by Jane Feather
Damian gave a shout of laughter. “I remember the feeling only too well. I must send him supplies for his tuck box.”
“Nan and I sent a fruitcake and shortbread,” Merrie told him. “But I am sure that will not be enough to keep the wolf at bay. It has to be shared amongst twenty of them, I understand.”
“Do not worry on that score,” Damian assured her. “His consequence will increase to such an extent he will consider the sharing more than worth the sacrifice.”
They had passed through the Stanhope Gate into Hyde Park by this time, and Meredith was obliged to pull up every few yards to greet acquaintances, who exclaimed in a suitably gratifying manner over her equippage, complaining mightily over the march Rutherford had stolen.
“Satisfied?” Meredith asked as they completed the circuit.
“More than satisfied. You are a capital whip, Merrie Trelawney. I have not experienced one moment’s unease.”
“Are you trying to provoke me, my lord?”
“In no wise,” he protested. “It is the last thing I wish to do. To Highgate, and make all speed.”
Chapter Nineteen
“My dear, are you feeling quite the thing?” The Duchess of Keighley looked at Meredith with some concern. The girl seemed unusually listless this afternoon and was certainly not looking her best, a fact which upset her grace since Meredith’s presence at this tea party for the duchess’s most favored cronies was designed in some way as a presentation. Remembering her son’s instructions, she had, of course, not hinted at this ulterior motive, but Arabella was well aware of the facts and her mother had rather relied upon the marchioness to ensure Meredith’s attendance in all her usual beauty.
“Of course, your grace,” Meredith returned automatically, smiling with hoped-for enthusiasm. “It is most kind in you to invite me this afternoon.”
“Not at all. You are quite one of the family, after all,” her hostess said briskly.
Meredith stiffened, and her smile lost some of its spontaneity. The doors seemed to be closing on her from every side. She met only kindness, but that kindness was beginning to suffocate her as the assumptions underlying it became increasingly obvious. Since her return from Belvoir there had been no opportunity to put into practice the plan that would hopefully extricate her from this tangle of Damian’s making. And if the truth were told, her spirit shrank from creating the monumental stir that would be necessary if she were to achieve her object. It was a splendid plan on paper, but the reality that would involve her friends in embarrassment was much harder to stomach. Maybe she would try just once more to get Damian to see the light. Fundamentally, he was a perfectly reasonable individual—a little too accustomed to having his own way, but then that could be said of her too. Meredith was never less than honest about herself. And if he truly loved her as he said he did, then surely he would grant her the peace that would bring them both happiness.
“You are distracted, love,” Arabella whispered under cover of the teapot. “Lady Brigham was talking to you for at least ten minutes and you hardly responded. Have you the headache?”
“No. I beg pardon, Bella.” Merrie pulled herself together hastily, turning to an elderly dowager in a purple turban, offering an encouraging comment on Lord Byron’s latest poem. One could never be sure, of course, whether Marmion’s notorious and eccentric author was an acceptable subject for conversation amongst such high sticklers, but his poems were generally considered respectable topics for discussion.
“Forgive me, love,” Bella said, once they were in the barouche returning to Cavendish Square, “but is anything the matter? Mama was most concerned. She said you were sadly out of looks today.” Bella smiled wryly. “For which I am held responsible, of course.”
“That is hardly fair.” Merrie sighed. “Your mama, Bella, is a formidable lady, but she has been most kind to me. I wish I did not feel that I was betraying her kindness—and yours and the marquis’s, also.”
“Fustian!” Bella declared vigorously. “Why should you think such a thing?”
“Because I will not marry your brother,” Meredith said firmly, “and I know full well that that is what your mother hopes. And you, also?” She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.
Arabella played with the yellow silk ribbands of her lavender chip hat. “It is what we all hope because it is what Rutherford wishes, and I cannot imagine anyone I would liefer have for a sister.”
“Tell me, Bella, what would your mother say if she knew the truth about me?” Meredith fixed her companion with a direct stare, under which Bella’s eyes dropped.
“She must never find out,” she replied candidly. “There is no reason why she should, is there? Only Damian and I know about the smuggling, and you have no relatives to reveal that the Blakes were not in some way related to Matthew Mallory.”
“Only my brothers, who will never believe such a Banbury story,” Merrie retorted.
“Rutherford said—” Bella began tentatively, and then her voice faded as Meredith’s eyes crackled in that alarming fashion.
“Do go on, Bella,” she prompted silkily.
Arabella sighed. “He said that your brothers were perfectly sensible and could safely be taken into your confidence on that score. He said that they would understand that your pride made such a fabrication necessary.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Merrie muttered ominously. Damian obviously didn’t know Rob as well as he thought.
“Oh, dear, Merrie, now I have made you cross, and Rutherford will be vexed with me for telling you what he had said.” Bella sounded genuinely distressed, and Meredith made haste to reassure her that she was not at all annoyed. In fact, this further evidence of Rutherford’s determination to manipulate Merrie into the position he wished merely wearied her. She would have it out with him when she made one last attempt to get him to see reason. Until then there was little point in fretting over one more pinprick.
Something that did give her reason for fretting occurred later that evening at a soirée given by the Countess of Maudsley. Merrie had gone to some considerable effort to shake off the languor that seemed to plague her these days everywhere except in the house at Highgate and was rewarded by Arabella’s obvious relief at this return of the bright and cheerful companion and guest to whom she had become accustomed. At one point in the evening, Merrie observed brother and sister deep in conversation, and, if the looks cast in her direction were anything to judge by, it was not hard to guess the subject under discussion. Damian was looking unusually grave, and Meredith deduced that Arabella was telling him of their conversation that afternoon. Somehow, it seemed to add to her annoyance, to be treated as if she were an awkward child whose treatment by responsible adults needed to be concerted. Her chin went up and she greeted Gerald Devereux with a particularly ravishing smile.
In recent days, she had been carefully circumspect in her dealings with this gentleman, always ensuring that they met only in company and keeping the conversation light and frivolous. Tonight, however, she threw caution to the winds, responding to his flirtatious sallies in kind. The slight frown between Rutherford’s expressive brows whenever he looked in her direction was distinctly satisfying. Not that he would be foolish enough to be jealous, of course, but it would do him no harm to feel a little uneasy for once. Unfortunately, the tactic backfired.
Meredith made the mistake of allowing Devereux to escort her into a quiet salon alongside the music room where the sounds of an imperfectly played harp twinged painfully.
“I fear I have no ear for fine music,” she declared with the mischievous chuckle she would have given Rutherford. “It seems to set my teeth on edge. I must thank you for recognizing my predicament so promptly.”
“It is one I share,” he responded with a solemnity belied by the laughing eyes. “May I procure you a glass of champagne?”
“If you please.” Meredith, left alone in the salon, smiled to herself. In the absence of Rutherford, Devereux was quite the most amusing companion and seemed ref
reshingly unshockable in addition to that pleasant sympathy he evinced. She greeted his return with smiling thanks for the champagne. “We should, perhaps, rejoin the party, Mr. Devereux, before our absence is remarked.”
“In one minute.” He laid an arresting hand on her bare forearm and Merrie couldn’t hide her jump. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly, “but what I have to say cannot come as a surprise to you, Meredith.”
Merrie cursed the self-indulgent idiocy that had landed her in this mess. “It would be better left unsaid, sir,” she responded, seeing no gain in pretending to misunderstand him.
“I am in love with you,” he declared simply. “Will you tell me that I may not hope?”
“Yes.” It seemed kinder to settle for brutal honesty at the outset. “There is no possibility of anything other than friendship between us, Mr. Devereux.”
“Will you tell me why?” He looked genuinely distressed and her heart ached for him. He had done nothing to deserve unkindness from her.
“I do not love you, my friend.” Her hand lightly brushed his satin-clad arm. “I am sorry for it, but—”
“I have a rival?” He smiled quizzically.
Meredith thought rapidly. It would certainly provide a face-saving way out of this for both of them. “There is someone at home,” she admitted, lowering her eyes.
“In Cornwall?”
She nodded. Cornwall was far enough away for safety. For the majority of the ton, it existed on another planet. “We should return to the drawing room, Mr. Devereux.”
“Yes.” With a bow, he took both her hands, raising them to his lips, his eyes smiling sadly. “You will not deprive me of your company as a result of my—my premature declaration?”
Meredith shook her head, unable to think of a suitable response. She would have to work out a plan for dealing with this in the kindest and most definite way possible, but she could not do that here in Devereux’s company.
He escorted her back to the drawing room, leaving her immediately. She watched as he made his farewells to his hostess and took his departure on the instant.
“That was not very wise, Merrie.”
She swung round at Damian’s low-voiced statement. “I beg your pardon, Lord Rutherford?”
“I think you heard me,” he said. “And you know quite well to what I refer. To go apart in that particular manner with Devereux can only give rise to comment. What can you have been thinking of?” “I do not need you to tell me how to behave,” she said icily. “I am long past the age of requiring such counsel.”
“You should be,” he agreed with a sudden, wicked grin. “But, as I know from experience, you will behave exactly as you see fit and to the devil with the proprieties. Fetch your cloak. I think you have the headache, and I must instantly convey you home.”
“What?” She stared at him, nonplussed by this extraordinary volte-face.
“Home,” he repeated with gentle emphasis, the gray eyes burning their message.
Home meant Highgate. “Dare we?” she whispered, looking around the crowded room. To escape this stuffy party for a night of illicit loving in their romantic hideaway was an utterly delicious thought, one that for the moment diverted her from her worries.
“Faint heart,” he mocked.
“I will fetch my cloak, my lord.”
Rutherford’s town chaise deposited them in Cavendish Square, from where they strolled in cousinlike and respectable fashion into the side streets where Damian hailed a hackney. Upon hearing his destination, the jarvey beamed, closing the door on his passengers and climbing onto his box, muttering his satisfaction at the length of the journey and his fare. In the carriage’s dark interior, Damian, in his own inimitable fashion, set about dispelling the tension in the supple frame in his arms. They had been bickering on and off ever since their return from Belvoir, and it seemed that only when they were alone like this could they be at peace. It was hardly a prescription for long-term marital bliss, he reflected before firmly putting aside all such gloomy thoughts as he reveled in the soft fragrance that promised only exquisite delight at journey’s end.
Meredith, even as she lost herself in the familiar, yet eternal excitement of his embrace, knew that tonight she was going to transgress the unspoken rules of their hideaway. The debacle with Gerald Devereux had been the last straw. In the face of his honesty, she had had to live the lie she lived with Rutherford’s parents and Bella’s husband. The game held no savor anymore, and her false position was become intolerable. Tonight, in Highgate, she would make her last attempt to extricate herself from this mess with dignity for them both. If Damian persisted in his obstinacy, then she had but two options. Either she forced him to agree to her removal to Highgate, or she returned to Cornwall. The latter possibility filled her with such a bleak premonition of loss that she could hardly bear to contemplate it. That left her original plan. She would be obliged to scandalize society to such an extent that all respectable doors would be closed to her. It would be painful for Arabella at first, but she would receive ready sympathy for having nurtured a viper at her bosom, and, once her troublesome guest had vanished into outer darkness, all would be well again.
In the pretty bedroom under the thatched roof, Rutherford straightened from the hearth where he had lit the kindling always laid ready in anticipation of their arrival whenever it should be. Merrie had made no attempt to remove her cloak and stood by the window, one hand holding aside the curtain as she gazed out at the clear, star-filled night sky. There was something about the set of her shoulders, the determined tilt of her chin that filled him with a prescient foreboding.
“What is it?” he asked quietly, moving behind her and reaching over her shoulder for the clasp of her cloak.
“You know quite well,” she said with dull simplicity. “I cannot continue in this way as I have told you over and over again. This time you must listen. I will not continue living this lie!”
“Then make it the truth,” he replied, removing the cloak and tossing it over a chair. “The solution is, as always, in your hands.”
“It is in your hands!” she said fiercely, twitching out of his hold. “All I ask is to be allowed to live here in Highgate. I must go home for the boys’ holidays, of course, but can return here easily enough during term time. It would be perfect if only you would stop to consider alternatives to your own ideas for once.”
“So that is your plan.” Damian decided that he had had enough of being patient and reasonable with her. If Meredith wanted to sully the tranquillity of their haven with this conflict, then so be it. “I beg leave to inform you, ma’am, that it will not do at all. You seem to have forgotten that this entire arrangement was at your suggestion, and, for as long as you remain in London, Meredith, present conditions will persist.”
“But I will not marry you!” she exclaimed.
“You will eventually, my stubborn little adventuress. You will marry me when you realize that I will accept no alternative.” He did not add his conviction that the more uncomfortable she found the arrangement, the sooner she would capitulate. “You are being obstinate about this simply for the sake of it—”
“How dare you say that!” Merrie interrupted furiously. “You who categorically refuse even to consider another point of view. You have set your heart on one thing and cannot bear to be denied—”
“And you, Merrie Trelawney, having once made up your mind to something, are too damn proud to admit that you were wrong,” he broke in, planting his hands firmly on his hips and fervently hoping that they would stay there. In this highly charged atmosphere, he could not vouch for the consequences if they did not.
Meredith was wrestling with her own problems of self-control and began pacing around the room, the embroidered flounce of the blue crape evening gown swishing around her celestial satin slippers. “If that is true of me, my lord, it is most certainly true of you,” she said finally in a stifled voice. “I cannot imagine your ever admitting that you were in th
e wrong. You have spent too many years believing yourself to be infallible and having that belief strengthened by all those obedient souls under your command. How many years has it been since anyone dared to gainsay you?”
“You try me too far, Meredith,” he said in a dangerously low voice. “My patience, believe it or not, is not inexhaustible.”
“So now you must resort to threats,” she taunted, scornfully and unwisely. “It is not unusual when the truth is too unpalatable to be faced.”
“Why you—!” Speechless with fury, Damian advanced on her. Meredith backed away, whipping her hands behind her as he stalked her with grim purpose. She stopped when the bed at her back prevented a further retreat and looked at him with defiant bravery, determined that she would not apologize, would not back down from a statement that was only the truth.
“You are a termagant,” Damian declared, “and you know how to go too far. Now, you are going to learn what happens when you do.” Putting a flat palm against her shoulder, he pushed her. It seemed gentle enough, but Merrie landed flat on her back on the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasped, outraged, struggling to sit up.
“I am going to teach you a lesson that I had thought you had learned long ago.” Catching her wrists in one large hand, he jerked them above her head. Merrie felt a stab of real fear as she realized for the first time how puny her own strength was beside the soldier’s whipcord body. When they had wrestled before in play, she had known he had held back, known that her victories had been given to her, but that intellectual knowledge was nothing compared with the reality of her helplessness now. His legs scissored hers into stillness, and his mouth came down in a kiss, punishing in its demand for response. She wriggled, squirming to get leverage with her hips, and he dropped the full weight of his body on hers without releasing her mouth. In the crimson-shot blackness behind her tightly closed eyes, the fear left her as the familiar scent of his skin filled her nostrils, the body pinioning hers assumed familiar contours, and her struggles ceased. However angry he was, Damian would never hurt her.
