by Susan Ward
The husky whisper of his voice made her tremble and with the return of his eyes upon her she knew. She could pretend otherwise and fight her own heart. Even though she did not know what her fate with this man would be. Even if he did not love her, lied to her, and later left her. It was an inescapable fact, it had always been so, had been from the first moment their eyes touched. He was in her flesh. A necessity of her living. The suffering of her soul. The beat of her heart. She was and always would be in love with Varian.
~~~
They cut off the main drive onto a curving walkway beneath trees of oak and alder. In the slowly spreading twilight, alone with him, Merry became increasingly aware of the closeness of Varian’s long hard-knit body beside her.
The sky was a deep oil blue of impending night before Merry saw for the first time Varian’s home. Deverell House ablaze with lights was a breathtaking place, even grander than the ancestral home of the Merricks. The velvet lawns, the meticulously tended carriage roads and walkways, the topiary, Grecian summer house, fountains, a chapel, down to the most insignificant detail for the eye to find held the look of aloof correctness. Varian had been gone for over a decade. Everything gave the appearance he had never left.
She also noted Winderly held a striking resemblance to Deverell House. Varian had paid much attention to each detail he’d imported to his replacement home in Virginia. Every artfully constructed line of Winderly, the garden, walkway and structure, could be found in evidence here. In America, more rugged. Less intimidating. But Winderly possessed the same faultless magnificence and precision of style as Deverell House. Different and yet the same. Extremes and yet mirror images of each other. Like the man who stood beside her. Morgan. Devereaux. Deverell. It did not matter what incarnation he revealed in his unfathomable extremes. In the center of each guise there was Varian.
As they stepped onto the sandstone drive, she smiled. The staff was no longer lined up to welcome Varian. They had dispersed after the arrival of the carriages and her family, no doubt. She had not thought of that when she had decided they should walk here. But Varian must have, since not even the most insignificant detail ever escaped his consideration.
Staring up at his face, with its strong angles and noble brow, she wondered why he had indulged her and what he made of this unspectacular homecoming. He had been a most accomplished, willing participant in her grandmother’s choreographed charade. She had unthinkingly altered it, and he had let her. She didn’t know what to make of this.
About to place her slipper on the line of stairs up to the entrance, Varian stopped her. The look in his eyes held just a touch of shimmer, and it surprised Merry to find resting on his face, where she had not seen one in many days, a hint of a smile. Keeping her fingers in the clasp of his blood warm hands, she soon found him guiding her away from the main entrance at a hurried pace, around the side, past windows and doors and potted shrubbery.
Struggling to keep stride with him, since he had not shortened his steps as was his custom with her, Merry asked, “Varian, what are we doing?”
Merry found herself flattened against the cool surface of wall just inside a servant’s entrance, and then Varian’s mouth upon hers, teasing her lips apart for a ruthlessly deep kiss. His hand slipped beneath her, to lift her against his eager manhood. The need in his flesh matched her own, and it moved through her veins excited and urgent. All afternoon, in the gentle hold of his presence and silence, it had slowly built into a thing of pure-agony for Merry. It had not occurred to her he had felt that way as well.
He lifted his face, just enough so that his eyes filled the world above her. “If they see you, they will take you from me, and I am not ready to let you go. Runaway with me, my touch of Merry. I have had enough of this for one day. I wish to have only you.”
You was said in a caress. Staring up at his face, she had only a moment to ponder what he was about before he clutched her against his body for another fast, probing kiss. An air of hungry playfulness, she had only ever seen in those too brief moments of custody when he was in all parts Varian, seemed to be running on the surface of his flesh. His behavior at present was absurd and baffling. But it kept her hand in his as he tugged her along to the servants’ stairs.
Moving through the stark, narrow arteries within the house, with sure steps he pulled her with him to the upper floor. Inside the master’s chamber, he locked the door and with rakishly glowing eyes, announced, “Alone at last.”
Merry started to laugh, though she was not sure why and did not wish to laugh. The Duke of Windmere stealing into his own bedroom with his new bride. How preposterous she made his existence at times, when Varian was not a preposterous man in any way.
Merry had only a moment to make note of her surroundings before she was whisked away to quickly be lost in the fury of Varian’s bed.
~~~
Merry came awake to the sound of Varian’s laughter. Rubbing her cheek against the softness of his pillow, she slowly opened her eyes to find light peeking from the door of the adjoining room.
Her eyes floated across the details of his bedroom, though calling it a bedroom was a gross understatement. It more resembled a chamber in a palace than the whimsical elegance that could be found at Bramble Hill. It was not really a bedchamber at all, but rather a series of rooms creating an apartment that had once been used to house visiting royalty. The bed was enormous and without Varian in it felt unwelcomingly so.
Someone had pulled back the curtains from the posters, a fire had been lit in the hearth, and the flames danced in reflection on the high polished wood of the frame of the bed bearing the ornate embellishments of the Deverell crest. She had slept so soundly, spent and awash in the sweet flavors of Varian’s passion, that a servant had been in the room, Varian had left her, and she had not known it.
Yawning she heard more voices and realized Varian was not alone. She picked out three voices in the rapidly flowing conversation. Wondering who he would have let in to the adjoining chamber since he had her tucked in his bed, she pulled on a robe and carefully tip-toed to the open door.
Her eyes rounded. Mr. Seton. Mr. Colerain. Mr. Boniface and Mr. Alcott. What were the officers of the crew of the Corinthian doing here at Deverell House with her father and Uncle in proximity?
It was a familiar scene, yet troubling in all ways. Merry pushed through the door and entered. She noted there were papers strewed across the rosewood table, brandy, and cigars. They’d been about their task for a while.
Seeing her closing in on them, the men quickly rose, bowed, and Mr. Seton gave the proper Your Grace. Both his accent and the correctness of his manner were a startling thing. The slow drawling voice of a Georgia planter had been replaced with the same proper British accent as Varian’s. It was then she noted how the men were dressed. Their sailor’s garb had been replaced by the expertly tailored garments of a gentleman.
She padded across the room, hugging her robe close about her. Varian turned to look at her. “I’m sorry, my dear. Did we wake you? You were sleeping so soundly I expected you to be gone until morning.”
Blushing profusely, since there was any number of ways to interpret that, she collected herself and said, “Varian, what’s going on? Why are the officers of the Corinthian here? Has something happened?”
His arm slipped around her waist in that way he had when he was going to ease her down upon his lap. Merry let him without resistance since these men had witnessed much more shocking behavior between them, and she held the hope by willing compliance he would promptly answer her questions.
He did not. She looked at him. “Are you going to explain what is happening here?”
Varian arched a brow and said calmly, “Perhaps it is time to introduce you to my crew properly. Mr. Seton is Lord Saxton of the Foreign Office. Mr. Colerain is Sir Jeffry Coleman, a member of Castlereagh’s staff. Mr. Alcott—well he’s just Mr. Alcott—is an insurance investigator for the exchange. And Mr. Boniface was formerly in the employ of Lord Wythford at th
e customs office.”
Her eyes rounded, partly in surprise and partly in anger and partly because of his calmness in this disclosure. Varian had lied to her, lied to her about everything, and so clever he was she had not known it. “You told me Mr. Seton was a traitor.”
Mr. Seton, having just taken a sip of brandy, choked on his drink.
Varian laughed. “All things are a matter of perspective, Merry. There is no black and white on this earth. Only gray. In American Mr. Seton is a traitor. In England he is an agent of the Foreign Office charged with infiltrating the American War Department. Don’t look so shocked. Their side does it too. And we did cross paths with me buying secrets from him. Only the payment was not coin. It was the information he was soon to be discovered and arrested.” He looked at Mr. Seton and made a dramatic show of looking apologetic. “That however was a lie, but having Mr. Seton join my crew has proven valuable to all of us in our endeavors.”
Merry’s doe-eyes widened and he could see she was thinking about more than what he had just told her about the crew. Of all the emotions Varian saw flashing in those endless pools of blue, it was the dismay and distrust he found most troubling there.
She asked on weak voice, almost dazed, “Was it all a lie? Was anything about the Corinthian true?”
He met her gaze directly and with a forefinger gently traced the tense line of her cheek. “It was all true, Merry.”
Her questions had not been a simple one. His answer had not been a simple one, as well. She sat as she was, perfectly still, then lowered her eyes and fixed to stare at the carpet.
Sighing, Varian pretended to miss the nuisance of her distress, and continued, “In my pursuit to uncover Rensdale’s crimes, I had cause to run across each of these men. We each held a piece, knowing not in true what it was we were investigating. Together our pieces formed a clear picture. We’ve been working together ever since.”
She looked up so she could search his face again. “Varian, why are you sharing this with me now?”
His answering expression was enigmatic, but he gently brushed a curl from her brow. “They will be our guest here, Merry. I did not want you knocked off your feet when you saw them there.”
Guest. This tidbit of Varian’s unfathomable, never-ending plotting was madness; having these men at Deverell House with her father and Uncle Andrew. Links to the past. Links to crimes. Publically revealed. It made no sense, after all his years of patient planning and subterfuge, and the level of his incaution frightened her.
Another thought came to her. Suspicion rose in her eyes. “How did you get my grandmother to help you? This journey to London. It’s your doing. The crew being here when we arrived. You had notice, when grandmother’s letter only came two days ago. Don’t deny it. How did you do it? How did you get my grandmother to help you?”
His thumb brushed the tense line of her jaw. “Margaret is not helping me. She is helping you.”
An artful walk through the truth. Not a lie. What was Varian doing?
Swallowing hard, Merry said, “There are times you make me so afraid.”
He knew Merry well enough to know that was not a simple statement, as well. It turned outward toward all her other doubts and fears about him. His mouth softened slightly with a smile. “Don’t be afraid, Little One. I would never let harm come to you. Whatever happens, remember, I am moving heaven and earth to make sure I live out my days with Merry.”
~~~
The meeting ended some time past. Varian sat in his chair. He adjusted Merry’s weight and stared down at the beauty of her sleeping face. He supposed she would be more comfortable in the bed, but he remained where he was enjoying the feel of her nestled peacefully against his chest. He had not been wrong in this. In her too quickly shifting world of fast shocks, probing eyes, burdensome scandal, and youthful heartache, she had needed something familiar to remind her of who they had been together before their return to England. Seeming strange when it had occurred to him and later proven true by this night, it was their days on the Corinthian which were her most recent happy and comfortable moments within herself. Having the crew meet him here was as much about helping her find an easy stride again as it had been the pressing matters that required their attention.
Merry was struggling so much these days. Watching it was a painful thing. Hurt and distrustful, she would not turn to him for help in this. Varian would not let her turn away from him, even if he could not always express his care for her directly so she could see it.
Kissing her inky brow, Varian wondered if she even knew how desperately he loved her. On a quiet voice, aloud, for no one to hear, he whispered, “All be well, Merry. I will not allow you to stop loving me.”
~~~
Noting the lateness of the hour, Merry started to rise from Varian’s bed to return to her own bedchamber.
Varian stopped her with a warm hand on her arm. “Stay with me and watch the morning brighten. You are not in Lucien’s house any longer. We are in my house, Little One. In the bed you belong in.”
His eyes shimmering like shiny apple seeds were Merry’s undoing. She let Varian pull her back atop of him. It was foolish to indulge her need to be with him. When he looked at her thus she could not stop herself.
The feel of her curves melting into his firmer angles made Varian shiver. Brushing the gossamer curls back from her face, he said in a voice that surprised him by being a trifle unsteady, “Touch me, touch of Merry. I have missed you so.”
Merry looked up and saw the change in those black depths. The sad light was flickering, the one that only flickered when he was troubled by all the things he locked deeply inside him. She wondered if it were her. Or something else. His past. His present dangerous pursuits.
She did not know for certain. She only knew in this moment she felt, for the first time in many weeks, as if the wall between them was completely gone. She did not know the exact cause of his inner turmoil or the cause in the change within her. Yet she felt the burning need to offer herself in comfort for whatever weighed so heavily upon him and a burning need for his flesh to comfort her, as well.
She slipped back down against him, her cheek against his chest, her hands gliding down his powerfully muscled arms. She whispered, “Touch me, touch of Varian.”
~~~
Their too brief days at Deverell House flew by for Merry. Tucked into the strange assembly Varian had gathered here—for whatever bizarre intent he held including the officers of the Corinthian with the Merricks—Merry’s hours of lightness passed in a comfortable flow of laughter and chatter, and her darkness hours passed with his passion. It was harder for Merry not to love Varian at Deverell House. Away from Bramble Hill, it was easier for Varian to maneuver time alone with her. There were in all moments on the surface of his flesh just enough evidence of the man Merry had fallen in love with that she could not ignore the tugs at her heartstrings.
Merry was not ready to let herself believe all would be well. She was not ready to trust there was a future with this man or to trust he would be there with her. She was not ready to say again to Varian she loved him.
But in her eyes there was just enough sparkle when she looked at him, that Varian believed all things. It was on her face, she was beginning to open her heart to him. It was in her smile. It was in the gentle touch of her hand upon his as Varian sat beside her in the carriage to make their day’s journey to London.
Staring ahead, not trusting his own heart enough to look at her, Varian’s face was an expert mask of calm, but inside him was a man much troubled. Troubled by regrets. Troubled by his love for her. Troubled by what awaited them in London. The future. It was coming. He could not stop it. Not even for Merry.
He wished he could spare her what lay ahead. He wished he were free to be only what Merry wanted him to be. Their days at Deverell House were not the honey month she deserved. It was but a precious handful of honey days. It fortified Varian for what he knew awaited them both. He prayed it would be enough to carry Merry throug
h the events he desperately wished he did not have to force upon her.
It did not set well that he could not always be kind and loving to Merry. The cruelty of the past and the danger of the present would not permit it. There were times it was hell for Varian to love Merry.
CHAPTER TEN
Margaret Merrick was a small, thin, mannish looking woman, just shy of her eighty-first year. In her day, she had been a great beauty, but age had taken her bloom and replaced it with a sharp edge of severity. She had been a soldier’s wife, had seen more than her share of war on the battlefield, was fiercely loyal to a monarchy she had lost two sons to—one in France and one in America—and now had to deal with this.
The carriages rumbled to a stop on the misty cobbles in front of the long line of her staff assembled to greet Lucien. The courtyard was eerily quiet now that the horses were still. Merrick Hall was large by London standards, with acres of woods and lush gardens, a barrier holding the encroaching city away, though not quite far enough to please Margaret.
Merry sprang from the carriage and ran to her grandmother. The old woman’s scheming and forcing them all to London didn’t detract from Merry’s joy at seeing her grandmother. She was used to the dowager duchess’s scheming, and she’d always adored her grandmother’s harshly powerful yet comforting presence. It did not surprise Merry that Margaret’s first words were, “Foolish girl. Go to your room and wait for me, or I will beat you with my cane in front of them all.”
Merry made a small pout and placed a kiss on the bluish-skin of her cheek. “Don’t pretend you are not happy to see me. I have missed you, Grandmamma.”
One thin gray eyebrow lifted as Margaret watched the rest of her family alight the carriages. “And I would have thought you too busy with that scoundrel you married to give a passing thought about me.” Merry blushed from chin to hairline. Margaret chortled. “Ah, you still blush. Perhaps the penny ballads are true and your father sleeps between you in bed. I would have thought that scamp would have figured a way to climb over Lucien.”