Unmasked by her Lover, page 8
They whiled away the evening playing cards, and the brandy decanter was passed freely between the gentlemen. Although Meg kept a wary eye on Captain Garrow, she saw no sign of the drunken violence she had witnessed at the inn. He drank in moderation, and his contribution to the conversation was mostly reminiscences of the late war.
“Lord, I haven’t had a run of luck this bad since Malcolm Dewar fleeced me down to my coat in 1812,” he complained, then nodded in Harry’s direction. “Whatever happened to Dewar?”
“He died,” Harry said shortly.
“I’m sorry,” Garrow said. “I heard it was you who dragged him off the battlefield. And then I heard you were both on the road to recovery. What went wrong for him?”
Any idiot could have seen that Harry did not want to discuss this. Meg, seated beside him, sensed his tension as if it were her own. Was Dewar the friend who had given him the ring to take back to his wife? The ring which had caused him to pursue the highwaymen.
The highwaymen, she realized suddenly, that none of them had mentioned since arriving at Calvert Court.
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Infection, probably. There was certainly fever.”
“Poor old Dewar. Was he delirious?” Garrow asked sympathetically.
Harry stared at him. “I wasn’t paying much attention. I had my own selfish concerns.”
It wasn’t true, Meg realized. This Dewar had been his friend, whose last gift had caused him to risk his own life.
“Shall we have tea?” she suggested brightly. “Before Johnny cleans us all out!”
“The sad thing is,” Johnny mourned, “I have now used up all my luck and will lose horribly when I play for more than pennies. Bring in the tea!”
When everyone retired for the night, Meg followed her brother into his chamber.
“Go away, Meg,” he said. “I want a word in private with Harry.”
She frowned. “What about?”
“None of your business.”
“Johnny, are you doing Papa’s bidding?” she asked uneasily.
“When have I ever done Papa’s bidding?” Johnny demanded. “Or anyone else’s for that matter.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Adding respectability to your jaunt with Harry.”
Meg’s mouth fell open. “Adding respectability? He should have sent Peter.”
“That’s what I said,” Johnny admitted. “But he seemed to think it was an eldest son matter.”
“What,” Meg asked gently, “is an eldest son matter?”
Johnny eyed her with annoyance. “You needn’t think you’ve tricked me, for—”
A brief knock sounded, and Harry strolled into the room. He paused, glancing from Johnny to Meg. “Is it an exclusive family quarrel, or may a stranger join in?”
“I’m not quarreling with anyone,” Johnny retorted. “Though I might if Meg doesn’t scarper.”
“If it’s to do with Meg, she should probably hear it,” Harry said, wandering over to the window and looking out before lounging in the window seat with one knee drawn up. He cast Johnny an apologetic smile. “I’d only tell her anyway.”
“Yes, you were always thick, weren’t you? You see, this is why I hate being involved in family matters. They never go the way everyone tells me they will.” He threw himself into the armchair and sighed. “Well, dash it, it’s nothing to me. But if you start screeching Meg, I’ll carry you out bodily and lock the door.”
“That’s fair,” Harry allowed.
“It is not!” Meg objected. “How could that possibly be fair?”
“You won’t screech,” Harry said mildly. “Spit it out, Johnny.”
Johnny sighed. “His Grace isn’t pleased you ran down here with Meg, but he understands why you did it. He knows it was Meg’s idea, for she left a note to say so. He further says there is a matter you spoke of years ago before you went to the Peninsula, and he now believes it would be favorable to you both if he finally agreed. Which he does. In fact, he’d prefer you did it sooner rather than later. In a respectable manner.”
Meg regarded her brother with a weird fascination. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“Yes,” Johnny admitted, “but I’m pretending I don’t, for it’s dashed uncomfortable to me, whatever you two feel about the matter. But there we are. I’ve said my father’s piece, and you are both at liberty to depart. In fact, I wish you would. Though I’d appreciate your answer in the morning, Harry.”
Harry looked merely amused. “What about Meg’s answer?”
“It’s taken for granted,” Johnny said bluntly. “She has no other options.”
“I do!” Meg objected. “I’ve been here with Martha for four days.”
“It might carry some in your favor, Meg,” Johnny allowed, “especially if Martha was actually here! But marry an old friend of rank and birth, too, and you’re pretty much saved.”
“Don’t try and persuade her, Johnny,” Harry intervened, rising to his feet. “She can’t accept what I haven’t offered.”
Johnny goggled at him. Meg, who should have been delighted, felt an odd little pain in her chest. She didn’t know why. Harry was only repeating what he had already said to her in London.
“You won’t marry her?” Johnny said as though baffled.
“I’m not His Grace’s puppet,” Harry said, strolling toward the door. “And now I’m going to bed. Good night,”
“I’ve offended him,” Johnny said ruefully as the door closed. “He never used to be so dashed sensitive.”
But the spark Meg had seen in Harry’s eyes as he’d walked past her hadn’t been sensitivity or haughty pride. It had been anger. So much so that he had forgotten his candle.
She glared at her brother. “You should have spoken to me,” she declared, stalking to the door.
“I should have stayed at home,” Johnny muttered behind her.
Ignoring that, Meg opened the door, snatched up two candles from the table beside it, and hurried after Harry.
He had already turned back, presumably preferring not to blunder about in the dark to the other side of the house, and they met in the middle of the passage.
She held out one of her candles, and the flame flickered, casting strange glows and shadows across his suddenly unfamiliar face.
“I’m sorry,” she said nervously. “I did try to warn you. And Johnny’s only repeating what my father told him.”
“I imagine some pretty heavy pressure was necessary,” Harry said lightly. “But you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m sorry you’re angry.”
Unexpectedly, he reached out and touched her cheek. “Oh, my dear, that is not your fault either.”
Her breath caught at the caress. Without meaning to, she turned her cheek into his palm. “My father cannot help expecting people to do as he bids them because they generally do.”
“I’m not angry with him for that,” he admitted.
“For what, then?”
“For interfering,” he said intensely. “I would never force you to make such a decision for such a reason.” His eyes glittered in the quivering flame of her candle. A frown tugged at his brow, and his hand moved, holding her head steady. “You and I, Meg, can never have a marriage of convenience.”
“I would not make a convenient wife,” she agreed.
“Feelings are not convenient. They’re damnable.”
Without warning, he swooped. Her gasp was lost in his mouth, which not only covered hers but caressed and devoured it in the kind of kiss she had never imagined. She clutched at his coat to stay upright under the onslaught and then flattened her palm against his back to bring him closer. Enthralled, she let the excitement overwhelm her. And loved it.
“You see?” he whispered against her lips.
She shook her head, unsure if she was distressed or joyful. And then, distracted by the movement of her lips against his, she did it again. The tip of his tongue delicately traced the shape of her upper lip, and then his mouth closed fully on hers once more.
“It doesn’t feel very damnable,” she murmured shakily when she could speak.
A smile flickered across his lips. “No. No, it doesn’t. Remember that. Good night, my Meg.”
Abruptly, she stood alone, watching him stride down the passage with his faintly halting step, and vanish around the corner.
Mechanically, she turned the other way, walking past Johnny’s chamber, where she was relieved to see the door was closed, and her own to get to Martha’s. She found she was touching her tingling lips.
Harry kissed me.
No, this stranger who was once Harry kissed me…and in such a way… Why did he do that?
Was he still angry? It hadn’t felt angry. It had felt sweet and loving and gloriously exciting…
But it’s Harry.
Harry, her friend. Whom she had once run from because he made her heart flutter. Well, dear God, it was fluttering now, and she could not run.
She blinked herself back to her current surroundings to realize she was in Martha’s frivolous bedchamber being unlaced and unpinned by Mathews. For a moment, she was afraid the maid would see what she had done and blushed.
Fortunately, Mathews seemed to be concentrating on more practical matters, and Meg understood with something like wonder that this was her secret.
Hers and Harry’s.
She was not sure why he had done it, but she did know men kissed easily. And more than kissed. One needed to look no further than Johnny. And Calvert. But Meg was no opera dancer or even some sophisticated married lady like the Princess of Wales.
It was a mystery, she thought, climbing into bed and blowing out the candle. She lay down and gazed into the darkness. Harry’s lean, handsome face swam before her eyes, a warm smile just dying on his lips as he brought them closer and closer to hers…
The butterflies in her stomach jumped and plunged.
But in truth, Harry was not a stranger. There was a simple way to solve the mystery, and that was simply to ask him.
With the matter resolved to her satisfaction, she drifted off to sleep.
*
She woke early as she usually did and was sorely tempted to go out and walk in the sunshine. But Martha never rose early. And she had already decided to keep Meg indisposed in bed since more of the Calvert’s guests were expected. It seemed the only way to keep her sanity, at least until Calvert got back.
She threw wide the bedchamber window and inhaled the sweet summer smells of roses and pinks and cut grass. It was still possible, she thought, leaning on the sill, that Calvert would find Martha and bring her home tonight. If she wasn’t with their parents in Grosvenor Square, she could well be at Calvert’s own London house where Johnny, unaware she was missing, hadn’t looked for her.
Meg leaned further out to enjoy the sunshine on her face.
“Madam, I am shocked,” an amused male voice declared below. “You risk spoiling your perfect complexion with freckles.”
Meg glanced down in some surprise to see an unknown gentleman on horseback gazing up at her. He swept off his hat, bowing elegantly.
“My lady rises early,” he observed, smiling. “Might I hope she daydreams of me?”
“I was thinking of my sister,” Meg replied with perfect truth, wondering who the devil this person was and how well she was supposed to know him.
“My Lady Cruelty,” he mourned.
“But she is not well,” Meg said with Martha’s teasing smile. “Why would I not think of her? I believe it is quite the opposite of cruel.”
“Come and ride with me,” the gentleman begged, clearly dismissing her sister’s health.
“I am not dressed for it.”
“My lady is barely dressed at all,” he observed, and she hastily withdrew inside the window. She had forgotten she was still in her night rail. “Perhaps I should come up to call upon you?”
“Sadly, the servants will not admit you. I am not receiving callers before noon. Good morning!” With that, she closed the window on his soft laugh, and a moment later heard the clop of horse’s hooves fading toward the woods.
She turned thoughtfully toward the bedchamber door as it opened to admit Mathews.
“There was a horseman below flirting with Martha,” she said bluntly.
“That would be Mr. Ives,” Mathews said, her voice carefully neutral. “I’ve brought you coffee, my lady, and a roll.”
“Thank you.” Meg indicated the little table close to the hearth and curled up in the armchair next to it while Mathews poured coffee. “Who is Mr. Ives?”
“He is the new tenant of Ninfield Hall. He has only been there a month or two.”
“He seems very familiar with Martha.”
“I believe he is known as something of a flirt.” Mathews, leaving her coffee on the table, was busy looking through clothes in the chest of drawers.
Meg watched her while she reached for the coffee and sipped. “Does Martha flirt back?”
“I could not say, my lady.”
“Yes, you could. And if she didn’t, you would have told me. How far has it gone?”
Mathews glanced up, almost pleading. “Just flirting, my lady, I swear.”
“Does she go riding with him?”
“She may have met him once or twice while she was out, but one of the grooms was always present.”
“Mathews, was this fellow the cause of her quarrel with Lord Calvert?”
Mathews plonked a small pile of undergarments on the bed. “His name might have been mentioned, but as to it being the cause, I would doubt it. But you should take care, my lady. If he was here as boldly as that, he’s clearly got wind that his lordship is from home.”
“Well, his lordship should be back today. Hopefully, with my sister.”
Chapter Nine
With the midday arrival of new guests—Mr. and Mrs. Wrexham and their daughter, all known to Meg—it became more imperative that she play the part of Martha perfectly. There was, further, Mrs. Knowles’s card party to look forward to that evening. Meg drifted about the house, being the languidly attentive hostess.
But she did find time to question her brother about Mr. Ives. While the others took a turn across the lawn, Meg had enjoyed a quick conference with Martha’s cook and was heading out to rejoin the guests when she found Johnny alone inside, yawning over a newspaper.
“Do you know a man called Ives?” she asked.
“Cedric Ives? Played cards with him a few times. Why?”
“Apparently, he’s taken the tenancy of Ninfield Hall, to the west. What is he like?”
“Plays deep. Ladies’ man.” Johnny frowned and repeated. “Why?”
“I think he flirts with Martha.”
Her brother’s frown deepened. “You know, you two are enough to turn a man respectable! Never tell me she’s run off with him?”
“Of course, she hasn’t!”
“Good, then I don’t need to call him out.”
“I’m sure that would be Calvert’s part, in any case.”
“Yes, but Calvert doesn’t shoot straight.”
Meg regarded him uneasily. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned him to you. You wouldn’t really challenge him, would you?”
“Not unless he’s hurt Martha. Or tries to.”
“That’s fair,” Meg allowed, distracted by the sight of Harry beyond the window. She had not yet seen him today, and all the emotion of last night’s encounter rushed upon her now. He strolled across the lawn in riding dress to greet the new arrivals. Basil, who was with his mother, ran to greet him and sat on his foot to get a ride around the garden. “Come, we should join the others.”
As they went outside, Johnny’s roving eye inevitably fell on Miss Wrexham, a pretty debutante of a lively disposition.
“You will behave, will you not, Johnny?” she said.
“Of course I will,” he scoffed. “If I were you, I’d worry more about Harry.”
Harry had sat down on a garden bench beside Miss Wrexham, smiling at her while he bounced Basil on his foot. Something unpleasant twinged inside her. She hoped it was not jealousy.
“Harry always behaves like a gentleman,” she said with dignity.
Johnny turned his gaze on her. “How do you know? Until two days ago, you hadn’t set eyes on him for five years.”
It was true. Last night, she had been only too aware of his unfamiliarity, of the big, important chunk of his life she knew nothing about. And that was before he had kissed her. She found herself reaching for the sudden pain in her chest and forced her hand back to her side. She would not become just another female to Harry. Even when her heart had fluttered six years ago, even when she had melted into his arms last night, she had only ever wanted to be his friend. His best friend.
Only, Meg? Really?
Giving herself a little shake, she focused on being Martha. But as Harry stood up to give her his seat, she was too aware of his height, of the smile lurking in his eyes that she could no longer read. Her body remembered being held against his, and those butterflies rushed back with a vengeance. She actually welcomed playing the part of her sister. It seemed to be the only way she could greet him with casual friendliness, taking his seat beside Miss Wrexham—who tried not to look disappointed—and making amusing remarks about the latest fashions.
Calvert’s old nurse hovered in the background, ready to take over the care of Master Basil whenever she should be required. When Mrs. Garrow finally nodded to her, she quietly went and took the child’s hand, taking him away for his nap. Though he looked mutinous, he went.
Calvert’s old nurse had a way with her, Meg reflected, much as her own nurse had done. Children always loved her, and Meg still held a special place in her heart for her. As did all the Dearham children. It was time, she thought, to visit Nurse again. When everything was better.
Having drifted out of the conversation into her own reverie, she glanced up to see if anyone noticed and met Harry’s gaze. It was warm, too warm, and his lips quirked so that she imagined he was remembering kissing her last night.
Hastily, she glanced further and saw Johnny flirting with Miss Wrexham under her mother’s indulgent gaze. Well, whoever married Johnny would be a duchess one day, but she doubted that somebody would be Miss Wrexham. And she did not like the idea that Harry was doing the same to her.
