Feeling like she had nothing to lose, she raised a palm and placed it against his chest, inside the open placket of his shirt, where his bare skin was brown and warm. “Rand…” Shutting her eyes against the pain in his, she went on tiptoe for a kiss. Though his mouth on hers felt achingly familiar, the melting sensation didn’t bring the relief she was seeking.
It failed to make her forget that, barring a miracle, he would soon be married to someone else.
He reached blindly to bury his fingers in her hair, deepening the kiss until the melting turned into a searing heat tinged with the bite of brandy. A tiny moan escaped her throat as she wondered if this was the last time their lips would move together, the last time she’d feel his warmth spread all the way out to her fingertips and toes.
Finally, with a strangled sound, he broke the kiss and swung her up into his arms.
She gave a yelp of surprise. “Rand, what on earth—”
“We’ll only sleep, Lily.” He deposited her on his small childhood bed and looked down on her, gently finger-combing her hair into a halo around her head. “Perhaps if we stay together, we’ll both be able to sleep.”
Her big blue eyes blinked up at him, red and swollen but still impossibly beautiful. “I know we shouldn’t, but just now I cannot bring myself to care.” She bit her lip, and he noticed her mouth, too, was red and swollen—but from kissing instead of crying. “Will the staff realize I’m here?”
He lay down beside her, pulling her slender form against him. “I’ll walk you back before first light. We’ve a couple hours yet.” Regardless of what he’d said, he wondered if he would be able to sleep at all with her in his arms, feeling like heaven. He’d be a wreck tomorrow.
It would be worth it.
Feeling limp and exhausted, he lay perfectly still, holding her close and smelling her hair. As she drifted off his eyes remained open, staring up at the underside of the serviceable blue canopy overhead. No Queen’s Bedchamber, this—no silk for Rand Nesbitt at Hawkridge Hall. His room was barely more than a closet.
“I don’t like it here,” she whispered into the silence, though Rand had thought she was asleep. ”This house. I cannot sleep here alone.”
“But you’re not alone. You’re with Rose.”
“With Rose I am still alone,” she said sadly.
“Stay with me, then,” Rand murmured in her ear. He snuggled closer still, burying his nose in her soft curls. “And tomorrow, I’ll take you home.”
FIFTY-THREE
RAND SET THEIR luggage by the carriage and, leaving two outriders to deal with it, headed into the house to fetch Lily and Rose.
“You’ll be back, I presume? A week from yesterday?”
Rand pivoted to see the marquess standing outdoors, holding two dogs by their chain collars. “Yes, I’ll be back,” he forced through gritted teeth, hoping against hope that he’d be arriving with a solution to this dilemma.
“Sit,” the man told the dogs. “Stay.” He climbed the steps to Rand. “Margery told me you’re willing to wed her in order to save Armstrong’s life. She’s very grateful.”
Rand had nothing to say to that.
“Son,” the marquess started—and when Rand visibly flinched, his father sighed. “I suppose I deserve that. I just wanted to say I’m pleased that you’re willing to do the right thing and marry the girl. It’s admirable, considering you had other plans.”
Rand consciously unclenched his jaw. “Lily is more than plans; Lily is my life. And your approval means nothing to me. I don’t seek admiration from the man who’s despised me all my life.”
With that, he turned to head upstairs, but the marquess caught his arm. “I’m…I’m sorry for that.” Rand’s jaw dropped—had the word sorry just passed his father’s lips? “I was thinking, last night, about you and Alban and Margery.”
“And how you treated the two of them better than me?”
“Yes,” he bit out. “I did. I’m not proud of it, but there’s the truth. I always blamed you for your mother’s death. Whenever I looked at you, I was reminded, and—”
“Her death? However did your twisted mind come up with that? I wasn’t even here when she died!”
“Exactly. You’d run off somewhere, as was your habit in those days. She died searching for her precious younger son.”
Rand felt like all the air had been sucked right out of him. Run off, as was your habit. “She died searching?”
“She raced off on Queenie, her favorite mare. The animal failed to clear a fence. Broke two legs and had to be put down. Your mother broke her neck.”
“I…” Afraid his legs would give out, Rand retreated in search of somewhere to sit. The backs of his calves finally bumped into a hall chair, and he collapsed onto it.
He stared at the black-and-white floor between his limp, spread knees. “I just came home and she was…gone. You told me it was a riding accident, but you never said…”
The marquess followed him, looking down on him. “No point in telling a boy of six,” he said in clipped tones. “If I was wrong to blame you for her death, at least I wasn’t callous enough to accuse you out loud.”
Rand looked up. “No. Instead you ignored me, mistreated me, drove me from your home—”
“And you managed to survive regardless. And”—the marquess shifted on his feet—“to make something of yourself.”
Rand Nesbitt’s many accolades meant less than nothing to the Marquess of Hawkridge. “Not something you’ll ever approve. In the world where I belong, I’m called Professor, not my lord.”
His father’s jaw tightened. “You’re a baron now and will someday be a marquess. That’s another matter we need to discuss. Which we will, just as soon as you wed Margery and set up residence here.”
“I have no intention of living here. I’m not in such a hurry to put myself back in range of your
