Lily (Flower Trilogy) (4 page)

A sparrow landed on their table, providing a welcome distraction. “Hello, Lady,” she murmured and fed it some crumbs from her plate.

Watching her, Rand absently rubbed the ends of his magnificent hair between two fingers. “Are you still hoping to build a home for stray animals?”

After all this time, he remembered her dream. “Yes,”

she said, both startled and pleased, but also wondering if he thought her goal childish. She’d decided it as a child, after all.

But he seemed to be taking her seriously. “Have you made plans?”

“Of sorts. I’ll come into my inheritance next year. I’m planning a simple building so as to have funds left to staff it for a number of years. I’m hoping to obtain donations as well. Eventually enough to keep running it once my money is depleted. And perhaps even build others.”

“A solid strategy. Have you thought of having the building donated?”

“I’d prefer it built to our purpose. To convert a house or other building could cost as much as starting from scratch.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps an architect would donate his services.” His eyes twinkled, looking silver in the afternoon sun. “I happen to know one—”

“Uncle Ford!” Jewel came bounding out of the house, her pink skirts flying. “Uncle Ford! Something’s happened with . . .” Her words faded as she disappeared around the corner.

Rowan flew through the door next and darted after her, pink cheeked to match her skirts, his mouth hanging open in something akin to horror.

Lily jumped to her feet. “They’ve done something,”

she exclaimed as Ford appeared at a run and dashed into the house, shouldering his way past guests hurrying out.

“I knew it!”

“I swear, Uncle Ford, we did nothing.” Jewel held her skirts up off the floor while she turned in a slow circle, assessing the destruction. “Oh,” she wailed, “look at my chamber!”

Rand gestured at his luggage sitting on the four-poster bed—as opposed to the floor, where it had been earlier. “I thought this was
my
chamber.”

“Uncle Ford painted it green for me because that’s my favorite color. I sleep here when I visit. And now ’tis all ruined.”

Ford poked his head out of the little room in the corner where he was examining his invention. “At least it’s clean water,” he pointed out defensively.

New water stains on Rand’s luggage were the least of the damage.

The oak floor was sopping. The wet went up the walls, the water having apparently been deeper before escaping the room and making its way down the corridor and stairs. Most of the ground floor had flooded as well, including all of the beautiful, expensive carpeting that Violet had had specially woven.

But this room, where the disaster had originated, was by far the worst. The pale green bedclothes dripped, the air held a chill, the carpet felt soggy beneath their feet, and Lily suspected that mildew was setting in already.

“We did nothing,” Rowan repeated. “We just came up to look, and when we opened the door—”

“Now, Rowan,” Lily started, knowing her brother all too well. Especially when he was with Jewel. The girl’s father was infamous for playing practical jokes, and she’d taught Rowan every trick the man had taught her.

“Do you expect us to believe—”

“He’s right,” Ford broke in, apparently having finished his investigation. “’Twas the fault of my design—a problem with the tank mechanism.” Looking rather pained to admit that, he ran a hand back through his long brown hair. “I expect it began flooding the moment I turned my back. I never considered . . . it never occurred to me . . .”

“Never say never,” Rand interjected dryly.

Jewel went to the window. “Everyone else has gone outside.”

“Of course, you goose.” Rowan snorted. “The floor is wet all over the house.”

“The women wouldn’t want to ruin their fashionable satin slippers,” Rand added, glancing down at the water-stained shoes on Lily’s feet, visible since she was holding up her skirts.

“There are more important things than shoes,” she pointed out. “Like Violet’s carpeting. She’s going to be furious.”

“No, I’m not,” Violet said, walking in with a squish-squash sound. She went on her toes to grace her husband with a light kiss. “I’m used to catastrophes,” she declared with an exaggerated sigh. “Part and parcel of my marriage. Besides, we must only remove the carpets and spread them outside to dry. A few rain-free days and they’ll be good as new.”

“Are you sure?” Jewel asked dubiously.

“About it not raining? No,” Violet said in her practical way. “But they
will
eventually dry. I’m afraid, though, that this room will be uninhabitable for a day or two, at the least.” She looked toward Rand apologetically.

“I can ride home,” he assured her. “Oxford is but a few hours.”

“Wait.” Ford held up a hand. “What about the translation? There is no need for you to leave. We’ll move someone. The nursemaids—”

“I’ll not have you upsetting your whole household,”

Rand interrupted. Unlike the sprawling mansion Lily lived in, Lakefield was just a typical L-shaped manor house. Enough rooms to sleep the family, a few servants, and a guest, but that was all.

Ford crossed his arms. “I’ll not have you leaving. Your house right now is a wreck.”

A smile twitched on Rand’s lips as he pointedly scanned the chamber. Lily choked back a laugh.

“Rowan!” Her mother’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Rowan, have you and Jewel—” A gasp chopped off her sentence as she stepped into the room. “Heavens, this is—”

“A bloody mess,” Ford finished for her. “And my fault, not your son’s.”

“See?” Rowan said with a grin of vindication. “’Tis not my fault Lord Randal cannot stay here.”

“’Tis nobody’s fault.” Rand strode to the bed, his shoes making a sucking sound as he went. “I should probably be home badgering Kit anyway, if the house is to be finished this decade.” He reached for his luggage.

“Do you not want to finish the translation?” Ford pleaded. “We’ll find a place—”

“You’re welcome to stay with us,” Chrystabel suddenly offered. “We’ve more guest rooms than we know what to do with.”

Lily’s mouth hung open. Why, they hardly knew Lord Randal Nesbitt.

But apparently that made no difference to Mum.

“You’ll be close to Lakefield,” she added. They were naught but a quarter hour’s ride down the road. “By tomorrow, perhaps this room will once again be habitable.”

Violet looked around mournfully. “I doubt it.”

Although Rand looked dubious, he set down the luggage. “If I sleep at Trentingham tonight, I could return tomorrow and help put the place to rights.”

“A generous offer,” Ford said.

Violet pushed up on her spectacles. “There is no need for Rand to wrestle with soggy carpeting.”

“The boards underneath must be dried, lest they warp.”

“We have servants to do that sort of thing.”

“But if we had extra help—” Ford pressed.

Violet cut him off with a laugh. “Rand can ‘help’ you in the bone-dry laboratory upstairs, huddled over that ancient alchemy text.”

Her husband’s expression made clear that sounded good to him.

And so it was settled. Rand would overnight at Trentingham and return in the morning. Lily supposed it was well done of Mum to offer the hospitality, but she hoped it didn’t mean she was trying to match Rand with Rose.

That would ruin her sister’s plan.

Trentingham Manor was teeming with family and friends who had come to attend the twins’ baptism, so Rand’s addition to the mix was clearly little imposition.

But he did appreciate Lady Trentingham’s kind invitation. She seemed a true gentlewoman.

Although perhaps a bit overly solicitous.

“Lily, dear,” she said as they walked into the linenfold-paneled dining room for supper, “I’d appreciate it if you’d sit beside Rand, since he’s not acquainted with our other guests.”

Which would have made sense except that Rose had already planted herself on his other side.

“Lord Randal,” she gushed, laying a hand on her chest theatrically, her fingertips flirtatiously grazing the skin revealed by her wide, low neckline. “What a pleasure to have you as a dining partner.”

“Rand,” he corrected her, as he had countless times. So far as he was concerned,
Lord
was nothing more than a reminder of his disturbing roots. He liked to think of himself as a professor now, not a marquess’s son. “And the pleasure is mine,” he assured her, meaning it. This civilized supper was a lot more pleasurable than it would have been to ride home to all the hammering and sawing at his house in Oxford.

“Cousin Rose.” A gentleman on her other side begged her attention, waving a bejeweled hand at the floral arrangements—enormous vases of colorful posies that graced each end of the table, flanking a towering centerpiece. “Have we you to thank for these beautiful works of art?”

“Why, yes,” Rose said warmly. “I am pleased, cousin, that you’re enjoying them.” She turned back to Rand, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that tempted him to laugh. “Do you like the flowers, too?”

“They’re lovely.” They were. She had an artist’s eye, a flair for color and balance. He turned to Lily. “Do you work with flowers as well?”

“Oh, no. I’ve no skill with plants.”

Rose shook her head, as though she felt sorry for her poor, talentless sister. “She cares only for her animals.”

As if on cue, a sparrow flew into the room and landed smack on the table, right in front of Lily.

“Holy Christ,” Rowan said. “Not again.”

“Rowan,” Lady Trentingham admonished.

“Well, someone should shut the windows.”

Rose fanned herself with a languid hand. “With all these people, ’twould be too hot if we shut the windows.”

“Cut the hedgerows?” Her father nodded sagely. “Yes, I’ve asked the groundskeepers to do that.”

No one looked confused or surprised. Apparently everyone was well enough acquainted with Lord Trentingham to know that along with his passion for gardening, the man was half deaf.

“Excellent, darling,” Lady Trentingham said loudly, flicking crumbs off his cravat. She looked down the table at Lily, who was busy feeding bits of bread to the sparrow. “Not at supper, dear.”

Lily sighed. “Go, Lady.” She tossed the gray-brown bird one more crumb. “Outside now.”

Amazingly, the bird gobbled the last of its feast and then took flight, heading for one of the windows where a squirrel sat on the sill, seemingly watching the proceedings. With a flutter of feathers, the sparrow landed beside the squirrel and turned to tweet at it. The squirrel chirped back, for all the world like they were having a conversation.

Rand had never seen a wild bird that obeyed, let alone a squirrel that didn’t run at the sight of humans. He turned to Lily. “You do have a way with animals.”

“Oh, there’s more to Lily than that,” her mother informed him from down the table. “She plays the harpsichord like an angel.”

Lily blushed. She looked fetching when she blushed.

Of course, she could be wearing rags and scrubbing a floor, and she’d look fetching. As it was, she’d exchanged the water-stained gown for one made of some shiny, pale purplish fabric that hugged her upper body like a second skin.

He dragged his gaze back to her face. His fingers itched to touch the tiny dent in her chin. “Will you play for us after supper?” he asked her.

“Eh?” Lord Trentingham shook his dark head. “Everyone will stay after supper. They’ve all been assigned rooms, have they not, Chrysanthemum love?”

“Of course, darling.” Lady Trentingham smiled her ever-patient smile. “And Lily will play,” she told Rand.

“And I shall sing,” Rose announced as she reached for some bread, grazing Rand’s arm in the process.

On purpose, he was sure.

Rose desired him. She’d made that clear, in action and words, four years ago and again now. As conversation buzzed around him, he wondered why he wasn’t tempted.

She was lovely—tall and willowy, with a flawless, creamy complexion, glossy deep brown locks, and eyes so mysteriously dark they could be mistaken for black. A classic beauty.

And not a cold one. Although still as outspoken and forward as he remembered, Rose had grown up. She was much warmer than he recalled.

But the spark was missing. None of her heat penetrated his heart, while on his right, Lily seemed to burn like a bonfire. She was talking to the guest on her other side, but she sensed his gaze and turned slightly to meet his eyes, then looked away to continue her conversation.

“I should like to hear you sing,” he told Rose, wondering if she had the voice for it.

She graced him with a smile that revealed fetching dimples. If she were one of Lily’s cats, she’d be purring.

And after supper, when she raised her voice in song, he was indeed impressed. Singing of love, the words flitted from her throat, rich and true.

But Lily’s playing was even more splendid.

Despite the fact that various relatives were all seated decorously in the cream-and-gold-toned formal drawing room, Rand found himself rising and wandering toward the harpsichord. While Beatrix dozed on her lap, Lily’s fingers flew over the ivory keys, raising magic in their wake. She glanced up and smiled at him, and without thought, he opened his mouth to harmonize with her sister.

Go tell her to make me a cambric shirt, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, Without a stitch of a seamster’s work, And then she will be a true love of mine.

Only when he finished did he realize that Rose had stopped singing to listen to him. He nodded at her to take the next verse. Back and forth they went until the song ended and the room burst into wild applause.

“Your voice is beautiful!” Lily exclaimed.

His face went hot. “Your playing is exquisite.”

Her shrug was as graceful as her music. “I practice often. ’Tis a way to pass the time.”

“’Tis more than that. ’Tis a gift to all who listen.” Ignoring all her curious relations, he moved around to hit a key, the single note reverberating through the room. “I cannot play.”

“I cannot sing.”

He grinned. “Gift us with another tune, and your sister and I will accompany it. Together this time.”