WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  He touched a piece of dampened linen to her bottom lip, yanking her from her reverie. Her gaze flew to his, and she saw his attention was riveted on her lips as he dabbed. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she realized that he was suffering from her nearness just as she was suffering from his. The knowledge should have appalled her, but instead a completely inappropriate wave of feminine satisfaction raced through her. A minute later he turned to place the used linen back on the tray. He took a moment to cleanse his own face, then dab some sort of ointment from the ceramic bowl onto his scraped chin. When he returned his attention to her, their gazes locked, and her breath caught at the intense, compelling look in his eyes. He went perfectly still and she heard him swallow.

  “I’m finished,” he said in a husky voice. “Neither the scrape on your cheek nor the cut near your temple are serious, thank God, nor is the bump on your chin.” He held up the small blue ceramic bowl. “This is one of Bakari’s concoctions. It will aid in the healing process. I don’t know how he makes it, but it works wonders.” Still kneeling next to the sofa, he gently dabbed on the cream, which stung a bit at first, but then seemed to evaporate the burning sensation from her scraped skin. When he finished, he set the bowl aside, then asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Much better, thank you.” She smiled to show him she was telling the truth. “But what about you? That scrape on your chin—”

  “I’m fine. I’m—” He blew out a long breath and raked his hands through his hair. “No, I’m not fine. I’m sick inside that you’re hurt, that you were very nearly killed. Furious that someone is trying to hurt me by hurting everyone I care about. Frightened that he might somehow inflict more damage before I can stop him.” Taking her hands, he pressed her palms against his chest. Through the soft material, she felt his heart beating, hard and fast.

  “You were almost lost to me today, Meredith. Before I ever had a chance to tell you all the things I want to tell you. It brought home the sobering fact that we never know what the future holds. Every minute is a gift, and should not be squandered, for it might well be your last. I therefore refuse to waste so much as another second.” His brown gaze locked with hers, and he pressed her palms more firmly against his chest. “I love you, Meredith. With all my heart. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Seventeen

  Meredith had known since last night that he intended to ask her to marry him, and she was prepared to answer him. But she had not anticipated a declaration of love. I love you, Meredith. Those words, spoken in that deep, serious voice, left her reeling.

  Hot tears pushed behind her eyes and she bit down on the inside of her cheeks in an effort to gain control. She wanted to scream, to rail at the fates and circumstances that would rob her of her chance of happiness with this man... this man she loved. Who, incredibly, loved her in return.

  But he doesn’t truly love you, Meredith, her inner voice interjected. How could he? He doesn’t really know you. The real you. The lying, cheating, stealing you. The you that your respectable, matchmaker persona hides. You tell him the truth, and his love will disappear.

  And, she realized with a sinking heart, she would have to do just that—tell him the truth—all of it, thus extinguishing the tiny flame of hope that she might be able to convince him of their incompatibility without revealing her past. But she knew him well enough to realize that as long as he harbored the belief that he loved her, she would never convince him that a marriage between them was impossible. And if his heart wasn’t free of her, he would not pursue another woman. So she’d have to prove to him that he didn’t love her after all. Give him back his heart. So he could give it to someone else.

  Feeling far too vulnerable in her reclined position, she said, “I’d like to sit up, please.” He helped her, his hands warm and firm on her shoulders. Once she was upright, he poured her a tumbler of water, from which she gratefully sipped. Then she looked down at her forest-green gown and grimaced at the dirt marring the material, a fitting symbol of the mess her life had recently become.

  She turned toward Philip, who now sat next to her, his eyes serious. And hopeful. Gathering her courage, she met his gaze and forced herself to speak the words her heart wanted so desperately not to say. “Philip, I cannot marry you.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  How she longed to snap out, No, you may not. But she owed him the truth. Unable to sit still under his regard any longer, she slipped her hands from his, then rose. Drawing a bracing breath, she lifted her chin. “I’m afraid I have not been entirely honest with you, Philip. There are things about me, about my past, that you do not know. Things that prevent me from considering marriage.”

  “Such as?”

  She began to pace in front of him. Her muscles protested, but she simply could not remain still. “We are not just simply from different social backgrounds, Philip,” she began. “I’m afraid that my past is the sort that, if the circumstances were to come to light, would cast shame and scandal upon your family’s name and render us both outcasts. I... I left my home at an early age. It was an unhappy place from which I could not wait to escape. I made my way to London, but unfortunately I did not realize the hardships I would face on my own. My meager funds quickly ran out, as did my choices. My options narrowed down to dying of starvation or doing what I had to in order to survive. I chose to survive. In order to do so, I had precisely two choices. I could prostitute myself, which I adamantly refused to do.” She paused in front of him and pressed her hands to her jittery midsection. “That left stealing. And that is what I did.”

  She quickly resumed her pacing, not wanting to see the inevitable disgust enter his eyes. “I stole anything I could. Money. Jewelry. Food. At first I wasn’t very good at it, and the only thing that saved me from capture on numerous occasions was my ability to run fast. But I learned quickly. I had no choice. There were times I was so hungry, I risked my life for a slice of bread.” Images she’d spent years forgetting rushed to the front of her mind. Huddled in dark, frightening alleyways. Running for her life.

  Shaking off the memories, she continued, “I became an amazingly adept pickpocket. I moved about to different places to avoid capture, saving every farthing I could, because I wanted to leave the sordid life I was leading as soon as possible. I was determined to become respectable. To lead a decent, honest life. As far from the one I’d run away from as possible. When I’d stolen enough money, I purchased some decent clothing, then set about finding employment. I was fortunate enough to meet Mrs. Barcastle. She was a wealthy widow in need of a traveling companion.”

  Pausing in her pacing, she turned and faced him squarely. “Traveling with Mrs. Barcastle over the course of the next year, I pickpocketed my way through Brighton and Bath, Bristol and Cardiff, and every place in between.”

  Something that looked like compassion, but surely could not have been, flickered in his eyes. “You are fortunate you were not caught.”

  “I was very good. And quite invisible. In the social circles in which we traveled, no one glanced at me—the plain, hired companion. I was like a white spot on a white wall.”

  Drawing another bracing breath, she continued, “Under Mrs. Barcastle’s kind tutelage, I practiced to improve my speech and manners. By the time we returned to London, I had enough money to abandon my larcenous ways and begin establishing my new, respectable identity. As I possessed a flair for matching compatible personalities, I decided to try my hand at matchmaking. I was successful almost immediately, with Mrs. Barcastle herself being my first client. She recommended my services to her friends, and little by little my reputation grew. I eventually purchased the house where I now live, and have managed to maintain a comfortable existence. The marriage I arranged between you and Lady Sarah was the culmination of fifteen years of hard work, and a lifetime of dreams.”

  Standing before him, she gripped her hands together at her waist and forced herself not to avert her gaze. “After much soul-searching, I have come to terms with my
past. But I’m not naive enough to believe that anyone else would or could do the same. Especially the members of Society. Now that you know the truth, I’m sure you can understand why I cannot consider accepting your proposal. For a certainty, you never would have issued a proposal if you’d been in possession of the full truth.” A little voice reminded her that he still was not in possession of the full truth, but surely she could be spared telling him the rest....

  Without breaking eye contact, he rose and stood before her. He made no move to touch her, a fact which did not surprise her, but hurt just the same. Clenching her hands, she braced herself for the recriminations she knew were coming.

  The most deafening silence she’d ever heard stretched between them, until she thought she would scream. Finally he said quietly, “Thank you for telling me, Meredith. I can only imagine how difficult it was for you to do so.”

  Dear God, he had no idea how difficult it had been. To say the words that would cost her him. And free his heart. “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re wrong about one thing, however.”

  “What is that?”

  “That I never would have issued a proposal if I’d been in possession of the full truth.” Reaching out, he lightly grasped her shoulders. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “I knew, Meredith.”

  Her heart seemed to stall, then stumble over itself. Surely she’d misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I knew. About your past as a pickpocket.”

  She could only stare at him in stunned amazement, grateful for his grasp upon her shoulders, as her knees suddenly felt decidedly wobbly. Her mind raced. The only people who knew were Charlotte and Albert, and they would never reveal such details about her to anyone. “How... ?” It was the only word she could manage.

  “Quite by accident, I assure you. The night I made inquiries regarding Taggert, I spoke to a tavern keep named Ramsey who’d been acquainted with Taggert. Ramsey told me quite a bit about the vile bastard, including a story of how he once witnessed, through the tavern window, Taggert dump a chimney boy on the side of the road like a sack of garbage. Ramsey left the tavern and started toward the boy, but before he reached him, a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, ran to the boy. She knelt next to him, then scooped him up in her arms.”

  “Dear God,” she whispered. “A man came up to me. He asked if the boy was all right. I said, ‘He’s hurt. I must bring him home.’ He asked if the boy was my brother. I lied and said yes. I was afraid if I said I didn’t even know him that someone would take him away from me. Toss him into the street again and leave him there. Or give him back to that horrible man who’d thrown him away like yesterday’s trash.”

  “Ramsey told me that the girl who carried off the boy seemed familiar. It took him a few minutes to place her, as she’d grown up, and cleaned up, since he’d seen her last, but there was no mistaking those vivid, aqua eyes. She was the same street urchin who used to steal food from his tavern and pick the pockets of his clientele.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You were quite the bane of his existence for a number of months.”

  Meredith began to shake all over, battered by incredulity and confusion. “You’ve known. Since that night you asked about Taggert.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew when you invited me to your home for dinner.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you arranged that elaborate meal and decorations.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said nothing about it.”

  “No.”

  “But why?” She felt the strong need to sit down, and locked her knees to stiffen the watery sensation suddenly plaguing them.

  “Because I was hoping you’d tell me yourself.” Releasing her shoulders, he framed her face between his palms. “I am humbled by your trust in me. And the feelings you must have for me, to tell me something so deeply private.”

  Dear God, this was not going at all the way it was supposed to! Stepping away from him, she said, “I did not tell you out of any deep feelings, Philip. I told you because you would not accept a simple no for an answer. Because you needed to understand how stupendously mismatched we are.”

  “You mean how stupendously mismatched you think we are. Because of things you did to survive when you were little more than a child. Well, I disagree with your assessment. Actually, my disagreement falls into the category of ‘strenuously disagree.’ I’ve seen the lengths people can be driven to by poverty and fear and hunger. I do not think any less of you for surviving. Indeed, I greatly admire that you overcame such tragedy to become the intelligent, kind, decent woman you are. It has been my experience that adversity either breaks people or strengthens them. And those that it strengthens are often blessed with a special sort of compassion for others who face the same sort of adversity. You have that compassion, Meredith. That strength of spirit. And they are just a few of the many things I love about you. Now, I shall ask you again. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Dear God, he meant what he said. But he still did not know the entire truth. “There’s more, Philip. It... it has to do with the reason I left home. Do you recall me telling you that my father was a tutor and my mother a governess?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That was but another lie.” She licked her dust-dry lips. “There’s no easy way to tell you, so I shall simply say it. I have no idea who my father is. Neither did my mother. He was just one of many men she entertained at the brothel where she worked. At the brothel where I grew up. The brothel I ran away from when I turned thirteen because it was time for me to start earning my keep and I refused to do so. The brothel that my mother refused to leave because she thought being a whore was the only thing she was good at. The brothel where she died of syphilis.” Tears wetted her cheeks, but she could not stop the flow of words now that she’d started. It was as if she’d lanced a wound and all the poison was flowing out.

  “I went back once. After I was settled in London. I tried to convince her to come live with me, but she refused. It was the most awful visit.” She shut her eyes briefly, vividly recalling her mother’s haggard appearance. And the house... God, she hated that place. Hated the crude, raucous noises, the smells of stale liquor and smoke and bodies. “I never saw her again. The last correspondence I had from her arrived six months later. She’d written me a letter and asked one of the girls from the brothel to deliver it to me. That girl was Charlotte.”

  “Your friend, Mrs. Carlyle.” It was impossible to gauge his reaction from his neutral tone and expression.

  “Yes. The story of her being a widow was but yet another fabrication. Charlotte, who was pregnant, was accosted on her way to my home and arrived beaten and bruised. Albert and I nursed her back to health, and she has lived with us ever since. When she gave birth to her daughter, we all agreed that the perfect name for the child was Hope.” She drew in a long, deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

  “The reason my matchmaking enterprise is so important to me is because of my upbringing. I used to hide in the cupboard under the stairs thinking, if only Mama had married, how different both our lives would have been. And the same for all the other girls in the brothel—if only they’d found kind, decent men to marry, their lives would have been so different....”

  Shaking off the remnants of the past, she said softly, “So now you see why any further association, let alone a marriage, between us is impossible. I told you on more than one occasion I’ve never intended to marry. I would find it impossible to keep up the pretense and lies regarding my past with a husband—someone I’d have to live with on a daily basis. Nor would I expect any man to accept not only my past, but the pasts of the people closest to me, for I would never abandon Albert, Charlotte, and Hope. The fact that this tavern keep Ramsey recognized me all those years ago—what if he were to see me again? The whole ugly truth could come out. It is a fear, and a possibility that lives inside me every day. A woman with a past like mine could cost you everything, Philip.
Your social standing, your future, everything. ”

  They stood in silence, looking at each other, the six-foot expanse of rug between them seeming like an ocean, his expression impossible to decipher. She’d told him. Everything. All that was left was to say good-bye. A simple word, yet she could not seem to push it past her lips.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he spoke. “You’ve presented everything in your usual clear, concise manner, but there are still three questions I’d like to ask you—if you have no objections.”

  “Of course.”

  “My first question is, except for details regarding your background, have you ever lied to me?”

  “No.” A humorless sound escaped her. “But with regard to my background, I’ve accumulated an impressive number of offenses. What is the second question?”

  “Do you love me?”

  The question stilled everything inside her. Do you love me? How could she deny it? Yet how could she admit it? And to what end? Telling him how she felt about him would only make their parting more painful. “I cannot see how that matters, Philip.”

  “It matters a great deal to me.” Eyes steady on hers, he stepped toward her, not stopping until less than two feet remained between them. Her heart pounded so hard, she could feel her blood drumming through her veins. Reaching out, he clasped her hands, then raised them to his lips. “It is a simple question, Meredith.” His words warmed his breath against her chilled fingers.

  “There is nothing simple about it.”

  “On the contrary, it requires nothing more than a simple yes-or-no response. Do you love me?”

  She wanted to he. Damnation, she’d uttered so many untruths over the years, surely telling one more should not cause such anguish. But she couldn’t push the falsehood past her lips. Lowering her chin, she stared at their clasped hands and whispered, “Yes.”