The Wild Child

by Mary Jo Putney

  Dominic’s lips thinned as he thought of the misery he’d endured the first terms at his school. “Did it ever occur to you how painful that would be?”

  Weary regret showed in his father’s cataract-hazed eyes. “How could I not know, the way the two of you carried on? Your brother never forgave me, and I’ve often suspected that you haven’t, either. But I was right to do it. Even your mother agreed.” With a curt nod, he climbed inside the coach and settled onto the velvet-covered seat.

  Lucia bounced in after him in a flurry of laughter and billowing skirts. The earl’s face relaxed into the smile that he reserved for her alone. His daughter had never given him the trouble his sons had.

  A footman closed the door, cutting off Dominic’s sight of his family, and the coach started down the long driveway. He stood beside the ladies, mechanically waving good-bye as his thoughts churned.

  His mother had agreed to the separation? That was news; he’d assumed that it was done over her objections because she had wept for her sons’ parting. But she was a warmhearted woman, and could have wept for their misery while agreeing that separation was for the best. She’d died not long after his departure.

  To his shock, he realized that he had to concede that his father had been right to separate them. When it happened he’d felt only the pain, but by the time he entered the army, he’d reached the same conclusion as Wrexham: that he must build an independent life, out of his brother’s shadow.

  It was hard to admit that the earl was right. Even harder was accepting that his harsh, domineering father had acted from genuine concern rather than casual cruelty.

  How could things be so much the same, yet utterly changed? For three days, Meriel and Renbourne had gone on morning rides and worked in the gardens together, usually under the amiable eye of Kamal. Yet everything was…different. Meriel no longer burned with vague, unfocused lust; now that she knew what it was like to join her body with his, passion was deeper and far more compelling.

  They were pruning the topiary again; it was a job that never ended. She knelt beside one of the hounds so that she could shape the outstretched paws. Feeling Renbourne’s gaze, she glanced up and saw that he was watching her, his eyes grave.

  Softly, so that Kamal wouldn’t hear, she whispered, “Dominic.”

  His face lit up with a smile of dazzling intimacy. She caught her breath, wanting to pull him down to the fragrant turf and swarm all over him, biting and rolling and kissing until they were covered in grass stains and he was thrusting into her, his eyes blind with need and his heart hammering against hers.

  Instead, pulse pounding, she lowered her gaze and chopped off an unruly sprig of yew. For three days she’d thought of him constantly, battling the temptation to seduce him out of his good intentions. She doubted that he would reject her if she slipped into his bed at night.

  But she had controlled her impulses, rather to her surprise. Though she did not agree with his position, it would be very bad to tempt him to betray his notions of honor. Wryly she recognized a significant change—she was behaving with maturity. Being an irresponsible madwoman was simpler, and much more amusing.

  Luckily she had soon learned that she was not with child. She knew little of babies, and was certainly not ready to face the complications pregnancy would bring.

  She sighed. For years she’d been quite content with her life, reveling in armloads of blossoms, and fertile soil between her toes, and nature’s glorious, ever-changing panorama. Now contentment had been supplanted by a hunger for a man in her bed.

  But the man wished to wed, and gratifying her desires would come only at a terrifyingly high price. She’d had nightmares every night since their tryst, waking with pounding heart and fragmentary memories of fire and screams and pain. There was no mystery about the dreams; they represented her terror of the outside world she had fled.

  Would it be possible to marry and still stay safe at Warfield? Or would there be ever-increasing pressures to “take her place in the world”? To be Lady Meriel, heiress of Warfield, with a London town house and a presentation at court? Ever since arriving, Renbourne had been hell-bent on persuading her to try new ventures. She hadn’t minded in the case of riding, but leaving Warfield was quite a different matter.

  She slanted a glance at Renbourne, who was stretching up to prune the head of a leaping topiary horse. Such lovely long, taut muscles. He gave her joy unlike any she had ever known. She even trusted him—to a point.

  But the nightmares had come with flames and dark, unintelligible messages of betrayal. Why, she didn’t understand, but over the years wariness had become part of her. Though she trusted Renbourne as a lover, even her lust-addled heart could not quite make the leap to trusting her life and Warfield to his hands.

  And without that trust, there could be no marriage.

  Dominic accepted a sherry from Mrs. Marks with a quip, then glanced at the doorway to see if Meriel had arrived for dinner. Four days had passed since they’d made love, and the time had dragged like four years. The night before, he’d woken sweating from a fevered dream of intimately twined bodies, and barely restrained himself from going through the moonlit corridor to her room.

  As promised, Meriel had continued silent, except for an occasional flick of words meant for his ears alone. He wondered if she recognized that each time she did that, he was stricken with paralyzing lust that faded with excruciating slowness.

  Yet tormenting though it was to be near her all day without touching, it was better than not seeing her at all. Uneasily he was aware that time was running out. He would wait two or three days more before asking Meriel if she was coming to terms with the idea of marriage. Several times he’d caught her regarding him wistfully, as if he were only a memory. That didn’t bode well, for he would have to leave if she still refused to marry him.

  He heard a sound outside the salon, not Meriel’s light footsteps but the heavy strides of a grown man. The butler? No, too solid and arrogant. Probably a visitor; he’d never seen such a house for people arriving unannounced. Still, he’d survived Amworth and Wrexham, so he should be all right.

  A travel-stained man of middle years swept into the room, shadowed by two equally travel-stained footmen, who silently took position against the wall. Tall and powerfully built, the newcomer carried himself like a soldier. His furious gaze raked over the three people in the salon. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “We are gathering for dinner, Lord Grahame,” Mrs. Marks said mildly. “How nice that you are in time to join us.”

  Dominic froze. Gods above, it only needed this! But what the devil was Grahame doing in England? He wasn’t due back from the Continent for weeks.

  Echoing his thoughts, Mrs. Rector chimed in, “Such an unexpected pleasure. We thought you were still in France.”

  “Don’t insult me with pleasantries. I am gravely disappointed in you both.” Grahame glowered at the women. “I decided to return home early when I received news of Amworth’s illness. Imagine my shock when I visited the Warfield solicitor in London to learn Amworth’s condition, and discovered what has been going on behind my back. The solicitor has been disquieted by this…this marriage plot, and was grateful for the chance to tell me all about it.”

  He turned his scowl on Dominic. “I presume that you are Viscount Maxwell. Is your reputation so vile that no normal heiress will have you?”

  Meriel appeared in the doorway behind Grahame. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene at a glance. Then she vanished in a swirl of blue skirts. He was grateful for that, because the confrontation unfolding was going to be very, very ugly.

  Hoping calm might defuse some of the tension, he said, “Lord Amworth explained to me how you and he both wish only the best for your niece, but disagree about how to achieve that. Having become well acquainted with Lady Meriel, I agree entirely with Lord Amworth: she is well suited to marriage. I’m grateful that Amworth chose to honor a longstanding plan to unite our families.”

  “Very
prettily said,” Grahame growled. “But pretty words won’t disguise the fact that taking advantage of a mentally deficient girl is the action of a scoundrel.”

  “You underestimate your niece’s abilities,” Dominic said, still calm. “She is not in the common way, but there is nothing wrong with her wits or her judgment. And ultimately, the decision to marry is hers.”

  Grahame’s fists clenched furiously. “Nonsense! As one of her guardians, I have the obligation and authority to prevent any ill-advised liaison. That is why Amworth tried to hustle my niece into marriage while I was away.”

  “Do you have the authority?” Dominic retorted. “Meriel is of age, and I believe that no court has ever declared her unfit.”

  “That can be arranged!” Grahame’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll grant that Amworth meant well, but if I take this matter to court, any judge would agree that the girl needs protection, not to be handed over to a fortune hunter.”

  “One really can’t call Maxwell a fortune hunter, Lord Grahame,” Mrs. Rector said unexpectedly. “His breeding and station are equal to Meriel’s, and his kindness and perception make him an ideal husband for a young woman of her…delicate nature. Lord Amworth chose well.”

  Grahame stared at Mrs. Rector, who accepted his hard gaze with her usual placidity. What a splendid old girl she was, Dominic thought fondly. She looked soft and sweet as marzipan, but she had the courage to stand up to a raging earl.

  Suppressing a guilty pang that he was not the desirable heir to Wrexham but the much less desirable younger son, he said, “I respect your care for Lady Meriel, sir, but I believe you know her less well than you think.”

  Grahame gave him a look of utter contempt. “In a matter of days, you’ve become an expert on the girl, while I, who have cared for her since she was a child, know nothing? Such arrogance!”

  “She has grown and changed even in the short time I have known her.” Dominic made a swift decision. “So much so that she has begun to talk.”

  Grahame’s jaw dropped, and both of the ladies inhaled in shock. Grahame rallied first. “Is this true, Mrs. Marks?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” she replied, wide-eyed. “Meriel has really spoken, Lord Maxwell?”

  “Yes, and very intelligently, too. So far, she has been too shy”—it was as good an explanation as any—“to talk to anyone but me, but I believe that in time she will converse as freely as you or I.”

  The older man snorted. “I will believe that when I hear her with my own ears.”

  Doubting that Meriel would talk to this group even to save him from looking like a liar, Dominic replied, “As I said, she is shy. It isn’t easy for her to change her relationship to the world. She must be allowed to progress at her own speed.”

  “It sounds to me as if you’ve invented a parcel of lies to cover up your shameless greed.” Grahame’s mouth twisted. “I wish to God that Meriel could speak. I would give anything to hear her call me ‘Uncle’ again, but she never will. She is incapable of understanding even the simplest of comments or requests.”

  Dominic felt a flash of irritation at the older man’s obduracy, but as he knew from personal experience, Meriel’s fragile beauty inspired protectiveness. Her uncle was showing perfectly reasonable concern. His tone conciliatory, he pointed out, “She doesn’t always pay attention to what people say, but she has a masterful knowledge of gardening. The mehndi she paints require intelligence, skill, and talent. Every hour I have spent in her company has given more proof of a fine, unconventional mind.”

  “I’ve often thought she understands more than we realize,” Mrs. Marks agreed.

  “You believe that because you wish to believe it. Just as you think well of Maxwell because he’s a personable young man, and you want to think well of him.” Grahame frowned at Dominic. “But how can you bear the thought of an innocent child being given to a man of the world who will despoil and abandon her?”

  “Meriel is not a child!” Dominic said vehemently. “She’s a woman—and she deserves to be treated like one.”

  Grahame froze when he heard the passion in Dominic’s voice. “My God, you’ve bedded her, haven’t you?” the older man gasped. “You…you disgusting libertine!”

  A moment too slowly, Dominic protested, “I swear that I have not seduced Lady Meriel.” But she had seduced him, and his guilt at allowing that made his denial sound feeble and unconvincing. Even his advocate, Mrs. Rector, looked upset.

  Exploding across the room, Grahame snarled, “I should demand satisfaction, but a duel would tarnish Meriel’s reputation. You have half an hour to leave Warfield.” His jaw worked, a muscle jumping under the skin. “And if you ever set foot here again, I swear before God I will kill you without the formality of a duel.”

  To his footmen, he ordered, “Accompany this swine to his room while he collects his things, then escort him and his servants from the estate. If he attempts to elude you, or to seek out Lady Meriel, stop him by any means necessary.”

  Grahame had come with the intention of throwing the interloper out, Dominic realized. That was why he’d brought two burly footmen. No wonder he hadn’t listened to reason—his mind was already made up.

  Dominic’s frayed temper nearly snapped. Meriel was a woman grown, not a helpless doll without a mind or will of her own. This was her house, and he was quite sure that she wanted him to stay. Her uncle had no right to evict him.

  And yet—by the standards of normal society, Grahame’s edict was justified. His coguardian had gone behind his back to do something Grahame violently disagreed with, and now the man had arrived at Warfield to find that his niece’s chaperons had failed miserably at their job. In Grahame’s place, Dominic would be equally enraged.

  He glanced at the ladies, but there was no aid there. Mrs. Rector was regarding him with large, sorrowful blue eyes, while Mrs. Marks tugged at the bell rope, summoning Morrison down in the servants’ hall.

  With as much dignity as he could manage, Dominic said, “I love Meriel, and I believe that she loves me. I hope that when tempers have cooled, we can discuss this matter reasonably.”

  Grahame gave a bark of bitter laughter. “There is nothing reasonable about my niece. You fool, sending you away is as much for your good as well as hers! She has twice attacked me with a knife, and I know that she has assaulted others as well. Be grateful that when you sleep at night, you won’t have to worry about her sliding a blade between your ribs.”

  Uneasily Dominic remembered how Meriel had gone after the poacher. If she’d had a knife, she could have caused a serious injury. Yet that was not madness, but understandable rage. She was not mad!

  Grahame gestured for his footmen to come forward. They were matched in height and strength, and must cost Grahame a pretty penny in wages. Dominic couldn’t fight them both even if he wanted to.

  Expression rigid, he set his long-forgotten sherry glass down and stalked to the door. But before leaving, he paused to say, “Remember, the ultimate decision about marriage belongs to Meriel, and no one else.”

  Grahame shook his head with disgust. “Your wits are as lacking as hers.”

  Dominic marched up the stairs to his room, his mind churning. Though Grahame didn’t really have the legal authority to forbid Dominic’s presence at Warfield, practically speaking, Dominic had no choice but to leave. Even if he could evade the footmen and find Meriel, he could never ask her to elope. Warfield was her home, and her roots ran as deep as those of the ancient oak that sheltered the tree house.

  His only hope was to go to Lord Amworth, whose authority was equal to Grahame’s. With Amworth’s backing, he would be able to return—if Amworth was still among the living, and strong enough to fight Grahame for Meriel’s future.

  She did not even have a chance to say good-bye.

  Meriel had retreated to her room to escape the unpleasantness in the salon. She always avoided her uncle Grahame. Though his military days were long gone, he still tended to bark at everyone as if they were tr
oops under his command.

  Then she heard jangling harness. Idly she glanced out, thinking to see Grahame’s carriage being taken around the house. Instead, a grim-faced Renbourne was driving his curricle away from the stables, valet by his side and his horse tethered behind.

  Her heart seemed to freeze. He was leaving, and not voluntarily, or two large, stolid men in her uncle’s livery would not be flanking the vehicle.

  At the head of the driveway Renbourne reined in his horses and gazed up at the house, his expression taut. She waved frantically, but the long rays of the setting sun were reflecting from the windows and he couldn’t see her.

  Shaking, she watched him start the horses down the drive. Though he had warned that the world would not accept an irregular union between them, she had not believed how swift and merciless disapproval could be.

  Dizzily she realized that she might never see him again. She had refused his offer of marriage, and now her uncle had driven him from Warfield. Would he ever return after that double rejection?

  Her shock was driven out by fury. How dare her uncle send away her lover! She was mistress of Warfield, and he had no right to treat her like a child. Whirling, she left her room and raced down the stairs. She had been a child to run away rather than enter the salon. If she had been by Renbourne’s side, they could not have made him leave.

  She must go after him. Moonbeam? No, going to the stables for the mare would take too long. Better to go by foot. The driveway curved widely. If she ran straight to the gate, she should arrive there just before the curricle. Then she would bring Renbourne back and he could order her servants to send her uncle and his men away.

  She was heading for the front door when her uncle emerged from the salon in front of her. The light around him was steely gray.