Trentingham Manor, the South of England
August 1677
HE’D FORGOTTEN about her.
Well, maybe he hadn’t quite forgotten about her, but he’d certainly put her out of his mind.
Well, maybe he hadn’t put her entirely out of his mind, but he’d banished all thoughts of her to the outskirts. She was Ford’s sister-in-law, after all, and an innocent, sheltered girl of fourteen. And Lord Randal Nesbitt was far too honorable to let a girl that young anywhere near his…well, thoughts.
But it had been four years since they’d last met at Ford’s wedding. And now, Rand had just realized, Lady Lily Ashcroft must be eighteen.
A fetching, dark-haired, blue-eyed eighteen. A marriageable eighteen.
Marriageable? Having never really considered marriage in all of his twenty-three years, Rand found the notion jarring. Perhaps being in a chapel put ideas into a fellow’s head. Though truth be told, he hardly knew where he was or what was going on around him. All his awareness was focused on Lily standing beside him at the altar, her month-old niece cradled in her arms.
“Having now,” the priest continued, sounding distant to Rand though the man stood right in front of him, “in the name of these children, made these promises, wilt thou also on thy part take heed that these children learn the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, and all other things which a Christian ought to know and believe to his soul’s health?”
“I will, by God’s help,” Lily replied softly. Gently, gazing down at the babe she held close.
A smile curved Rand’s lips. In four years she had changed, of course. But her gentleness, that unfailing sweetness, hadn’t changed. Couldn’t have changed. It was what made her Lily.
Ford Chase, Rand’s friend—and father of the children in question—elbowed him in the ribs.
“Hmm?” Startled, Rand looked down at the month-old boy squirming in his own arms, its bald little head colored by the sun streaming through the chapel’s stained-glass windows. Ford’s son, he thought, surprised by a rush of tenderness. Rand’s godson…or at least the tiny fellow and his twin sister would soon be his godchildren, provided he made it through their baptism.
“I will,” he answered, echoing Lily’s words.
“By God’s help,” the priest prompted.
“By God’s help.”
A few titters rose from the crowd, but Rand ignored them, shifting on his feet. Sweet mercy, he felt as though he’d been standing for a week. Mass, and then a lesson, and now this ritual at the font—delivering a two-hour lecture at Oxford wasn’t nearly so exhausting. He suspected his knees were now permanently locked.
But even more than he wished to sit down, he couldn’t wait to speak to Lily. Never mind that she’d barely noticed him. He’d scurried into Trentingham’s grand, oak-paneled chapel at the last minute and had no chance to greet her before the ceremonies began.
The priest turned a page in his Book of Common Prayer. “Wilt thou take heed that these children, so soon as sufficiently instructed, be brought to the bishop to be confirmed by him?”
“I will.” Rand and Lily said the words together this time. Their voices, he thought, sounded good together.
“Name these children.”
The bundle in Rand’s arms chose then to begin wailing. “Marcus Cicero Chase,” Rand hollered over the squall.
“Rebecca Ashcroft Chase,” Lily said more softly and with a smile, even though the girl’s cries had joined her twin brother’s, seeming to fill the chapel all the way up to its sculpted Tudor ceiling.
Whoever would have thought such tiny creatures could make such a huge racket?
The priest scooped water into his hand, letting it trickle through his fingers. It ran in rivulets down the backs of the two babies’ heads and landed on the colorful glazed tile floor. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He made crosses on the children’s foreheads. “Amen.”
Amen. It was over. Well-wishers crowded close. Still holding his bawling godson, Rand turned to Lily.
She was gone.
How could she have disappeared so quickly? Using his height to advantage, he peered over heads. But she’d vanished.
Nearby, Ford held little Rebecca and spoke with an older gentleman Rand recognized. Or rather, Ford was shouting at the gentleman, since the Earl of Trentingham, Lily’s father, was hard of hearing.
Marveling that his friend looked so natural holding a baby, Rand jiggled little Marc uneasily. Rebecca had stopped crying, apparently content in Ford’s arms, but in Rand’s, her twin brother still howled.
Glancing around for help, Rand was relieved to see Ford’s wife, Violet, moving close. When she reached for her son, Rand offered a grateful smile. But then he found himself oddly reluctant to hand Marc over. Loud little thing though he was, he smelled good and had a soft, warm weight.
When Violet took him, Marc quieted immediately. Resisting the urge to run his fingers over that fuzzy little head, Rand crossed his arms and leaned on one of the intricate carved oak stalls. “I assume you chose his name, Marcus Cicero, for the philosopher.”
Violet bounced the babe in her arms, her brown curls bouncing along with him. She looked more motherly than Rand usually pictured her. Did children change people so much? “It was only fair,” she said. “Ford had the naming of our firstborn.”
“Nicky? Ah, Nicolas Copernicus,” Rand remembered. “Well, I suppose it’s a better choice than Ford’s other favorite scientist.”
“Galileo Galilei?” She laughed, her brown eyes sparkling behind her fancy gold-rimmed spectacles. “Yes, thank heavens Ford had already bestowed that name on his horse.”
“And Rebecca? Who is she named after?”
“No one. I just like the name. And there’s never been a major female philosopher.”
“Yet,” Rand added, knowing Violet hoped to publish a philosophy book of her own someday.
“Yet,” she confirmed with a nod, clearly appreciating his support. She touched her husband’s arm, claiming his attention. “We’d best be heading home,” she said when he turned, “or our guests will arrive there before us.”
When Ford smiled at her, Violet’s return smile transformed her face. Perhaps she wasn’t as pretty as her sisters, Lily and Rose, but she was lovely in her own way. A way that was enhanced by her obvious delight in both the occasion and the magnificent purple gown she’d donned to celebrate it.
Moreover, she made Ford happy. A sort of happiness that glowed from his eyes whenever he looked at her. Through six years together at university, Rand had never seen anything close to that look on Ford’s face.
It was incredible how much his friend had changed.
Ford was still holding his new daughter, her tiny fist tangled in his hair. Giving in this time, Rand skimmed his fingers over Rebecca’s dark curls. “They’re so soft,” he murmured.
Violet nodded. “All babies are soft.”
“I wouldn’t know. I cannot remember holding a baby before.”
”Really?” She looked surprised to hear that.
Rand shrugged. “I was never around younger children save for my father’s ward, who was five years old when she came to us.”
“Well, someday you’ll have babies of your own.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “I never say never. But should it happen, I can assure you it won’t be any time soon.”
Her laugh tinkled through the nearly empty chapel. “That’s always what a man says just before he falls in love.”
Ford rolled his eyes. “If you say so, my sweet.” He turned to his friend. “Now, come along—I want to show you the water closet I built. It’s much better than the ones imported from France.”
Rand smiled as he followed his friends out the door. Perhaps Ford hadn’t changed that much, after all.