“But we cannot.” When he stretched out beside her, she turned to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t even be kissing me. Don’t you see? We cannot be together this way, knowing you might marry Margery. It would be wrong.”
He looked away, staring up at the underside of the serviceable blue canopy. No Queen’s Bedchamber, this—no silk for Rand Nesbitt at Hawkridge Hall. His room was barely more than a closet.
“Yes,” he agreed at last. “It would be wrong.”
She lay back and ran a trembling hand through her hair. What if she was already with child? She had no doubt now that it would make little difference to Rand’s father—he was determined his son wed Margery. She would have to hope her womb was yet empty.
But she couldn’t find it in herself to wish for that. If fate decreed that Rand’s child was the only piece of him she could ever have, she would take it along with the consequences and be happy for the privilege.
“I don’t like it here,” she whispered into the silence. “This house. I cannot sleep in that room alone.”
“Stay with me, then,” Rand said. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman, although it will probably kill me.” He snuggled against her, releasing a strangled groan. “And tomorrow, I’ll take you home. I don’t like this house any more than you do, and I’ve things to take care of in Oxford.”
FIFTY-ONE
RAND SET THEIR luggage by the carriage and, leaving two outriders to deal with it, headed into the house to fetch Lily.
“You’ll be back, I presume? A week from yesterday?”
Rand pivoted to see the marquess standing outdoors, holding two dogs by their chain collars. “Yes, I’ll be back,” he forced through gritted teeth, hoping against hope that he’d be arriving with a solution to this dilemma.
“Sit,” the man told the dogs. “Stay.” He climbed the steps to Rand. “Margery told me you’re willing to wed her in order to save Bennett’s life. She’s very grateful.”
Rand had nothing to say to that.
“Son,” the marquess started—and when Rand visibly flinched, the man sighed. “I suppose I deserve that. I just wanted to say I’m impressed that you’re willing to do the right thing and marry the girl. It’s admirable, considering you had other plans.”
Rand consciously unclenched his jaw. “Lily is more than plans; Lily is my life. And your approval means nothing to me. I don’t need the admiration of a man who ignored me all my childhood.”
With that, he turned to head upstairs, but the marquess caught his arm. “I’m…I’m sorry for that.” Rand stared, unable to believe the word sorry had passed the old goat’s lips. He opened his mouth to voice another retort, but the man rushed on. “I was thinking, last night, about you and Alban and Margery.”
“And how you liked the two of them better than me?”
“Yes,” he bit out. “I did. I’m not proud of it, but there’s the truth. I always blamed you for your mother’s death. Whenever I looked at you, I was reminded, and—”
“Her death? However did your twisted mind come up with that? I wasn’t even home when she died!”
“Exactly. You’d run off somewhere, as was your habit in those days. She died searching for her precious younger son.”
Rand felt like all the air had been sucked right out of him. Run off, as was your habit. “She died searching?”
“She raced off on Queenie, her mare. The animal failed to clear a fence. Broke two legs and had to be put down. Your mother broke her neck.”
“I…” Afraid his legs would give out, Rand retreated in search of somewhere to sit. The backs of his calves finally bumped into a hall chair, and he collapsed onto it.
He stared at the black-and-white floor between his limp, spread knees. “I never knew how she died. I just came home and she was…gone.”
The marquess followed him, looking down on him. “No point in telling a boy of six,” he said in clipped tones. “If I was wrong to blame you for her death, at least I wasn’t daft enough to accuse you out loud.”
Rand looked up. “No. Instead you ignored me, mistreated me, drove me from your home—”
“And you managed to survive regardless. And”—the man shifted on his feet—“to make a life for yourself.”
Rand Nesbitt’s many accomplishments meant less than nothing to the Marquess of Hawkridge. “Not a life you’ll ever approve. In the world where I belong, I’m called Professor, not my lord.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “You’re an earl now and will someday be a marquess. That’s another matter we need to discuss. Which we will, just as soon as you wed Margery and set up residence here.”
“I have no intention of living here. I’m not in such a hurry to put myself back in range of your disapproval and abuse.”
“I’ve said I was sorry,” the marquess muttered. He glanced through the open door. “I’ve dogs to attend to.”
“By all means,” Rand said, waving him off.
The man always had valued his dogs over his son.
FIFTY-TWO
THE RIDE TO Trentingham was awkward.
Rand was subdued, and Lily had difficulty trying to sustain both sides of the conversation. The worst of it was that for the first time since the baptism, she found herself wracking her brain to find anything to discuss. Their ease with each other was gone, their relationship changing already.
It was only two hours between the estates, yet the time passed like the carriage’s wheels were mired in mud. Though Beatrix rode inside, her warm softness on Lily’s lap failed to provide any comfort. When they finally rolled up before the manor, she couldn’t wait to get into the house.
Was it but three days since she’d been home? A day in
