A narrow seat curved around the inside. The structure was so small that when they settled across from each other, their knees touched.
Rand reached to take Lily’s hands. “We won’t be overheard here. He has spies.”
“Spies? I don’t think—”
“You always look for the good, sweet Lily,” he interrupted. “And you don’t know him,” he added, leaning close to press his lips to hers. The air was taking on a twilight chill, but the kiss warmed her all the way down to her fingers and toes.
She struggled to pull herself together. “When are you going to tell him he can have my money?”
Lady flew into the gazebo’s opening and landed at their feet, but Rand didn’t seem to notice, let alone recognize the bird. His jaw tensed. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. After I talk to Margery.”
It was the first hint she’d seen that he suspected this might not all work out as planned. Suddenly she didn’t feel so deliciously warm. She felt numb.
What if Margery wanted to marry him? Rand had said Margery had been raised right here at Hawkridge. With him. Was it such a stretch to believe she might have come to love him?
He was, after all, utterly lovable. Generous and caring, strong and successful, self-sufficient where it showed, but with that lost little boy hidden inside. What woman could truly know him, as Margery must, and not wish to wrap him in her arms and heal that little boy?
And with both Lord Hawkridge and Margery against her, would she, Lily, stand a chance?
She tried to search Rand’s eyes, but the light was failing outside, and here in the gazebo it was even darker. “What if she wants to marry you, Rand?”
“She won’t.”
“But what if she does?”
He scooted around the circular bench until his thigh rested against hers, feeling warm even through their clothes. “I’m marrying you. No matter what the marquess wants. No matter what Margery wants. I love you. You, Lily.” Rand slid a hand into her hair and tilted her head until she met his eyes. “We’re going to marry and live happily ever after. I promise.”
She hoped so, and when he kissed her, she believed him for a moment. But when he stopped, she couldn’t help wondering if he was wrong.
Her life so far had been happy and uneventful, like one of the baskets Rose used for flower arrangements, perfectly woven. Was this where it would unravel? Was losing Rand the price she would pay for disregarding her sister’s feelings? For breaking a promise? For being selfish instead of nice?
“Now,” he said, his tone changing to one that implied the matter was settled, “since the others are uninterested in entertainment, will you play the harpsichord for me alone?”
FORTY-ONE
LILY LEARNED there was a second harpsichord in the north drawing room. Inlaid with different colored woods, it was even more beautiful than the first.
“Johannes Ruckers,” she breathed, reading the name painted above the keyboard.
“You know him?”
“Not personally.” She grinned at the mere idea. “But Flemish harpsichords are said to make the most beautiful music, especially those built by the Ruckers family.”
“Try it,” he said, seating himself in a breathtaking chair that was gilded, silvered, and painted in marine colors to suggest dolphins sporting in the ocean.
She sat on the petit point stool and ran her fingers experimentally over the keys, enjoying the rich sound of the rare instrument. A small smile curved her lips as she launched into the tune she’d been practicing.
Rand smiled in return, tapping a toe in time to the music. Until he bolted out of the chair. “Where did you learn that?”
She continued playing. “I taught it to myself. Worked it out, I mean. As a surprise for you. It’s the tune you often hum, isn’t it?”
“Do I?” His lips twitched. “Perhaps I do, from time to time.”
He hummed along for a few bars, then leaned an elbow on the harpsichord and set his chin in his hand. His head was nearly level with hers, his eyes commanding her to look up.
“What?” she asked.
He grinned. “Do you know the words?”
“Does it have words?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Well then, sing them, won’t you?”
“Start over at the beginning,” he said with an enigmatic smile.
When she did, he began singing.
“Come my honey, let’s to bed,
It is no sin, since we are wed;
For when I am near thee by desire,
I burn like any coal of fire.”
She couldn’t care less where she lived, she thought dreamily. Hawkridge, Oxford, a hovel…if only Rand would sing to her every night, she’d be happy all her days.
Wait…
Lily’s fingers stilled as she gasped. “Is this song about—?”
There was a mischievous glitter in Rand’s eye. “Are you scandalized?”
Lily felt heat rush to her cheeks. “Whoever wrote a song about that?”
“Anonymous. He writes a lot of songs.” Grinning, Rand reached around her to hit a key. “You’re pink. I like you scandalized.”
She giggled. “Where did you learn such a song?”
“From a book.”
“A book?” What a sheltered life she’d led. “Someone wrote this down?”
“Oh, yes, and hundreds more. The book is called An Antidote Against Melancholy.”
“And you own a copy?”
“Not myself, but I have a friend with an extensive library.” His eyes sparkled with undisguised mirth. “Would you like to hear another song?”
Lily hesitated. She had to admit to feeling intrigued, but…
She must have had a terrified look on her face, because Rand burst out laughing. “I can see you’ve heard enough for one night. Perhaps the book would make a good wedding present, hmm?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
The playfulness suddenly drained out of her. “If we make it to our wedding.”
“Of course we will.” He rose, pulling her up
