Lily (Flower Trilogy) (24 page)

“What did he say?”

“He said, and I quote, it ‘wouldn’t make a dent in Hawkridge’s needs.’”

She nodded, unsurprised. Three thousand pounds was a respectable sum for a dowry, but a man of the marquess’s stature wouldn’t face bankruptcy for a lack of that amount. “Do you expect an additional ten thousand would make a difference?”

He blinked. “Ten thousand?”

“My inheritance. I’ve told you about it, remember?

Grandpapa left me ten thousand pounds—”

“
Ten
thousand pounds?” The look on his face made her realize she’d never mentioned the amount, only discussed what she planned to do with it. “I never thought about . . .

I remember now that Violet was left that much money, but she’s the oldest . . . it never occurred to me . . .” Sudden understanding stole over his expression. “Is
that
what Rose was talking about that day in the summerhouse?

Her inheritance? I assumed she was counting on her dowry and planning to wheedle the rest out of your father. I never for a minute believed she’d actually deliver on such a sum.”

“Not even Rose makes promises she cannot keep,”

Lily said, feeling a fresh stab of guilt at that truth. But it was a little stab, because she knew she and Rand belonged together, and because she also knew that all her anguish of the past few weeks was inconsequential compared to what they were facing now. “Yes, we were each left ten thousand pounds. The money will not be mine until I turn twenty-one, but perhaps . . . I am certain my father will allow me to have it early. We can give it to your father, to save Hawkridge, and then we’ll be able to marry.”

Rand looked stunned. “You had plans for that money.

You were going to build a home for stray animals. And use the rest of your funds to run it for many years.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat. “So I will find another way,” she whispered. “I love animals, Rand, but I love you more.”

His eyes grew suspiciously glossy. She’d never seen a man cry. She moved onto his lap, kissing those eyes, his nose, his cheeks. “How much is Margery’s fortune?” she asked.

“I know not. Maybe more. But if the marquess cannot save Hawkridge with thirteen thousand pounds, he is not the man he pretends to be.” He kissed her back, and she felt his lips curve into a smile. “It should certainly keep Hawkridge from ruin and set it on the road to recovery, and then I’ll be able to talk him into letting us wed.”

She smiled, too, and kissed him again, thrilling when he deepened it. She would never get enough of this, enough of him. Her worries fled and her head was filled only with Rand.

But then a thought intruded and her heart plunged. She broke the kiss. “What about Margery?”

“What
about
Margery?”

“We need to consider her, too, don’t you think? After all, she just lost her betrothed, and she’s expecting to marry you.”

He stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed and kissed her again. “What my father expects and what Margery expects are two different things. She hasn’t seen me in eight years. I am certain she will think me no great loss.

With her fortune, she can find herself a much better man.

Someone important.”

“You’re an earl,” she reminded him. “And someday you’ll be a marquess.”

“But at heart, I’m a professor.” He skimmed a finger over the dent in her chin. “That you would offer me your inheritance . . .” His eyes glazed over again. “’Tis overwhelming. And in the face of that generosity, I am certain that all will turn out fine.”

Lily wished she could be so confident.

Like the rest of the house, the dining room was beautiful. Lily had glimpsed an enormous, lavish banqueting hall upstairs, but this chamber was much more intimate. As Rand walked her in, her heels clicked on the two-toned parquet floor. She stopped to run a hand over the patterned design on the walls, surprised to find it was gold stamped on brown leather. “It looks like gilded wood!” she exclaimed.

“The leather is supposed to absorb the smells of food.”

She’d never heard of such a thing. “’Tis lovely. All of Hawkridge Hall is lovely.”

“’Tis a lovely prison,” he muttered back darkly. “’Twas my prison for fourteen years, and I’ve no wish to return.”

In opposition to the prison that was Hawkridge Hall—

a prison designed and paid for by his father—the Oxford house was one hundred percent Rand’s. A symbol, Lily suspected, of his hard-won independence.

“I want to live in your new house, too,” she assured him. Kit had told her that he and Rand had spent months designing it before the cornerstone was laid, because Rand had wanted every square foot to be perfect. And it was. “’Tis so modern, so simple and classic compared to this mansion. And so empty. I am so looking forward to filling it over time, making it ours.” She was about to add more when Rand’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm. She swung around to see his father. “Oh! Good evening, my lord.”

“My lady,” he grunted. “Shall we be seated?”

Lily wondered how much the man had heard as they all took their places at the oval cedarwood table, the marquess seating himself at the opposite end from his son.

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. The marquess was dressed in black mourning and seemed offended that Rand was not. Other than a few minutes of desultory conversation about the man’s beloved mastiffs, Lily couldn’t get him to talk about anything. Both she and Rand were loath to bring up Margery or marriage, so the time passed mostly in silence punctuated by the clinking of Hawkridge’s custom-designed silverware.

Lily had just arrived today, but she knew already that there was something about this house she didn’t like.

Something dark and forbidding. Maybe it was the deep colors on the walls and all the somber, oak-framed paintings. 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.

Although Lily wished Rand and his father would act more like a family, in truth she felt only relief. “When are you going to tell him about my inheritance?” she asked.

A footman entered to clear the table, and Rand cleared his throat. “Would you care to walk in the gardens?”

Silently, 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, and the structure was so small that when they settled across from each other, their knees touched.

He reached to take Lily’s hands. “We’ll not be overheard here. He has spies.”

“Spies? I do not think—”

“You always look for the good, sweet Lily, and you know him not.” He leaned close to press his lips to hers, a warm caress that 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.”

’Twas the first hint she saw that he suspected this might not all work as planned. Suddenly her stomach wasn’t filled with butterflies. More like lead.

What if Margery wanted to marry him? Rand had said she’d 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 am 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 over her stomach. “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 beautiful blue eyes, just like you. Of course 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 will love her—”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

“Yes. 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 did not 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 will 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 your music for me alone?”

“In my bedchamber? I do not think your father’s household would feel that is proper. You said he has spies.”

He laughed and drew her out of the gazebo, linking his arm with hers. “There is 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 could not be as dire as they seemed. She and Rand were just too perfect together.

Upstairs in Hawkridge Hall, the second harpsichord was even more beautiful than the first, all inlaid with different colored woods. “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 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, one toe tapping in time to the music. Then 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. ’Tis the tune you often hum, is it not?”

“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 almost 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.”

“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, Lily found herself mesmerized. She didn’t hear 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 . . . Hawkridge, Oxford, a hovel . . . if only Rand would sing to her every night, she thought dreamily, she’d be happy all her days.