He sat at the dressing table—a lady’s dressing table, it was, much too delicate for his tastes—and idly unstoppered another bottle. None of the specific ingredients were identifiable, but this one smelled like it could be used to season a pie. A Christmas pie. He watched himself in the mirror as he slapped some on both cheeks and tried to remember the last time he’d really enjoyed Christmas.
He didn’t have fond memories of Christmas, so he moved on to the next scent.
Musky. This one put him in mind of a hot tumble beneath the sheets. Much better than thinking about his family. Since he’d never found himself lacking for female companionship, the fragrance brought a smile back to his face. He layered it over the others, thinking about the last mistress he’d had in Oxford. A pleasant tumble she’d been, but they’d parted last month on amiable terms, she having found another man, one willing to take her to wife. And if she’d left with a bit of regret in her eyes, his own emotions had leaned more toward relief.
He wasn’t interested in marriage.
At least, he’d thought he wasn’t. Dons, the teaching fellows at Oxford, weren’t allowed to wed. Although professors weren’t similarly restricted, very few fellows were ever elevated to that lofty stature, especially at his age. Professorship had always been a goal, but he’d never counted on it, never stopped to think about the fact that as things now stood, he could have a wife and children should he want them.
The chamber seemed overly warm. He rose to pace the room, loosening the laces at his neck, untying his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. Catching a glance of himself in the mirror, he halted. Implacable gray eyes gazed back at him.
Marriage had crossed his mind more than once today, rather uncomfortably. But whatever could have changed to make him suddenly picture children…a whole family?
His new home, perhaps? It had, after all, five bedchambers. As he and Kit had planned it, had he been thinking, somewhere deep inside, that he might someday want to begin filling all those many rooms?
Hell, no.
Holding Ford’s son might have jarred his emotions, but he’d never seen himself as a family man. He had no idea how to raise a child, no good example from which to work. He wasn’t ready for that sort of responsibility; perhaps he never would be. The concept of marriage was frightening enough, but children…the mere idea made him shudder.
From the far reaches of the mansion, notes wafted up and through his door. “Greensleeves.” A traditional tune, played, he thought, by a nurturing, traditional sort of woman.
Perhaps the only woman who could make him change his mind.
NINE
“ROSE, DON’T!” Lily admonished in a whisper.
“Whyever not? It’s a kind gesture to see to a guest’s welfare.” Ignoring her sister, Rose knocked on the door. “Lord Randal?” She raised her voice—and an Ashcroft’s raised voice was no timid thing, living as they did with the half-deaf earl. “Lord Randal, are you quite all right? Will you be needing anything more this evening?”
Lily huffed, then caught her breath when the door suddenly swung open. Rand stood there in shirtsleeves, and those rolled up. His forearms looked a healthy brown. The top of his shirt was unlaced as well, revealing a bronzed triangle of skin.
How was it that a professor saw the sun? Didn’t academics spend their days secluded in research?
Once again, she found herself staring. Although he was handsome—arresting, even—his wasn’t a pretty face. The jaw was a mite too strong, the nose too long, the brows too heavy and straight. But there was something about those eyes, that smile…
“Yes?” he said, amusement in his gaze as he examined her quite as boldly as she’d been examining him.
She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I—”
“I only wanted to inquire as to your welfare,” Rose hurried to put in, so quickly Lily wondered if she sensed something between the two of them.
“I’m quite fine,” he said, stepping closer to the doorway.
A cloud of scent moved with him. Not a subtle cloud. “Have you been testing Mum’s perfumes?” Rose wrinkled her nose. “I apologize, my lord. Evidently one of my mother’s creations is less than pleasing.”
Very tactful wording for Rose, Lily thought with admiration. She really seemed to be watching herself in this quest to win Rand for a husband.
He waved a hand, releasing another burst of cloying fragrance. “Oh, I’ve quite enjoyed the perfumes,” he assured them.
“I expect you have,” Lily said, biting her lip to stifle the smile that threatened. It wasn’t a bad bottle, if she didn’t miss her guess, but rather an unfortunate mixture of several. “How many scents have you sampled?”
“All of them,” he said blithely, rubbing his jaw, then sniffing his fingers. He stepped back, perhaps belatedly realizing he reeked. “I suppose that wasn’t such a good idea?”
“One doesn’t mix fragrances. That’s the perfumer’s job,” Rose informed him, sounding both intelligent and instructor-like.
A professor should admire that tone, Lily thought.
But he only shrugged. “I did it rather absently, I expect. My mind was elsewhere.”
His eyes met Lily’s, implying exactly where his mind had been.
“I…I must see to my animals before bed,” she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat. Wondering if that was because of his hot gaze or her mention of the word bed, she hoped he hadn’t noticed her blush. “Shall I order you up a bath first?”
Judging from the way Rand’s lips curved—knowingly—he’d noticed. “I expect that would be an excellent idea.”
“Go ahead, Lily,” Rose said. “Your menagerie needs attending.” She waved a graceful arm. “I’ll wait here until the bath arrives, so I can see to Lord Randal’s comfort.”
He looked amused at that, as though Rose was so transparent he could see right through her. “I can see to my own comfort,” he said dryly. “But I thank you ladies for
