When the Perfect Comes (The Deverell Series Book 1)

by Susan Ward

  When the Perfect Comes

  The Deverell Series

  Book ~1~

  Susan Ward

  Copyright © 2014 Susan Ward

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692305521

  ISBN-13: 978-0692305522

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my bugs and my bug from another mother. There is a piece of each of you contained in this story. Bug number one’s infectious laughter and wild spirit. Bug number two’s beauty of person and heart. Bug number three’s fragility, faith, innocence and hope. Bug from another mother’s idealism and politics. And even from me a piece: the simple joy of irritation.

  “When the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.”

  1 Corinthians 13:10

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PREVIEWS

  EXCERPTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Cornwall, England, September 1813

  For twenty-five years, Lucien Merrick, the Duke of Dorset, lived with his family in a simple cottage orné named Bramble Hill. To the west lay Land’s End and to the east, the village of Falmouth. A six-day journey by coach, in the North Country, was the ducal estate with its beautifully landscaped parks and gardens. There Lucien had been raised as a boy, and lived until he had married Rhea.

  Bramble Hill possessed none of the manicured formality of the ancestral home of the Merricks. The slightly aloof elegance of Grecian summer houses and velvet lawns of sternly perimetered flower beds, edged in topiary, would have been a garish intrusion amid the graceful naturalness of the landscape here.

  While the house was large, as befitted a man of such great stature, there was nothing of awe-inspiring grandeur about its simple lines. No emblazonments of rank or wealth, to betray to a casual on-looker that this house belonged to a family as rich in history and importance as the Merricks were.

  Yet, the gloriously blooming wild flowers and ancient tress lent an aura of delicate glamour to the humble dwelling built facing the shore. It instantly drew the eyes. Every weather worn, sun-drenched inch screamed out that happiness dwelt here. No other estate was more beloved by the Merrick family.

  It was why Rhea insisted upon living here. It was a working farm, one of the loveliest farms on the coast of Cornwall. She had spent the last decade of her life, before marriage to Lucien, on a modest farm in Virginia. Poverty and necessity, forced the unexpected change of circumstance for this woman of impeccable birth and breeding. She was a blend of noble English lady and American spirited girl, somehow making it work.

  She was adored by the society she rarely ventured into, her style and social graces admired, her tiny flashes of unconventional whim always forgiven. Even her strange proclivity to raise her children outside the rigid formality of the rank they’d achieved by the simple act of birth, had long ago been forgiven by even the strictest members of the ton.

  Criticism of Rhea would achieve nothing, not unless one’s intent was to provoke Lucien’s fury. Lucien indulged Rhea’s every whim. Rhea was happy here. Rhea was Lucien Merrick’s happiness.

  The London season had ended some months earlier. It surprised Lucien that with each passing year his eagerness to return to Cornwall only increased, when he had once spent all his days in London. England was a country at war. On the continent of Europe, they were submerged in their sixth year of war with France, and across the seas a series of petty squabbles had catapulted them into war with their former rebellious colonies, The United States. They were in their second year of war in America, stalled and no closer to peace than they had been when it started. The negotiations and peace talks between Whitehall and the American delegation were little more than farce. They’d been tedious to endure, since he was not a man who found it easy to tolerate ineffectiveness.

  Even in his comfortable mansion in Mayfair, the effect of war on England had been impossible to miss in London. The streets were lined with posters lampooning Napoleon, President Madison, the regent and much to his displeasure, himself. He had been vocal in his disdain over the conflict with America. Now, the walls of that fashionable city, of the country he’d served in loyal dedication for five decades, boasted pictures of him burned in effigy. Hanging from the American flag, no less.

  Twenty thousand people were unemployed in London. The streets were littered with thin, dirty, and shabbily dressed bodies. In row upon row of houses poor families lived in a single room. Less fortunate families were homeless, seeking shelter under bridges, in parks, and the streets of London’s dirty slums. The result of an economy hurt by war. His sympathies were with the masses, all his energies devoted to peace, and what it would bring them all, and now they burned him in effigy.

  The social season had been a tedious bore of entertainments, long grown stale. Within the fashionable drawing rooms and clubs of London, in their high pillared mansions, the upper ranks of society were untroubled by the suffering around them as they danced and gossiped. Even in the never-ending social whirl, the worries of England’s wars had beset Lucien. The prince regent sought his council and never followed it. He’d been vastly relieved to return at the close of the season to his simple dwelling in Cornwall.

  Staring out the casement windows, Lucien’s eyes swept the rough terrain with its windblown trees and cob walls. He took in the jagged tumble of cleft boulders, the water that surged in relentless tides against the cliffs, and then, the green pasture meadow until spotting a familiar form. He settled his gaze on the tiny figure of his daughter, Merry. The only war in Cornwall to beset Lucien was Merry.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lady Meredith Ann Merrick, affectionately known as Merry, glided across the moist, fragrant grass in a graceful flurry, her sapphire blue eyes dancing with poorly concealed amusement as she stared into the nervous gaze of her opponent.

  An hour ago, after a stern lecture from her father regarding her poor conduct at last night’s country ball, she had come from the house. She was prim and proper, in her lavender silk, her waist length curls piled elegantly atop her head, determined to prove that she could deport herself every bit as ladylike as her cousin, Kate.

  Now, her raven tresses dangled loosely about her shoulders, her pearl studded combs and brass hair pins were held in place only by the knots in her curls. Her delicate cheeks were bright with color, and her gown boasted an unsightly grass stain.

  She had no idea how charming the effect of her dishevelment was, or that Rensdale, even in his annoyance, thought her uncommonly fetching. Nor would she have cared if the viscount had given voice to the compliment. It was never her intent to charm Rensdale now, or at any time.

  Her only intent had been to put Rensdale in his place after he had prowled the grounds with Philip, in search of her as he sought to impress her with his expertise in foils.

  “Merry, please. You must stop,” Kate begged over the sound of clanking metal, as an ang
ry foil soared dangerously close to her young cousin’s cheek. “What if your mother should see? We’re still in view of the house.”

  Kate looked anxiously over her shoulder. The house seemed to smile down at them from the small rise above the pasture, and little deserved Kate Merrick’s fretful stare.

  Merry laughed when Rensdale nearly stumbled after her cleverly made forward thrust. Kate, however, was not amused, sure that it was only a matter of time before the duke and duchess learned of Merry’s latest lapse in propriety.

  She knew that a certain measure of their disapproval would fall on her. It was, after all, her duty to help keep Merry in line. To save Merry from herself, as Uncle Lucien was want to put it, though, how they expected her to manage such a mammoth task by herself, Kate would never know.

  Certainly three grueling seasons in London should have shown that it was an exercise in futility. Any respectable match to be settled on her wild cousin would have to occur with a sleight of hand manipulation of Merry’s less attractive qualities, and a healthy share of divine intervention.

  If only Merry had a husband to take her in hand. Hence, Rensdale’s advent into their close-knit ranks at Bramble Hill.

  “Good Heavens, Merry, haven’t you taken this far enough?” Kate admonished, her sweet face stern with reproof. “Perhaps you’re inclined to spend the afternoon with a stern lecture from your mama, but I assure you I am not. You know very well this escapade will make its way through Bramble Hill before supper. Aunt Rhea is going to be furious.”

  Seated on a low cobblestone wall, Merry’s brother, Philip, was more amused than worried. “Hush up, Kate. She’s got him on the run. Don’t distract her.”

  Kate’s eyes flashed at her cousin. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Philip Merrick. This is your doing. I will not see you laughing if Merry is hurt.”

  “It is our viscount there who warrants your concern, Kate.”

  Gnawing her lower lip, Kate had to admit that it did look as if the Viscount Rensdale were in trouble.

  Laughing, Merry made her final lunge, sweeping her foil in a furious, circular motion that unsettled Rensdale’s weapon from his hand, and brought the deadly point of her shiny instrument to rest on the material covering his heart. She’d gone so far as to take the guard off the tip.

  “Merry!” Kate screamed, “Put that sword down before you hurt someone. What has come over you?”

  “I think you owe me an apology, Rensdale,” Merry said, easing the point, ever so slightly, forward. The sight of him red faced and winded made her giggle. Lightly tracing the deadly tip across his chest, she added, “Or perhaps your heart would do better.”

  “Get that blasted thing away from me,” Rensdale demanded furiously, nearly stumbling over a bush as he hurriedly backed away from her. “You go too far this time, Merry.”

  Merry cocked her head, fighting back her laughter.

  “A gentleman would not make sport of a lady. You were insulting in your manner when you offered to...” mimicking his voice, “...Instruct me in the fundamentals of fencing. Clearly I did not need instruction.”

  “This is a man’s skill to master, not a lady’s,” Rensdale pointed out pompously, taking another step back. “You would do well to practice the waltz and become my equal on the dance floor. Then, Lady Gillian would not call you the ‘charging cassock’ and I would not have bruised feet to contend with after every ball.”

  “If you consider me not up to snuff on the dance floor, I suggest you seek out another girl as your partner.”

  “As your future husband, it is my obligation to give you counsel. You are grace itself with that foil in hand. If you could only learn to move so surely when we dance.”

  “In this matter I would say that it is Merry who should give you counsel, my friend,” Philip said dryly. “Perhaps you should fence on the dance floor instead of attempting the waltz. I dare say, Lady Gillian wouldn’t laugh at our Merry, then. Michael, no good ever comes from criticizing Merry. I have eschewed the practice.”

  “What say you, Kate?” Merry asked. “Should I run him through? He was cruel to tell me what Lady Gillian said.”

  “I think last night’s ball was punishment enough,” Kate answered, her eyes twinkling as she met her cousin’s gaze. She battled not to laugh as she recalled the sight of Lord Rensdale hobbling across the lawn, a victim of the waltz via Merry.

  “If you apologize I will put down the sword, Milord.”

  “I am not ready to forgive you, at all. I hate this habit you have of making a spectacle of yourself. You do not behave, at all, in a manner that befits your birth.”

  “Spectacle. I am not a spectacle. For that I will settle for nothing less than my sword through your wicked heart.”

  “Don’t do that, nestling,” Philip advised sagely. “You’ve managed to scare off all your other suitors. Rensdale deserves mercy for his sheer tenacity and nerves of iron.”

  “I dropped my pursuit of Merry, long ago,” Lord Rensdale said stiffly, cautiously keeping his eye on his raven-haired hellion. “They’re wagering at White’s, five to one, that the Merrick chit will not marry this season. I have bet a hundred pounds, myself.”

  “If you are the best England can offer me, I suspect you’ve won your wager,” Merry taunted, never missing a chance to insult His Lordship. “As it is, you stand to collect nothing if I decide my foil would better rest in your chest.”

  Philip sprang smoothly from the wall, shoving the foil away from Michael’s chest after his sister made the blade bend slightly from added pressure. “Oh, will you stop it. What will our father say, Merry, if you let the viscount’s blood here in our pasture?”

  “He’d say ‘Drat, our last hope has gotten away. Darn, Rensdale for his untimely death. How shall I ever marry my daughter off at this rate,’” Merry said flippantly.

  Philip grimaced. “Idiocy and melodrama. No wonder you’re nearly twenty and still unwed. No man wants to take a lunatic as wife.”

  A giggle escaped Kate, despite her valiant efforts not to laugh.

  “Don’t encourage her,” Philip chided. “You are supposed to be a proper influence. Another year and she’ll be on the shelf.”

  “Once Merry becomes my wife, she’ll come to tow,” said Rensdale firmly. “Your sister just needs to be taken in hand and instructed on the proper mode of behavior.”

  “She’ll more likely bite your hand off,” Philip commented wryly.

  “Take me in hand? I am a woman, not a horse. Can you credit what you’re hearing, Kate? Barbaric.”

  “All spirited animals are alike. They need be taught who is their master,” Rensdale remarked firmly.

  “Do you think you are up to the challenge, my lord? You weren’t for today’s,” Merry countered.

  “We shall see. Once I have collected my wager. Why lose five hundred pounds if I can have your sister and the purse in the bargain?” Michael quipped, earning an approving slap against his shoulder from Philip.

  “Spoken like a man of reason,” Philip concurred, amused that, for once, Rensdale wasn’t letting himself be dragged around by Merry. “Besides, she is soon to pass a marriageable age. Who will want the chit then? We’ll have to content ourselves with a doddering old fool, willing to take her off our hands for her dowry. She’ll be yours for the asking, Michael. That is, unless you come to your senses, and ask for our fair Kate.”

  Kate blushed from chin to hairline. She knew very well that her golden hair and green eyes were no match for Merry’s dark beauty. It was no wonder the elegant Rensdale was determined to have Merry, in spite of her cousin’s irritating, exasperating treatment of him.

  “Of course, Merry shall wed Lord Rensdale,” Kate said. “We will never find another who is willing to tolerate her. We all know that the contracts are drawn and only wait for Uncle Lucien’s signature.”

  “And my consent,” Merry added pointedly, knowing very well, that the contracts would not be signed by her father unless she agreed to the marriage.
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  Which she would not. Hadn’t she spent the better part of two years trying to get Rensdale to cry off?

  Under sooty lashes, Merry examined the Viscount Rensdale. His amber eyes settled on her. She felt her insides itch with irritation.

  Even after a fortnight at Bramble Hill, he had not shed his icy London formality. She stared with real loathing at his intricate white cravat and meticulously tailored trousers.

  It was not that Rensdale was an unattractive man. At thirty and two, his face was a pleasant blend of strongly carved features and his hair a mass of expertly groomed blond curls. It was just that he was wrapped in so much condescension, as were too many men of their class. Merry could abide arrogance and stuffiness no more than she could abide the hypocrisy of London society. There was a stiff-neck formality in everything the man did, which was hardly appealing to a girl who loved to run in meadows shoeless.

  If I ever decide I want a husband, it would certainly not be Rensdale, she thought, glaring at him.

  “Marriage is nothing more than the morally sanctioned enslavement of women,” Merry said determinedly. “Why would any woman consent to that? I will never marry. It is my choice and I choose not to.”

  “If you spend the season in London as scandalously as the last, you’ll find yourself wed with nary a chance to object,” Philip said sagely.

  Rensdale’s eyes narrowed on her, knowing that by the end of this season the victory would be his. One more season and Merry Merrick, her delightful little body, her fortune, and her lands, would be his. With or without her consent.

  “Where is Lord Andrew? I had expected to see him today. Did he not return last night?” Rensdale asked.