Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  She was dumbfounded. He had never spoken so tenderly to her before. It was a declaration worthy of a hero in a play. Though the fences within her heart remained, she felt them crumbling a little.

  “You look surprised,” he continued. “I’m sure you know the reason I came this afternoon. You’ve known for a long time what your grandmother’s wishes are, and mine as well. But for many months now, I’ve wanted to wed you not merely to unite our estates, but to have you as my own. Once that happens, my ill temper will go away, I promise you. What say you, Abigail? Will you have me?”

  As he spoke, Abby’s thoughts raced. How easy it would be to believe his rages, his possessiveness, were the acts of a man consumed by frustrated love. How easy to say yes to him, yes to her grandmother, and sweep her own feelings aside.

  But could she as easily forget the wariness she felt in Philip’s presence? The sense that within his ordered, perfect exterior, there seethed uncontrollable emotions?

  If the arms beneath her sleeves were not bruised from his rough escort the night before last, perhaps she could.

  “You’re quiet again, Abigail. What does it require to convince you of my regard? Shall I—shall I kneel before you?” To her dismay, he slid from the chair to one knee and took her hand, his expression appealing. When she regarded him speechlessly for a long moment, his cheeks began to flush. “Well, say something, do not leave me here creaking on my knees like a penitent.”

  “Your words are kind, but—”

  “But what?” he asked irritably. “Don’t you believe that marrying you will make me a peaceable man?”

  Instead of answering his query, she said, “Sometimes I think you feel … contemptuous of me. You are always telling me what to think and—and how to speak and what I should do.”

  His face was a study in bewilderment. After a moment he said, “Oh, perhaps you mistake my feelings when I instruct you about proper behaviour and such. But you see, there are so many things you don’t understand because you’re not well-acquainted with the world and how things are done. I want to teach you, to help you grow.”

  At that moment, Walters and Charlotte Ann, the maid-of-all-work, entered carrying trays of tea and cakes.

  Walters’s attention was centered on balancing the tea set he carried. Therefore, he intoned, “Tea is served,” without looking at the scene before him. When he noted the man on his knees, he stopped abruptly, causing Charlotte Ann to walk into him. Several slices of petit-fours flew across the carpet like projectiles. The maid squealed as if she had been struck.

  “Get out of here, you interfering jackanapes!” Philip shouted. “Both of you! Can’t you see that I am … searching for my lost snuffbox?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the butler said dourly, and turned around without missing a step. After casting a stricken look at the cakes on the floor, the maid hurried after him.

  Philip closed his eyes for an instant and heaved a deep breath. “I apologize again, Abigail, but a man has his pride. Now. What say you to my proposal?”

  Feeling a kind of horrified fascination, Abby studied the face only inches away from hers. Despite his scornful treatment of the servants, his declaration had been difficult for him. And did any man feel differently about a woman’s lot than he?

  Without her bidding, the magician’s image came to mind. What was it he said about her—that beneath a gentle exterior, she possessed a raw power? It made her want to laugh, or cry.

  What would Lord Merlyn think now, if he could see her considering Philip’s proposal?

  She would like to believe she was powerful and strong, but it was only a fantasy suggested by a stranger. An inferior stranger with loose morals, according to Philip, who seemed to know a little about every subject. Already she could feel his opinion overshadowing hers by its greater logic. Did that alone not prove how wrong Lord Merlyn had been about her?

  Feeling something within her die, she said at last, “I shall think upon it.”

  Philip’s face brightened. “At least you haven’t refused me.” He rose and pulled her to her feet. “And since you haven’t rejected me outright, I’ll give you something else to consider.”

  He put an arm around her waist and drew her close. While she pulled back, stunned, he scanned her face and buried his other hand in the curls at the back of her neck, holding her. Then he kissed her, lightly at first, then longer, his lips pressing harder and harder as he crushed her to him.

  She struggled until he freed her with a shaky laugh. “That’s only one of many things you will learn, but no more lessons for a while; it is too hard to restrain myself.” He stroked a lock of hair from her forehead. “I’ve mussed your hair. Don’t let your grandmother know; she will have my ears. Farewell for now, my sweet.”

  He turned and walked cheerfully from the room, taking care to overstep the confections oozing on the carpet, shouting in the hall for his hat and cane.

  Abby sank into the chair and put her hands to her mouth. Her lips felt bruised. Her heart raced. She could not forget the expression in his eyes as he pulled away from her.

  It was a look of proud ownership.

  “What have I done?” she whispered.

  Chapter 3

  The sounds of shattering crockery brought the magician to wakefulness. Panting, shaking his head to banish the persistent phantoms from his mind, he sat up in bed and swung his legs to the floor. Someone had shouted. A certain rawness in the back of his throat flooded him with an unwelcome suspicion. When the bedroom door crashed opened and revealed Francis silhouetted against the faint light of the hall, his suspicions were confirmed, and he flushed in shame.

  “Are you all right, milord?” Francis queried in a worried voice.

  “Yes, yes. Go back to bed.” The magician stood, intending to force the valet’s departure, but something sharp ripped into his foot, and he swore and sat down again.

  Francis strode into the room and lit the lamp, his mouth straightening obstinately when Julian protested. Brushing his master’s hands aside, he examined the injury. The cut was only bleeding slightly, and he dampened a towel in the basin and ordered the magician to press it tightly against the wound.

  Julian, still riding the effects of the dream, obeyed with sour grace. His thoughts were more disjointed than a cloudscape. For a moment he could not recollect where he was. Just before he unmanned himself further to ask Francis, he recalled they were staying at a small inn, The Garden on the Lea, outside Worthing. Almost a week had passed then, and only one more to go before he compounded his madness.

  The valet left and returned quickly carrying a broom and an oilskin. While he swept the shards of broken crockery onto the cloth, Julian watched him gratefully. At least he’d asked no questions.

  When Harriet entered the room without knocking, the magician’s stomach knotted. He noticed Francis pause in his sweeping to eye her, and no wonder. She looked like an avenging goddess. Her mane of red hair flowed across her shoulders in appealing waves. The golden robe she wore outlined every sensuous curve.

  She crossed her arms beneath her bosom and stared hard at Julian, her expression a mixture of irritation and alarm. “The dreams again,” she said flatly. “Every night since we left High Chipping. They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

  Instead of answering, he displayed sudden interest in the bottom of his foot. Francis gave him a mild glance and replied, “Knocked over the pitcher this time. Cut himself a little. I’m making a pallet over there on the floor.” He cast a firm look at his employer, as though daring him to refuse.

  “No, you won’t, Francis, I’ll not listen to your snoring.” Julian sighed and permitted Harriet to see his foot. “And you go back to bed too, Harry. As you can see, I’m in no danger of bleeding to death. I’m not a child who needs looking after.”

  Francis grumbled incoherently, swept the remaining dust into the oilskin and twisted it closed, then walked from the room. Harriet lingered, her eyes glittering softly in the lamplight.

&n
bsp; “Would you like me to stay?”

  Julian caught her hand and pressed it to his lips, but the look he gave her was filled with regret. “We have spoken of this before. I thought we had come to an understanding. I’m sorry—”

  She snatched her hand away. “I don’t need your pity,” she said, and hurried from the room.

  Just the same, he spared her a little. But then his thoughts were overtaken by images of one Miss Abigail Lyons, who was beginning to consume his mind. Tonight, he had muffed the simplest tricks in his performance, had even let loose one of his doves over the audience, a thing he hadn’t done since he was a lad.

  But matters would be better soon, if he had made the right decision. If not, his brain would be good for nothing but fodder. And he had no one to blame for it but himself.

  *

  As the days following Philip’s proposal stretched into a week, then two, it became increasingly difficult for Abby to delay giving her answer; she wasn’t sure why she did. I can still run away, she promised herself. But where would she go? What could she do? Her education had too many holes in it to support her as a governess or a teacher in a seminary.

  She was grateful he’d never repeated his passionate behaviour, though the simmering glances he sent her way suggested he’d like to do so. If he acted as he did when she promised to think about his proposal, she couldn’t imagine what he’d do when she finally said yes.

  The most confusing thing was that his advances had not totally repulsed her. If he were a villain like a character in one of Mrs. Roche’s or Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, she should have found his embrace disgusting. But though she had not sought, wanted, nor enjoyed his kiss, there was an element of excitement to it. Like flotsam in a raging river, she’d been swept into the tide of his passion.

  Perhaps marriage to him would not be so terrible. Maybe he could persuade her to love him as he’d changed her mind about so many other things. Maybe he could make her trust him.

  But I don’t want to be persuaded into loving my husband, she told her tear-soaked pillow each night. I want the love to be my idea alone.

  Strange, fragmented dreams tortured her sleep. Philip would reach for her again, his expression hungry and demanding. At some point while she pushed and fought, his eyes would change from grey to blue. Just as she realized it was the magician she struggled against, he would transform into a dove and fly away.

  After one such night she paid her morning visit to her grandmother’s room with red-rimmed eyes and the imprint of her coverlet branded into her cheek. Matilda observed her with an unfamiliar stab of guilt tempered by annoyance.

  “You’re a tiresome child, Abigail,” she said. “Mooning and pining and wasting away when you should be rejoicing. No man’s going to want you, not even Philip, if you don’t stop.”

  Matilda placed her skeletal hands on the side of the settee and pushed herself to a higher sitting position. With a brighter edge in her voice, she said, “Now I’ve had a thought. Let’s have the wedding here, at Sharonfield. Prosings would be more elegant, but I can’t be expected to travel in my condition. And why not have it three weeks from now, well before your birthday. You don’t want your anniversary too close to your birthday, you know, or you’ll only get half the presents ever after.”

  “I haven’t said I’d marry him,” said Abby listlessly.

  “No, and the entire world waits at your feet for one little word!” Matilda cried. “In my day you would have been forced, but I am too kind for that!”

  She snapped her fingers at Jane, who was feather-dusting a lamp on the bedside table. “Fetch my purse,” she ordered. Turning back to Abby, she said, “I’m giving you a few coins to spend. When I was a girl, nothing made me feel better than an outing. Redmond has told me there is a small circus come to town this week. Get you into High Chipping and come home with your head back on your shoulders, do you hear? And take Charlotte Ann with you. I can’t spare Jane.”

  Jane looked woeful at this news, but she handed the purse to her mistress, who removed several shillings, one at a time, and gave them to Abby. With her gaze fixed regretfully on the coins in her granddaughter’s hand, Matilda waved her from the room.

  *

  Abby did not think anything could stir her from the darkness of her thoughts, but as her grandmother’s fusty old coach rattled the two miles into town, her spirits grew higher with every bump.

  “There is more traffic on the road today than I’ve ever seen before,” she shouted over the clatter of the wheels.

  Charlotte Ann turned worried eyes toward the dusty window. “I reckon everybody is going to see the sideshows.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it. Are you not glad to be released from your duties for a while?”

  The maid stared at her glumly. Several wisps of lackluster hair had fallen away from her topknot, and she pushed them upward into her bonnet. Abby suddenly realized she had never seen a larger pair of ears on anyone, then stifled the unkind thought.

  “Everything will be waiting for me when I get back,” Charlotte Ann said in fatalistic tones.

  “Oh, I see. Maybe I can help you.”

  The servant shrugged, then turned her eyes to the glass again. “Most often they advertise these traveling companies weeks ahead of time. But this one seems like it came from nowhere. I hope they don’t have the kind of performers that goes about in their smallclothes. I’d hate for the vicar to see me here if they do.”

  Swallowing her amusement, Abby forebore mentioning that if the vicar saw her, he would have to be present, too. She left the maid to her worries and kept silent for the remaining minutes of the trip.

  When Redmond halted the carriage in a large field south of town, she joined the crowd eagerly, leaving Charlotte Ann to follow. A gate had been erected at the edge of the meadow. Abby opened her reticule and paid the entrance fees, then entered the makeshift arena.

  Some twenty or so wagons had been pulled into an enormous half-circle, and performers were displaying their particular abilities before each. She saw jugglers, acrobats, contortionists, cages with lions and panthers, a shooting gallery, and Red Indians from America demonstrating war dances. Abby became dizzy wandering from one exhibit to the other. Charlotte Ann trailed after her, silent and gloomy. Abby wished her grandmother had given her more money so she could buy them both something to eat. The smells of lamb-on-a-stick and dipped apples were making her stomach as hollow as an empty log.

  While she stood watching a man eating fire, she felt a tug at the end of her arm. She turned in time to see a lad running through the crowd with her reticule.

  “Stop! Stop the thief!” she cried, and began chasing him. One rough-looking man made a half-hearted attempt to trip the culprit, but the boy slithered away like a snake. She could hear Charlotte Ann’s yells growing fainter behind her. No one else seemed to care, the spectators appearing to view her distress as part of the entertainment. A couple of rowdies even had the audacity to cheer her on.

  The boy kept glancing over his shoulder, slowing himself considerably to do so. He must be a very inept thief, or a beginner. If there were not so many people between them, she could have caught him easily. Finally, the child led her behind the wagons, where he ran headlong into an impeccably dressed young gentleman.

  She was not too breathless to be temporarily overwhelmed by the gentleman’s perfect features. His hair was dark and thick, his coat faultlessly tailored over wide shoulders and as blue as his eyes. There was something about him …

  “Whoa there, lad!” said the stranger with a chuckle. “What are you up to?”

  “He has stolen my reticule!” Abby cried.

  “Well, that will never do. Hand it over, young man.”

  The boy passed it to him without protest, then ran off. Abby thought she saw a grin on the child’s face, but surely she had imagined it. Still, she could not help feeling a whisper of distrust as she looked at the gentleman. Had not his act of rescue been too easy?

  “Here y
ou are, miss,” he said, and gave her the purse.

  “Thank you,” she said weakly. Her gaze roamed across his face. She was being rude to stare, and the amusement in his eyes made her cheeks sting. What was it about him? Something …

  He swept off his top hat and bowed. “Since we have met in this rather dramatic way, perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Julian Donberry.”

  The pleasant timbre of his voice … those blue, blue eyes. Suddenly, her body stiffened with shock.

  “No, you are not,” she said, her voice trembling.

  His smile faltered. “I’m not?”

  “You are Lord Merlyn, the magician,” she pronounced.

  The smile disappeared entirely, then returned. “Oh, well. It was worth a try. There was always the chance you would not recognize me, since I was wearing a mask the last time we met. But I suspected you were too sharp for that, Miss Lyons.”

  She felt quite cold. Her awareness of the crowd on the other side of the wagon brought a small measure of comfort. But for the moment, they were alone. If she were not so curious, she would run away.

  “Why—why are you here? What do you want?”

  His eyes twinkled while he considered her questions. Then, as if throwing caution to the winds, his grin widened recklessly. “I’m here to renew my offer, Miss Lyons. I have come to ask you to be my wife.”

  Abby’s knees went weak. She was alone with a madman. She sank against the hub of the carriage wheel and felt her heart turn over.

  He rushed to assist her. “Forgive me. I am being too abrupt. I should have—”

  “Abrupt?” she squeaked, anger and alarm making her strong enough to push him away. “Abrupt is hardly the word I’d use. Insane is more like.”

  He stepped back a pace. “You need not be insulting.”

  She gave him an incredulous look, then laughed wildly.

  “No, of course I need not.” She careened away from the wheel and stormed away from him. He caught her before she reached the back of the wagon and guided her around to face him.