by Tamara Gill
He came and stood next to her, looking up to the heavens also, hoping to God that he could find the right words. “I’d had too much to drink with your father and brother. More than I should have imbibed the night before our wedding. It was quite late; even the servants were abed when I went upstairs. I had given my valet the night off, since I was to celebrate our forthcoming nuptials with your family and didn’t want the old retainer up all night.”
He met her gaze, but she didn’t venture to speak. Merrick fought the urge to reach out and touch her cheek, to touch her, however fleetingly. He fisted his hands at his side.
“I fell to sleep quickly and woke to someone crawling over me. It was dark, the fire having long burned down to coal. I couldn’t see much past my own nose. Leonora had your perfume on and her hair down, so it was of similar length to yours. I know I asked if it was you, and she shushed me, but stated, ‘yes’.” He cringed at the memory, hating to relive something that caused so much pain. “I never noticed the voice belonged to someone else.”
“But surely when you kissed her…it was different.”
Even in the moonlight Merrick could see the hurt reflected in her eyes, and he hated himself for being the cause of it. “I should have. I had wanted you in my bed for so long that I thought myself dreaming. Please know, I did not do it intentionally, Isolde. We were not having an affair. I was not playing you false, in any way. No matter what Leonora said otherwise, I swear on William’s life, I was faithful to you in all ways up to that point. I loved you. From the first moment we met, I wanted to marry you. Please say you believe me. Please forgive me.”
…
Isolde wanted to believe him. Had wanted to hear for years that Merrick had not broken her heart with intention, but even so, knowing what she now did, a restless fury ate at her, pricked her pride.
“We had been kissing for some time, Merrick. You should have known it wasn’t me in your bed, dream state or not.” Had the roles been reversed, not that Isolde would ever find herself in such a position, surely she would’ve noticed the difference.
The difference of lips. The difference of touch, taste, and smell. Merrick had always smelt of fresh laundered linen with a soft fragrance of lavender. She loathed the smell of that little purple plant now.
“It’s the one mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
Moore clasped her hand, and she pulled away, placing some distance between them. She didn’t like how her body reacted when they were close, all shivery and achy in places she didn’t want to admit. She glowered at him instead and fought to sound stern with what she had to say next. “It’s time I married, Merrick, and for me to do that, you must allow others to form attachments to me. You cannot be involved with my suitors, in any way, from this night on.”
“Wardoor? He’s admitted himself that he’ll not be faithful. Is that truly the type of husband you wish for?”
She shrugged, having gathered that much herself from the reputation that preceded the gentleman. “That may be so, but I’m not looking for a love match. I’m looking for a husband who’ll give me a home, children, a future that’s not under the same roof as my brother.”
“You have Avonmore. There is no need for you to marry.”
She laughed, the tone condescending, even to her own ears. “How dare you. Who do you think you are? I am not allowed to marry because you cannot have me? You’re married with a child. Why should I not have the same? You, above anyone, knew how much I longed for children. To have a child of my own, to love and dote on? Am I not entitled to such happiness?” Anger thrummed through her; she needed him to see sense.
“I cannot watch you marry another.” His voice sounded hoarse and thick. There had been a time that, if she heard him speak so, she would’ve rushed to offer comfort, to ensure he was well. That she could not any longer, hurt more than she wanted to admit.
She glanced at him. “You have no choice.” Scant inches apart, she said, “You will watch me, Merrick, as I promise myself to another, marry someone who is not you, just as I had to.” He flinched. She was being cruel, but she could not help herself. Years of anger and frustration wanted to lash out and vent and, with Moore’s confession, he’d given her a port to do that. Her vision of him blurred, and she blinked away the tears, her heart and mind warring with each other. One wanted blood, to hurt and seize revenge, while the other wanted comfort, to forgive and be loved.
“That night was the only night I’ve ever been unfaithful to you.” His eyes beseeched her to believe him. And maybe Isolde did, not that it changed their situation.
“This,” she said, gesturing between them, “is no more. You must accept it.”
“I cannot,” he said, his gaze as glassy as her own.
“Leonora is pregnant, Merrick. You should not be here with me while your wife is carrying your second child.” She should leave, get as far away from this man as possible. Around Merrick she could not trust herself.
“The child is not mine. It’s impossible, as I have not touched Leonora since the night you caught us in my room.”
For a moment, Isolde was speechless, unable to comprehend that Merrick had not lain with Leonora in all this time. Then another dissembling thought occurred. The duchess was increasing with someone else’s child. How could she have such little regard to her station? “If what you say is true, and Leonora tricked us both the night before our wedding, why would she do such a thing? She broke my heart, the friendship we had, to marry you. To give her affections elsewhere makes no sense.”
“Leonora ruined all my hopes and was only ever after the title of duchess, Isolde. I have never forgiven her for that, and we do not have a marriage in any way. We share a roof, and that is all. I do not care how she lives her life or vice versa.”
“You should care,” she said, frowning. “You may never be able to forgive the duchess, but you must forget the past. Look to the future, enjoy your children, and make the situation you now find yourself in as best as it can be. You said you would try to help her curb her lifestyle. She is your wife, Merrick. You have to at least try.”
“I still love you.”
The words dropped between them like a cannonball, and Isolde gasped. “You cannot. I will not allow you to say such things.” She cleared her voice, hating that it sounded thick and uneven or that she longed to hear more of the same from him. That he’d always loved her. That he would shift heaven and earth to make her his again.
If only…
“There is nothing you can do about it,” he replied, running a finger along her arm all the way to where her glove sat at her elbow. Isolde shut her eyes, missing the touch of the one man who made her burn. “I love you as much today as the last day we were together at Mountshaw. Had your father and brother allowed me to know of your location, I would’ve followed you to Scotland. I would’ve begged your forgiveness and lived in sin with you, if it meant I could be with you.”
Isolde shook her head, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “Stop saying such things, Merrick. They help no one.” Not the least her, who had stupidly looked out from her bedroom window at Avonmore, willing his ducal carriage to appear on the hills beyond her estate.
“They help me. For years, I’ve carried this burden. That you did not know the truth. That you thought I would do such a heinous crime against you willingly. I would not. I could not.”
He stepped closer still, the hem of her gown sweeping across his Hessian boots. She should move away, run away from emotions she no longer had the right to feel, but she did not. Instead she stood still and started only the slightest when he ran a finger along her cheek before lifting her chin.
“Merrick.” Isolde wasn’t sure if she was imploring or warning him.
“Please…” he begged, his eyes darkening with intent.
Her eyes closed at the sound of his need, raw and consuming, and then, God save her sinning soul, she watched as he dipped his head as if to kiss her. With a will born out of sheer desperation, Iso
lde pushed him away. “No, Merrick.”
He looked wretched. “Tell me you do not care. Look at me and declare that you do not want this as much as I.”
She hugged her domino about her like a shield, yet it did little to protect her from the man before her. Nothing could. Nothing ever had. “I will always care for you, Merrick. How could I not? We had planned and dreamed of a life together, one we both were desperate to start. But damn it,” she said, stomping her foot a little. “What do you want from me? You’re married, and I will not be your whore, no matter who is wrong or right in this putrid triangle in which we find ourselves.”
“I want to leave Leonora, but she’s threatened to spread a rumor that William is not mine.”
Isolde gasped. “Well then, you cannot. Think of your son and what it will do to your name. A family would never recover their good standing if such information got out. Even a duke’s.”
He growled, running a hand through his hair and leaving it on end. “I’m being selfish, I know. Certain members of the ton will think I’m a bastard, but the majority know the truth of the situation.” He took a step toward her, and she stepped back. “Being a duke will also help, to a certain degree, not to mention Leonora has a reputation as a liar among our peers. And I want you. It’s as simple as that.”
“Nothing is simple, and you cannot have me. Now or ever. Divorce is not an option, and you cannot risk placing a shadow of doubt on William’s parentage. He’s not to blame for what passed.” The truth of the words was like razors in her throat. They cut and hurt. “We shouldn’t even be here in such a private locale. This nocturne rendezvous is as wrong as what the duchess did to me to gain your hand, if what you say is true.”
“You think after how much I adored you, how much I wanted to marry you, that I would lie about how we were torn apart? It killed me to see you standing in my room, witnessing my shame, and unable to comfort you, as I wanted. Listening as lie after lie spewed from Leonora lips. Isolde, please…” he begged.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, tiredness swamping her. “Very well, I admit it, Merrick, we were wronged, and in the worst imaginable way, but the papers were signed and vows were spoken. We both must make the best of a situation that is not to our liking.”
“And so you will marry.”
The words sounded as dead as the prospect seemed, considering she would never marry the man before her. “Yes, I will marry. Is that what you want me to say? To torment you with?” She adjusted her tone, fearful others may hear. Tears blurred her vision, and she wrenched away when Merrick went to hold her. If he were to touch her now, she’d never have the strength to pull back, to walk from a man who should be hers. “Be happy for me, please.” Isolde turned to leave, her feet as heavy as stone. “You mustn’t seek me out again, Merrick. I have a life to live, as you do, and you must allow me to live it, just as I have you.” She swiped at a tear and fumbled for her handkerchief, hating every word she spoke, and Leonora more for placing them in the situation in the first place.
“It’s not over between us, Isolde,” Merrick said, the words a low growl in the darkened gardens.
“Do as I ask, I beg you.” Isolde left quickly, thankful when the row of pavilions came into view, and Anne, who stood before them, but the pensive look on her face gave her pause.
Isolde checked that Merrick wasn’t following her as she exited the entrance to the Italian Walk. What had she been thinking pursuing him into the park? They could not be anything to each other than passing acquaintances.
Nothing more could come of it. If she was to have any chance of forming a future with anyone else, she needed to forget what it was like being back in Merrick’s arms. Of longing to be back there again, if only for a moment. Once married, she would never look to anyone else, no matter what the marriage bed was like. A duke’s daughter did not cuckold her husband. She had almost kissed Merrick while he was married to another woman. A stab of shame shot through her heart. That was not who she was, and never again would she allow such a slip.
She had acted no better than the loose women plying their trades here this evening.
Lord Wardoor joined Anne and looked about. Spotting her, he smiled in welcome. “I’m glad you’re back. I was about to come find you. We were getting a little worried.”
Isolde laughed, ignoring the nervous edge to it. “I went for a little stroll. I’m sorry I did not tell you.”
Lord Wardoor’s attention snapped to where she’d walked from, and Isolde didn’t need to turn to know who had appeared; the narrowing of his eyes and thoughtful expression was proof enough.
“Well, you are back now, which is all that matters,” Wardoor drawled.
Anne smiled at her. “I believe Lord Kinruth wishes to leave. Are you ready, my dear?”
“Whenever you are,” she said, placing her hand on Wardoor’s arm. “I’m at your disposal.”
They walked toward the carriages, discussing the night and the remainder of the Season, which was starting to pick up in gaiety, before Moore stepped before them, halting their progress.
Heat bloomed on her chest and rose up her neck. She took a calming breath and met Merrick’s intense, frustrated gaze head on.
“Good night, my lady.” Moore bowed before her, holding her gaze longer than he ought.
Wardoor cleared his throat. “Moore.”
“Wardoor.” The name sounded like an insult and Isolde moved quickly to the carriage. She tampered down the conflicting emotions zipping around her insides, determined to forget this night and look only to the future. “Good night, Your Grace,” she replied, taking her seat. “Please give my regards to the duchess.”
Merrick nodded before walking away, not bothering to acknowledge Lord Wardoor’s farewells.
Isolde noted Wardoor’s attention didn’t leave Moore until he was out of sight. That she was coming between friends left a sour taste in her mouth, but for all Wardoor’s rakish tendencies, he was suitable for her, as Anne had said. If only she could have some of the attraction that she’d always had for Moore when it came to Wardoor. It would certainly make marrying the man a lot easier to allow.
He was one of Moore’s closest friends. How fiendish could Wardoor be? No more than any other who were a part of their set. Others had married for lesser qualities and been happy with their choice. Had lived long, contented lives that eventuated with children. A happy thought, if ever there was one. There was no reason she could not also.
Chapter Ten
The following morning, Isolde washed away the late evening of the night before and gathered her wits to attend her mother’s picnic lunch that was being held on the grounds of their London home.
Isolde padded to the window and pulled back the drapes to see what sort of weather they had for the day. Not a cloud marred the sky, and no tree swayed with any wind. She smiled, happy her mother’s planned daytime outing looked to be a success.
Sometime later, she joined Victoria, who stood in conversation with some friends and their hovering mamas. Raucous laughter caught her attention, and she watched as a few gentlemen partook in a game of lawn bowls, some younger debutantes watching with feigned awe.
Taking a sip of orange and raspberry shrub their delightful cook Mrs. Arthur had made especially for the day, Isolde almost purred with delight at having the citrusy drink once more. How she’d missed it during the summer months when living in Scotland. For some reason, her cook had never been able to reproduce the exact taste Mrs. Arthur could.
Alice came to stand beside her, all beautiful elegance in her pink muslin gown. “There you are. I don’t like to see you standing here alone, not speaking to anyone, so I thought to rectify the deficit.”
She laughed. “You didn’t have to come over here and save me. I’m quite content just listening to everyone, I assure you.” A footman passed with a plate of syllabub, and she took one. “Are you enjoying yourself? I saw you talking to Lady Harsam. Isn’t she a distant relative of our neighbor Lord Arndel?” Alice’s
cheeks turned a delightful shade of rouge. “I see the gentleman is also here today.”
Alice shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Isolde didn’t believe that for a moment. “Well, he’s talking to Mama right now. I’m surprised that you have not…and that he keeps looking in your direction, certainly tells me he knows you’re here.”
Alice laughed, but her attention didn’t stray from Isolde, and she realized her little sister had grown up while she was away. Had matured and in no way resembled a ridiculous simpering debutante who so often graced their entertainments.
“Lord Arndel, I’m sure, is well enough, but he’s so quiet and secretive, I’m never able to make out his character.”
“Maybe he’s just shy.” And very handsome, Isolde conceded.
“Perhaps,” Alice said, shrugging. “But I’m not expected to marry before you, so I’m not in a hurry to choose with whom I want to spend the rest of my life.”
“Have you told Mama that?” Isolde grinned, spooning another delicious mouthful of dessert into her mouth.
“Well no, but I’m sure she would be in agreement.” Alice turned to watch their parent who was now all but gushing over Lord Arndel. “I wonder what they’re discussing.”
“Why don’t you go and find out,” Isolde said, trying hard not to smile at her sister, who wished to appear disinterested while clearly the opposite.
Alice checked her gown, and Isolde had a niggling thought that her sister’s marriage wouldn’t be so very far away. Probably was, in fact, closer than any of them thought.
…
Merrick arrived a little later than was deemed appropriate, and stood for a moment hidden in the library, watching the garden party and wishing he were anywhere but here. He hated to attend events where the invitation had come out of polite courtesy to his standing in Society, and not because they wanted the pleasure of his company.
His wife stood with a group of ladies, tittering over nonsense, no doubt, and blushing over the men who played bowls on the lawns. He gnashed his teeth at his wife’s falseness. Never in his life had he come across someone so callous and fake. Leonora seemed to embody everything that was wicked.
