As for Miss Conley, she might yet have prevailed, for she had a great advantage in beauty, but she stalked off in a fury, and paid no more heed to the younger Mr. Roberts for the rest of the evening.
In the meantime, Germaine kept glancing meaningfully from the marquis to Meg, as if displeased that he did not dance with the governess. Was it possible she had developed a protective feeling about a member of her future husband’s staff, an employee who was soon to depart? That seemed unlikely, and yet she turned to the marquis and snapped, “Lord Bryn, don’t stand about looking hangdog. Dance with Miss Linley!”
His lordship appeared taken aback, but she’d left him little choice. With a stiff bow, he made the request of Miss Linley, and she agreed before she realized the orchestra was beginning a waltz. She had hoped for a less intimate Scottish reel.
Once, she had longed with all her heart to waltz with a man for whom she truly cared. But now the dance seemed to spring upon her like a hungry lion whenever she felt least prepared to fight for her aplomb.
Her heart fluttered as they walked out together, and when he placed one hand upon her waist, Meg blushed fiercely. If only she had not attended tonight. Yet how could she have borne to stay away?
“How splendid you appear, Miss Linley,” the marquis murmured.
“Thank you.” She dared to look up at him, trying to store the sight of his beloved face for the long years ahead. “It was kind of Miss Geraint to lend me her gown.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She has a very kind heart.”
“So it appears.”
They moved easily together, palm against palm. Meg longed to run her hand across the superfine of his coat, to press her cheek to his shoulder. How could she be such a wanton?
He held himself stiffly, his manner remote. The consequence was to render Meg both grateful and deeply saddened.
How fortunate that she was soon to leave. And how heartbreaking.
The lordship fought to retain his composure. He wanted this young woman in a way he had never before experienced. The scent of her intoxicated him, although he could discern no particular perfume. A subtly alluring fragrance wafted from her hair and skin, filling his veins like a fine liquor, tempting but never entirely satisfying, so that he longed to possess all of her and knew even that would scarcely be enough.
For the first time in his life, the marquis understood the crazy things some people did. Men running off with milkmaids, ladies marrying their butlers, couples dashing to Scotland in defiance of their parents.
So this was love. And he had found it too late.
For the brief spell of the dance, they were lost in a world together, but then it ended. Drawing with difficulty upon his sense of duty, the marquis relinquished Miss Linley, and gazed about for Miss Geraint.
Where the devil was she? He had a duty to perform, and she ought to be compliant enough to allow him to do it properly.
Germaine was at that moment walking on the balcony with Squire Roberts, discussing the breeding of mares.
“I say,” the squire remarked at last, “you don’t find this matter a bit, er, vulgar? I’ve no wish to offend.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” replied Germaine, surprised that this down-to-earth chap would bother to apologise. “What else is worth talking about? Anyone who worries about offending me is wasting his time, for I’ve a stronger stomach than most men of my acquaintance.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” agreed the squire, who had seen the lady down three glasses of sherry in the past half hour. “Well, if you promise not to take offence, what do you say to marrying me instead of his lordship?”
There was a proposal to Germaine’s liking. No edging politely toward the subject and then shying off. No negotiations over marriage portions, and no nonsense about asking her father, whom she doubted had any opinion on the subject. “Done,” she said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Done,” she repeated. “You have got yourself a wife. Unless you’ve changed your mind. Have you?”
“Certainly not! Well, you don’t say! You’ve given me an answer straight out. Damnedest thing!” Finally recalled to propriety, Squire Roberts kissed her cheek and then, after stammering his heartfelt thanks, went off to ask Mr. Geraint for his blessing.
Germaine hoped the man wouldn’t be gone long. She’d been quite interested in what he had to say about stallions and how to persuade mares to accept them.
It was then that Lord Bryn discovered Germaine alone just inside the terrace doors. He would never find a better time, he reflected. “Miss Geraint?” he said. “May I speak with you privately?”
She cast a peculiar look at him, but nodded and stepped outside. The marquis cleared his throat. Now that the moment had come, doubts assailed him. More than doubts; certainties. But he must carry on.
“You surely are aware of why you and your family were invited here,” said Lord Bryn. “I, er, wish to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“Too late!” boomed Germaine. “Already promised myself to Squire Roberts. You need a more direct manner if you’re to capture a lady’s heart, Lord Bryn.” She clapped him on the shoulder and strode back into the ballroom.
Andrew stood open mouthed, staring after her.
Then he went in search of Miss Linley.
Chapter Fourteen
When the marquis appeared at Meg’s side and asked to speak with her privately, she wondered whatever could be the matter. She glanced worriedly at Germaine, but that lady only smiled broadly and winked. Beyond her, on the balcony, Squire Roberts and Mr. Geraint were conducting an earnest conversation.
In confusion, Meg laid her hand on Lord Bryn’s arm and accompanied him to his study. She’d imagined such a scene a hundred times, but the marquis could not possibly intend what she’d dreamed.
He closed the door behind them, a most improper thing to do. “Sherry?” The marquis offered her a glass and, with a weak nod, Meg sank onto the settee.
“Have I done something wrong, my lord?” she asked.
“Not at all.” He handed her the liquid and she swallowed a gulp, nearly coughing at the unaccustomed fire.
The marquis moved around his desk and sat on its edge. “How would you like to bring your mother to live at Brynwood?”
“My mother? Here?” Meg couldn’t think straight. How handsome he was in the glow of the lamp. Why did he watch her so intently? She had to devise some excuse about her mother
“That is a very roundabout way of proposing marriage.” Lord Bryn gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I realize I haven’t done it properly. You’ve no father to ask, I gather, and I’ve no acquaintance with your mother. So I put the matter to you directly.”
“But, Miss Geraint... ?”
“She has been stolen from under my very nose, and by none other than Squire Roberts.” He spoke with dry irony.
‘They’re to be married?’’
“So she tells me.” He stared into his wine, then regarded her directly. “Well, Miss Linley? Do you choose to become Lady Bryn?”
Meg couldn’t believe this was true. He hadn’t said he loved her, but why else would he make such an offer? “My answer will be yes,” she said, “but first I must make an explanation.”
“I hardly think it can be so important as all that.” The marquis crossed the room to sit beside her, slipping one arm about her waist.
How she longed to lean against him, to enjoy his touch. Yet she owed him the truth.
“We must be honest with each other,” Meg protested. “I shall feel much better when we’ve laid our cards upon the table.”
“Let us not talk of gambling at such a time,” he teased.
“But…”
His mouth closed over hers. A thousand stars swirled through Meg’s mind and, dizzied, she steadied herself against the marquis. He held her firmly, his lips exploring her cheeks and eyelids and brow.
All awareness of place and time dissolved. Nothing existed for Meg but the warmth of his m
outh, lifting her out of this earthly realm. The two of them were flung among the heavens, lights dancing about them. They were dancing themselves, to distant music, moving against each other gently, and then with growing intensity.
His grip on her tightened, and his lips traced the delicate curve of her throat, down to the soft white expanse of bosom exposed by the fashionable gown. Shivers of desire ran through Meg, and she understood in one blinding instant what it was she longed for, and why in a moment she would no longer be able to resist.
“My lord,” she gasped with her last ounce of resolve. “We are not yet married.”
“I cannot bear to wait much longer.” With a harsh intake of breath, the marquis released her and turned away, his shoulders tense as he fought for control. “I shall request the curate to marry us as soon as possible. Damn the formalities.”
Before Meg could respond, a knock sounded at the door. Muttering a curse, the lordship strode angrily across the room. “Yes?”
It was Franklin. “My lord, forgive me for interrupting you.” He maintained an impassive air that masked any surprise at the sight of Meg, breathless and dishevelled. “Two rough fellows have turned up demanding to see a certain person in the household.”
Lord Bryn frowned in annoyance. “Well, deal with them as you see best. I have more important matters to tend to.”
Franklin hesitated. “May I have a word with you in private, my lord?”
The marquis scowled as though he might refuse, but then said shortly, “Very well,” and stepped into the hallway.
Left alone, Meg tried to sort out her emotions. Her body burned from his touch, and she knew it was dangerous to delay their marriage, for they were not in full control of their passions. Yet she could not marry without her mother and sister present. And there remained the necessity of telling Lord Bryn her complete story.
The prospect hit her like a dash of cold water. How would he respond? Surely if he loved her he would forgive such an innocent deception. Or would he?
In the hallway the marquis strained to comprehend the bizarre tale Franklin was recounting.
“A pair of drunkards? Asking for Miss Linley? Nonsense!” He took care to keep his tone low. “Let me speak with them.”
Franklin led the way to the kitchen, where two scraggly men lolled before the fire, their cheeks and noses scarlet from the combined effects of drink and heat.
“I wish to be alone with these men,” Lord Bryn commanded. “Franklin may remain.”
He waited as the other servants departed, since he had no wish for idle tongues to repeat whatever calumnies these ne’er-do-wells might spread about Miss Linley. “Well?” he demanded. “What is this story you’ve told my butler?”
“Ain’t no story,” said the smaller of the pair, whom Franklin identified as Fred Coves. “We heard from the family she was comin’ to work here, and thought it was time we paid her a visit.”
“She’s our cousin,” added his companion, whom Franklin declared to be Artie. “No harm in coming to see our cousin. Expected she’d show us around a bit, fancy house and all.”
“I believe they’re salt miners from Northwich way,” Franklin interposed. “In spite of their demeanour, my lord, I see no reason to doubt their relationship.”
Relationship? These ruffians, cousins to his Meg? The prospect of becoming a cousin-by-marriage to these rogues was dismaying, but the marquis suspected they would be easily got rid of—for a time, at least. “And you’ve come purely from motives of good fellowship, is it?” The fellows exchanged looks. A narrowing of the eye, a quirk of the lip told the marquis all he needed to know. “Or to intimidate her into bribing you to leave? Is that it?”
A sneer revealed Fred’s rotting front teeth. “We ain’t askin’ nothin’. She be our cousin, that be all.”
Meg wasn’t the sort to let herself be pushed about, Bryn reflected. Time to throw these scoundrels out. “We’ll let her speak for herself, then.”
He flung open the door, causing a great deal of stir and stumbling among the servants who had crowded about to listen. They started back apologetically, and at his order, one of the maids ran to summon Miss Linley from the study.
A few minutes later he heard her footsteps approaching. Odd how that he could have picked that soft footfall out of a crowd. “Yes, my lord?” She stepped into the room, every bit as lovely as she had been only moments ago in his arms.
“Do you know these men?” he asked impatiently. “They’ve come to see their cousin. Have you anything to say to them?”
“What, her?” snarled the fellow known as Fred. “That ain’t Myra. She’s an impostor! What’s she done with your governess, that’s what I’d like to know!”
Meg’s face turned an unnatural white, and then she swooned.
Chapter Fifteen
Meg awoke to find herself still in the kitchen, half-sprawled in a chair and being fanned by Mrs. Franklin. The two nasty-looking men sat staring at her in dismay, and she realised that only a minute or two had passed. If only it could be a century, and she awakening like Sleeping Beauty into a new world.
“That ain’t Myra!” declared one homely fellow, turning to his companion. “Eh, Fred?”
The other fellow shook his head. “Don’t even have the Lindsay nose, do she, Artie? Though faintin’, well, that’s somethin’ Myra does a fair bit.”
These men must be acquaintances of the woman from the mail coach. Why had she never considered that someone might come seeking that person?
“Well, Meg.” The marquis regarded her with narrowed eyes. “What have you done with Myra Lindsay, and who in heaven’s name are you?”
At that moment Meg wished devoutly that she could turn to smoke and vanish up the fireplace. Again and again over the past few weeks she had tried to envision the scene in which she would reveal the truth to the marquis. Never had she imagined, even in her cruelest nightmares, that the revelation would be made at such an awkward time and in the most embarrassing of circumstances, certain to make her actions appear in the worst possible light.
“My name is Margaret Linley,” she whispered. “I’m... not really a governess. Myra Lindsay was on the mail with me and my maid from London. She was mistakenly accused of theft, and had hysterics. Even though the purse was found, she insisted on turning back.”
A spell of silence elapsed while everyone in the room digested this information. Coldness edged the marquis’s voice when he spoke at last. “Interesting. However, it fails to explain your presence here.”
Vaguely Meg became aware that others had entered the room. She caught a glimpse of Germaine, Squire Roberts, and other guests, as well as servants. There was no avoiding an answer, although she dearly wished the marquis would interview her in private. But from the hardness of his expression, she could expect no mercy.
“I was travelling from London to Derby with my maidservant,” she said. “She was to arrange my transportation from Manchester, and then make her own way to Liverpool, to be married.”
“Never heard of such a thing.” Mrs. Geraint sniffed. “I’d have given her the sack!”
Meg ignored the remark. “I was in my private salon, awaiting the driver from the post chaise, when a coachman came to the door inquiring about Miss Lindsay. I assumed he meant me. I’m so nearsighted that I didn’t recognize the carriage for a private one.” Intense silence radiated from her listeners, like pine scent from a Christmas tree. “I was brought here, to Brynwood, where I encountered your lordship and the children, and discovered I had been mistaken for a governess.”
“And you thought it would be a great sport to pretend that you really were Miss Lindsay?” Disgust hardened the marquis’s features to a mask. “A lark to entertain your friends when you return to London?”
How to explain what she could not justify even to herself? “No! It wasn’t at all like that. I liked the children very much, and I enjoyed feeling useful.”
How weak her words sounded to her own ears, and how wintry and distant
the marquis appeared. “You told me all this in jest, I recall. That must have increased your amusement, to pretend to tell me the truth and joke with me about it. What a fine on-dit that will make among your silly friends.”
Had he ceased to love her so thoroughly that he could now suspect her of almost unlimited wrongdoing? “I haven’t sunk so low as that!” she retorted. “I have no use for cruel gossip. My mother is Lady Mary Linley, and I am a good friend, as it happens, of Miss Geraint’s cousins, Helen and Edward Cockerell. Indeed, they were kind enough to sponsor my sister, Angela, at her come-out.”
“Helen’s mentioned you in her letters,” cried Germaine. “Good show! Getting on the wrong carriage--bully for you, sticking it out. Been a good governess, too, and not many ladies could handle that job. Knew from the first that you was quality.”
“Disgraceful carryings-on,” muttered Mrs. Geraint.
“Let the girl be,” said her husband. “Rousing good story.”
“Kind of thing the fine folks in London is always doing, ain’t it?” said Squire Roberts. “Going about having a lark? Don’t see no point in taking on about it. No harm done.”
Much nodding greeted this remark, amid a general sense of relief that Meg Linley had turned out to be respectable after all. With that, the crowd dispersed, presumably to their previous activities.
Fred and Artie eyed Meg speculatively, as if debating how to turn this situation to advantage. Any plans they might have hatched were cut short when Franklin handed each a packet of food and escorted them firmly to the back door. After they departed, the butler discreetly made his own exit into the hallway, leaving the two principals alone.
Meg stared up at the marquis, hope dying at the revulsion she saw on his face. “Please believe I meant you no harm. I am not the kind of thistle-brain you believe me, my lord.”
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