Suddenly she needed to be alone, not wishing anyone to come out and witness her distress. Meg began walking almost aimlessly, until she reached a wooded ridge that afforded shelter from view. Here she sank onto a fallen trunk and wrapped her arms around her knees.
Was this really love she felt for the marquis? The poets wrote about such things in flowery terms, yet what Meg felt was far from flowery. It was confusing, painful, exciting, and terrifying. It made sense of the stories she had heard, of people doing foolish things, casting away their friends and reputations. But she could never go so far, not while her mother’s and sister’s futures hung in the balance.
“Are you ill?” She hadn’t heard so much as a footstep, but he stood over her like some giant from a legend, his voice thick with concern. “May I help?”
“Oh, no.” Meg’s throat cramped against the words. “I was merely wool-gathering, my lord.”
He sat beside her, folding his long legs easily. Although they did not touch, Meg felt the log vibrate with his strength and energy. “We shall miss you here.” His words carried none of the accustomed guardedness.
“And I shall miss all of you.” She rested her cheek against the top of her knees like a young girl. Being in his presence felt so natural that it was hard to remember the difference in their stations. “Miss Geraint is a fine woman. I admire her greatly.”
“Of course.” He passed over the topic without interest. “Do you get about much in London? I’m wondering if it has changed much during my absence.”
“Tell me what it was like, and I’ll tell you if it has changed,” she said, “although I doubt I know any of your acquaintances.”
“It isn’t the individuals who matter, is it?” The dark brooding look had returned. “Only the frenzied chase of whatever is fashionable at the moment, the love of gossip, the waste of money and lives.”
“Surely not everyone is so shallow.” He had given a good description of the ton, but as Meg knew, dear faces and kind souls could be found in the most stylish circles.
“So shallow? Oh, no, some fancy themselves deep and glorious.” Bitterness coloured Lord Bryn’s words, and she wondered at his intensity. “They dream of doing great deeds, of seeing their names writ in the history books.”
“Is that a fault?” Nearby a bird twittered lazily in the summer air.
The marquis seemed to awaken from a momentary trance. “Real courage is no flaw, my dear, but vanity is a much underrated vice.”
He seemed not to notice that he had spoken an endearment, and Meg pretended not to have heard, but in her heart she cherished it. “Do you speak of yourself, my lord?”
To her amazement the marquis buried his face in his hands, though only for a moment. When he lifted his head, his lips where white with strain. “Yes, I was such a peacock. I went off to war determined to make myself a hero. But it was someone else who paid the price, a devoted servant. Killed through my own carelessness in neglecting to send him to safety. I know my friends thought little of it— he was only a valet. But he was a man, the same as I. And he loved me dearly, a love I did not deserve.”
Meg fought back the impulse to console him, and tried instead to imagine her own feelings if Karen had died due to her carelessness. She shivered. “If one only had some way to atone.”
His hand closed over hers. It was a large hand, with a scar across the back, but very gentle. “I have learned to live with my guilt. That seems the best I can do.”
They sat together in silence, inhaling the sweetness of the earth’s bounty. Meg felt closer to him even than when they had kissed. She knew that, though she never saw him again, he would always be a part of her.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been careless of your reputation. Yet I cannot regret my actions.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I had hoped, had the Geraints not come so early—” He stopped, perhaps realizing that propriety forbade him to confide further.
“You have done nothing wrong.” With her last small reservoir of strength, Meg forced herself to rise and move away. “I must go and see to the children.”
He stood also. “And I have accounts to tend.”
“Wait.” She caught her skirts in her hand. “We must not walk together. It wouldn’t be seemly.” Within her, a small voice shouted to throw away propriety, to beg him to keep her close always, to declare that she would never leave. What worlds they would shatter if they dared behave so outrageously! In the end, Meg knew with painful clarity, such selfishness could only come back on them and wreak a vengeance of its own. “Good day, my lord.”
Stiffly she walked away into the sunshine and did not look back.
Chapter Thirteen
Meg examined her gowns carefully, an easy task since she had brought only four.
The first, her brown gabardine, was out of the question, nor would her grey walking dress serve. The choice, then, was between the blue dress she had worn to Squire Roberts’s house and a simple peach muslin.
For a moment, Meg pictured one of her London gowns, made-over and quite splendid on Angela. Lovely, innocent Angela, dancing with Mr. Cockerell. What a pair the two of them must make, he tall and erect, she small and blonde and lively. .
Meg recalled the letter she’d received that morning. Engaged! Who would ever have guessed the man would be the stiff-necked Edward Cockerell?
As for herself, she doubted the marquis would condescend to dance with her tonight. If only one sister could be happy, she preferred that it be Angela; but wearing a fine dress to the ball might at least have soothed her pride.
Well, the peach would have to do, she decided, although it had a rip at the hem. Perhaps Mrs. Franklin would lend her needle and thread for mending.
Someone rapped firmly on the door.
“Enter,” Meg called.
Germaine pushed the door open with her shoulder and strode into the room amid an armful of silks and velvets and satins in frothy colours.
“Oh, please, you needn’t have brought your gowns! I should have been delighted to come to your room if you need any advice,” said Meg, amused to find Miss Geraint was also having trouble selecting her attire.
“Nonsense.” Germaine dumped the lot unceremoniously on the bed. “These ain’t for me—they’re for you.”
“What?” Meg stared at her.
“Don’t know as they’ll fit,” Germaine admitted, plumping herself beside the stack of dresses. “I’m a considerable bit taller than you. Broader, as well. But with a tuck here and there, one of them might do.”
Meg flushed as she fingered the delicate fabrics, remembering that she’d been concerned about her effect on the marquis. And here was Germaine, trustingly offering to help. She resolved silently to bury her feelings for Lord Bryn, now and forever.
“You are too generous,” she managed to say.
“Not a bit of it.” Germaine smiled as Meg held one gown and then another against herself in the mirror. “Blooming waste of time, fancying me up in fine laces and velvets. You’ve seen at fairs how they braid up the horses’ manes with flowers? That’s how I feel at a ball.”
“So do I.” Meg whirled around, holding a flow of sea-green silk. “Without my spectacles! Oh, Miss Geraint, you should have been present.” She bit her lip barely in time to stop a description of the evening at Almack’s. “I used to cut my best friends, simply from not seeing them,” she finished lamely.
“You like that one, do you?” Germaine nodded approvingly. “Let’s have a look at it on you, then.”
Donning the dress, Meg stared into the mirror wonderingly.
The green intensified the blue of her eyes, and set off the auburn highlights of her soft brown hair. Her skin appeared ivory pale and clear against the rich silk, and the scooped neckline and high waist accentuated her rounded bosom and slender figure.
She had never felt more than mildly pretty before. Was it only the gown that had wrought this change, or was it the depths of emotion she’d experienced for the first time here at Brynwood?
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br /> Within minutes, the women were adjusting the gown to Meg’s smaller frame. Fortunately it was of simple design and, as Germaine had predicted, a few tucks and a raised hem sufficed—at least here in the country, where Meg wouldn’t be scrutinized as she would be in town.
Later that evening, Meg ate a quiet supper in her room, declining an invitation to join the family at dinner. She didn’t want the marquis to see her in this flattering dress, for fear of playing upon the passions he had already evinced. The result could only be extremely painful to everyone. And might it not further inflame those shocking tendencies she had discovered in herself, those yearnings that no decent woman should feel?
Although there had been no announcement, she knew tonight was intended as an engagement ball. Curiously Lord Bryn had shown no special attention to Miss Geraint, as far as Meg could tell.
Could the reason be his own uncertainty about the match? After the closeness she and the marquis had shared on Thursday afternoon, she surmised that he had come to care for her at least a little. But he had a duty to Germaine, and it must be fulfilled. If he scorned the lady now, the result would be Germaine’s humiliation, and the end of her hopes for a marriage.
So Meg determined to remain in her room until most of the guests had arrived. She even considered putting aside the new dress for her old peach one, but Germaine might be offended. Or Meg could plead a headache and avoid the ball entirely. But Miss Geraint would be certain to come and investigate.
She would simply go down and blend into the crowd, Meg thought. The marquis had been properly distant the past two days. No doubt, she had simply imagined that he favoured her.
There was one audience whose attention she didn’t mind attracting. As the strains of the small orchestra wafted up the stairs, Meg darted into the nursery to show her dress to the children.
“Miss Linley!” For once Vanessa was struck dumb, staring in awe at the shining lady in green.
“You are an angel!” declared Tom, sitting up in bed. “Uncle Andrew’s certain to marry you.”
“Don’t be foolish,” said Meg. “He’s going to wed Miss Geraint, and a good thing, too. She’ll keep the pair of you in line, and she’s a fine horsewoman.”
“I want to grow up like you,” said Vanessa stoutly.
Meg kissed them both and tucked them in. “I shall miss you terribly when I leave. If I write, will you write in return?”
“Of course,” said Vanessa. “I shall write for Tom, too, until he learns how.”
Meg hurried away to hide the brimming tears.
The ballroom, aired and cleaned after a long hibernation, glowed with the light of hundreds of candles arrayed in sconces along the wall. Potted ferns and orange trees had been placed artfully about, screening the refreshment tables and the hovering servants. Meg paused, unobserved, to watch the assembly.
Lord Bryn was standing up with Miss Geraint to the strains of a quadrille. The lady performed the stylized dance without the least pretence of grace. Indeed, Germaine looked as though she heartily wished for a fence to leap, or a fox to pursue.
No matter how it hurt to see her in his lordship’s arms, Meg liked her heartily.
When the music ended, the marquis bowed politely and escorted his companion to the side for a glass of ratafia, which she downed in a single gulp. It was then that he turned and saw Meg.
The noisy ballroom faded. He had been preparing himself all evening for the sight of her, only to find that his precautions had failed to arm his heart. She was radiantly beautiful, more so than he had imagined possible. Vaguely he noted the striking colour of her gown, but he had little interest in fashion. It was her face that held him, the eyes widening as they met his, the lips soft and full.
Then she averted her gaze. A straightening of the shoulders, a toss of the head hinted at that inner strength he already knew.
A voice near at hand recalled the marquis to himself. Ah, yes, Squire Roberts, asking for a dance with Miss Geraint. Andrew yielded graciously, hoping the poor girl wouldn’t be bored to death with the man’s talk of horses and hunts.
Bryn would take Mr. Geraint aside later and request his consent to a match, and then put the matter to the lady. He should have done so earlier in the visit, yet some matter always seemed to require his attention, and the hours passed before he knew it. Well, there would be plenty of time to arrange the betrothal and announce it before the midnight supper. Certainly the request was little more than a formality, since his man of affairs had already been treating with Mr. Geraint on a marriage settlement.
Lord Bryn took a sip of Madeira. He knew he must not attend on Miss Linley, or his best efforts would be lost. How he had come to lose his heart to a governess, he could not have said. The marquis was no snob, and had he been free, he would have asked for her hand.
Indeed, on Thursday he had cherished the hope that the matter of Miss Geraint might be resolved without public embarrassment. He could have sent a note round to the inn where the family was to have stayed. They need only have turned back, telling the world any story they liked. Although his intentions were well known, the marquis hadn’t yet formally asked to marry Miss Geraint, and scandal could have been avoided had she called off their visit.
But they had arrived early—it seemed Mrs. Geraint, weary of being on the road, had hastened their progress—and once they reached his home their agreement to the match became evident. For a gentleman to throw over a lady was to sully her reputation, for it was generally assumed that he must have been given strong reason to do so.
He must not speak with Miss Linley before her departure, must scarcely acknowledge her save as a member of his staff, must pretend that he felt nothing for her. Did she guess? Did she feel the same for him, or had she merely acquiesced to his embrace from fear or respect?
In any event, propriety required that he avoid her, for once in her arms upon the dance floor, Andrew knew he could never free himself again.
Impulsively, he sought out Mr. Geraint and they went to the study. With apologies for the delay, Andrew made his request.
“Certainly you have my permission, Lord Bryn.” It was the longest speech he’d ever heard from the taciturn man. “But winning my Geri’s heart, that’s another story.”
The marquis almost choked on his wine, but managed to maintain an earnest expression. The two men walked companionably back to the ballroom, where Andrew stood among his guests feeling uncomfortably like one side of a highly irregular triangle.
Miss Conley, who had considered herself rusticating when she came from Liverpool to visit her elderly great-aunts, was a sought-after Beauty at home. Therefore she found it all the more difficult to understand why Mr. Roberts, the only eligible young man at the ball, busied himself with Miss Ludden, a great gawk of a girl. Indeed, he had danced with Miss Conley only once, and with Miss Ludden three times. Intolerable!
When the music ended, Miss Conley made her way to the young man, and smiled up at him warmly, although she would have liked to slap his weak-chinned face. “I must have made a mistake,” she murmured. “Did you not promise me the dance just past? I had written your name on my dance card.” She produced the document and fluttered it beneath his nose.
“Did I?” Jeffrey turned a vivid red that went all the way to his ears. “I’m terribly sorry. Will the next dance do instead?”
“I suppose it must,” said Miss Conley.
Thereafter, she kept the fellow busy with one assignment after another: more lemonade, a sugary French fruit, a walk on the balcony to enjoy the fresh air. By the time she slipped her hand daringly into his and kissed his cheek, the man had forgotten the very existence of the curate’s daughter.
A tearful Miss Ludden sought the counsel of Miss Linley, who was only too glad of the distraction. The excitement of viewing the assembly through her spectacles had vanished the moment she witnessed Lord Bryn and Mr. Geraint leaving the room together.
Veronica explained her difficulty and added, “There is Squire Roberts at
tending Miss Geraint. If you could demonstrate on them how to win a man away...”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be the same,” said Meg. “Miss Geraint is going to marry Lord Bryn. She has no interest in the squire.”
The girl frowned. “Then why is she enjoying her conversation with the squire so much?”
Meg followed her gaze. Germaine and Squire Roberts stood to one side, engaged in a lively discussion that, from the gestures, could only have been about fox hunting.
“They have a great deal in common,” she explained.
“Well?” Veronica stared up hopefully. “Can’t you help me? I’m at my wit’s end, Miss Linley.”
“We shall see.” Reluctantly, Meg led the way to the animated couple, arriving at almost the same time as the marquis.
There they stood, the five of them: Veronica anxiously awaiting her instruction, Meg and Lord Bryn trying to avoid each other’s eyes, and Germaine and Squire Roberts discoursing heatedly as to whether it was unsportsmanlike to use bag foxes if none could be spotted running free.
Aware of her responsibilities to Miss Ludden, and feeling confident that Germaine wouldn’t mind disposing of this extra gentleman, Meg offered her own opinion and joined the discussion.
The squire appeared highly amused at this sally from such a delicate chit who had obviously never ridden in a foxhunt, and he patted her shoulder.
A pretty lass, his careless attitude seemed to say, but she could hardly compare with Miss Geraint. What was a slim girl compared to a woman who could ride a man into the ground and outdrink him after dinner?
As for Lord Bryn, storm clouds formed on his face when the squire laid his hand on Meg. Anyone would have imagined he meant to fly to the rescue of a helpless female assaulted by a beast.
No one but Meg noticed when Veronica slipped away. She observed through the crowd how the girl walked up to Jeffrey and Miss Conley and joined their chatter directly, and how a few minutes later the young man was dancing once again with Miss Ludden.
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