Lily blushed. She looked fetching when she blushed. Of course, she could be wearing rags and scrubbing a floor, and she’d look fetching. As it was, she’d exchanged the water-stained gown for one made of some shiny, pale purplish fabric that hugged her upper body like a second skin.
He couldn’t help but imagine the shapely form barely hidden beneath that shimmering bodice.
He dragged his gaze back to her face. His fingers itched to touch the tiny dent in her chin. “Will you play for us after supper?” he asked her.
“Eh?” Lord Trentingham shook his dark head. “Everyone will stay after supper. They’ve all been assigned rooms, have they not, Chrysanthemum love?”
“Of course, darling.” Lady Trentingham smiled her ever-patient smile. “And Lily will play,” she told Rand.
“And I shall sing,” Rose announced as she reached for some bread, grazing Rand’s arm in the process.
On purpose, he was sure.
Rose wanted him. She’d made that clear, in action and words, four years ago and again now. As conversation buzzed around him, he wondered why he wasn’t tempted.
Rose was lovely—tall and willowy, with a flawless, creamy complexion, glossy deep brown locks, and eyes so mysteriously dark they could be mistaken for black. A classic beauty. And not a cold one. True, she remained every bit as outspoken and forward as he remembered. Yet Rose had grown up. She was much warmer than he recalled.
But the spark was missing. None of her heat penetrated his heart, while on his right, Lily seemed to burn like a bonfire. Chatting with the guest on her other side, she sensed Rand’s gaze and turned slightly to meet his eyes, then looked away to continue her conversation.
“I should like to hear you sing,” he told Rose, wondering if she had the voice for it.
She graced him with a smile that revealed fetching dimples. If she were one of Lily’s cats, she’d have been purring.
And after supper, when she raised her voice in song, he was indeed impressed. Singing of love, the words flitted from her throat, rich and true.
But Lily’s playing was even more splendid. Despite the fact that various relatives were all seated decorously in the cream-and-gold-toned formal drawing room, Rand found himself rising and wandering toward the harpsichord.
While Beatrix dozed on her lap, Lily’s fingers flew over the ivory keys, raising magic in their wake. She glanced up and smiled at him, and without thought, he opened his mouth to harmonize with her sister.
“Go tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,
Without a stitch of a seamster’s work,
And then she will be a true love of mine.”
Only when he finished did he realize that Rose had stopped singing to listen to him. He nodded at her to take the next verse. Back and forth they went until the song ended and the room burst into wild applause.
“Your voice is beautiful!” Lily exclaimed.
His face went hot. “Your playing is exquisite.”
Her shrug was as graceful as her music. “I practice often. It’s a way to pass the time.”
“It’s more than that. It’s a gift to all who listen.” Ignoring all her curious relations, he moved around to hit a key, the single note reverberating through the chamber. “I cannot play.”
“I cannot sing.”
He grinned. “Gift us with another tune, and your sister and I will accompany it. Together this time.”
She thought for a moment, then the jaunty notes of “The Gypsy Rover” took air, his voice rising along with it.
Rose waited until the chorus to join him.
“He whistled and he sang till the greenwoods rang,
And he won the heart of a lady.”
Their harmony was flawless, he thought as they sang on. And as the lyrics said, Rand wished he really could whistle and sing and win the heart of a lady.
But regardless of their perfect harmony, it wasn’t Rose he was wishing to win.
They sang a third song, and a fourth, and then he lost count. More than once, Lily’s gaze locked on his as his voice and her notes blended. They made beautiful music together. For fleeting moments it seemed that he and she were the only ones in the chamber, and from the look on her face, he’d wager it was the same for her.
When the gilt mantel clock struck midnight just as another tune ended, Lily blinked and jumped to her feet, making Beatrix tumble to the floor with an outraged meow. “Do you think it’s time to retire, Mum?”
“Oh!” Lady Trentingham stood as well. “Rose, you must come with me. We have yet to prepare a room for Rand.”
Rose frowned. “I’m sure the staff has taken care of that.”
“Not all our special welcoming details.” Lady Trentingham turned to her assorted family. “I trust you can all find your beds?” As they began drifting out, she focused on her older daughter. “Come along, dear. You’ll need to find flowers for Rand’s chamber.”
“But Mum—”
“Come along,” she repeated, more tersely than seemed to be her nature. “Lily, will you wait here and keep Rand company until his room is ready?”
“I need no flowers,” Rand interjected.
“Nonsense. Rose?” Lady Trentingham moved toward the door, herding the last lingering friends and relatives along with her.
The chamber seemed so quiet after everyone had left. And Rand felt odd to find himself alone with Lily for the second time that day.
“Mum,” he said, searching for a way to breach the sudden silence. “That’s a strange thing to call one’s mother.”
“I know.” Lily’s soft laugh broke the tension. Still at the harpsichord, she sat again and began playing, a soothing tune he found unfamiliar. Beatrix reclaimed her rightful place on her lap.
Obviously knowing the piece well, Lily talked as her fingers picked out the delicate notes. “You’ll probably have heard that my father raises flowers. Multitudes of them. He named us girls after his favorites—surely you’ll have noticed that—and Rowan after the tree. Mum’s given name is Chrystabel, but he calls her Chrysanthemum…Mum is short for that.”
