“I don’t dislike animals, and I’d certainly never want to see any creature suffer. Just because they’re not the center of my existence doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“Oh.” It sounded so simple when he put it that way. So reasonable. So Rand. And she wanted to say that animals weren’t the center of her existence, either. That though every life had worth, people—especially deserving people like him—were dearer to her than all else.
But she shouldn’t be saying something like that, because he might get the wrong idea. And then she might be tempted to break her promise to Rose, and then—
“But if you want the real truth,” he continued, “I wasn’t thinking of the animals when I saved them. I went in looking for you, afraid you might be trying to save them yourself. And then, when you weren’t there—” He swallowed, then grimaced and massaged his throat. “When I rescued those creatures, I was thinking of you, Lily, and how you’d feel if they perished.”
She stopped snipping and began coughing again. It was one thing to have risked his life for her animals, quite another to have done it for her. He couldn’t…she couldn’t…
“Lily?”
“I’m almost finished.” She cleared her throat painfully and made a few more cuts. But it was hard to concentrate, because she was afraid she’d just fallen in love.
She hadn’t seen him in a week—a week she’d spent alternating between guilt-ridden tiptoeing around Rose and equally guilt-ridden daydreaming about Rand. A week in which she’d grown more certain of her feelings with each passing day, while her sister only grew more desperate.
By now it was clear to everyone but Rose that her cause was hopeless. Rand was never to be hers.
And Lily had a terrible fear that after this—this impossibly selfless, wonderful thing that he’d done for her—her own cause was similarly doomed. Just as the illness was draining her strength, Rand’s kindness was eroding her resolve. She felt her supposed commitment to family loyalty weakening amidst an onslaught of powerful feelings. Gratitude, admiration, longing, and others too tangled to discern. Was Violet wrong about the human will? Was it only a matter of time before emotion overcame rationality?
When Rand suddenly turned and met her eyes, Lily had to lock her knees to keep them from buckling.
“Are you finished?”
“I think so.” She sneezed, and then coughed, and then gave a long, deep, miserable sniffle. “Yes, I’m finished.”
“You should go to bed, then. I’ll walk you to your chamber.”
“Rand, you cannot.”
“Of course I can.” He took her arm and began marching her toward the staircase. “You’re ill and I’m exhausted. I can assure you nothing untoward will happen.”
Truth be told, she was glad for his support as she trudged up the steps. Beatrix appeared and followed behind. “Thank you,” Lily said primly when Rand had delivered her to her door.
“Go on, get in bed.”
Supposing he wouldn’t leave her alone until he saw her settled, she sighed and picked up the cat, then climbed under the covers, still wearing her wrapper. “Thank you,” she said again.
Rand remained standing on the threshold. “May I come in?”
Lily’s pulse skipped, and Beatrix began hiccuping. “That would be quite improper.”
“Your mother left us alone.”
“She does things like that. Mum has never been overly concerned with propriety.” When she sneezed, embarrassingly loudly, Beatrix leapt to the floor. “At least so long as others are not around to observe.”
“Ah,” he said, “I remember. The Ashcroft motto. Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention.” He glanced down to where Beatrix was ribboning between his legs, rubbing against his smudged boots. “What on earth is she doing?”
“She likes you.”
“Why?”
Lily shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’m a dog person.” In an attempt to get away, he sidled into the room, apparently forgetting that Lily hadn’t granted permission. Bored by his disinterest, Beatrix scampered out the window to join Jasper on a tree branch right outside.
Rand immediately strode to the window. “There’s ash drifting in,” he said as he slammed it shut. When he turned, he stood stock still and looked around.
Lily followed his roaming gaze, trying to envision her bedchamber through his eyes while she dabbed her stuffy nose with a white-on-white monogrammed handkerchief.
A plush white carpet covered much of the dark oak floor. Her bed was hung with white lace panels and piled with plump white pillows. More white lace draped the windows. Her dressing table and washstand boasted white marble tops.
“It’s very white,” he finally said. From his tone, she guessed white actually meant something else. Immature, maybe. Babyish.
She blushed, then grimaced, knowing her cheeks now matched her red nose and eyes. She watched him wander to the mirror above her dressing table. It was framed, of course, in white.
He stared at himself, skimming his fingers along the bottom of his hair, which now ended short of his shoulders. “Do I look bad?”
“No. Only different. You…I suppose you could wear a periwig,” she added, hoping he wouldn’t, although most noblemen did.
He turned from the mirror. “Absolutely not.”
She nodded, absurdly relieved. Even now, Rand’s hair was too pretty to cover up, all those shimmering colors mixed together, strands of it sticking to his still-sweat-slicked brow.
Goodness, what was it with her and sweat, all of a sudden? The substance was wet and sticky and uncomfortable, and she’d never had any positive feelings toward it before! But there was something about a sweat-coated Rand that was just so…
Manly. There was no other word for it.
Lily chewed her lip. In point of fact, he was—damp or dry, long-haired or short—magnificent. So magnificent that her throat tightened just looking at him, and it was sore, so that made it hurt, and anyway, she couldn’t tell him how magnificent he was, because that might give him the wrong idea.
He’d worried that she might have been in the barn. He’d saved her animals. She was afraid she might love him, for that and for so many other things, too.
What in heaven’s name was
