Lily (Flower Trilogy) (21 page)

There was a scratching at the door, and his moan turned into a groan.

“’Tis only Beatrix,” she whispered. “Ignore her.”

He did. His talented mouth on her breasts roused a melting sweetness within her. He nibbled her neck while his hand moved to tease her legs, up and down their length, coaxing them apart, trailing between. His fingertips skimmed her thighs, and currents of desire rippled through her.

Then he kissed her until she was breathless, until she was senseless, until her entire world was consumed with the taste and touch of him. And all that long time his fingers worked closer to where she ached, until they were almost there.

Almost.

Lily touched him everywhere she could reach. He was so very male, his body gloriously hard compared to her softness. Her own breathing quickened when his did; her heart pumped faster when she felt his pulse respond to her touch. But his hands and mouth on her remained slow and steady.

A sound of surprise escaped her lips when he rolled her onto her stomach. “Hush, Lily,” he said. “Be good.”

’Twas frustrating, because she couldn’t touch him now, not really, not the way she wanted to. Her hands fisted at her sides when she felt his lips on the soles of her feet, warm and damp and ticklish. She’d never dreamed her body was so sensitive. He nipped along her calves, paid homage to the backs of her knees, nibbled the insides of her thighs, paused in his upward journey to rain kisses across her bottom. The ache was becoming unbearable.

She squirmed and heard a low chuckle in response, his lips on her skin making the sound vibrate right through her.

And then she heard tiny pecking sounds on the door.

Rand froze. “Lady?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Lily came up on her elbows. “Ignore her.”

Beatrix’s scratching joined the pecking as Rand eased her back down to the sheets. “They seem unhappy.

Maybe we should let them in.”

“They’re fine.” She turned over and cupped one of his cheeks with a hand, loving the masculine roughness. “Ignore them. Please.”

He smiled, a smile so darkly sensuous it made her breath catch in her throat. He turned his head and kissed her palm, a warm press of his lips as he held her gaze with his. Then he rolled her back onto her front. “Be good, now. I’m not finished.”

She sucked in a breath when he climbed over her and settled straddling her thighs. He was there, hard between her legs, almost where she wanted him. His fingers danced over her back, massaging, tantalizing, teasing.

She quivered beneath him, dying to have him inside her, feeling him there so close.

For a moment—a moment that felt like forever—he raised his hands. Lily waited, waited, her heart beating so hard she was sure he could hear it. Then she felt the sliding tickle of her hair as he swept it to one side, felt him lean forward and place a shivery, soft kiss to her nape.

Felt his chest hard and warm against her back, felt his pulse fast but steady.

Felt the cool air as he drew away . . .

. . . felt his tongue on the base of her spine, a long, hot swipe all the way to her neck.

She trembled uncontrollably and heard little taps on the door.

Jasper, hitting something against it.

And then Rand’s heavy sigh. “Maybe we should—”

“Ignore them!” she cried, twisting under him, writhing until she managed to get faceup, until she half sat and grabbed him by the shoulders to pull him down upon her.

“Ignore them and kiss me!”

He did, parting her lips, tasting of sin and seduction.

He rolled to his side, taking her with him . . . and slipped a hand between her legs.

He cupped her and then stilled.

Feeling an incredible urgency, an indescribable ache, she arched up against his fingers. But she’d asked for kisses, so he kissed her. He only kissed her. He kissed her and kissed her, hot kisses that spoke of possession.

She could touch him now, and she did . . . until his breath sounded as harsh as her own, until their hearts pounded in tandem, until she thought she might scream . . . until he finally moved his hand.

Slowly. Too slowly. Over and over, stroking her with exquisite tenderness, until she heard little cries and realized they were hers, until she wondered if one could die from this overwhelming need . . . and then he slipped a finger inside her.

“Rand,” she breathed. It was too much. Too, too much.

The world spun crazily. He drew out, a dazzling glide of sensation, and then plunged in again, making her hips lift off the bed. Again. Again and again until she thought her heart might burst from the pleasure.

And then it did. It burst into countless little pieces, and they hadn’t even come back together yet when she felt him move up and slide into her as he covered her cry with his mouth.

He felt so perfect, joined with her, filling her, that tears came to her eyes. When he moved, they moved together.

A dance of love, slow and measured and then fast and frenzied, until she burst again, this time taking him with her.

The candle guttered across the room, and the chamber went from dimness to darkness. Lily heard scratching and pecking and clicking, but she was blissfully limp on the bed. “Ignore them,” she whispered, the words barely passing her lips.

Feeling his way in the blackness, Rand pressed a kiss to her slack mouth. “You sound tired.” She heard a smile in his voice, a smile of pure masculine pride. “Do you still want to do it twice?”

“Oh, yes,” she said on a sigh.

“I’m glad to hear it, sweet Lily.”

Twice, she thought, would never be enough. But she needed some time to recover first.

As his tongue traced her lips, she decided five minutes would do.

“You look very nice, Rand.”MMMMMMMMMM

Standing outside the inn with Lily the next morning while they waited for the rest of her family, Rand had been lost in thought, rehearsing in his head the upcoming interview with his father. He blinked and focused on Lily, noticing that her pale green dress really was quite lovely. The underskirt was white, the stomacher and sleeves sprinkled with little white rosettes.

Very demure and aristocratic. His father would approve.

He smiled. “Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

She moved closer, sweeping him with an appreciative glance. “You look better even than at the baptism.”

His smile widened at the memory. A special occasion, that baptism, and he’d dressed the part.

The smile turned wry as he suddenly realized he’d dressed for his father this time, even going so far as to have hied himself off to a barber early this morning to have his hair properly trimmed. Ruefully he ran two fingers along his freshly shaved jaw. After all these years, he was still trying to impress the old goat.

He briefly contemplated returning home to strip off his dove gray velvet suit in favor of one of the wool ones he usually wore, but they were running late already. Besides, the marquess was a stickler for gentility, and it certainly couldn’t hurt his case to look as prosperous as possible.

As was typical with the Ashcrofts, he heard them before he saw them. Along with the family came a valet and two maids and an incredible amount of luggage considering they had only been away for one night. It took a good bit of time to get everyone and everything settled, during which Rand was reminded why he’d never wanted to be an earl.

The ride to Trentingham was a loud one with similar rigmarole at the other end. Rand breathed a sigh of relief when he and Lily finally set out for Hawkridge alone.

“How far is it?” she asked.

“Not very. A couple of hours downriver.”

She looked surprised. “I wonder, then, why I never met you before Violet’s wedding. I thought I’d been to every house within a day’s driving distance with my mother and her perfume.”

“There were no women at Hawkridge,” he reminded her. “My mother died before you were born. And there were all those years you were at Tremayne, remember?

Far away near Wales. Then, soon after you returned, I left for Oxford.”

“But surely your father entertains.”

“Not since the death of my mother. Even Christmas at Hawkridge is a rather dreary affair, with more attention paid to servants and tenants than any sort of celebrating.”

“It sounds dismal,” she said, rubbing the scars on her hand, her eyes apprehensive. “However did you meet any friends?”

“’Twas not easy.” He’d met few young people during his years at home. “If Kit hadn’t lived so nearby, I likely wouldn’t have had any friends at all.”

Lily’s apprehension faded, replaced by a look Rand could only describe as resolute. “Well, if we end up living at Hawkridge, things will change.”

Rand very much doubted that, but he did allow that Lily had a better chance of influencing his father than he did. He suddenly realized what a good catch she was for a man such as himself: an academic who, until recently, had a courtesy title only.

The Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. He’d never considered her status before, since he cared not about such things, but Lady Lily Ashcroft was the sort of woman of whom the Marquess of Hawkridge would approve. He wondered if her mother had been thinking in that direction when she’d insisted Lily come along. He was beginning to suspect Lady Trentingham was a very cunning woman. But he liked her.

Lily yawned and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Sleepy?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm. But yesterday was nice.”

He knew she meant last night, but pretended to misunderstand. “Oh, yes, it was very nice. Up until I received the blasted letter and Rowan fell off the scaffolding.”

“’Twas nice after that, too,” she protested.

And he realized it had been, even without counting their very nice encounter in the wee hours. “You’re right,” he said. “The afternoon went very smoothly, all considered. Your parents didn’t let Rowan’s prank ruin everything. They didn’t seem angry.”

“Events occur. You take them in stride.”

His family hadn’t. “They also don’t seem upset that you’re marrying a professor.”

“You’re an earl, too.”

“But I wasn’t, and they never seemed to care.”

“They trust my choice. Besides, they admire you and what you’ve done with your life.”

He’d sensed that. Just walking around the city with them, he’d felt perfectly comfortable, like he belonged.

“You have a wonderful family.”

“My father is half deaf, my mother is an unrepentant gossip, my brother thinks tricking people is a laudable achievement, my sister lusts after the man I love—”

“They’re wonderful,” he repeated. “You’re all so close.” If he’d been envious of that closeness, yesterday had changed that. Because they’d accepted him as if he were one of their own.

To them, he wasn’t a disappointment. They seemed as proud of his accomplishments as though he were born of their blood. They were the family he’d never had.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said in a voice made husky by unfamiliar emotion. A day with Lily’s family had made clear what he’d missed out on all his life—the laughter, the friendly bickering, the love, that amazing unconditional acceptance.

He wanted, more than ever, to create a family like that with Lily.

In no time at all—or so it seemed to Rand, who’d as soon it took forever—their carriage was turning away from the Thames and rolling up the wide drive to Hawkridge Hall.

“Oh, ’tis lovely,” Lily said softly.

Rand imagined she was thinking she’d much rather live here, in a mansion on the bucolic banks of the river, than in a smaller house smack in the middle of Oxford.

His gaze swept over the three-story redbrick building.

A symmetrical H shape, it was typical of houses built this century, but atypical in size and appointments. And the marquess spared no expense to keep it that way. The windows had been replaced since Rand moved away, now the new sash style with double-glazed glass. The mansion was the height of contemporary fashion.

But it sickened him. He had few happy memories of this place.

“It shows nary a sign of damage,” Lily remarked. “Yet your family supported Charles in the War, did they not?

How is it that Hawkridge escaped Cromwell’s wrath, and so close to London no less?”

“My mother. Publicly, she was great friends with Oliver Cromwell and went so far as to entertain him here.

Privately, she was an important member of the Sealed Knot.”

“What was that?”

“A clandestine organization whose aim was the restoration of Charles to the throne. The members had secret names; my mother was ‘Mrs. Gray.’ When I was very young, she traveled to the Continent several times as a courier. Many letters went back and forth, written in code.”

“I see where you inherited that talent for deciphering your brother’s diaries.”

He grinned. “My mother even concocted an invisible ink that they used. In the Sealed Knot letters, Cromwell was ‘Mr. Wright.’ While on the surface she supported him, all along she was plotting his downfall.”

“She must have been quite a woman.”

“She was. And I suppose she made this home beautiful, too,” he added, knowing, in a detached way, that it was. “But I don’t want to live here.”

“I, too, would prefer to live in Oxford,” she assured him, sounding sincere. He hoped she meant those words, because he meant to fight to keep his current life, and with her on his side he had some hope he’d accomplish that goal. The marquess was sure to adore her.

“But I’ll be happy living wherever you are,” she added as the carriage rolled to a stop.

He pulled her close for a kiss. “Thank you for that.” He dredged up a smile. “Let us get this over with.”

He was helping her down from the carriage when the mansion’s arched front door yawned wide. His father stood in the opening.

The man’s gaze swept Lily from head to toe, then swung glaring to Rand. “What took you so long?” he asked. “Your brother is already buried.”

Just hearing that tone of voice, Rand felt, for a moment, like the small boy who’d always quavered in the face of his father’s disfavor. The frosty gray eyes missed nothing, assessing him as they used to—and with no more approval. If Rand had harbored an unrealistic hope that the loss of the marquess’s elder son would make him look anew at his younger one, those dreams were dashed.