She ordered herself not to panic. Rand sounded nothing if not resolute. And his father couldn’t really prevent them from wedding, could he? They would wish for his blessing, of course, but as a last resort, they could always elope. Especially given that Rand claimed to care little for his inheritance.
As he resumed his descent, she reached for his hand. “Why?”
“My brother was to wed my father’s ward, a woman named Margery Maybanks. I told you about her, didn’t I? The marquess expects me to honor that commitment.”
“Would you not make a poor substitute? She loved your brother, not you.”
A short, harsh laugh tore from his throat. “Oh, I doubt she loved Alban. Aside from my father, I’m aware of no one who did.” At the bottom of the staircase, he headed across the great hall toward the front door. “Margery’s father saved the marquess’s life in the Battle of Worcester, and the marquess promised him a boon. A few years later, on his deathbed, the man made his claim: that the marquess raise his motherless newborn daughter here and marry her to his heir on the day she turned one-and-twenty.”
A footman opened the door, and they stepped out. After the dark tones that dominated Hawkridge’s interior, Lily blinked in the sunshine. “And now you’re the heir.” She tugged on Rand’s hand until he stopped and turned to face her. “Can you refuse?”
“I have refused. But…there’s more.”
“What—”
He hushed her with two fingers on her lips. “Let me think, Lily. I’ll return soon.” He bent to replace his fingers with his mouth, but after a quick kiss, he ran off around the corner of the house, his boots loud on the cobbled pavement.
His gait looked determined. She followed slowly, rounding the corner in time to see him cross a lawn and disappear into a tangle of trees. A wilderness garden, perhaps. It seemed to be more planned than the woods that bordered Trentingham, with man-made paths cut through it.
She would honor his request for solitude. She had little interest in the gardens, and should he look back, she didn’t want him to think she was tailing him. Instead, she wandered around the perimeter of the house, vaguely following the sounds of barking dogs.
On the west side of the mansion she found a yard, bordered by several small buildings. A bakehouse, a stillhouse, a washhouse, a brewhouse, a dairy. She peeked in the diamond-paned windows of the last, seeing milking pails, pans, skimming dishes, and strainers. Inside, a young woman was bent over a cheese press. She straightened and gave Lily a puzzled look, then offered a tentative smile. Lily thought she would have been pretty if her poor face weren’t covered in smallpox scars.
As she walked away, her fingertips went to her own smooth skin. Would Rand still love her if she succumbed to the pox?
She rubbed the scars on the back of her hand, telling herself not to be silly. She would love him no matter what disfigurement he might suffer, for better or worse, as the marriage vows said. And when she locked her eyes on his, she knew, for a fact, he felt the same.
Behind the dairy, another fenced yard was teeming with the dogs she’d heard earlier. Despite her worries, a grin spread on her face. She gathered her skirts to climb the rails.
“They’re dangerous,” someone said, not unkindly.
She turned to see Etta, the older woman who’d shown her to her room. Etta bore smallpox scars as well, but not nearly as many as the milkmaid, and her large green eyes and curly gray hair made Lily think she had probably been lovely as a young woman.
“I’ve been sent to look for you,” Etta explained.
“By whom?”
“The marquess. He wishes to know your whereabouts.”
“Well then, tell him I’m playing with the dogs,” Lily said, amazed at her own boldness.
Why, Rose would scarcely recognize her. Loving Rand had given her that newfound strength.
A smile twitched at the corners of Etta’s mouth. “If you won’t mind my saying, my lady, nobody plays with those dogs.”
Lily turned and looked again. They were huge dogs—mastiffs—and there were more than a dozen. But she’d never met a dog she didn’t like. Or even more important, one who hadn’t liked her.
“Well, then,” she said blithely, “it’s about time someone did play with the poor creatures.”
And ignoring Etta’s gasp, she bunched her skirts and climbed over the fence.
THIRTY-EIGHT
WHEN RAND returned from his run, he headed straight for his old room to wash his face and change his shirt. Then he went in search of Lily. Hoping to hear soothing music as he approached the Queen’s Bedchamber, he was dismayed to find the room empty.
Damnation, he should never have left her alone. If the marquess was even now interrogating her…
Rand’s stomach went queasy at the thought.
Steeling himself to go find out, he grabbed his surcoat off the bed and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He slipped his cravat back around his neck and strode over to a massive gilt-framed mirror to tie the neat knot he knew the marquess expected. In his rush, his fingers refused to cooperate. He swore at himself.
“Trouble, my lord?” The mirror reflected a woman poking her head through the doorway.
“Hmm?” He turned and, seeing it was Etta, experienced an absurd rush of nostalgia. She’d aged, of course, and she was newly scarred since he’d last seen her, though not too badly. She seemed shorter than he’d remembered. But the placid green eyes were the same.
Those were eyes one could count on. He hadn’t thought about Etta in years, and he felt a wave of shame for that. But he hadn’t wanted to remember the people here who’d cared for him.
The people who could be hurt if he failed to figure something out.
“Oh, please don’t call me my lord, Nurse Etta. You’re supposed
