by Susan Ward
“She defended her husband, but I think the revelation was not without meaning for her. She seemed greatly distressed by the disclosure.” Then coming right to the point, Philip said, “Do as you will with Varian Deverell and do it quickly, father. Mother is wrong in this.”
~~~
Merry found Netta waiting in her bedroom. The first words out of her maid’s mouth were to announce that the Duke of Windmere had left Bramble Hill. There was a harsh note in the old woman’s voice as she dropped this latest development while she helped Merry dress for the day.
If her maid had thought to stir a betraying emotion so she could run to the Rhea with tales, Netta had thought wrong. Merry had seen her husband leave. She knew he was gone and had not yet returned. Had felt the emptiness of the air the moment she’d entered the house.
Still, that did not mean that Merry wouldn’t investigation herself Varian’s disappearance. She immediately went to the west drawing room where she found Camden alone, reading.
He rose at once and bowed. “Your Grace.”
Merry arched a brow. Without preamble, she inquired, “Where is my husband?”
Camden’s eyes sharpened. He said pointedly, “It is better you do not probe His Grace’s activities. There is much to claim his attention now that he has returned to England.”
Merry rolled her eyes. “Are you referring to his intrigue with Rensdale or Lady Wythford?”
That made Camden flush. “I am referring to nothing beyond a wife’s proper role in not meddling in the affairs of her husband,” he countered carefully.
“Affairs? Interesting choice of words.” With the uneasiness that had taunted her through the night, now there was jealousy. The mention of Lady Wythford had been a flippant remark, designed more to shock Camden and hopefully goad him into betraying Varian’s activities. The result was not as Merry intended, and she had learned nothing. Angry with herself, she was unable to stop herself from probing Camden directly on her most pressing worry. “Do you know if His Grace intends to return?”
Camden’s face softened as a smile surfaced. “You need have no fear of that, Merry. He will be gone but a handful of days. And you need have no fear of the Lady Wythford. Varian is most devoted to you.”
So, Varian had thought it necessary to inform the earl of his activities, but he had not thought it necessary to inform his wife. It seemed to miserably underscore her position in Varian’s life.
“Devoted indeed,” she replied glibly.
She whirled, quickly leaving the room in search of her mother. As she walked, it occurred to her Camden would not still be at Bramble Hill if Varian was not returning. What Merry wasn’t sure of as yet, was if she wanted him to.
CHAPTER SIX
Merry stumbled upon Varian four days later in the west drawing room. The sight of him sitting calmly playing cards with Camden as if his treatment of her, on all levels, was perfectly reasonable, sent her into a rapid mix of fast rising emotion. In the span of a week, he had disappeared for four nights without explanation to her, and there he sat, in the bosom of her family without even having notified her of his return. It was infuriating in every way. And it was doubly infuriating the relief she felt seeing him there.
Since her encountered with Camden and her comment about the Lady Wythford, jealousy had been her constant companion. It did her suspicions no good to find Varian looking so well. Fresh faced. Rested. Relaxed. Not a single glossy black hair out of place. Elegantly garbed in the intricate white cravat and meticulously tailored trousers that were the costume of men of his class. It was galling how effortlessly Varian managed the sham of their marriage and galling how easily his doing so brought her more pain.
She ignored his greeting to her, sank into a chair beside her mother, and grabbed a book. She could not stop the disobedient drift of her eyes from the book. She searched his face to find anything that would betray what he’d been about, or even a hint of remorse for his callous treatment of her. There was nothing.
After an hour of feeling as though she wanted to crawl from her own skin, Merry tossed her book on a table, excused herself, and went promptly to bed. Sleep eluded her. Haunting memories of Ireland rose in her thoughts. How Varian had made her weak from his kisses, then left her for Christina’s arms. How the Lady Wythford had looked at him, and more miserable how he had looked her. She hadn’t understood their manner toward each other in Ireland, she had been an innocent girl then, but how they’d smiled and touched each other had meaning to her now. Varian’s relationship with Christina Wythford had not been a casual dalliance. He cared for Christina. She didn’t know at what level, but it would not be beyond possibility that he had gone to her now that he’d returned to England.
The moments of the night dragged in an endless stream of questions in her head. After the hurt he had given her, she should not care where Varian had gone, what he had done, but not knowing was driving Merry into slow madness. Unable to bear it a moment longer alone in her unrelenting suspicions, she climbed from the bed and her legs carried her to Varian’s room. Pride as a protector was doing a dismal job again of keeping her from him.
Quietly, she slipped in and closed the door. She found Varian awake as if only having just gone to bed. He stood with his back to her and she watched as he worked free the studs on his cuffs. He raked his tanned fingers through his hair, made a sound that was half-yawn and half-sigh, and then poured himself a hefty glass of brandy.
She wondered what had kept him occupied until the early hours of the morning. Whatever it was, it claimed his thoughts so strongly he was unaware she had joined him. It was not until she made a step from the door that Varian’s head turned, and she was held in the burning warmth of his gaze.
“You came. I was hoping you would,” he said, making a move with his drink to an arm chair. “We need to talk. About many things.”
Varian smiled, the slight softening at the edges of his lips with the slowly rising gentleness in his eyes having an immediate effect on Merry. He had transformed in front of her as he had always done on ship. She had come to confront that aloof stranger she had married and run straight into Varian. With the subtle altering of his features and the return of light in those shimmering black eyes, her blood flamed in disobedient answer.
What a pitiful woman she’d become. He should have no power over her at all. Not anymore. Not after what he’d said to her. Yet, the strongest impulse inside her was to run to him and wrap her arms around him. Instead, she moved to the bed and settled on the edge, her posture stiff and unwelcoming.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “You left for four days without bothering to give explanation. I may be nothing to you, but do you not think you owe me at least that?”
She looked down at her clasped fingers and Varian could see she was struggling to maintain her reserve. As proud as she was, it was no small act for her to have come to him this night.
He reluctantly made note of each emotion fighting to the surface of her. Worry. Jealousy. Suspicion and fear. It was painful to witness the legacy of his mistakes on her face, but her wide doe-eyes were even worse. They carried but a single emotion. They were sparkly with hurt. He hated seeing it and hated more knowing he was the cause of it.
He knew what direction this conversation was going to first take. She stared at him a moment and then looked away. He could feel it raging within her, the anxiousness to ask, her pride that fought to stop her, and the fear to know. It struck like a dagger into his heart. She was so dear to him. It would be too absurd if he lost her after all he’d been through to have her, just because she believed him unfaithful. Staring into his drink, he damned the infuriating limits of their life at Bramble Hill which would make it so much harder to help her through this hurt he’d given to her.
Varian wondered how much he should tell her. He did not want to push her further from him, but in the coming days he could see no way not to hurt her. He would hurt her with his silence, some bound by necessity and others the distrust of him he had given to her.
Even the truth would not fully aid in preventing hurt to Merry. Telling her too much would endanger her, an act no power on earth could force him to commit, and the full disclosure of his endeavors would only add to the heavy burden she must manage because of him. Their current circumstance was intolerable for him. He could not imagine what it was for Merry.
He didn’t want this conversation and he realized there was no way to prevent it. There was no direction to go, except direct battle in the direction she took him. He said nothing.
“Were you with a woman?” Merry snapped, her voice brittle and ragged.
He arched a brow and quelled the unrest within him. A young wife’s question. Artless and direct. Somehow it made it harder to reason a course to deal with this. A long pause. Then he said, “Do you really think so little of me?”
She met his stare evenly. “You’ve hardly given me reason not to.”
Black eyes locked with blue. “I have given you reason you should well know. I adore you.” His voice was a little more rough than he intended it to be. He was tired. “I want no other woman, Merry. And I never will.”
She disbelieved him. It sat in her eyes. It was too soon. He had hurt her too well in his unchecked fury. The evidence of each word he’d spoken the night they married touched her face. Regret, sharp and untimely, pulsed through his veins.
“I was in Falmouth,” he said abruptly, surprising her. “There were matters I could not delay that required my attention.”
His concise response, truthful, was hardly an improvement. It had sounded crass. Even to him. He braced himself for the tears that would come next.
“Jack Shelby is dead. Grave’s End was burned to the ground. Were those your urgent matters in Falmouth, Varian?”
Both the calmness of Merry’s voice and the question surprised Varian. The question was also worrisome since Lucien, no doubt, had informed her of Shelby’s murder—Varian wondered what Lucien’s suspicions were that he felt compelled to share this development with his daughter—and more worrisome Merry’s obvious uncertainty over whether he had done it. Did she really think him capable of that? He fought to calmly hold the even study of her gaze. Hurt. It was an ugly emotion in every way. And there is sat in her eyes, stoking distrust of him in all things.
Nothing changed in his expression. “I had nothing to do with Jack Shelby’s murder. It would serve no purpose for me to kill him.”
“Who would have wanted Jack Shelby dead?”
“I don’t know,” Varian said, truthfully again. “My man is dead.”
Her eyes rounded. “Do you think he was murdered because of you?”
He cupped her chin. He didn’t want to frighten her. Jack Shelby’s death was an unexpected, ominous warning from someone. “If he was murdered because of me, I’d be in Newgate awaiting trial as Morgan.”
Merry studied his face. He was doing it again, walking that careful line between truth and lying to her. She had been a fool to think she’d get truthful answers from him tonight or any night.
Varian brushed back the unruly wisps of hair from her tense face. “Have patience with me, Merry,” he whispered, in a voice of husky supplication. “I will not permit this to last long.”
Tears rose in her throat. This? What did he mean by this? Their marriage? What was he trying to tell her? She struggled not to crumble before his watching gaze. Later, she would cry later when he could not see her.
Varian rose from the chair and crossed the room to her. He eased down before her tiny form until they were at eye level and took one delicate hand from her lap. He ran her fingers down his cheek, then placed a light kiss on the tips. “It’s late, Merry. Can we go to bed? I will not survive much longer if you do not forgive me this quarrel soon.”
Quarrel. He had the nerve to call all he had done to her a quarrel. Merry watched him lever himself upright. He started to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. She should have left the room the moment she entered it.
He wrapped his arms around her slim hips, lying his cheek against her. Varian placed a kiss on the fabric covering her womb. Her insides grew shaky and desperate with the memories of other kisses, of his tenderness and joy over this child of his she carried. Merry bit her lower lip and looked away from him.
“You are starting to round. It pleases me to feel my child growing within you. It is hope you carry in your flesh. Hope and me.”
Hot tears burn behind her lids. Merry stared at his dark head beneath her and fought the urge to caress his hair.
He lifted his face. “I will not remain intact if things continue as they are, Merry. I said much I regret and nothing I meant. Can we not be as we were.”
The way he looked at her; it was a look Merry had seen often and no longer trusted. In a voice that sounded far away and not her own, she heard herself say, “There is nothing in our past that matters to me. Why would I wish to be as we were?”
Looking into her doe-eyes heated with distress, that night aboard the Corinthian slashed through Varian’s memory merciless in its trek. He had been brutal that night, regrettably thorough, and Merry’s heart was a fragile thing. Her hurt. Her struggles. They were not insignificant for Merry. Everything she felt ran so deeply within her. He must be patient with her in this. Forgiveness was not a simple path with her.
Varian carefully lifted her onto the bed, curling her into to him to only hold her. Her body was hard and restless, and her head was carefully tucked so he could not see her face. A long, uncontrollable shiver passed through her dainty limbs. Another damning stab landed in his center.
He kissed her softly on her curls. Finding the underside of her chin with one finger, he tilted her face up toward his. “All will be well, Merry. If you will but let me soften the sting of the hurt I gave you, we will be well.”
She eased out of the tangle of his arms. She would not permit her heart to melt, she would not let it soften, not from a caress and not from those cunnings words Varian spoke so effectively. She had believed all things from him once. She would not believe him now, no matter the clever emotion he could conjure into his gaze to move her at his will.
“I should go back to my bed,” she said quietly.
“You are in the bed you belong in, Little One,” he said in a husky whisper, lifting her face to meet his eyes again. There was a subtle darkening to the gaze holding hers and his expression unsealed as emotion rose on his face with false evidence of the man she knew him not to be in true. It tugged at her heart cruelly and the tug was agony.
“What do you want from me, Varian?” she choked out. “Would it not serve us better if you were simply honest and told me directly the point of this farce of our marriage so we can end this charade quickly, and you can go? Whatever you want me to do, I will do it. Protecting you protects me. You don’t need to play another game with my heart to get what you want from me.”
She watched Varian move slowly into her. His hand came to her shoulder, lightly gliding upward at the bare skin of her neck. His thumb paused at the line of her chin, caressing her with knowing ease. “What I want,” he said softly, “is to go to bed each night with my wife in my arms and each morning to do nothing but watch you wake.”
Nonsense. He had answered her with nonsense. It was a nearly flawless performance and there was not a single element of it that did not hurt Merry. It was not fair Varian could look at her so merely because he wanted to bend her to his will for whatever unfathomable need he had, beyond their marriage, for his own protection. It was not fair that the way he looked at her meant too much to her, and for him it meant nothing.
She should leave the room. She should have known better than to come here. Truth could not be found in Varian’s bed.
Merry started to rise. He stopped her with a hand. She felt his fingers run slowly up her spine, then flutter at the sensitive flesh of her neck just beneath her ear. A gentle kiss replaced his touch. She closed her eyes, hating how easily he could make her flesh desperate for him and that she could not drive fr
om her body the want to lay with him.
Varian’s words were the undoing of her injured resolve. “You cannot hold yourself from me forever, Merry. Let us make love as we used to until the morning brightens. Let me feel you take my flesh back into your heart. Let us love again so this pain we share will pass quickly.”
His fingers were moving on her back in the same unhurried rhythm as his lips moved, sending waves of shivers through her, reminding her of hours when they had laid and loved and no part of herself had been her own. She did not want to touch him. She could not stop herself. This was a road that went nowhere, except perhaps, for this night, a brief respite from her pain.
Merry lifted herself into him, the full press of her against his hard length, and whatever either of them intended this night was lost to the desire that quickly consumed them. In between fiery kisses, he undressed them and then tugged her at her ankles until she was flat beneath him on the bed. His hands were everywhere. His mouth a searing flame, doing those shameful pleasures her body reveled in. His throaty words spiced the movements of his fingers and lips. The shimmering climax of her flesh came rapidly in percussion waves. She was breathless and trembling when he entered her, and her body wildly matched the searching thrust of his flesh, disobedient to her mind’s will yet again.
He bore into her as if wanting to join them as deeply as he could. Her nails dug into the firm muscles of his back. He stopped. He slowed. A teasing glide into her body. Burningly fierce. Achingly gentle. The demand of his flesh a rapid altering of currents and sensation, until she could do nothing but let him take from her body what he demanded.
Through her battered senses his roughened voice whispered between thrusts and pants. “We are one. You cannot change that with the stubbornness of your will. We are one.”
Later she lay in his arms and fought against the rising emotion in her throat. Careful not to wake him, Merry slipped from the bed and pulled on her nightgown. In the hall she eased closed Varian’s door and then ran to her bedroom.
