The Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. He’d never considered her status before, since he didn’t care about such things, but Lady Lily Ashcroft was the sort of wife the Marquess of Hawkridge would approve. He wondered if her mother had been thinking in that direction when she’d insisted Lily come along. He was beginning to suspect Lady Trentingham was a very cunning woman. But he liked her.
Lily yawned and laid her head on his shoulder. “Sleepy?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm. But yesterday was nice.”
He knew she meant last night, but pretended to misunderstand. “Oh, yes, it was very nice. Up until I received the blasted letter and Rowan fell off the scaffolding.”
“It was nice after that, too,” she protested.
And he realized it had been, even without counting their very nice encounter in the wee hours. “You’re right,” he said. “The afternoon went very smoothly, all considered. Your parents didn’t let Rowan’s prank ruin everything. They didn’t seem angry.”
“Events occur. You take them in stride.”
His family hadn’t. “They also don’t seem upset that you’re marrying a professor.”
“You’re an earl now, too.”
“But I wasn’t, and they never seemed to care.”
“They trust my choice. Besides, they admire you and what you’ve done with your life.”
He’d sensed that. Just walking around the city with them, he’d felt perfectly comfortable. He’d felt like he belonged. “You have a wonderful family.”
“My father is half deaf, my mother is an unrepentant gossip, my brother thinks tricking people is a laudable achievement, my sister lusts after the man I love—”
“They’re wonderful,” he repeated. “You’re all so close.”
If he’d been envious of that closeness, yesterday had changed that. Because they’d accepted him as though he were one of their own. To them, he wasn’t a disappointment.
They were the family he’d never had.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said in a voice made husky by unfamiliar emotion. A day with Lily’s family had made clear what he’d missed out on all his life: the laughter, the friendly bickering, the love, that amazing unconditional acceptance.
He wanted, more than ever, to create a family like that with Lily.
In no time at all—or so it seemed to Rand, who’d as soon it took forever—their carriage was turning away from the Thames and rolling up the wide drive to Hawkridge Hall.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Lily said softly.
Rand couldn’t help thinking she’d probably rather live here, in a mansion on the bucolic banks of the river, than in a smaller house smack in the middle of Oxford.
His gaze swept over the three-story redbrick building. Although its symmetrical H shape was typical of houses built this century, the house was atypical in size and appointments. And the marquess spared no expense to keep it that way. The windows had been replaced since Rand moved away, now the new sash style with double-glazed glass. The mansion was the height of contemporary fashion.
But it sickened him. He had few happy memories of this place.
“It shows no signs of damage,” Lily remarked. “Yet your family supported Charles in the war, did they not? How is it that Hawkridge escaped Cromwell’s wrath, and so close to London, no less?”
“We have my mother to thank for that. Publicly, she was great friends with Oliver Cromwell and went so far as to entertain him here. Privately, she was an important member of the Sealed Knot.”
“What was that?”
“A clandestine organization that aimed to restore Charles to the throne. The members had secret names; my mother was ‘Mrs. Gray.’ When I was very young, she traveled to the Continent several times as a courier. Many letters went back and forth, always written in code.”
“Ah, I see where you inherited that talent for deciphering your brother’s diaries.”
He grinned. “My mother even concocted an invisible ink that they used. In the Sealed Knot letters, Cromwell was ‘Mr. Wright.’ While on the surface she supported him, all along she was plotting his downfall.”
“She must have been quite a woman.”
“She was smart and principled and beautiful. And I suppose she made this home beautiful, too,” he added, knowing, in a detached way, that it was. “But I don’t want to live here.”
“I, too, would prefer to live in Oxford,” Lily assured him, sounding sincere.
He hoped she meant those words, because he meant to fight to keep his current life. And with her on his side, he had some hope he’d accomplish that goal. The marquess was sure to adore her.
“But I’ll be happy living wherever you are,” she added as the carriage rolled to a stop.
He pulled her close for a kiss. “Thank you for that.” He dredged up a smile. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
He was helping her down from the carriage when the mansion’s arched front door yawned wide. His father stood in the opening. The man’s gaze swept Lily from head to toe, then swung glaring to Rand.
“What took you so long?” he asked. “Your brother is already buried.”
Just hearing that tone of voice, Rand felt, for a moment, like the small boy who’d always quavered in the face of his father’s disfavor. The frosty gray eyes missed nothing, assessing him as they used to—and with no more approval. If Rand had harbored an unrealistic hope that the loss of the marquess’s elder son would make him look anew at his younger one, those dreams were dashed.
Never mind how carefully he’d dressed; Rand felt slovenly under that gaze. For that moment he was ten again, pining for the man’s love, willing to do almost anything to gain that elusive acceptance. But whatever he’d tried had always been for naught, and today was no different.
And he wasn’t that small boy anymore.
Patience, he told himself. There was no point in starting out confrontational. The marquess had asked why he’d taken so long, and he would give him a civil answer.
He was opening his mouth to explain that he hadn’t been home to receive mail when the man added, “And who the hell is she?”
THIRTY-SIX
PATIENCE FLED, chased away
