After a moment of thought, he nodded. “I’d do the same for you. But there must be another way for Margery and Armstrong. I won’t lose you.”
She hugged herself tighter. “Someone’s life is at stake.”
“There must be another way.”
It was becoming a litany, one she dearly wished she could believe. “Does your father truly wield such power?”
“I’m afraid so.” Rand came to her side and began rubbing her arms. But she wasn’t cold. “The farther you go from London, the less provision you’ll find for due process of the law. If the Marquess of Hawkridge wishes Armstrong dead, he can make it happen. Is it not the same for the little area of the world where your father is the lord?”
Reluctantly she nodded. “I suppose it is. But I’ve never seen him wish anyone dead. Life at Trentingham is usually peaceful.” A peace she hadn’t expected to miss, a peace she’d even equated with boredom at times.
Oh, to live again that blessed, boring peace.
“Life at Hawkridge has never been peaceful,” Rand said ruefully, helping her to her feet. “But I hope to take you away from here to where we can live in peace. Soon.”
Neither of them felt like speculating on the strength or frailty of such a hope. Though Lily’s shaking had subsided, her heart had begun pounding a slow but forceful beat, rattling her bones. Ne…ver…say…ne…ver…say…
“Lily?”
They’d stopped in front of the Queen’s Bedchamber. All that awaited her inside was darkness and her sister’s spiteful turned back. In that moment, she’d have given almost anything to be at Trentingham, curled up in her own cozy bed with Mum and a cup of chocolate. When she’d been little and had nightmares, Mum would always bring her chocolate, and then the scary things would go away.
This wasn’t going away.
When Rand’s arms came around her, she tried to pretend they were Mum’s. But they weren’t. They were the arms of the person who had hurt her, and knowing why he had to hurt her—and understanding he was doing the right thing—didn’t make it hurt any less. Still, she savored his familiar warmth and breathed in his musky scent. Dimly she realized he must not have had time to bathe after this morning’s run. She didn’t mind. It just made him smell more like Rand.
We’re going to get married and live happily ever after, he’d promised.
That had been a stupid promise to make. Just like her promise to Rose.
Rand held her a long time. When he finally pulled away, he first pressed the lightest, tenderest kiss to her forehead. “It’s not over,” he whispered against her skin, his chin feeling scratchy.
Lily nodded, then turned and entered her chamber. Rand was right, in the strictest sense; she hadn’t lost him yet. But for the first time since the day he sang to her and proposed, Lily felt real fear.
Oh, she’d had her niggling doubts and worries, but in her heart she’d always trusted they’d find a way to be together. Even if Rand’s father had proved intractable, they could still have eloped. Hang the consequences. They could have survived without the marquess’s blessing.
They could not survive with a man’s blood on their hands.
And short of an angel descending from the heavens, Lily knew of nothing that could end this nightmare. Not even chocolate. It was obvious to her now that Lord Hawkridge could not be reasoned with—the unveiling of his cruel, fiendish ‘plan’ had proved his lack of humanity. Etta had been wrong about the man.
The room was nearly pitch black but for a few dying embers in the fireplace. Lily could just make out Rose’s face, turned toward Lily’s side of the bed. She usually faced away. She must have flipped over in her sleep.
Or perhaps she’d somehow sensed their sisterly bond deepening, now that they had something new in common: They both knew what it felt like to lose Rand.
Had Rose felt then what Lily was feeling now—or even a fraction of it? Absently tracing her scars, Lily wondered if Rose had hurt so deeply. Because if so, she thought she could forgive her all the turned backs and cold shoulders in the world.
FIFTY-ONE
IN HIS SMALL chamber, Rand sat on the bed to tug off his boots. There must be another way, he repeated to himself over and over as he pulled off his stockings and crushed them into balls that he threw across the room with a rage he hadn’t felt since he’d last lived in this wretched house. He shrugged out of his surcoat and yanked at the cravat at his throat, throwing those across the room, too. He wished he had something to break, but his chamber had been stripped of all but the furniture some time in the ten years between when he’d left for Oxford and now.
There had to be another way.
He was loosening the laces on his shirt when a soft knock came at the door. Thinking it must be Lily, his heart gave a little hitch. He hurried to open the door.
Margery stood there instead.
She was still wearing the dull black gown, the clothes Hawkridge had forced her to purchase in London to show the proper respect for his dead son. Her eyes red-rimmed, she twisted her fingers together. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
Though her tone sounded dire, Rand just sighed. ”Come in, Margery.”
He shut the door and led her to sit on the room’s only chair, attempting to appear sympathetic. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he’d had about all the anguish he could take—and despite her obvious distress, he couldn’t imagine anything that could make this situation even worse.
Until he heard her next words.
“Rand, I…I’m with child.”
“Sweet mercy!” He dropped abruptly to sit on the bed.
He was too shocked to know how to react. Sympathy for her predicament, censure for her misdeeds, and anxiety for
