The Madcap Masquerade

by Nadine Miller

  Theo’s scowl deepened. “Very well, Meg, if you say so, I shall accept your word…in this instance. But never bother trying to lie to me again about your friendship with Richard—or about anything else. I am an astute judge of character, and you have the kind of face that gives you away every time.”

  For the life of him, Theo couldn’t imagine what he’d said that sent Meg into such gales of laughter. Nor would she divulge her reason, no matter how he quizzed her. In the end, he chalked it up to her eccentric nature, and let it go at that.

  “The party is over and the guests are leaving, but I’d like a few minutes alone with you before you depart for home,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. The truth was, this incredible musical talent of hers made her more intriguing than ever, and he was determined to discover where and how she had learned to play with such skill and passion.

  “With the weather as it is, we can’t go out on the terrace,” he continued, pointing to the streaming window. “But we’re very near the family portrait gallery. We can stroll there to our heart’s content.”

  Without waiting to see whether or not she was in agreement, he picked up a candelabra from a nearby ivory and ebony pier table, propelled her through the door Richard had just exited and across the hall into the gallery. “My father,” he said indicating the first portrait.

  Maeve studied the somewhat dissolute-looking former earl. “He was very handsome,” she said. “You have his features.”

  “But not his coloring.” Theo made a sweeping gesture with the candelabra. “Nor, for that matter, the coloring of any of my predecessors. I must be a throwback to some distant ancestor who failed to have his portrait painted.”

  “Like an Italian gardener,” she said with what sounded very much like a giggle, then blushed furiously.

  “Very possibly,” Theo admitted, startled by her surprisingly earthy sense of humor. He stifled the laugh rising in his throat. “But I must say, Miss Barrington, I consider it most unladylike of you to suggest such a thing.”

  She sobered instantly. “I know. I keep forgetting.”

  “Forgetting what, Meg?”

  “That I am supposed to act like a lady.”

  “Ah yes, that.” He surveyed her flaming cheeks. “For some reason I cannot begin to explain, your rather amazing admission reminds me that I haven’t kissed you since Sunday morning. How are we ever to become sufficiently acquainted to enter comfortably into marriage at that rate?”

  “How indeed?” She regarded him with solemn, trusting eyes and Theo felt a twinge of guilt. She had naively accepted his claim that engaged couples were expected to do a great deal of kissing. With no one but that vulgar old housekeeper and a maid or two at Barrington Hall, who was there to tell her differently? He was free to kiss her whenever he wished.

  He placed the candelabra on a nearby credenza and drew her into his arms. The sweet little ninny obviously knew nothing of the ways of the world outside the borders of her father’s estate. Just thinking about all he would have to teach her after they were married lent a fervor to his kiss that would have seriously shocked most innocent virgins. But Meg Barrington was not the average innocent virgin—a blessing for which Theo sincerely thanked his creator.

  As always, she responded to him with an eager, uninhibited sensuality that sent him into an instant state of painful arousal, and made him curse the fact that he must wait a decent interval after the engagement announcement before setting their wedding date.

  He found himself wondering if she realized what a temptation she was offering with her daring décolleté, and how she would react if he should kiss the two alluring mounds which were all but popping out of the neckline of her gown. Bending his head, he pressed his lips to her creamy flesh, and felt a shock of awareness ripple through her.

  She burrowed her heated face into his shoulder and clung to him as if seeking his protection against…what? The rutting beast that was himself?

  This time the guilt that assailed him was considerably more than a twinge. With firm determination he put her at arms length, lest the lust she aroused in him should drive him to lose all sense of decency. The one thing he hadn’t counted on when he entered into this agreement with the squire was that he would lose his head over—and possibly his heart to—the very woman he had been so reluctant to offer for.

  He might not be in love with Meg Barrington; he had never really believed in that elusive emotion. But he was most certainly in lust, and propriety be damned, he would speak with the squire in the morning. He could see no practical reason why he should put himself through the torture of waiting until autumn to claim the little temptress as his bride.

  Some moments later, having walked her to her carriage, he watched her drive away through the rainy night. “Hell and damnation!” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering he’d completely forgotten to quiz her on how she had managed to gain such expertise on the pianoforte while hidden away in a place as devoid of culture as Barrington Hall.

  Ah well, tomorrow was another day and he’d already planned to call on the squire. He would seek her out and quiz her about it once he’d concluded the business of setting a wedding date.

  Sketchbook in hand, Maeve seated herself on one of the garden benches to wait for Richard’s arrival the following morning. A brisk, southerly wind had blown away the last remnants of the rainstorm during the night. The air felt delightfully fresh and every leaf and blade of grass sparkled in the warm sunshine.

  Her spirits lifted. Surely nothing too disastrous could happen on a glorious morning like this. She would tell Richard the truth as she knew it—except, she quickly amended, for the payment she was demanding for her part in the madcap scheme. She salved her conscience with the thought that men of the cloth were notoriously dense where business transactions were concerned and she would only confuse him by revealing the arrangement between the squire and herself.

  No, she decided, the mild-mannered vicar was no problem. She could handle him. But as for Theo…now there was a magus with a different bag of tricks. Every time she came in contact with him, she felt less in control of her mental and emotional faculties. If she had a grain of sense, she would make certain she was never again caught alone with the annoying fellow. For sooner or later, she was bound to say or do something she would seriously regret.

  Frustrated by the very thought, she resolutely dismissed him from her mind and opened her sketchbook. Leafing through the pages, she came to the half-finished cartoon which was the next in her series about the men who were known as the Regent’s inner circle. This one, at the request of her editor, was on that fascinating fellow, Beau Brummell.

  Thanks to the Regent’s slavish admiration, Brummell had enjoyed a good many years as fashionable London’s most influential arbiter of dress and etiquette. But he and the prince had recently had a falling out and Brummell’s star was rapidly descending.

  Maeve knew the Beau well. He had been a close friend of Lily’s for many years and one of the few people to attend her funeral. Brummell’s caustic wit and irreverence for the dictates of polite society had always fascinated Maeve. Like him, she didn’t suffer fools gladly, even if they were titled fools.

  Now she was torn between loyalty to a friend in trouble and the need to keep her means of employment. For she hadn’t the slightest doubt that her editor would replace Marcus Browne in an instant if she failed to satisfy his urge to join the rest of the bloodthirsty media who were thrusting their literae scriptae swords into the fallen hero. She had started the piece a dozen times, only to give it up in disgust.

  Flipping to a blank page, she began the sketch once again. But to her surprise, instead of Brummell’s fashionable form, the figure emerging beneath her pencil had unruly black hair, amused dark eyes and a naked torso rippling with powerful muscles.

  She stared in disbelief at what she’d drawn. Was she becoming so obsessed with Theo, he was beginning to control her innermost thoughts? And why? Because his kisses made her heart pound and her blo
od race through her veins?

  The old fear that she’d kept buried deep inside her since the day she’d realized she’d reached womanhood rose to haunt her. There was no longer any doubt about it. She had inherited her mother’s promiscuous nature. Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she closed the sketchbook and laid it face down beside her on the bench.

  Just in time, as it turned out. For a moment later, Richard stood before her wearing the same fierce scowl as when she’d last seen him some twelve hours before. “You promised me an explanation of this havey-cavey business you’re involved in. It had better be a good one or I shall be forced to inform my benefactor, the earl, of your duplicity.”

  Patiently, Maeve related all that had transpired since the squire sought her out in London. “So you see,” she concluded, “I absolutely must maintain my masquerade until I know for certain what my twin’s wishes are concerning the earl.”

  “I agree. Under the circumstances, you can do nothing less,” Richard agreed. “But I find it most surprising that Margaret would run away as the squire claims. It is true, she’s painfully shy, but I’d swear that for all her timid ways, she’s pluck to the bone.”

  His brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “You said the squire assured you she was with her aunt in Scotland. “But how do you know he was telling the truth? The evil old reprobate is, among other things, an inveterate liar.”

  That same thought had occurred to Maeve when she’d been unable to pin the squire down as to when Meg would return, but hearing it on Richard’s lips gave it a frightening credence. “I wish I knew how to contact my sister,” she declared. “I doubt she is even aware of my existence. I certainly knew nothing about her until the squire sought me out in London a few days ago.”

  Richard’s smile had an air of triumph about it. “I have Lady MacKendrick’s direction. Margaret and I corresponded when she visited her aunt two years ago. If you write to her, I will personally see that it’s posted. Better yet, I’ll hire one of the village lads who’s an expert horseman to take it to Scotland for me.”

  It was the first encouraging thing that had happened since Maeve had begun her madcap masquerade. She immediately wrote a letter describing everything that had occurred since her fateful meeting with the squire. It covered two full sheets of paper from her sketchpad, and with the exception of Theo’s kisses and her bewildering reaction to them, was accurate down to the last detail. She ended it with, “Dear sister, let me know your wishes. We are neither of us helpless pawns in this scheme of our father’s as long as we stand together.”

  Folding it into a neat square, she handed it to Richard, who left immediately to send it on its way. His parting words were, “It could take a fortnight or more to receive a reply, so you might be obliged to pose as your twin longer than you’d planned.” Maeve’s heart sank to her toes. Under no circumstances did she dare stay one day beyond the fortnight to which she’d originally agreed. Come what may, she would collect the money due her and travel to London by mail coach if her father refused her the use of his carriage.

  But she held her tongue. The earnest young vicar was the last person to whom she could explain that she was desperate to leave Kent because every day she stayed at Barrington Hall, her resistance to Theo’s subtle but persistent seduction grew weaker. She was too aware of her own deficiencies of face and form to believe he desired her as passionately as his kisses suggested. She strongly suspected the rakehell was “hedging his bet” as her gambling-mad mother would say. For how could his heiress of choice refuse to marry him once she was well and truly compromised?

  Her duty was clear. For Meg’s sake, as well as her own, she must stand firm against Theo’s magnetic charms—and against her own wanton nature.

  So engrossed was she in her grim thoughts, she failed to notice the tall, black-haired man approaching along the garden path. Not until he stood so close his broad shoulders blocked out the sun did she look up.

  By then it was too late to raise her guard, and she could see that Theo had the same wicked glint in his eyes that had been her undoing in the portrait gallery the night before. Instinctively, she braced herself, certain she was about to face the first test of her brave, new resolve.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Was that Richard I saw leaving the garden as I came across the terrace?” Theo had that scowl on his face again—the one he’d worn when he’d accused her of “dangling Richard like a puppet on a string.”

  Maeve scowled back. “As a matter of fact it was.”

  “I thought we agreed you should discourage his attention.”

  “That, my lord, was your idea. I agreed to no such thing. Richard is my vicar, my confidante and my friend; I refuse to tell him he cannot call on me.”

  Sparks of anger flashed in Theo’s dark eyes. “Devil take it, Meg, I will not be disobeyed in this. I have no intention of allowing my wife to keep a cicisbeo in tow, even if the spineless fellow is her vicar.”

  “Richard is not spineless, as well you know,” Maeve declared, “and luckily, since I am not your wife, I am under no obligation to obey you in this or any other matter.”

  Theo’s smile was triumphant. “That, my dear termagant, is a situation which will soon be rectified. I have just this morning informed the squire that I want our wedding date moved forward to the first day of June—a plan with which he is in full agreement. That should give us ample time to post our bans and prepare for a simple country wedding, since you’ve already shopped for your bride clothes.”

  Shock propelled Maeve to her feet. The first of June was just a little over a fortnight away. Chances were she would not have heard from Meg by that time, much less formulate her plan to thwart this latest scheme hatched by their wily father and the earl. It was becoming more and more obvious that the squire didn’t care which daughter he married off to the earl, so long as the conditions of the Barrington Hall land grant were fulfilled.

  She felt momentarily gripped by panic until she remembered a piece of advice Lily had given her not long before she died. If ever you find yourself cornered by some man, silly goose, strike back. It’s the last thing the fools expect a woman to do, and it throws them off guard every time.

  Maeve raised her chin to a defiant level and stared Theo straight in the eye. “How dare you make such a decision without consulting me, you unconscionable tyrant!” She clenched her fist and waved it in his face. “I hadn’t yet convinced myself I’d be ready to marry you in September; I know to a certainty I won’t be in June. You and the squire will simply have to make other plans.”

  The haughty arrogance Theo was so adept at assuming slid over him like a familiar mantle. “You forget yourself, my dear,” he said with icy disdain. “The truth is a woman has little to say in such matters.”

  His feisty betrothed tossed her head. “Unless that woman is two and twenty. Then by English law no man, including her father, can force her to marry. And if you think the evil old devil can bring me to heel by threatening to withdraw his support, you are dead wrong, my lord. My aunt has offered me a home in the Scottish Highlands should the squire’s domineering ways become unbearable.”

  Theo felt a stab of something closely resembling fear. He couldn’t believe Meg would actually consider breaking their engagement. Was it possible she hadn’t yet realized how perfectly they suited each other?

  Catching hold of her shoulders, he drew her to him. “Are you saying you would prefer living with your old aunt to living as my wife?”

  She offered no resistance, but her little pointed chin rose yet another inch. “That is exactly what I’m saying, my lord. If this latest bit of business is any example of the treatment I could expect at your hands, I would simply be exchanging one tyrant for another if I married you. Anything would be preferable to that.”

  Now he was a tyrant. Theo felt consumed with rage that this insignificant country miss should judge him, the Earl of Lynley, and find him wanting. “Of all the charges you could level against me, tyranny is the most unju
st,” he declared indignantly. “You have only to inquire of my servants and tenant farmers to learn I am a scrupulously fair master. I would certainly be no less to my wife.”

  The cheeky miss actually sneered at him. “A benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant, my lord.”

  Theo loosed his hold on her arms. Deuce take it, she was serious. It had never before occurred to him that a woman might desire such things as freedom and independence. Those were male ideals; females were supposed to be content with comfort and security and a babe or two to dandle on their knees. He was beginning to think this woman he’d chosen to marry was not only eccentric—she was downright unnatural.

  She was also, unfortunately, right about the legal status of a single woman over one and twenty. Neither he nor her father could force her to marry him. Theo took a deep, calming breath, but his heart still thudded painfully in his chest. The truth was he found it absolutely unthinkable that Meg Barrington, and her sizable fortune, would not one day belong to him.

  Furthermore, the most disquieting aspect of the bizarre situation in which he found himself was that her fortune was no longer his primary reason for wanting her. He wanted Meg, herself, with every fibre of his being, and the very fact that she rebelled at his normal male dominance made her appear more intriguing than ever—and more intensely feminine.

  It was almost laughable. The stubborn, pig-headed woman was threatening to take up permanent spinsterhood in some godforsaken homecroft in the Scottish Highlands, when he had but to touch her to turn her into a quivering armful of passion.

  Like all women, she was entirely illogical, which was undoubtedly the reason why English law was so clear as to the absolute rights of a husband over his wife. Ergo, all he had to do was get his wedding ring on the chit’s finger and his troubles would be over. But until he’d accomplished that, he would have to play his cards close to his chest.

  “Very well,” he said, his tongue firmly lodged in his cheek, “I apologize for not consulting you about the change of wedding date. It was, as you say, inexcusably highhanded of me. I can only plead that I was carried away by my intense admiration for you.”