enough. I’ll be back and explain later.”

  “Lily!” Mum called.

  But she was already out the door and down the steps.

  FIFTY-THREE

  “WAIT!” LILY called.

  But Rand didn’t, e
ven though she was sure he’d heard her. To the contrary, he shoved his coat and cravat into the carriage and then began to run, putting more distance between them.

  She hurried past blue and yellow flower beds in her high Louis-heeled shoes. Hoping she wouldn’t twist an ankle in the soft grass, she wished she hadn’t dressed so fashionably this morning.

  The shoes and the lavender gown with the heavy overskirt had been a final attempt to impress her future father-in-law. If she wasn’t so upset, she’d laugh at herself for her characteristic optimism. The fact was, there was nothing she could do to make the man like her. He wanted his son to marry Margery, and that was that.

  He’d probably sent up a cheer when he saw her climb into the carriage and ride away.

  Lily had never really disliked anyone in her life, but she disliked Rand’s father immensely. Not for the way he treated her—he didn’t know her, after all—but for the way he treated Rand.

  Rand. There he was, crossing the bridge to the other side of the river.

  “Rand!”

  Thanks to living with her father, Lily knew how to make her voice carry. But although Rand stopped running, he didn’t stop altogether, instead pacing determinedly along the far bank.

  Hopping on one foot and then the other, she pulled off her shoes and left them jumbled on the daisy-strewn lawn. Then she picked up her skirts and ran—across the grass, over the bridge, along the path with the river on one side and grazing fields on the other.

  Her face heated and her lungs burned. She developed a searing stitch in her side. But she wouldn’t stop running.

  She would never give up on Rand Nesbitt.

  In the woods beyond, she spotted him in the distance and pushed herself to close the gap. “Rand,” she called breathlessly.

  He slowed, stopped, and turned, looking defeated. “You’ll cut your feet,” he said in a dead voice.