Lily (Flower Trilogy) (39 page)

Lily stopped smoothing. “Mum, I think—”

“You’ll be busy,” she repeated. “If you weren’t insisting on marrying so quickly, it might be a different matter.

But I’ll need your help. Now, I imagine Margery and Bennett are missing us, so our little tour of the house is over.”

As they all returned to the Great Hall together, Lily exchanged a frustrated glance with Rand.

“Elizabeth!” Chrystabel cried, waving to a neighbor and dragging Joseph in her direction. “I’ve found the perfect man for your daughter.”

No sooner had her parents walked off than Rand swung Lily to face him. “Margery wasn’t missing us.” He aimed a pointed look to where his baby sister was half entwined with Bennett, blissfully unaware of any of the guests.

Lily nodded. “Mum is trying to keep us apart.”

“And your father is cooperating.”

“I cannot figure why. They’ve left us alone before—”

“Does it matter why? They intend to make certain we don’t see each other again until the day of our wedding.”

A maid came by with fresh goblets of champagne, and Rand took one and the bottle, too, meeting Lily’s eyes in a way that made clear what he’d like to do with the sparkling wine.

What her parents were keeping them from doing.

Lily’s lips—and other places—tingled at the thought.

She took the goblet from him and downed a bracing swallow.

“They’ll not succeed in this,” Rand warned, sounding as though he’d just assigned himself a mission. He cast a glance to Chrystabel and Joseph and, seeing their backs momentarily turned, grabbed Lily’s hand. “Come along.”

He hurried her into the adjoining dining room.

Footmen were setting the long gatelegged table with Delftware dishes for the wedding supper. Lily glanced back into the Great Hall. “They’ll just find us again.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” he advised her, taking the goblet from her hand and setting it on the leather-topped sideboard. Still carrying the bottle, he led her into the next room.

His father’s chamber. She stopped short and gaped at the tall, heavy oak bed.

“Not in here!”

Laughing, Rand leaned a hand on the wall.

Lily was astonished to see a panel swing open. They slipped beyond it, and Rand closed it quietly.

“A secret passage?” she gasped.

“Not secret.” Calmer now but no less determined, he guided her through a windowless corridor lit by plain lanterns mounted on walls painted a simple pale gray.

“The house has these passages all through it,” he explained, guiding her around a corner. Here, a longer hallway bustled with servants carrying dishes and linen.

“Father didn’t want the staff walking through one chamber to get to another, so corridors run behind. That way, they can duck in and out of rooms unobtrusively.”

The floors were not painstakingly polished here, but covered with long rush mats instead. With no fire to warm it, the passage was chilly. “Do all the rooms have secret doors?”

“They’re not secret, either. You just have to look for them.”

Lily shivered. “If there’s a door into our suite, I want it sealed.”

She thought Rand smiled beside her, but the corridor was too dim to tell for sure. Rows of leather fire buckets hung overhead, making her think they must be near the kitchen. “Where are we going?”

“Out. Through the servants’ entrance.”

“Out? You mean outside? Into the rain?”

His hand squeezed hers. “No one will be coming out in the rain to look for us, will they?”

The way he said that made a shiver of another sort run through her.

Summer rain blew in when he pushed open the door.

They made a run for it, Rand holding Lily with one hand and the champagne bottle with the other. They crossed the courtyard toward the outbuildings, finally ducking into the dairy.

Rand shut the door against the rain, but it still pattered on the roof and slashed against the dairy’s small diamond-paned windows. Lily remembered peeking in here once, seeing a dairymaid with a pockmarked face and a pretty, shy smile.

She glanced around the small room. “Where is everyone?”

“Inside, helping with the wedding. No one will interrupt us.” He grinned. “Even Beatrix failed to make it out here.”

The walls were plain and whitewashed. Lily turned in a slow circle, her shoes leaving wet prints on the red tile floor. Pails, pans, and strainers sat on a wide marble counter supported on legs that ended in cows’ hooves.

She hugged herself, smiling at the whimsy.

“Cold?” Rand asked.

“A little. There’s no fire.”

“I’ll warm you up,” he said, the tone of his voice leaving no doubt how he planned to accomplish that end. He set the champagne bottle on the marble with a definitive
clunk.

She gave a nervous laugh. “I hope you’re not planning to warm me up too effectively. There’s no bed, either.”

“I plan to warm you effectively indeed.” Both hands on her waist, he lifted her to sit on the counter. “And we’ve no need of a bed.”

The marble felt cold under her skirts, but Rand’s fingers felt warm on her shoulders as he maneuvered himself closer, working his way between her knees. When he looked pointedly down, her gaze followed, her heart hitching as she saw how it could work.

“I guess we
don’t
need a bed,” she whispered as his mouth descended on hers.

His lips were gentle and cherishing. He coaxed open her mouth, his tongue gentle, too, exploring as though he had all the time in the world, as though he wanted nothing more than to taste her thoroughly, to commit her texture to memory.

The pitter-pat of rain blended with her breathy sighs, blocking out the rest of the world. Here and now, there was only she and Rand and their love.

He eased away and took her hands, raising them to his lips. Slowly he kissed the palms and the backs and the fine white scars.

“Don’t flinch,” he murmured when she did. Looking down, he traced the webbed patterns with a fingertip.

“They’re beautiful, because they are part of you.”

Her throat closed with emotion, but she managed a shaky smile. “They remind me that I’m imperfect, which I suppose is not such a bad thing.”

“’Tis a good thing you have one flaw.” He kissed her nose and then her mouth, tiny damp kisses. “I would feel damned inferior living with perfection.”

Something twisted in her heart. “There were times when I feared you’d never be living with me at all.”

“Never say never,” he murmured, reaching for a sip of champagne and bending his head to nuzzle her throat, the wine fizzing in the hollow beneath her chin. She arched her neck, the combination of cold, bubbly liquid and warm, soft mouth sending shivers rippling through her.

She threaded her fingers into his hair as he nibbled his way up to her ear, drawing the tender lobe between his teeth. A soft groan rose from his chest, and suddenly he was kissing her again, more demanding now, nipping on her bottom lip before his mouth crushed hot against hers.

Instantly a matching heat flared up inside her. It had been there, building all day, and now it flamed to life. Her heart thundering, she gave as much as she took, a reckless meshing of lips and tongues and teeth that made her blood race with excitement. When he finally broke away, she was breathless.

She worked her hands beneath his surcoat as he flicked open the tabs that attached her stomacher. He dropped frantic kisses on her cheeks, her chin, her neck, the expanse of trembling skin afforded him by the wide, low neckline of her saffron gown. With her stomacher removed, he loosened her laces and spread her bodice.

Hooking the lacy edge of her chemise with a finger, he dragged it down, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

Once more he reached for the champagne, tilting his head back to take a mouthful. Then he leaned forward and fastened his mouth on one sensitive peak.

The liquid was cold and tingly, his mouth hot and emphatic. The combination robbed her of thought. Her senses reeled wildly as drops of champagne trickled free and he followed them with his tongue, leaving warm trails of sensation. She trembled with need, an urgent ache growing within her.

“Now,” she breathed, and he shot her a wicked smile, reaching down to ruck up her skirts. His fingers danced up her legs, grazing the delicate skin on her inner thighs.

The ache grew unbearable, and she gripped his shoulders.

“Rand, we’ve waited long enough, days and days—”

“Hush,” he whispered, reaching higher, brushing against where she ached. Then stroking, over and over, slipping inside and back out to stroke more. His mouth slanted against hers again and again as his fingers worked magic. Her eyes drifted shut, and she locked her arms behind his neck, tremors shimmering through her. The sweet torture continued until she was certain one more velvet stroke would be her undoing.

“Rand!” she cried out.

Suddenly their four hands were tearing at the laces that secured his breeches. And at long last he pulled her close and buried himself inside her.

Her arms and legs went around him, welcoming, squeezing tight. It had felt like forever, all those days they couldn’t be together. Tears welled in her eyes at the sheer joy of him finally filling her, making her complete.

Their mouths met, hot and wet as he rocked up against her, as they rocked together, an exquisite rhythm that built and built until she came undone with a little cry that was swallowed by his own deep moan of pleasure.

“One perfect moment,” she whispered after she caught her breath. One perfect moment of euphoria.

“We’ll have more,” he murmured, pulling back to wipe traces of tears from her cheeks. With one gentle finger, he touched the dent in her chin. “A lifetime together.”

Nothing would ever come between them again.

For a long time she stayed wrapped around him, and he held her close, cradling her head against his chest, his gaze drifting out the window. Rain pattered softly against the leaded panes. Beyond the glass, tall old trees danced in the blustery breeze, bright green against the dark gray sky, and farther beyond that, the red brick of Hawkridge Hall loomed majestically.

This, Rand thought—all of it—would someday be his.

And he belonged here, as much as he belonged in a lecture hall or huddled over a cryptic passage of ancient text.

As a lad, he’d sought acceptance from a father who couldn’t stand the sight of him and a brother who’d hated him since birth. Alban was dead now, his evil laid to rest.

And as for the marquess . . . maybe now he would finally offer that approval that had been so elusive.

But to Rand it didn’t really matter anymore. Now he had Lily.

A contented sigh drifted from her, and he raised her face for his kiss. He would never get enough of her, he thought, grazing her eyes and her cheeks and her lips, settling there to savor her sweet mouth. A kiss as gentle as the summer rain, a kiss for them both to melt into, a kiss to meld bodies and souls. And then another kiss. And another.

And another, until they heard a scratch and a peck and a tap against one of the dairy’s windows.

Author’s Note

Before I receive a pile of letters claiming that mastiffs are gentle, protective, indoor, family-type dogs, I want to say that all of that is true—for today’s mastiffs.

But in days gone by, the mastiff was known as a fighting dog. Caesar mentioned mastiffs in his account about invading Britain in 55 B.C., describing the huge British dogs that fought beside their masters. Soon afterward, they were brought back to Rome, where they saw combat at the Circus, matched against not only other dogs but also bulls, bears, lions, tigers, and human gladiators.

Marco Polo wrote of Kubla Khan, who owned five thousand mastiffs used for hunting and war. Henry VIII gifted Charles V of Spain with four hundred mastiffs intended for use in battle.

However, by the 1920s, mastiffs were disappearing from England. During World War I, people thought it unpatriotic to keep alive dogs that ate as much in a day as a soldier. By World War II, they were almost extinct in England, but afterward, mastiffs were imported from Canada and the United States to start new kennels. Now they are well established again, but with a change: modern breeders have bred the mastiff for gentleness and companionship rather than fighting. In his
Knight’s Tale,
Chaucer described mastiffs as large as steer, which sounds unbelievable until we remember that cattle were much smaller in those days. Today’s mastiffs have the same massive size, but they are loving and sociable pets.

In 1680, Irish scientist Robert Boyle began selling coarse sheets of paper coated with phosphorus and wooden sticks with sulfur. A stick drawn through a fold of the paper would burst into flames. This device was the first chemical “match” and ultimately led to what we think of as matches today. In 1855, the first red phosphorus “safety” matches were introduced in Sweden, and paper “match books” were invented in the United States in 1889.

Bawdy songs have always been popular, and in the seventeenth century the English were more comfortable singing such verse than they tend to be today. They relished the ribald and did not take pains to disguise sex as love. Cromwell’s Puritan Protectorate may have driven lusty singing underground, but with the Restoration, the ballad sellers returned. These early entrepreneurs sold single-sheet songs on the street, cheaply printed overnight to gain the most profit from each newly written piece. In 1661, publisher and composer John Playford put together a collection of these songs and ballads and called it
An Antidote Against Melancholy.
In 1682, his son Henry expanded the collection and published it as
Wit
and Mirth: An Antidote Against Melancholy.
By 1698, the book was so popular that Henry expanded it again, this time sold as
Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy.
It proved so successful that after Henry’s death it was published by others, and five further volumes were eventually added. By the time Thomas D’Urfey edited the final edition in 1720, the six-volume set contained more than a thousand bawdy songs.

Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can visit. Trentingham Manor came to life after I saw the Vyne, a National Trust property in Hampshire. Built in the early sixteenth century for Lord Sandys, Henry VIII’s Lord Chamberlain, the house acquired a classical portico in the mid-seventeenth century (the first of its kind in England) and contains a grand Palladian staircase, a wealth of old paneling and fine furniture, and a fascinating Tudor chapel with Renaissance glass. The Vyne and its extensive gardens are open for visits April through October.