The Baron's Heiress Bride Page 5

“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 after him. You promised he could be mine.”

  Despite that promise, Lily found herself bristling. “He might have something to say about that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can make him want me.” For a nineteen-year-old who’d once claimed spinsterhood began at eighteen, Rose looked awfully smug.

  “You know nothing about him. Have you even considered that there might be someone else he prefers?” Like me, Lily added silently.

  What was she saying? She was acting like she meant to have Rand for herself, though that couldn’t be further from the truth. Her own vanity was getting the better of her, and that simply wouldn’t do.

  She began an apology. “Rose, I’m—”

  “Oh, stuff it, Lily,” her sister said airily. “It’s natural for you to be jealous, so I won’t hold that against you. But just let me worry about Lord Randal’s preferences. My new strategy of impressing him with my intellect along with the flirtation is already working. Why else would we have sung together all night?”

  Lily refrained from repeating Rand’s explanation: that it was her playing he admired rather than Rose’s singing. “About the flirtation…”

  “Lily, please. I do appreciate your assistance, but I know what I’m doing in that sphere.”

  “Of course you do,” Lily said quickly, absently rubbing the back of her hand. Her fingers stilled when her sister’s gaze settled on them.

  Rose sank down to the bench seat beside her and placed a hand over hers. “No one notices,” she said gently. “And it doesn’t look bad anyway. After all these years, the scars are almost gone. Honestly—”

  “I know.” Lily reached to grasp both her sister’s hands. A few narrow, faded white scars…so what if she wasn’t perfect? Everyone made mistakes, didn’t they?

  And not everyone was blessed with such a loving, caring sister. Lily still couldn’t believe she’d come so close to breaking her promise. She could never hurt Rose. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. Or anything. Ever.

  “Lily?”

  Freeing her hands, she gave Rose a shaky smile as she raised them to the harpsichord. Her fingers moved slowly over the keys. Music always soothed her. Even when, like now, she chose a melancholy tune.

  After a moment, her sister’s pure, sweet voice took up the song.

  “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.

  EIGHT

  RAND’S BEDCHAMBER was filled with flowers. Artistic arrangements sat atop the bedside table, the clothes press, the washstand. He walked around the room, admiring each in turn, distracting himself by skimming his fingers over colorful, velvet-soft petals.

  Rose obviously excelled at arranging flowers, and while Rand had been occupied with Lily—with repulsing Lily, to be more precise—it was clear Rose had been busy. And so had their mother, evidently, because the dressing table was lined with bottles of scent. Her hobby, Rand recalled, 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 them were different hues, ranging from nearly colorless, to yellowish, to brownish. He lifted a bottle, 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. More citrusy, this scent. He patted some on his jaw and decided he liked the first one better.

  He shrugged out of his surcoat and tossed it on the bed, followed by his cravat. Despite the long day and the sort of bone weariness that naturally followed, he wasn’t at all sleepy. Being here felt too strange. As did his, alas, unreciprocated feelings for a certain daughter of the house.

  Absently humming a tune, he sat at the dressing table—a lady’s dressing table, it was, much too delicate for his taste—and idly unstoppered another bottle. None of the specific ingredients were identifiable, but this one smelled like it could be used to season a pie. A Christmas pie. He watched himself in the mirror as he slapped some on both cheeks and tried to remember the last time he’d really enjoyed Christmas.

  He didn’t have fond memories of Christmas, so he moved on to the next bottle.

  Fresh. Flowery. He was taken aback—it smelled just like Lily. Surely the countess didn’t expect a man to wear such a feminine scent? It must have got mixed up with the bottles she’d intended to provide him. He found himself lingering over the concoction, inhaling deeply. There was something electrifying about the scent. Something that made him want to keep smelling it for…well, the foreseeable future anyway. Maybe the rest of his life.

  Which was preposterous. He’d never been interested in marriage.

  At least, he’d never thought he was. Dons, the teaching fellows at Oxford, weren’t allowed to wed. He’d been comfortable in that position—under that restriction—for the past few years. It had made his choices easy. He’d hardly expected to become a professor so soon, although considering his steady advancement, he’d assumed it would happen eventually. Professors could marry, but that had always seemed so far in the future as to be unworthy of contemplation.

  When he’d actually become a professor—the youngest in his department’s history—just a few weeks ago, he’d been too ecstatic to consider the secondary effects. Namely, the fact that he was now free to marry should he want to.

  The chamber suddenly seemed overwarm. He rose restlessly and loosened the laces at his neck, untied his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves. Catching a glance of himself in the mirror, he halted. Implacable gray eyes gazed back at him.

  Marriage had crossed his mind more than once today, rather uncomfortably. But whatever could have changed to make him suddenly picture himself with a wife…perhaps even children?

  Could it be his new home? The place had, after all, five bedchambers. As he and Kit had drawn up the plans, had he been thinking, somewhere deep inside, that he might soon want to begin filling all those many rooms?

  Sweet mercy, no!

  Holding Ford’s son might have triggered his parental instincts, but he was far too young to see himself as a father. Besides, he had no idea how to raise a child, no good example from which to work. He wasn’t ready for such responsibility; perhaps he never would be.

  That realization made him feel calmer. There were no big changes to be faced.

  Now he could sleep.

  When he finally drifted off in the soft feather bed, he could’ve sworn the faint, familiar strains of “Greensleeves” lulled him to sleep.

  NINE

  “ROSE, DON’T!” Lily pleaded in a whisper.

  “Whyever not? It’s a kind gesture to see to a guest’s welfare.” Ignoring her sister, Rose knocked on the door. “Lord Randal?” She raised her voice—and an Ashcroft’s raised voice was no timid thing, living as they did with the half-deaf earl. “Lord Randal, are you quite all right? Will you be needing anything more this evening?”

  Lily groaned, then sucked in her breath when the door suddenly swung open. There stood Rand, looking haphazard and half-asleep in nothing but a shirt and trousers. His sleeves were pushed up to reveal tanned forearms.

  Though Lily ought to have been shocked by his state of undress, all she could think was, How does a university professor acquire tanned forearms? Weren’t academics supposed to spend their days buried in books?

  “Yes?” he said to Lily, despite her sister having been the original speaker. Jarred from her mus
ings, she moved her gaze up to his face—way up, since he was so much taller—and once again found herself staring. He looked different in the meager candlelight, his features thrown into sharp relief. She realized his wasn’t a pretty face. His jaw was a dash too strong, his nose too long, his brows too heavy and straight. But there was something about those eyes, that smile…

  She made herself release the breath she’d been holding. “I—”

  “I only wanted to inquire as to your welfare,” Rose hurried to put in.

  “I’m quite fine,” he said, moving to lean against the doorway.

  A cloud of scent moved with him. Not a subtle cloud. “Have you been testing Mum’s perfumes?” Rose wrinkled her nose. “I apologize, my lord. Evidently one of my mother’s creations is less than pleasing.”

  Very tactful wording for Rose, Lily thought with admiration. She’d never seen her sister make such an effort at courtesy.

  Rand waved a hand, releasing another burst of fragrance. “Oh, I’ve quite enjoyed the perfumes,” he assured them.

  “I expect you have,” Lily said, biting back a smile. It wasn’t a bad bottle, if she didn’t miss her guess, but rather an unfortunate mixture of several. “How many scents have you sampled?”

  “All of them,” he said, rubbing his jaw, then sniffing his fingers. His eyes widened. “I suppose that wasn’t such a good idea?”

  “One doesn’t mix fragrances. That’s the perfumer’s job,” Rose informed him, sounding both intelligent and instructor-like.

  A professor ought to admire that air of competence, Lily thought.

  But he only shrugged. “I did it rather absently, I expect. My mind was elsewhere.”

  His gaze strayed to Lily’s, perhaps implying where his mind had been. Could he truly have been thinking of her all this time? Regardless, it didn’t matter. She’d made a promise to Rose.

  “I…I must see to my animals before bed,” she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat. Wondering whether that was due to his compelling eyes or her mention of the word bed, she hoped it was too dark for him to see her blush. “I expect you’ll be wanting a bath before you sleep?”

  Judging from the way Rand’s lips curved—knowingly—he had seen. “I expect that would be wise.” He rubbed his jaw again with a touch of self-consciousness.

  “Go ahead, Lily,” Rose said. “Your menagerie needs tending.” She gave an elegant wave. “I’ll be happy to see that Lord Randal gets his bath.”

  I’ll bet you would, Lily couldn’t help thinking, and something in Rand’s expression told her he was thinking the same thing. “You’re exceedingly kind,” he said to Rose with a slight bow, “but please don’t trouble yourself. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to my own needs.”

  Catching Lily’s gaze, he smiled tentatively before shutting the door.

  TEN

  SHE’D OVERSLEPT. She never overslept. Moving to the last animal’s bowl to fill it with fresh water, Lily yawned, still blinking away the cobwebs of a restless night—a night filled with dreams of silvery gray eyes and smooth, tanned skin.

  She looked around the barn, happy that her chores were finished. The enclosures were clean; all the creatures had been fed, splints checked, matted fur brushed out till it shone. In comparison, she imagined she looked like something the cat had dragged in, but now that she was done, she would sneak back into the house through a servants’ entrance to make herself presentable.

  She set down the water pitcher and brushed straw off the plain green gown she’d thrown on upon awakening—then froze when she heard voices outside the barn.

  “The knot garden is over there,” Rose was saying sweetly.

  “Ah, but your sister keeps her animals in here, doesn’t she?” Rand’s rich baritone was unmistakable. “I wouldn’t mind a glimpse of them.”

  Or was it Lily herself he was hoping to glimpse? she wondered—then bit her lip.

  She’d promised. She’d promised. She’d promised. How many more times would she have to remind herself? Wasn’t her sister’s happiness more important to her than a foolish infatuation?

  Light flooded the dim, cavernous interior when the barn’s double doors opened. As Rand and Rose stepped inside, Lily shoved her unkempt hair farther under the hat she’d jammed on her head to cover it. She managed to resist pinching color into her cheeks.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly.

  Rand smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  Avoiding Rose’s scowl, Lily knelt beside one of the pens to pet a fox cub.

  “I’ve never seen one hold still before.” Rand’s footsteps crunched on the straw as he walked nearer and crouched close by. “They always run from people. They even run if they catch you watching them from a window.”

  “This one cannot run.” She showed him the broken leg she’d splinted.

  “But she doesn’t seem frightened.”

  “He,” Lily corrected. The small fox wagged its white-tipped tail. “And why should he be frightened?”

  A spell of silence followed, filled only by rustling and the assorted noises of animals, as Rand tilted his head and studied her. “No reason,” he conceded finally. “You’re very gentle.”

  The tone of his voice made her go still. “Anyone can be.”

  “Not anyone.” He stood. “What else do you have in your care?”

  She rose and walked along the pens that crowded a corner of the barn, stopping where a spotted fawn nuzzled her with his nose. “Meet Timothy—”

  “Timothy?”

  “He looks like a Timothy, doesn’t he? He lost his mother.” Feeding the baby deer a handful of grass, she leaned to the neighboring pen to lift the cloth draping a deep basket. “And here’s a rat—”

  “A rat?” He stared at the creature in question, a fat, furry brown rodent that never failed to make her smile. “You would save a rat?”

  “Randolph was hurt. But he’s recovered quite nicely. I may set him free later today.”

  “To be eaten by a cat, no doubt.”

  “Not my cats. My cats are his friends. Besides, it would be cruel to keep him confined when he’s well enough to roam.” Timothy had finished his treat, so she wiped her hand on her skirts and moved to the next enclosure. “Over here I have a badger, but he’s sleeping.” She indicated a black-and-white snout poking out from a pile of old blankets. “They’re nocturnal, you may know. And little Harold here is sleeping, too.”

  “A hedgehog?” Rand’s eyes radiated amusement.

  At the other end of the barn, a door opened. Lily’s brother started in, then spotted them and began backing out.

  “I’m finished, Rowan,” she called. “You can come play with the animals.”

  “Maybe later.” He slammed the door shut.

  Rose laid a possessive hand on Rand’s arm. “Shall we go see the gardens now?” she asked sweetly.

  “Your father’s gardens are quite extensive, aren’t they? I really must be getting to Ford’s house. I promised him help. If I might borrow a mount—”

  “Of course,” Rose said with a smile. “Our stables are much more impressive than this old barn. And I shall ride with you to show you the way.”

  “I think I can find Lakefield on my own.”

  No doubt he could, since Lakefield’s lands bordered Trentingham, accessible by both the road and the river. But Rose wouldn’t be deterred. “I should like to come along. Perhaps I can help Violet. Twins can be a handful, you know.”

  Lily suppressed a laugh. Rose had never shown the slightest interest in helping Violet before. But it was good, she decided, for Rose to appear maternal. A gentleman looking for a wife would also be thinking in terms of a mother for his children.

  “Well, then,” Rand said easily, “we shall have a nice ride. You’ll join us, Lily, won’t you?”

  “I—what?” she asked, taken off guard.

  “Lily has yet to eat breakfast,” Rose pointed out, having doubtless noticed her absence at the breakfast table. She did, at least, tactfully forgo me
ntioning that Lily wasn’t properly groomed for a visit, either. Why, Rose was progressing by leaps and bounds. “She can join us later.”

  “Nonsense,” Rand returned. “We’ll wait. In the meantime, you wanted to show me the gardens?”

  A smile lit Rose’s eyes. Lily followed them out of the barn, turning toward the house while her sister led Rand in the other direction.

  Mere seconds later, Rose’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Rowan Ashcroft, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  That sounded very maternal. Lily hurried around the back of the barn, arriving just in time to see her brother tug a thin wooden stick through a fold of paper, the friction producing a hiss. As the wood burst into flame, he looked up and gave a grinning answer to Rose’s question. “I’m making fire.”

  The grin vanished as the sliver of wood burned close to his fingers. He dropped it with a yelp.

  Rand strode forward to stamp it out. “What is it you have there?”

  Rose brushed at her red satin skirts. “It doesn’t matter,” she said even more maternally. “He’s well aware that he isn’t allowed to play with fire.”

  Too maternally, Lily decided. It was one thing for Rose to display a love of children by offering to help Violet, quite another to scold like a fishwife. Especially considering Rowan was her brother, not her child.

  “But what is it?” Rand bent closer.

  Rowan handed him the paper. “It has phosphorus on it.” If Rand looked surprised at hearing a boy of ten use such a word, Lily wasn’t. Rowan spent hours every week in Ford’s laboratory. “And this,” he said, pulling another of the slim wooden sticks from his pocket, “has sulfur on one end. Ford’s friend, a man named Robert Boyle, has discovered that the two together make fire. Phosphorus has a very low burning point,” he added importantly.

  Although Lily wasn’t at all sure what that had to do with making fire, Rand nodded thoughtfully. “Brilliant. May I try?”

  “Boys will be boys. And apparently men will be boys, too,” Rose said in a tone Lily thought unwise.