She thought for a moment, then the jaunty notes of
“The Gypsy Rover” took air, his voice rising along with it. Rose waited until the chorus to join him.
He whistled and he sang ’til the greenwoods rang, And he won the heart of a lady.
Their harmony was perfect, he thought as they sang on.
And as the lyrics said, Rand wished he really could whistle and sing and win the heart of a lady. If only it were as simple as that.
But perfect harmony or not, ’twasn’t Rose he was wishing to win.
They sang a third song, and a fourth, and then he lost count. More than once, Lily’s gaze locked on his as his voice and her notes blended. Beautiful music. For fleeting moments it seemed that he and she were the only ones in the chamber, and from the look on her face, he’d wager
’twas the same for her.
Then the last tune ended, and she blinked and jumped to her feet, making Beatrix tumble to the floor with an outraged
meow.
“Is it not time to retire, Mum?”
“Oh!” Lady Trentingham stood as well. “Rose, you must come with me. We have yet to prepare a room for Rand.”
Rose frowned. “I’m sure the staff has taken care of that.”
“Not all our special welcoming details.” Lady Trentingham turned to her assorted family. “I trust you can all find your beds?” As they began drifting out, she focused on her older daughter. “Come along, dear. You’ll need to find flowers for Rand’s chamber.”
“But Mum—”
“Come along,” she repeated, more tersely than seemed to be her nature. “Lily, will you wait here and keep Rand company until his room is ready?”
“I need no flowers,” Rand interjected.
“Nonsense. Rose?” Lady Trentingham moved toward the door, herding the last lingering friends and relatives along with her.
The chamber seemed so quiet when everyone had left.
And Rand felt odd to find himself all alone with Lily for the second time that day.
“Mum,” he said, searching for a way to breach the sudden silence. “’Tis a strange thing to call one’s mother.”
“I know.” Lily’s soft laugh broke the tension. Still at the harpsichord, she sat again and started playing, a soothing tune he found unfamiliar. Beatrix reclaimed her rightful place on her lap.
Obviously knowing the piece well, Lily talked as her fingers picked out the ethereal notes. “You’ll probably have heard that my father raises flowers. Multitudes of them. He named us all after his favorites—surely you’ll have noticed that—and Rowan after the tree. Mum’s given name is Chrystabel, but he calls her Chrysanthemum . . . Mum is short for that.” Her fingers stilled. “’Tis silly, is it not?”
“Keep playing.” He leaned against the dark wood instrument and waited until she did. “I think it not silly so much as touching. I take it you’re all close?”
“Very.”
The single word was uttered so matter-of-factly he knew she took that closeness for granted. But he wouldn’t acknowledge the envy that clutched at his throat. He’d long ago accepted that his family was happier without him. And life on his own was just fine. Better, in fact.
When the cat lifted its head, Rand followed its gaze to see a bird land gracefully atop the harpsichord.
“Hello, Lady,” Lily greeted softly, her fingers not missing a note.
Confused, Rand ran his tongue across his teeth. “Do you call all sparrows Lady?”
“Of course not. I don’t call most sparrows anything.
But Lady is special.”
“Do you mean . . .” He shook his head, then stared at the nondescript bird. “Is this the same sparrow that flew in at supper, the one you fed at Ford’s house?”
“One and the same,” she said, playing a little bit faster.
“I raised her after I found her in an abandoned nest, and now she follows me around. She and Jasper.”
“Jasper?”
“The squirrel.”
Still playing, she nodded toward the sill. Sure enough, a red squirrel sat there, gnawing on an acorn. Rand supposed it must be the same squirrel that had appeared at supper, although damned if he could tell for sure. Like sparrows, one squirrel looked much the same as another.
Beatrix settled back down on Lily’s lap, and Lady flew to join her friend at the window. Jasper chattered, his bushy tail flicking up and down. To Rand, it seemed they were watching him. Talking about him.
Under all those sets of eyes, he shifted uneasily. “Are you never alone?”
“Rarely,” Lily said blithely.
Rand finally shrugged. Absurd as it might seem, perhaps it was natural for her to be surrounded by such loyal creatures. He decided to watch Lily instead of the animals. Feeling pleasantly worn-out after the long day, he swayed in time to her music. “What song is this?”
“Nothing, really. Just something I made up.”
“You write music, too? Is there no end to your talents?” Slowly he sat on the bench seat beside her.
Her fingers faltered, then resumed, and he smiled to himself to think he’d managed to fluster her. Was it the compliment, or his nearness?
He hoped the latter. Her nearness set him on fire. He’d known four years ago that something in Lily Ashcroft spoke to something in Rand Nesbitt. Though he’d tried his best to forget her, his efforts had been for naught.
Beatrix began hiccuping. “I’m not particularly talented,” Lily protested. “Your singing is much better than my playing. I’ve never heard another voice as rich as yours.”
Unlike her, he wasn’t modest enough to deny a truth.
He knew his voice was exceptional, but it wasn’t a talent that had been valued in his family. “I’ve never heard anything like your music,” he said. “So we’re even. And I hope we’ll be able to play and sing together again.”
At his words, her hands ceased moving for good. They went limp and dropped into her lap, causing Beatrix to squeal indignantly and leap to the floor. In seconds, the cat had followed her animal friends out the window.
Lily cleared her throat, as if to bring herself back to reality. “If your room at Lakefield is not ready tomorrow night, perhaps Rose will care to sing with you again.”
She looked so earnest. He fisted his fingers to keep from reaching to touch that adorable dent in her chin.
“I’m not interested in whether Rose sings with me again.
As long as you play.”
“Wh-what?” She shifted, turning to face him, searching his eyes with her large blue ones. “But you sing together so nicely. And she knows languages—not ancient ones like you do, but many modern ones, and—”
“I care not about Rose,” he clarified. “But you . . . I’ve thought about you for four years.”
The breath rushed out of her with a
whooosh.
Her eyes grew even bigger and bluer, huge in her fine-boned face.
She looked fragile and sweet as an angel.
But Rand was feeling anything but angelic.
Unable to help himself, he leaned in and touched his mouth to hers. His arms sneaked around to pull her gently against him. She hesitated at first, but after a moment he felt her yield to the kiss. Her lips were soft and giving, her skin warm, exuding a heavenly scent of lilies.
It made his head swim, the blood sluice through his veins. He forced himself to hold back, though he really wanted to devour her. But he couldn’t, because Lily was innocent. Lily was his best friend’s sister-in-law. Lily was his generous hostess’s virgin daughter.
When he reluctantly pulled away, her eyes were wide—with shock and something else. Wonder, he thought. Or maybe he hoped it was wonder, even though he damn well knew he shouldn’t.
He wanted her—he wanted her with an intensity that heated his blood, that had taken him off guard, that had made him reach for her unthinkingly. But this sort of want could only lead to disaster. Lily was no courtier, no world-wise widow, no tart. She was all-too-respectable marriage material.
His room at Lakefield had better be ready tomorrow, because he sure as hell couldn’t stay at Trentingham any longer.
Randal Nesbitt had never really considered marriage, and he didn’t want to start now.
Breathless, Lily stared at Rand. It had been her first kiss, and no matter that it had been rather chaste compared to those her sisters had described, it had still melted her to the core.
But how had she allowed him to kiss her? After she’d promised Rose not only to stay away, but to help her win him? She felt like a traitor.
“My lord,” she started.
“Rand,” he said patiently.
He
was
patient. And he was handsome and brilliant.
Although he wasn’t the avowed animal lover she’d always pictured for a husband, he didn’t laugh at her aspirations; in fact, he encouraged them.
Would it not be fun to be newly wedded together?
Judith’s voice echoed in her head.
For a moment she dreamed of wedded bliss, of waking every morning to more of Rand’s kisses. But then she shook herself hard. It didn’t matter that his kiss had made her heart flip over. It didn’t matter that he supported her ambitions.
Rose wanted him. Rose was older and should marry first. She and Rand shared an interest in languages. They both sang like the angels. Such music they could make together, such academic heights they could reach.
But moreover, she had made a promise to Rose, and she couldn’t betray her. Not only would she never forgive herself; she just couldn’t hurt her sister.
Lily never wanted to hurt anyone. Or anything. Ever.
“Lily?” Rand queried softly.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You didn’t fight it,” he pointed out calmly. “In fact, I would swear you participated.”
“I . . . how . . .” She raised her chin, determined to stop sputtering. She never sputtered. She’d always been comfortable around men, and she couldn’t figure out why it was not the same with Rand. “I could not possibly have participated. I wouldn’t know how. I’ve never before been kissed.”
He looked pleased at that news. “Well, then, you must have a natural talent.”
Her face was turning hot, and she was on the verge of sputtering again when her mother and Rose stepped into the room. Lily couldn’t remember ever being happier to see her family.
“Your chamber is ready,” Rose announced to Rand, frowning to see them together on the harpsichord’s bench.
Rand didn’t stand up, so Lily did. Quickly.
Chrystabel’s lips curved in a smile. “Come, Rand. I will show you the way.”
He finally rose—rather reluctantly, Lily thought. Still smiling, Chrystabel led him from the room. As the two of them made their way up Trentingham’s grand staircase, Lily heard him humming a jaunty tune.
When that faded into the distance, an uneasy silence descended. Lily dropped back to the bench.
Rose’s dark eyes narrowed. “What were you doing with him?”
“Singing,” Lily lied, shocked to hear the word pass her lips. She never lied to her sister. She never lied to anybody. “I mean, he was singing. I was playing. We were playing and sing—”
“All right.” Rose waved an impatient hand. “As long as you’re not going after him. You promised he could be mine.”
Despite that promise, Lily bristled. “
He
might have something to say about that.”
For a woman who’d so far failed to catch a man, her sister looked awfully smug. “Oh, I’m sure I can make him want me.”
“You know nothing about him. Has it even occurred to you that he might already be interested in someone else?”
Like me,
Lily added silently.
Hopefully?
No, that kiss hadn’t meant anything. It had been a mistake.
And Rose wouldn’t hear of any obstacles. “You let me worry about other women,” she said, apparently unconcerned that Lily might be one of them. “My new strategy of demonstrating my intelligence along with flirtation is going to work just fine.”
“Fine,” Lily echoed a little shortly, then chided herself.
There was no call for such an attitude. Had she not already decided her sister was entitled to Rand should she prove able to win him? “About the flirtation . . .” she started.
“I don’t want to hear it. ’Tis not as though you’ve won a man for yourself. I know what I’m doing.”
“Of course you do.” Lily sighed, absently rubbing the faint scars on the back of her hand. Her fingers stilled when Rose’s gaze settled on them.
Rose slid onto the bench seat beside her and placed a hand over hers. “No one notices,” she said softly. “And it doesn’t look bad anyway. After all these years, the marks are almost gone. Honestly, Lily—”
“I know.” She turned her hand to grasp her sister’s. So what if she wasn’t perfect? A few narrow, faded white scars . . . most people were much more imperfect than that.
And most people weren’t fortunate enough to have such a loving, caring sister. Lily still couldn’t believe she had gone back on her promise by allowing Rand to kiss her.
Well, it wouldn’t happen again.
“Lily?”
Freeing her hands, she gave Rose a shaky smile as she raised them to the harpsichord. Her fingers started moving over the keys. Music always soothed her. Even when, like now, she chose a melancholy tune.
After a moment, her sister’s lovely voice rose in song to match the notes. “Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me out discourteously . . . And I have loved you for so long, delighting in your company . . .”
A fitting lyric, Lily thought with an internal sigh. Then she tried to look on the bright side. At least Mum didn’t seem to be trying to match Rose and Rand.
They should be happy for small favors.
Rand’s bedchamber was filled with flowers. Lovely arrangements sat atop the bedside table, the clothes press, the washstand. He shrugged out of his surcoat and tossed it on the bed, followed by his cravat. Smiling to himself, he walked around the room, pacing off nervous energy as he skimmed his fingers over colorful, velvet-soft petals. ’Twas quite obvious Rose excelled at arranging flowers, and while he had been kissing Lily, she’d apparently been busy.
And so had their mother, by all appearances, because the dressing table was lined with bottles of scent.
Her
hobby, he suddenly remembered, was making perfume.
No wonder her daughter smelled so delicious.
The small, clear bottles all looked the same—plain with silver-topped stoppers—but the liquids inside were different colors. Humming a tune, he lifted one, opened it, and waved it under his nose. Finding the fragrance spicy and masculine, he dabbed some on his face, then sniffed his fingers. Shrugging, he took another bottle.