“That’s Rand’s saying. He’s been dogging me with that phrase ever since we were wee lads.”
“I think my mother used to say it,” Rand said absently. “Where’s this letter?”
Kit nodded. “I’ve been collecting your mail as it comes in. I’ll get it.”
“I expect we should all go upstairs to my bedchamber.” Rand led the way while Kit went off to fetch the mail. “It’s the only room where we can sit.”
Even there, the seating was lacking. Rose took the single chair at his desk, while Rand waved the rest of them toward his enormous bed, a heavy oak four-poster with hunter green hangings. “I’m sorry there are no other chairs,” he said, settling himself on a carved wooden chest. “All my furniture is in storage, and in any case, it needs replacing.” He forced a smile. “I’m hoping my new wife will help with that.”
“I’ll be honored to.” Lily sat beside him. “And I promise not to choose white.”
“Nothing white?” Rose looked suspicious. “Nothing at all?”
“White isn’t a good color for a home with children,” Lily said, feeling her cheeks flood with heat. Why had she mentioned children? What a thing to speak of while her parents perched on her future marital bed!
She was grateful to Kit for entering just then with a stack of mail, drawing everyone’s attention back to the mysterious missive.
Rand flipped through the letters and slowly pulled one out. “Here it is.” Forgotten, the rest of the mail fluttered to the floor.
Kit bent to collect it. “You didn’t believe me?”
“I was hoping you were wrong.” Rand shrugged as he broke the seal. A big, black one. Then he just sat there with the paper in his hands. “Word from the marquess cannot be good.”
Lily scooted closer. “Perhaps it’s not from him, Rand. Could it be from your friend, his ward?”
“She doesn’t use the Hawkridge seal.”
“Does your brother never write?”
“He has nothing to say to me.” He stared at his name on the front. “No, this is the marquess’s writing.”
At last he unfolded the paper. As he scanned the single page, an expectant silence descended on the room. Impatient, Lily leaned to glance at the letter. The writer had a heavy hand. The ink was dark and decisive.
She looked up to Rand. His face matched the plain white walls, all the color drained, his eyes lifeless.
“What is it?”
Both his hands dropped to his sides, the paper dangling from one. “My brother Alban is dead,” he said disbelievingly. “At the hands of another man.”
The air left Lily in a rush. She had some idea that Rand and Alban had never got along, but they were still brothers. She could only imagine how the news made Rand feel. Unsure what to say, she reached for his free hand and quietly laced her fingers with his.
“I’m so sorry,” Mum murmured.
“What—” Father started.
“Hush, darling.” Mum patted his hand. “Rand’s brother has died.”
Rand shook his head as though to regain his senses. The paper crackled when he waved off the sympathy. “He and I weren’t close, so condolences are unnecessary.” When he turned to Lily, his deep gray eyes held pain that belied his words—unless it was not grief, but an older pain jarred to the surface. Not for the first time, she wondered what had happened between Rand and his brother when they were children. But now was not the time to ask.
Silently he offered her the letter, and more silent moments passed while she examined its contents. Biting her lip, she finally looked up. “You’re now your father’s heir.”
“You’re going to be a marquess?” Rose looked between him and Lily, her eyes flashing with envy. “The Marquess of Hawkridge? And what are you now that your brother is gone?”
“Baron Newcliffe,” Kit said. “But none of that matters.”
Rose’s expression said it mattered quite a bit, as well as displaying scorn that a commoner like Kit wouldn’t think so.
Releasing Lily’s hand, Rand stood and began pacing. “I’ve no wish to be a marquess. Or even a baron. I like being a professor.”
“You may not have to give that up, Rand. Or at least not right now.” Lily watched his agitated movements, feeling helpless to soothe him. He looked like a penned animal. She suspected that if it wouldn’t be so impolite, he’d leave Kit and her family here and set off running through the streets. “How old is your father?”
“Only fifty-two,” he admitted. “And last I heard, healthy as a horse.”
“Well, then…”
He gestured to the letter on Lily’s lap. “He commands me to move to Hawkridge. He expects me to leave the position I’ve worked hard to earn and scamper home to help him run his infernal estate.” He scowled. “I’ll spend my days fiddling with account books and extorting rents and dancing attendance on the king—as if I’ve nothing better to do with my time!”
“That’s not all there is to managing an estate,” Lord Trentingham said gravely.
Rand finally stopped pacing. “Beg pardon, my lord. I’m sure you’re right. But it’s still not the life I want for myself. I’m happy with my life here…” He turned to meet Lily’s gaze. “I’m even happier now you’ll be here with me.”
Mum rose from the bed and touched his arm. “Then go tell him that you mean to stay.”
“Defy my father?” he asked, perhaps surprised to receive such advice from another parent.
But Chrystabel Ashcroft was no ordinary parent. “Yes, Rand, defy him if you must. You are a man grown; he cannot force your obedience. But try to reason with him first. A son owes a father that much.”
“I owe the marquess nothing,” Rand grumbled. “But I suppose I cannot ignore his summons entirely.”
“Indeed,” Lily said gently, “you cannot. But you don’t have to go alone.”
“Good heavens,” Mum cried, turning on Lily. “You are not thinking of going with him?”
“Why not?” Lily’s brow knitted in genuine confusion. “As Rand and I are to be married, this matter will affect
