by Susan Ward
The Duke of Dorset laughed. “Morgan can’t compare with the trials to be endured at the hand of a blue eyed filly, with too much spirit, and not enough sense.”
“She is, after all, your daughter, Lucien.”
“That she is, Andrew, but with enough of Rhea in her to make up for that.”
“I should be off to Falmouth,” Lord Warton announced, rising from his chair.
“I shall see you at nightfall, Warton. Perhaps we’ll have an end to the deuced annoyance,” Andrew Merrick announced, seeing his friend to the study door.
“A bit of good luck, at last, Andrew,” the duke murmured.
“We will see how long our luck holds. I have nearly had Morgan three times and he’s escaped. He should not have escaped me in Swansea. I still don’t know how he managed to know my moves there.”
“You will succeed, Andrew. Castlereagh has faith in you, and so do I.”
Andrew laughed gruffly. “Castlereagh would rest easier if you were to take this matter in hand, Lucien. I know very well, he thinks me second best.”
“I have my own problems, Andrew. Would that I could trade them for yours.”
Andrew Merrick smiled with wry understanding. “Merry?”
“What else? Another season. Another scandal. I won’t have it. Not again.”
The steely determination in her father’s voice was impossible to miss. Merry tensed. “What is that you have, Lucien?” Andrew asked.
Lucien Merrick sighed. “Perhaps the solution for my dilemma.”
Andrew scanned the papers. “Good God, Lucien, how could you even consider this?”
“She’s had her pick among the dandies at court. I won’t tolerate Merry’s delays any longer. She is left to choosing from these two fates in my hand. It is past time for her to marry, and marry she will. Last season, for all the interest she stirred, not a single offer was forthcoming. If left on her own, it will not be long before not a single respectable family will receive her. Her actions grow more scandalous. I live in dread of her every whim.”
“Her escapades, though reckless and foolish, are not so shocking or serious, Lucien. You exaggerate it all out of proportion.”
Lucien Merrick smiled grimly. “Do you forget what she did at Carlton House? Would you be so tolerant if it were your Kate?”
“It was youthful foolishness and the regent was not greatly miffed.”
“Only because Brummel laughed. It galls me to no end that I owe my daughter’s continued good grace in society to that man. She is my daughter and a Merrick. It has come to this. That upstart, that bounder shielding her against her actions, when the name of Merrick can no longer accomplish that feat. You know how I detest Brummell. Now, I am in his debt and the blackguard knows it.”
“Dear Lord, Lucien, you make it sound like she engaged in treason.”
“People have had their head on Traitor’s Gate for less. We are at war with America. If Prinny hadn’t settled on tolerance because of Brummel’s amusement, there would have been nothing I could have done to protect her. You know that, Andrew.”
“She sang ‘The Rich Lady Over the Sea’. That’s all. Of course, it was not wise to do so with Prinny and half of London in attendance to hear. But, it can hardly come as too great a shock when the street pamphlets bandy about your opposition to the war with America. It is common knowledge how the Merricks feel about this matter, Lucien, and you have hardly been silent. She is nothing, if not loyal to her politics. Both you and I openly oppose England’s Orders in Council. She is a Merrick, after all. What she did, it was not so shocking or a scandal.”
“I opposed the Orders in Council. I oppose the blockade of American ports. I don’t expound treason in the midst of social gatherings with the regent, no less.”
“Neither does Merry.”
“Not yet, but I have come to accept that I can put nothing past her.”
Merry’s cheeks burned. Did her father really think her capable of treason? How could he have misunderstood her so completely?
The lampoons plastered on the streets in London had been horrible, expressing outrage at the Merrick’s well-known politics, opposing the war with America. It had seemed a reasonable reply at the time. Rensdale had been so obviously shocked by her brother’s suggestion, that the thought of not doing it had never entered her mind. She had wanted only to irritate Rensdale, and to tell London to go to the devil with their opinions of the Merricks. She hadn’t thought of the implications of her acts.
How could her father react so strongly when their politics were the same? How could he think her capable of treason?
“I think you make too much of this,” Andrew said sagely.
“What about her other follies? Her blatant association with the young radical set in London, spouting their anti-monarchal rhetoric, wanting to bridge the classes and the sexes. She exercises absolutely no caution in voicing her sympathies for the cause of the Americans, and openly expounds the fairness of the destruction of the aristocracy. Her absolute lack of decorum is how she deports herself in all circumstances. At Bramble Hill, her conduct is no better than a common farm lass. Spinning, weaving, plaiting straw, and running bare foot through meadows. All eliminate the possibility of an excellent marriage. She stubbornly refuses to behave in a manner that befits her birth, or by settling herself in marriage. The London scandalmongers make sport of her, Andrew. Am I to wait until no respectable family in England will have her, until she brings about her complete ruin?”
“She is a spirited girl who enjoys living, Lucien. Her position is secure.”
“I mean to see it remains that way.”
“I can’t believe that you will truly do this, Lucien.”
There was no softening in the duke’s voice. “I have decided upon this course. We all must accept certain standards of conduct for our own wellbeing. Merry seems incline not to. Only this afternoon, she was clashing swords with Rensdale in the front pasture. How much more do you think Rensdale will tolerate from her? Who will I find to replace him, once his interest is pushed to the limit? Rensdale has made his suit. The terms are both generous and fair. She needs a husband and children to settle her down. Rhea and I—” his voice broke with regret, “—we have been too indulgent with her in the past. I can’t afford to indulge her whim any longer.”
“She loathes Rensdale, Lucien.”
“Merry sees Rensdale, not as a man, but a threat to her independence. Once she marries him, she will see her fight will do her no good. And what will indulging Merry bring her? Unhappiness in the end, when she finds herself a social outcast. Without a husband, without her reputation, or a choice. Then, what will her life be? I can’t allow that, Andrew. She forces me to leave her to either Rensdale or Windmere. I will sign her into marriage this very week, with one or the other. She will have no choice but to honor my selection and my seal.”
“But Windmere, Lucien. How can you even consider giving the care of your daughter to that man?” The intense dismay in her uncle’s voice made Merry shiver.
“Rhea has always approved of him, Andrew. Even though the tragedy nearly broke her heart, she would never allow anyone to speak a word against him in her presence. After he was forced to quit England, when the rumors would not wane, she went to Windmere to let him know she had never once thought ill of him. She knew the canaille was unjust in their prosecution of him. Even after ten years, my wife is still his loyal friend and will not tolerate old gossip to add to Windmere’s grief.”
“That does not change the fact, that it has never been learned, what truly happened. My God, Lucien, how can you so quickly dismiss what he was accused of doing, without proof that this man will not bring harm to Merry? We don’t even know where he’s been this past decade.”
“Do you have so little faith in me, Andrew? If I can’t trust Rhea with the welfare of our daughter’s future, who should I trust?”
“I can’t accept that things are so desperate that you and Rhea would force Merry’s hand into marriage,
with such a man as Windmere. He is twice Merry’s age, old enough to be her father.”
“Rhea and I are in agreement on this, Andrew. It is for Merry’s sake that we are committed to this course. If Merry proves too contrary to accept a match with Rensdale, I will wed her to Windmere. As much as it pains me, I can’t ignore the truth. Merry’s conduct has ruined any chance we have of making her a decent match. Rensdale is a fine man. I have no reason to distrust Rhea and believe that Windmere is, as well.”
There was a long, tense pause. “I think you will rue this decision, Lucien. Merry is young. She’ll be terrified of Windmere, for all her bravado with the dandies. You should not be so quick to act in this matter, Lucien. What harm will time cause any of us?”
“A rather good situation, all things considered. Another year, Andrew, and even Rensdale and Windmere may not want my daughter.”
“You might very well push the girl too hard with all this. Have you considered that, Lucien?”
“I will see this matter set before she leaves for London. No more delays. When she goes to London for the season, it will be to prepare for her marriage.”
CHAPTER TWO
Merry glided into the west drawing room and immediately went to the windows facing the front drive. Beneath her feet the subtly warped polished surface of the floor held a pleasant coolness, telling her that the fog would roll in thickly this night.
This room held none of the splendor of a ducal estate. The walls were hung in a pretty buff yellow tabby. The furnishings, lavish in purchase, were winsomely comfortable and without even a mild effort at pomp. Every inch was cleverly and informally arranged. The only efforts her mother had made with her style of decor were those to please a family.
Merry sighed, her eyes searching the dramatic view of the coast and water. It was always the Channel that claimed her undivided attention this time of night. The darkness descended across the Heavens and the blue-starred sky was gently obscured by a thin rolling of mist that would suddenly thicken, as though by magic, to block out all view of the world beyond.
But this night Merry found no pleasure in this familiar sight. Searching the rosy sandstone drive, fully obscured by darkness, panic rose in her senses. Her father’s words weighed heavily upon her mind.
How could he mean to force her into marriage? He knew how she felt about Rensdale. He had gone so far as to draw up contracts with a man she had never met to force her hand. What was she going to do?
If only Rensdale were here, she could find a way to get rid of him once and for all. But how? How to stop it? She had done everything she could think of, in the past two years, to get Rensdale to cry off of his offer for her hand. Nothing worked and the thought of marrying him sent a cold chill through her soul.
No, she would not marry Rensdale. And, she would not marry this Windmere person. How could her father have devised such a scheme? Was he so desperate to see a match settled for her that he would actually resort to such under-handed means?
The nervous churning of her stomach intensified as she recalled her uncle’s words. Who the devil was Windmere?
Uncle Andrew had said he was a man old enough to be her father. He fled England when she’d still had been a young girl, to avoid a scandal so wicked it was not even known to her.
What could Windmere have done that was so nefarious, that she, who was privy to all the gossip of the ton, had never heard either his name or a whisper of the scandal surrounding him? Did her father mean to use this wicked bounder as a whip over her head, to frighten her into doing his bidding?
It was beyond belief. There was no amount of coercion possible to get her to agree to become Rensdale’s wife.
She frantically searched the drive. Where were they? Knowing Philip, they might well be half-way to London by now. She needed Rensdale here, needed to make him withdraw his suit, to stop this terrible event from occurring.
Once the contracts were signed, even Merry would be unable to stop it. She would have to go after Rensdale. There was no other way.
Merry was unaware that her mother had been studying her, for quite some time, from her seat on the settee. Her quill and note cards were forgotten, lying in a disorderly heap on the lap desk as she wondered what thoughts occupied her daughter’s mind and made her appear so unhappy.
“Ah, no wonder you can come into a room so quietly. You’ve forgotten your shoes.”
Blushing, Merry looked down at her toes, still speckled with dirt and wisps of grass. She should have washed them.
“How scandalized Rensdale would be by my latest lapse in decorum.”
“I, however, am not scandalized, my dear,” Rhea said, in sweet loving tones. “I am only concerned. After that cold you suffered last month I prefer you not to run barefoot. You are not fully recovered.”
“I prefer the feel of grass on my feet rather than the feel of shoe leather.”
Arming her nerves, Merry turned toward her mother. As always, she was struck by the sharp contrast between them. Her mother was a small, elegant vision, stylishly turned out in coral silk, artfully arranged short brown curls, and dancing chocolate brown eyes. Her looks, Merry had inherited from her father while her inner composition was a mystery unresolved.
“Merry? What troubles you, dear?”
“Nothing, Mama,” Merry answered abruptly.
“You are very quiet tonight. You’ve not said two words since supper. Has something happened to distress you?”
She sank into a chair, curling her legs up in front her. “I am not upset, only bored.”
Rhea ran her glance over her daughter’s inappropriate posture, knowing it was a useless effort to chide her on this. As outrageous as it was, she curled in a chair even at Carlton House with the regent.
It was little wonder that society bent an unkind eye on Merry. But, there was something charming about her graceful naturalness that always kept Rhea from responding severely with her daughter. They had given Merry too much free reign in her upbringing. She had been raised in the country and as a result her daughter possessed a county girl’s heart and manner.
Only yesterday, she had spent the afternoon with Jane Coleman, the wife of their under-coachman, making black pudding, no less. She had come home filthy and in disarray at dusk. She had spent only ten minutes on her toilette for the Sanderson’s country ball they attended that night.
Bathed, hair still damp and scented of roses, tied in a simple knot on her shoulder, she had pulled on a modest gown of white on white muslin and had climbed into the carriage without her shoes. They’d had to keep the team standing and send Moffat off for them.
Rensdale had been outraged. However, even thusly turned out, Merry’s beauty put any other woman to shame. The viscount’s outrage hadn’t lasted the carriage ride. No displeasure from any of them ever lasted a carriage ride with Merry in amusement. Merry could charm the devil with her laughter.
Elegant, composed, and sophisticated her daughter was not. She was little changed from the girl they had sent to London, three seasons ago, for her coming out into society.
In the secret chambers of Rhea’s heart, she was pleased that Merry was as she was, regardless of the difficulties it created for all of them. She was a whirlwind of joyful movement, temper flashes, laughing storms, and a constant source of bliss at Bramble Hill. To Rhea’s pride, to her joy, to her exasperation: she was Merry.
The duchess picked up her quill. “Do you look forward to your return to London?”
“No. I find the season a tiresome chore. I much prefer the simple pleasures of our life here, rather than the smothering bustle of London.”
“You must attend the season, Merry. There is little hope of you finding a husband here. We are so isolated at Bramble Hill.”
“I do not want a husband,” Merry snapped furiously.
“Merry, you are nearly twenty,” Rhea said patiently. “It is time for you to marry. To have a home, children of your own, and your own life. Don’t you want that, dear?”
“Were you in love with Papa when you married him?”
Rhea laughed softly. “I could not help but love him. Your father is a most persuasive man. I did not start out loving him, but in the end he left me little choice.”
“Would you have married him without love?”
Rhea put down her quill. “It was an arranged marriage. I would have honored my father’s promise, even if I had not fallen in love with your father. It is my duty as a woman.”
Just as I am expected to do, Merry thought derisively. My duty as a woman. Captivity to a man.
“Why are you and Papa so determined to see me wed to Lord Rensdale, when you know that I don’t love him? Am I asking too much wanting my freedom, rather than settling to marry a man, whom I will never hope to be happy with?”
“Rensdale will make you a fine husband, Merry.”
“I did not say that he would not. I said that I do not love him.”
“Love comes after marriage for some women,” Rhea put in sagely.
“I don’t want love or marriage,” Merry countered stubbornly, rising from her chair and going to the window. “I have no want of a husband. I have no wish to live my life in servitude to a man, trying to be things that will not make me happy.”
Rhea studied her daughter, her heart filled with a mother’s worries. Were they doing the right thing? She had agreed with Lucien that the matter of Merry’s marriage could not be put off for another season. But was it right to see it settled this way?
It would take a man with a firm hand, a tender heart, and unshakeable self-confidence not to crush Merry’s spirit. A man, who could see through her spirited facade, a man who would not be put off by her tempers and her airs or blinded to the gentleness, of the fragile heart buried within. A man just like Lucien, thought the duchess tenderly. Few men had such a blend of strength and tenderness.
Windmere came clearly into Rhea’s mind. She wondered if the passage of time had changed him, if he were still so handsome and sure of himself. Had the sorrow and bitterness finally left his heart? Had the pain lessened enough that he would, at last, return to England? Was that why, after ten years, he had come from out of nowhere to make an offer to take Merry to wife? Was he aware of Merry’s censure? Did the old suspicions still haunt him? Would he accept their daughter, despite her current lack of favor in society, to gain a wife of good family and birth to start anew?
