Mandy gripped her hands tightly together and vowed to school her unruly tongue. And her blushes. If Montsale was willing to overlook her making a complete fool of herself in Hungerford, then she must at least meet him half way. The granddaughter of a duke could also be gracious.
Absurd thought. All she was, was the daughter of an architect/engineer, a man who had risen above his doubtful parentage to be respected for his talent and skills. She was merely Amanda Merriwether, the girl who had been gifted with a title by men who did back-breaking labor from dawn to dusk six days a week and gave their respect sparingly, if at all. To them, she was Lady of the Lock, and that was title enough.
Which self-righteous reassurance did not prevent her from keeping a sharp eye out for the gatehouse at High Meadows. She had caught glimpses of its chimney tops behind the trees, but in all these years she had never crossed the river to venture a look at the country home set aside for the use of the heir to the Duke of Carewe. To display such interest would have been demeaning, particularly after all the fuss and bother over whether the tunnel should be dug at all. So the moment was rife with excitement. Her dreams had once been filled with visions of herself as the “Marchioness of Montsale,” and now, at long last, she was about the enter the house over which the future marchioness would rule.
Idiot! Your dreams are nightmares, bent on consuming you. You cannot live free of your obsession, cannot love or bear children until you put it all behind you.
So why the invitation? Why could Montsale not leave her alone?
He plans to make you his mistress.
Papa will collapse his precious tunnel into rubble!
Your papa is in charge of thousands of men who need to put food in their mouths.
With a sigh, Mandy collapsed into a corner of the gig’s hard-backed seat, shoulders slumping. But it wasn’t in her nature to be cast down for long. This morning she had sung hymns in church, sat through an interminable sermon about accepting God’s plans, and now she was about to dine at the country seat of the Marquess of Montsale. Sadly, she suspected God was looking the other way when the marquess issued his invitation, for according to the strictures laid down by the Church of England, the only time she should come near a person of nobility was as part of the human herd on a public day.
John Merriwether set Esmerelda to a walk, gawking right along with the younger members of the party as they climbed a slight rise through a well-scythed park dotted with oaks, evergreens, and an occasional copper beech. Mounds of rhododendron clung low to the ground. And ahead, as the drive curved, the great house began to take shape—a simple rectangle of golden Bath stone, with hints of the Palladian in a modest portico which sheltered the front door. On either side, the fading afternoon sun was reflected in what seemed like a myriad panes of glass.
A welcoming house, Mandy had to admit. And there was Montsale, come to greet them, wearing the cloak of genial host. After the necessary formalities, he led them toward the south side of the house, where extensive gardens soon came into view. “Behold,” he declared, a sweep of his arm encompassing the view, “the bête noire, the infamous view my father wished to protect.”
Not a word as the six of them stood in a row, stiff as soldiers, gazing out over the Wiltshire countryside. Mandy gritted her teeth, reminding herself of her vow to keep her tongue between her teeth. Very likely the others were doing the same. Even Montsale, foolish man, must feel the tension.
“You’ll note the land drops off toward the river,” John Merriwether said at last. “I doubt a cut would have been seen from this elevation.”
Good for you, Papa! But after telling us all to be silent, that’s not quite fair.
“As I have told you,” Montsale returned, “I could not agree with you more, but as my father enjoys making eminently clear, I hold this estate only through Carewe’s largesse, to keep in trust for my son and my son’s son. Until I am Carewe, I am as bound by my father’s dictates as everyone else.”
To which the Lady of the Lock could offer no rebuttal. Compared to the Duke of Carewe, she was young, female, and of no consequence at all. Without even the urge to voice her opinion, Mandy allowed Montsale to usher them inside.
Had his bland façade wavered when the butler took her cloak and bonnet? Had she caught a flash of admiration as her gown of moss green velvet was revealed? A gleam of appreciation as his glance lifted from below her neckline to her face?
Montsale offered his arm, eyes gone to steel as he challenged her to accept. Her gaze firmly fixed on her toes lest he catch the revealing glow in her own, Mandy complied. But within five minutes, despite her determination not to be seduced by grandeur, she lost her heart to the house as well as the man. The furnishings were from early in the last century. (“My grandmother’s doing,” Montsale informed them. “My mother always said, ‘Why trifle with perfection?’”) And perfect was the word. Beautiful, tasteful, comfortable . . . slightly worn, every piece seemed chosen for both visual grace and functionality. From the nymphs on the ceiling of the entry hall to the sweeping staircase to the gallery above. From a bookroom full of leather-bound volumes that looked as if they’d actually been read to a drawing room decorated with portraits of other young Montsales and their hopeful families. And, surprisingly, a few paintings by masters so recent, Mandy could only wonder if they were additions by the present marquess. If so, she applauded his taste.
The dining room, unfortunately, was decorated by traditional, and sometimes gory, hunting scenes. Something she would definitely change if . . .
Grimly, Mandy forced that thought aside, concentrating on where the marquess was leading them. A morning room (somewhat gloomy in the late afternoon), a music room with a pianoforte and harpsichord, a cozy writing room described by Montsale as, “Once, my mother’s lair.” A small conservatory graced the back of the house, but after no more than a whiff of damp earth, the marquess led them back to the drawing room, where he rang a bell for the butler. “There’s a master suite upstairs,” he told them, plus eleven guest bedchambers. I rattle around like a pebble in a pail, so I seldom come here.”
“But a grand place to raise a family, my lord,” Alan Tharp declared.
“Ideal,” John Merriwether echoed, while Mandy wished she could fade into the gilded woodwork. “A splendid bit of architecture,” he added. To which each guest, including Mandy, hastened to agree.
After sherry and easy conversation (though the awed young engineers were more subdued than usual), the marquess took Mandy’s arm and led the parade into the dining room, where places for six had been set at one end of a table that could easily seat twenty. Miss Merriwether was, of course, on Montsale’s right. As she was admiring the pea soup, nicely flecked with bits of bacon and mint, the marquess leaned toward her, confiding, “Most young ladies of my acquaintance would have a fit of the vapors if expected to sit down to dinner with five gentlemen and no other ladies.”
Mandy paused with her fingers ’round her soup spoon, replying in an equally confidential tone, “But I am not ‘most young ladies.’ I believe we established that some time ago.”
Montsale’s hand flew up in the sign acknowledging a hit in fencing. “Which, of course,” he added with a gracious inclination of his head, “is why I find you so refreshing. Even at your most intransigent,” he added silkily.
Mandy concentrated on her soup, though her throat seemed to have swollen ’til naught but a trickle could get through. If she spent much more time around the Marquess of Montsale, she was likely to starve.
“Your turn,” he whispered, quite wickedly.
Basic good manners to the rescue. “I trust your mother and grandmother are well?” Mandy remarked before swallowing another spoonful.
A slight twitch of his lips heralded a perfectly bland, “They are quite well, thank you. As are my sister and my brother.”
“Lord Jeremy was much missed after his abrupt departure from Bath.” Diligently, Mandy applied herself to the pea soup, not looking up.
&nbs
p; “Wearing the willow, Miss Merriwether?”
“Not for Lord Jeremy.”
Silence, while she castigated her wretched tongue. Aunt Tynsdale would say she was wearing her heart on her sleeve, but she could not allow Montsale to believe she was enamored of his brother, and her thoughts had exploded into words.
No need to worry. He would think there was someone else for whom she was wearing the willow, for the way they constantly quarreled, he would never believe her tendre was for him.
Untrue, alas. Mandy sighed. It was what was not said when they were together that told the tale. The frozen moments when their eyes met, the awkward pauses, the strange something, like the approach of a violent storm, that filled the air around them, whether they met in a ballroom or on a riverbank. As it was, here and now, when they seemed to be the only two at the table.
Trout with dill sauce took the place of the soup, and like an automaton Mandy turned to Alan Tharp, who was seated on her right. Relief, that was all she felt, she told herself firmly. Blessed relief. A short respite from agony until the next course had her turning back to Montsale.
Dinner threatened to stretch into infinity.
Chapter Thirteen
Not for Lord Jeremy. As Bourne carefully parted bits of trout from its delicate bones, Miss Merriwether’s words echoed through his head. He did, however, manage to direct an intent gaze toward John Merriwether, who seemed to require no more than a nod or encouraging look to continue his summary of the progress of the Challenor Tunnel. All Bourne took in was that the infamous tunnel would be complete by the following summer.
But without the tunnel it’s likely he would never have met Amanda Merriwether. The entire Kennet and Avon canal might have been built without him seeing her at anything less than a distance and thinking, What a pretty girl.
Did Carewe perhaps rue the day he’d insisted on the tunnel?
Not for Lord Jeremy. The words kept running through his head. Did she mean what he thought she meant? Or had she developed a tendre for someone else? What a coil! They couldn’t say two words to each other without brangling. And yet strong feelings seemed to beget even stronger, and admittedly softer, feelings. If that were not true, after the debacle in Hungerford he would be in London now, doing what young lordlings had been doing for centuries. And determined to keep doing it until he finally set up his nursery when gray hairs greeted him in the mirror. Common sense dictated that he should have learned long since to leave beautiful women with questionable antecedents and tongues as sharp as their brains in the dust of his days as a young man about town.
Common sense be damned!
After the removal of the remains of a fine rump roast with root vegetables, the footmen delivered apple tarts and a cheese wheel to the table, and Bourne realized he had yet another social crisis to solve. Since Miss Merriwether’s cryptic utterance, they had managed stilted conversations on music and politics, but in a few minutes it would be the point in the dinner when the hostess gave the signal for the ladies to withdraw while the gentlemen indulged in port and conversation not considered suitable for ladies. But tonight . . .
Once again, Bourne leaned to his right, keeping his voice low. “Do you drink port, Miss Merriwether?”
“I live in a world of men, my lord. How could I avoid it? In moderation, of course,” she added demurely.
Minx! “In that case I trust you will join us for a glass. We can scarcely dismiss you to the drawing room by yourself. But afterwards I hope you will entertain us with a song or two.”
Candlelight gilded her bronze hair as her green eyes met his with their customary defiance. “I fear I have no accomplishments, my lord. I do not sing, play the piano or harp. I sketch a bit, but I do not have my portfolio by me. I have memorized no poems, though I could perhaps recite a bit of Caesar’s Commentaries—in Latin of course. And I should feel quite silly striking a pose as I’ve heard has become the fashion in London.”
Miss Merriwether’s face brightened as a new thought struck her. “I suppose I could discourse or explain the architectural wizardry necessary to build tall buildings on a steep incline.”
Bourne caught a look of sympathy in John Merriwether’s eyes as he passed the cheese wheel. Devil a bit, but the girl had always been able to annihilate him with only a few words. Why must he torture himself? In an hour his guests would be gone, and tomorrow he would do what he should have done after Hungerford. Return to London and all its delights.
His butler appeared at Bourne’s elbow. “My lord, it would appear a severe storm is approaching. Should I have Mrs. Wren prepare—”
A thunderclap drowned out the butler’s words. Miss Merriwether gasped, begged pardon. “I’m not usually so faint-hearted,” she added. “It was just the surprise of it.”
“Not the time of year for it surely,” her father added, his engineers echoing their agreement.
“You will stay the night, of course,” Bourne told them.
“These storms pass quickly,” Merriwether countered.
“But the roads will be muddy, the air damp.” Bourne proffered one of his rare smiles. “Surely ’tis much better to spend the night here, even if you find yourselves rather overdressed for work in the morning. I have no doubt Mrs. Wren can produce suitable nightshirts and something for Miss Merriwether.”
At that moment a jagged bolt of lightning lit the dining room’s windows, followed by a boom that threatened to shake the cherubs off the ceiling. Miss Merriwether cringed, and somehow her hand was in his, his fingers viselike around hers. The rumble died away, Miss Merriwether tugged, Bourne let go, quite certain his ears had turned pink.
“Port, Jameson,” he ordered. “I believe we could all benefit from a glass.” Keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the cheese wheel, Bourne cut a wedge and slid it onto Miss Merriwether’s plate.
She offered a wide-eyed stare in return. “Are you suggesting, my lord, that I am a timid mouse?”
“Merely fulfilling my role as host,” he returned rather loftily before adding soto voce, “Eat your cheese, Miss Mouse.”
Miss Merriwether, eyes glittering with what he hoped was amusement instead of anger, inquired sweetly, “Shall I pick it up in both hands and nibble—”
A sudden gale rattled the windows, torrential rain waterfalling against the panes. The chandelier swayed, candles sputtering as wicks came perilously close to being snuffed by wax. “A devilish nasty storm,” John Merriwether admitted over the howl of the wind. “I believe we will accept your kind offer, Montsale.”
Mandy had to admit Montsale’s suggestion that they remove to the drawing room after a single glass of port was the act of a sensitive host. But never had she expected him to sit down at the harpsichord and provide them with a skilled rendition of a Bach Invention and a complex Fugue. And then, as a footman made the rounds with more glasses of port, Montsale moved to the pianoforte and further startled his captive audience by keyboard versions of tavern ditties whose words were definitely best left unsung. If Mandy had not recognized snatches of songs she’d heard the navvies sing, the smirks exchanged by Luke and Peter would have been enough to reveal the tunes’ prurient content. Men! And Montsale as bad as all the rest.
He was taunting her. Behold, in the British upper classes even the gentlemen are taught to perform.
Or was he testing her? Did he wish to see if she recognized the songs—meaning did she frequent bawdy taverns?
No, Mandy conceded as she sat on a well-upholstered settee situated close to the fire. The marquess was simply striving to entertain his guests, since she—unaccomplished idiot that she was—was unable to fulfill the expected female role of providing after-dinner music. Nor so much as a decent recitation. Perhaps she should memorize Lady Macbeth’s “Is this a dagger I see before me?” That might be singularly appropriate for a dark, stormy night. And the dagger might come in handy . . . in case of midnight prowlers.
As if . . .
“Caesar’s Commentaries, Miss Merriwether?”
&nbs
p; And there he was, looming over her, and she hadn’t even noticed him leaving the piano bench.
“Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est,” Mandy declaimed for his ears alone. “Alas, the rest escapes me.”
“Four books in which Caesar brags of his French conquests, and you can only recall the first sentence? For shame, Miss Merriwether. Perhaps a recitation from Psalms? Surely you have read the Bible?” The marquess waggled an eyebrow.
Psalms indeed. The beast, how dare he! “I suggest you set up a card table, my lord,” Mandy returned coolly. “My father and his engineers are fond of whist.”
After a nod that could only be described as civil at best, the marquess joined the gentlemen, resulting in a small flurry of activity while the card table was set up. “I say, my lord,” Alan Tharp said after complimenting Montsale on his musical skill, “is there an announcement in the wind? The Bath tabbies seemed to think news of your betrothal imminent.”
Mandy tried to burrow into the settee, even as her ears strained to hear every syllable. Mr. Tharp’s question was far from casual, of that she was certain. He was nearly as anxious as Montsale’s family to make certain the marquess’s interest lay elsewhere.
“I do not plan to set foot in parson’s mousetrap for a good many years to come.”
Mandy peeked around the wing of her chair in time to see Alan Tharp deliver a man-to-man look to their host. “That might come as a surprise to Lady Christabel and her mama.” Mandy held her breath.
The storm hit a lull; inside, all conversation ceased, every ear on the prick. The marquess, who had unbent most remarkably over the course of the evening, suddenly retreated behind the blank façade for which he was known. “It is remarkable,” he offered, “how greatly on dits may vary from facts.”
Mr. Tharp, unable to hide his chagrin, murmured, “Indeed,” and with a slight bow retreated to the card table that was now ready for play.
Lady of the Lock Page 11
