Lily (Flower Trilogy) (25 page)

He raised a brow. “This next verse is yours.”

She smiled, her fingers still picking out the jaunty tune.

“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?” Her fingers still flew 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 under his breath, then nodded.

As Oyster Nan stood by her tub, To skew 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.

He 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.

Her fingers stilled, and she 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. “’Tis 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 hall, the estate, the title, everything.

“I just want you,” she said. “No matter who or where you are. Professor, earl, marquess, Hawkridge, Oxford . . . I care not. 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—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, scrabbling 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, reaching for the tabs that secured her stomacher.

Her heart hammered under where his fingers were feverishly working. Her entire body tingled in 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 sat 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 said 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.

“Lily?” Rand whispered into the darkness.MMMM

No answer.

How could she sleep? He’d been restless all night, holding her against himself, 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 that 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 was wrong? What if Margery the woman
did
want to marry him? She’d lived under the influence of the marquess all these many 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; then her head fell back to the pillows. “Sleep, Rand. I will 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 coach 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.

’Twas not 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 dislike the woman on sight. But she could only feel sympathy.

Even in her grief, the woman was beautiful. Her hair, so light it was almost 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.

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 man she loved awkwardly patted the other woman’s back. “Margery. Ah, Margery.”

“Randy,” Margery choked out, gripping him harder.

He’d told Lily that Margery hadn’t loved Alban, but

’twas obvious the woman 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.

“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 certainly been simpler. And this woman had never been part of the misery.

“Margery. Whatever is wrong, we will make it right.”

He squeezed her shoulder, feeling responsible for her happiness, the same way he’d felt when she came to Hawkridge as an infant when he was seven.

It seemed the old bonds were still strong, 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 knew he couldn’t.

“Shall we go inside?” he asked her.

With an obvious effort, she controlled her tears. “Is your father at home?”

“Yes.”

“Then no. I’m not ready to see him. Can we just walk?”

“Of course.” One arm still wrapping her shoulders, he drew her around to the gardens. His gaze drifted toward the dog enclosure, but he couldn’t see Lily. He sighed, heading toward the grassy paths where he’d walked with Lily last night.

He wouldn’t lose her. That was unthinkable. But for now, he had to concentrate on Margery. She needed him, too. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he began carefully.

“Alban?” To his shock, she practically snorted. “’Twas a relief to see him put into the ground.” She dashed the wetness from her eyes.

“Then . . . you’ re not crying because of him?”

“God, no.” She took a deep breath, looking better already. Some color was returning to her cheeks. “Alban was a cruel man.” She shuddered, perhaps remembering things that Rand would rather not know. “He was cruel even as a boy; surely you remember that. I never wanted to marry him.”

“Then why did you agree?”

“’Twas my father’s last wish. Not that that stopped me from begging to get out of it. But Uncle William would hear none of it.”

The marquess wasn’t really her uncle, but she’d called him that since babyhood. To Rand, it had always sounded too friendly a name for the man.

In a sheltered area between two rows of trees, she stopped. “Randy—”

He turned to her and smiled. “No one calls me that anymore, you know.”

Her own smile was wan, but there. “Shall I call you Professor? Or, oh, how could I have forgotten? My lord earl.” She executed an absurd, formal curtsy.

“Rand will do,” he told her, glad to see the old Margery peeking through all the misery.

“Rand, then,” she repeated, growing serious again. “I shall try to remember, but you’ll have to remind me if I forget. Rand . . . I . . . are you aware that Uncle William expects me to marry
you
now?”

“He’s told me as much,” he answered, suddenly apprehensive.

She resumed walking, absently trailing one hand along a hedge as she went by. “Who was the woman you were with?”

“Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“I think so.” He watched her elegant fingers skim the leaves. Margery was beautiful, too, but in a fragile sort of way. She was taller than Lily and not as fine boned, but Margery would never allow dogs to slobber all over her.

She wouldn’t climb fences or laugh at ribald songs, either. Margery could be flirtatious and saucy, but beneath it all, she was a very proper young woman.

Well, she’d been raised in the Marquess of Hawkridge’s household, Rand reminded himself. ’Twas a wonder she had any spunk left in her at all.