Well, maybe he hadn’t quite forgotten about her, but he’d certainly put her out of his mind.
Well, maybe he hadn’t quite put her out of his mind, but he’d known she was only sixteen. And sixteen was too young, so, being the sort of man he was—an honorable one, or so he liked to think—he’d made a conscious decision not to pursue her.
For the four long years since their last meeting, whenever thoughts of Lily Ashcroft had sneaked into Lord Randal Nesbitt’s head, he’d reminded himself she was only sixteen.
But now, Rand realized with a start, she must be twenty.
Focused as Rand was, the priest’s voice, reciting the baptism service, barely penetrated his thoughts. Nor did the wiggling month-old child in Rand’s arms. Instead of looking at the altar, he gazed at Lily standing beside him in her family’s oak-paneled chapel, her sister’s other twin baby held close.
Twenty. A lovely dark-haired, blue-eyed twenty. A marriageable twenty.
In all of Rand’s twenty-eight years, he’d never really considered marriage, so the notion was jarring.
“Having now,” the priest continued, “in the name of these children, made these promises, wilt thou also on thy part take heed that these children learn the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, and all other things which a Christian ought to know and believe to his soul’s health?”
“I will, by God’s help,” Lily replied softly. Gently, gazing down at the babe in her arms.
Rand was unsurprised. In four years she had changed, of course. But her gentleness, that innate sweetness, hadn’t changed. Couldn’t have changed. It was what made her Lily.
Ford Chase, Rand’s friend—and father of the children in question—elbowed him in the ribs.
“Hmm?” Startled, Rand looked down to the lad he was holding, its bald little head patterned with colors made by sun streaming through the chapel’s stained-glass windows. Ford’s child, he thought, surprised by a rush of tenderness. Rand’s godchild…or at least the tiny babe and his twin sister would be his godchildren once they managed to get through this interminable service.
“I will,” he answered, echoing Lily’s words and vaguely wondering what he’d just agreed to.
“By God’s help,” the priest prompted.
“By God’s help.”
God help him get through this ritual. Mass, and then a lesson, and now this ceremony at the font—Rand felt like he’d been standing on his feet forever. Delivering a two-hour lecture at Oxford wasn’t nearly this exhausting. He feared his knees were locked permanently.
He wanted this to be over. He wanted to talk to Lily. Never mind that she’d barely noticed him. He’d arrived at the last minute and had no chance to greet her before this rigmarole all began.
The priest turned a page in his Book of Common Prayer. “Wilt thou take heed that these children, so soon as sufficiently instructed, be brought to the bishop to be confirmed by him?”
“I will.” Rand and Lily said the words together this time. Their voices, he thought, sounded good together.
“Name these children.”
The child squirmed in Rand’s arms, choosing then to begin wailing. “Marcus Cicero Chase,” Rand bellowed over the cries.
“Rebecca Ashcroft Chase,” Lily said more softly and with a smile, even though the girl’s cry had joined her twin brother’s, seeming to fill the chapel all the way up to its sculpted Tudor ceiling.
Whoever would have thought such small infants could make such a huge racket?
The priest rushed to finish, scooping water into his hand. It trickled through his fingers, running in rivulets down the backs of the two babies’ heads and landing on the colorful glazed tile floor. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He muttered some more words and made crosses on the children’s foreheads. “Amen.”
Amen. It was over. Well-wishers crowded close. Still holding his squalling godson, Rand turned to Lily.
She was gone.
How could she have disappeared so quickly? Using his height to advantage, he peered over heads. But she’d vanished.
Nearby, Ford held tiny Rebecca and was chatting with an older man. Lily’s father, if Rand remembered right. Or rather, Ford was shouting at the man, since the Earl of Trentingham was hard of hearing.
Marveling that his tall, masculine friend looked so comfortable holding an infant, Rand shifted little Marc uneasily. Rebecca had stopped crying, apparently content in Ford’s arms, but in Rand’s arms, her twin brother still howled.
Glancing around for help, Rand was relieved to see Ford’s wife, Violet, moving close. When she reached for her son, Rand gave her a grateful smile. But then he found himself oddly reluctant to hand Marc over. The babe might be loud, but he smelled sweet and had a pleasant, warm weight.
When Violet took him, Marc quieted immediately. Resisting the urge to run his fingers over that fuzzy little head, Rand leaned a hand on one of the intricate carved oak stalls. “I assume you chose his name, Marcus Cicero, for the philosopher.”
Violet bounced the lad in her arms, her brown curls bouncing along with him. She looked more motherly than Rand usually pictured her. Did children change people so much? “It was only fair,” she said. “Ford had the naming of our firstborn.”
“Nicky? Ah, Nicolas Copernicus,” Rand remembered. “Well, I suppose it’s a better name than Galileo Galilei.”
“Ford’s other scientific hero?” She laughed, her brown eyes sparkling with humor behind the spectacles Ford had made for her. “Even he wouldn’t saddle a good English child with Galileo for a name.”
“And Rebecca? Who is she named after?”
“No one. I just like it. And there’s never been a major female philosopher.”
“Yet,” Rand added, knowing Violet hoped to publish a philosophy book of her own someday.
“Yet,” she confirmed with a nod, clearly appreciating his support. She touched her husband’s arm, claiming his attention. “We’d best be heading home,” she said when he turned, “or our guests will arrive there before us.”
When Ford smiled at her, Violet’s return smile transformed her face. Perhaps she wasn’t as beautiful as her sisters, Lily and Rose, but she was attractive in her own, unique way, and
