“I do not.” The marquess flipped a page.
Rand knew the man’s half attention was calculated to make him feel worthless, but it wasn’t going to work. He wouldn’t let it work.
“If you don’t marry Margery,” his father continued, “her land will be lost to us, and all of Hawkridge will suffer.” At last, he looked up. “All, Randal.”
All.
Not only what was left of the family, but the old family retainers. Etta and the other servants. The tenants, the villagers—everyone who depended on Hawkridge for their livings.
Rand knew his father was preying on his sympathies. His father bore no great concern for the people—he worried for himself, and himself alone. But that didn’t make the entreaty any less effective.
Fortunately for Rand, the choice had already been made. The marquess may have made a pledge to Margery’s father, but he, Rand, had made a pledge to Lily, and that meant his honor was on the line, too. Though he feared for the future of Hawkridge’s people, they would just have to find another way to save the estate.
“I’m not marrying Margery.”
The marquess’s quill paused in its scratching. “Have you heard what I’ve said?”
Rand rubbed his palms on his velvet breeches. “Yes, and I regret that I cannot assist in this matter, but I’m betrothed to another. Lily’s father is an earl, and she has a dowry of three thousand pounds—”
“Three thousand wouldn’t begin to make a dent in Hawkridge’s needs.” Parchment crackled when he flipped another page. “You will wed Margery.”
Rand rose from his chair and stepped onto the dais. “I will wed Lady Lily.”
The marquess finally looked up, his mouth twisted in profound disgust. “No matter the lousy chit’s pedigree, you’ll wed her over my dead body.”
Rand heard blood rushing in his ears. He leaned forward over the desk, thankful it made such a big, solid barrier between them. Because had the desk not been there, he feared nothing could have prevented him from fastening his hands around the old goat’s neck. Rand drew breath, but before he could get a word out, an aging footman entered the room.
“Forgive me, milord,” the footman wheezed, bowing to the marquess, “but were you expecting more callers today?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“IS LORD HAWKRIDGE expecting you?”
When Lily hesitated, Rose stepped forward with her nose in the air. “We’re here at Lord Newcliffe’s invitation.” In her Louis heels, she had a couple inches’ height over the butler—and she clearly wasn’t afraid to use them. “You may take us to him directly.”
“There’s no need for that,” said a familiar voice, and Lily turned to see Rand crunching toward them across the gravel. When he reached them, she instinctively took his hand. It had been a long and emotionally draining day. Though she and Rose seemed to have reached some kind of truce, their second carriage ride today had been just as uncomfortable as the first. She’d never felt more in need of Rand’s reassuring presence.
But after giving her fingers a polite squeeze, he let go. “Lily,” he said in an odd tone. His eyes flicked to Rose, registered surprise, then settled back on her with an expression of…something else. Something that made her stomach clench.
He clearly didn’t want her here.
Well, she hadn’t exactly been expecting a welcome parade, considering he’d told her not to come. But nor had she imagined a reaction like this. Was he merely annoyed that she’d defied his wishes? Or was it something worse?
When he leaned close to her ear, she winced, anticipating a rebuke. His warm breath tickled her skin. “Sweet mercy, am I glad to see you.”
She broke into a smile, her knees going weak with relief—until she noticed the man standing behind him.
He resembled Rand, except he sported an elaborate periwig, deep frown lines, and eyes that were closer to flint than silver. Those eyes examined her from head to toe, taking in the gown her mother had helped her pick out, lovely pale green velvet with a white underskirt and little white rosettes dotting the bodice. The dress struck a balance between demure and sumptuous, perfect for impressing a snobbish, fusty old nobleman—or so they’d thought. Suddenly Lily feared she looked repulsive.
“Well?” Lord Hawkridge narrowed his eyes. “Who on earth are you?”
Looking stunned, Rand set his jaw and wrapped an arm around Lily. “This is Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. My betrothed.”
The frown lines deepened. “What is she doing here?”
“My lord,” Lily said in a steady, respectful tone, “I’m from good family, and I am in love with your son.”
Lord Hawkridge’s expression didn’t thaw. “Then you will make him an excellent mistress,” he snapped.
“That’s enough!” Rand growled dangerously. “You will be courteous to my guests.”
“Your guests?” His father barked a laugh. “They cannot be thinking of staying the night.”
Rand tightened his arm around Lily. “Lily is my betrothed, and Rose will soon be my sister. If they go, so do I.”
After a moment’s thought, Lord Hawkridge apparently decided this wasn’t a battle worth fighting. He beckoned to a rather elderly housemaid. “Put them in the Queen’s Bedchamber, Etta. For now,” he added ominously.
When his cold gaze fell again on Lily, she stared back with all the steel she possessed. Rand was a warm presence at her side, and she felt bolstered to sense Rose at her back. It was amazing what a common enemy could do to help mend fences.
Lily narrowed her eyes at the old man, just as he’d looked at her. Let him do his worst.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“DO YOU LIKE your room?”
Lily whirled to see Rand in the doorway, directing servants bearing her and Rose’s trunks.
“The chamber acquired its name,” he told the sisters, “shortly after it had been redecorated for a visit by Queen Catharine. It is also—by no coincidence, I believe—as far from my own chamber as physically possible.”
“Mum would approve,” Rose said
