“Beg pardon?” A strangled laugh escaped him. “Believe me, what my father wants and what Margery wants are two very different things. We grew up together, like brother and sister. Besides, with her fortune, she can find herself a much better husband. Someone important.”
“You’re a baron,” she reminded him. “And someday you’ll be a marquess.”
“But at heart, I’m a professor.” His finger found the dent in her chin. “That you would give up your inheritance to be with me…” His voice grew rough again. “It’s overwhelming. I don’t deserve you, but—”
That being utter nonsense, Lily raised her head to silence him with another kiss. Their lips moved together in a slow, shivery dance that drew all her awareness to this one moment in time, this one speck in all of existence. She would never get enough of this, enough of him. If he was wrenched from her…
Her brain refused to finish the thought.
FORTY
“YOU OFFERED YOUR inheritance?” Seated at the elaborate gilt dressing table in the Queen’s Bedchamber, Rose was incredulous. “But what about your animal home?”
Lily shrugged. “It’s not as important as Rand.” At Etta’s command, she held her arms away from her body so the maid could arrange her sleeves into artful puffs.
Rose made a disapproving noise. “And what of this Margery? Aren’t you worried about her?” Dipping her finger into a little cosmetic pot, she leaned close to the mirror and reddened her lips.
“Rand thinks she will be our ally in this matter. She has no wish to marry him.”
“What makes him think so? He’s handsome, rich, and now titled. And weren’t they childhood playmates? She could have been loving him from afar all this time.”
Lily was surprised to hear a little snort of laughter escape Etta, who had seemed a very reserved sort of woman. When Rose glared at the maid, she quickly refocused on her task.
“Well, Rand seems to think it unlikely that Margery harbors any feelings for him.” And Etta seems to agree, Lily added silently. “In any case, we’ll know for certain tomorrow morning, when she’s due back from London.”
Rose looked skeptical but said no more. Finished dressing, the two girls made their way down to the dining room in silence.
Like the rest of the house, the chamber was beautiful. Lily had glimpsed an enormous, lavish banqueting hall upstairs, but this room was much more intimate.
Rand escorted them in, an Ashcroft sister on each arm. The ladies’ heels clicked on the two-toned parquet floor. Lily stopped to run a hand over the patterned design on the walls, surprised to find it was gold stamped on brown leather. “It looks like gilded wood!” she exclaimed.
“The leather is supposed to absorb the smells of food.”
She’d never heard of such a thing. “It’s lovely.”
“All of Hawkridge Hall is lovely,” Rose said, but not as though she were happy about it.
“It’s a lovely prison,” Rand muttered darkly.
In opposition to the prison that was Hawkridge Hall—a prison designed and paid for by his father—the Oxford house was one-hundred-percent Rand’s. A symbol, Lily suspected, of his hard-won independence. Kit had told her that he and Rand had spent months designing it before the cornerstone was laid, because Rand had wanted every square foot to be perfect. And it was.
When Lily saw Rand’s eyes widen in alarm, she swung around to see his father. “Oh! Good evening, my lord.”
“My lady,” he grunted. “Shall we be seated?”
Lily wondered how much the marquess had heard as they all took their places at the oval cedarwood table, the marquess seating himself at the opposite end from his son.
There were eighteen matching caned chairs around the table in this “family” dining room, and in Lily’s opinion, a family sat together to better enjoy each other’s company. At least her family did. Mentally shaking her head, she took a chair beside Rand rather than one in the middle—then pretended not to notice when two footmen had to scramble to move her table setting.
Being not so nice was feeling better and better.
Supper was an awkward affair. Rose was chiefly engaged in ogling the Nesbitts’ solid gold plate and staring daggers at her younger sister. Meanwhile, Lord Hawkridge was dressed in black mourning and seemed offended that Rand was not. Lily still cherished hopes of getting father and son to reconcile, but other than a few minutes of desultory conversation about the marquess’s beloved mastiffs, she couldn’t even get them to speak. The party sat mostly in silence punctuated by the clinking of Hawkridge’s custom-designed silverware.
Though the house was magnificent, there was something about it Lily didn’t like. Something dark and forbidding. Maybe it was the deep colors on the walls and all the somber, oak-framed paintings. Maybe it was the studied formality. Or maybe it was just that she’d never been anywhere before where she’d felt so very unwelcome.
When the meal finally drew to a close, Rand pushed back his chair. “Lily plays the harpsichord beautifully,” he said as a sort of invitation.
“I have work to do,” the marquess replied and left the room.
Rand didn’t look sorry to see the back of him. “Rose?”
Her chair scraped the parquet as she stood. “I’m going to bed,” she said flatly.
Lily’s eyes followed her out. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “This morning she seemed…well not quite friendly, but at least civil.”
Rand covered her hand with his. “Give your sister time. It’s still been less than a week since our betrothal.”
“Goodness, has it? It feels like a lifetime.” She sipped wine from a Venetian glass goblet. “Have you told your father about my inheritance?”
A footman entered to clear the table, and Rand cleared his throat. “Would you care to walk in the gardens?”
Holding her tongue, she went with him outside.
He led her through the more formal gardens and into an area of grass walks lined with hornbeam hedges and field maples that enclosed many small, private gardens. The late-night summer sun was sinking, but not yet so
