A look that made his hopes crumble to dust.
He felt sweet relief to hear her mother’s voice approaching. Rand was desperate to escape to the solitude of his chamber.
But Lakefield’s guest chamber had better be ready tomorrow, because one night at Trentingham had been more than enough.
SEVEN
BEFORE LILY had a chance to gather her wits, Mum and Rose appeared.
“Lord Randal’s chamber is ready,” her sister announced, frowning to see them together on the harpsichord’s bench.
“Rand,” he corrected patiently.
He was patient, Lily thought. And good-looking. And brilliant. And if he wasn’t quite the inveterate animal lover she’d always pictured marrying, at least he’d never laughed at her dreams. He’d even encouraged them.
But as quickly as these thoughts materialized, they were washed away by a tide of guilt that made Lily leap from the bench. Marriage? She was supposed to be bringing Rand together with Rose, yet here she was snuggling up to him herself and indulging in silly fantasies. How could she act so selfishly? Only a lucky stab of conscience had saved her from leaning in for a kiss, saved her from betraying her own sister.
And for what? One trifling kiss? Was a kiss worth the price of her relationship with Rose?
Of course it wasn’t.
Not that Lily could judge from experience.
Mum’s lips curved in a smile. “Come, Rand. I’ll show you the way.”
He rose rather reluctantly and allowed Mum to lead him from the room. An uneasy silence descended in their wake. Lily dropped back to the bench.
Rose’s dark eyes narrowed. “What were you doing with him?”
“Singing,” Lily lied, shocked to hear the word pass her lips. She never lied to her sister. She never lied to anybody. “I mean, he was singing. I was playing. We were playing and sing—”
“All right.” Rose waved an impatient hand. “As long as you’re not after him. You promised he could be mine.”
Despite that promise, Lily found herself bristling. “He might have something to say about that.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can make him want me.” For a nineteen-year-old who’d once claimed spinsterhood began at eighteen, Rose looked awfully smug.
“You know nothing about him. Have you even considered that there might be someone else he prefers?” Like me, Lily added silently.
What was she saying? She was acting like she meant to have Rand for herself, though that couldn’t be further from the truth. Her own vanity was getting the better of her, and that simply wouldn’t do.
She began an apology. “Rose, I’m—”
“Oh, stuff it, Lily,” her sister said airily. “It’s natural for you to be jealous, so I won’t hold that against you. But just let me worry about Lord Randal’s preferences. My new strategy of impressing him with my intellect along with the flirtation is already working. Why else would we have sung together all night?”
Lily refrained from repeating Rand’s explanation: that it was her playing he admired rather than Rose’s singing. “About the flirtation…”
“Lily, please. I do appreciate your assistance, but I know what I’m doing in that sphere.”
“Of course you do,” Lily said quickly, absently rubbing the back of her hand. Her fingers stilled when her sister’s gaze settled on them.
Rose sank down to the bench seat beside her and placed a hand over hers. “No one notices,” she said gently. “And it doesn’t look bad anyway. After all these years, the scars are almost gone. Honestly—”
“I know.” Lily reached to grasp both her sister’s hands. A few narrow, faded white scars…so what if she wasn’t perfect? Everyone made mistakes, didn’t they?
And not everyone was blessed with such a loving, caring sister. Lily still couldn’t believe she’d come so close to breaking her promise. She could never hurt Rose. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. Or anything. Ever.
“Lily?”
Freeing her hands, she gave Rose a shaky smile as she raised them to the harpsichord. Her fingers moved slowly over the keys. Music always soothed her. Even when, like now, she chose a melancholy tune.
After a moment, her sister’s pure, sweet voice took up the song.
“Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me out discourteously,
And I have loved you for so long,
Delighting in your company…”
A fitting lyric, Lily thought with an internal sigh. Then she tried to look on the bright side. At least Mum didn’t seem to be trying to match Rose and Rand.
They should be happy for small favors.
EIGHT
RAND’S BEDCHAMBER was filled with flowers. Artistic arrangements sat atop the bedside table, the clothes press, the washstand. He walked around the room, admiring each in turn, distracting himself by skimming his fingers over colorful, velvet-soft petals.
Rose obviously excelled at arranging flowers, and while Rand had been occupied with Lily—with repulsing Lily, to be more precise—it was clear Rose had been busy. And so had their mother, evidently, because the dressing table was lined with bottles of scent. Her hobby, Rand recalled, was making perfume.
No wonder her daughter smelled so delicious.
The small, clear bottles all looked the same—plain with silver-topped stoppers—but the liquids inside them were different hues, ranging from nearly colorless, to yellowish, to brownish. He lifted a bottle, opened it, and waved it under his nose. Finding the fragrance spicy and masculine, he dabbed some on his face, then sniffed his fingers. Shrugging, he took another bottle. More citrusy, this scent. He patted some on his jaw and decided he liked the first one better.
He shrugged out of his surcoat and tossed it on the bed, followed by his cravat. Despite the long day and the sort of bone weariness that naturally followed, he wasn’t at all sleepy. Being here felt too strange. As did his, alas, unreciprocated feelings for a certain daughter of the house.
Absently humming a tune, he sat at the dressing table—a lady’s dressing table, it was, much too delicate for his taste—and idly unstoppered another bottle. None of the specific ingredients were identifiable, but this
