Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03]

by Strangers Kiss

  He could see she had almost guessed. “Because I’m the one who challenged him. The one he meant to kill.”

  Mrs. Harbison raised a hand to cover her mouth, agape at the admission. Her eyes were wide with shock. “Meryon! You challenged him to a duel? Why?” She waved her hand in front of her face. “No, I did not ask that. I promise you I will tell no one.”

  “Thank you, Letty, but the duel, if not the reason, will be common knowledge soon enough.” Meryon glanced back at The Gossips, who had most likely begun to ask that question among themselves.

  “No one will hear it from me!” With that, she composed herself and they began to move through the crowd with endless curtsies and bows.

  Meryon sighed gently. Well, he had accomplished what he came to do, but to leave so abruptly would distract The Gossips from their discussion of Bendas, so he allowed Letty to escort him around the room.

  “Meryon!” Jack Forbes greeted him with a bow and a clap on the back. “Good to see a familiar face. I’ve been in Scotland for near on two years. The weather was foul but the fishing was superb. How’s the winter here?”

  “The duke has recently returned from France, Mr. Forbes.”

  “Bet the duchess made you buy her a dozen dresses, eh?”

  Mrs. Harbison froze. Meryon made himself relax his fisted hand and hoped it seemed that he could answer the question as easily as any other. “Jack, I am sorry to embarrass you, but Rowena died more than a year ago.” He spoke very quietly, stepping closer to this longtime acquaintance.

  “Oh, my God, Meryon, I am sorry. She was a sweet lady and I am ten times a fool. I must start reading the paper.” Forbes bowed, his expression stricken, as he backed into the crowd.

  “I am so sorry, Meryon.”

  “No apology is necessary, Letty. I expect it.”

  “That no one remembers their manners?” She was annoyed, but then laughed a little. “Of course we have no manners when something interesting happens.”

  “What empty lives they lead if my return to the social scene excites more than passing interest.”

  “Duke or not you would be noticed.” She tapped his arm with her fan again, which was as close to flirting as her husband would tolerate. “Tall and good-looking never goes unremarked. But add a dukedom to those good looks and you become as fascinating as …” Mrs. Harbison paused to try to come up with an appropriate example.

  “As fascinating as a three-eyed horse,” Meryon finished for her.

  She laughed out loud and people nearby turned to look at them. Letty Harbison pressed her lips together and swallowed the rest of her laughter. “More fascinating than a gamester on a winning streak.”

  She closed her fan and held out her arm. “Please do invite me to dance, Your Grace. You are the most charming of partners. Is it all that fencing that makes you so elegant when you dance?”

  He led her to the dance floor, well aware that the Harbisons’ ball was not much more than a training ground for the Season’s endless soirees. As he moved through the reel his partners blushed, tripped, and counted the steps out loud, and several would not even look up at him.

  Meryon found if he smiled they grew even more confused, except for the one bolder than the others. With a seductive look she brushed too close. She could not have been more than seventeen, but when they passed again she whispered, “I can make you happy, Your Grace.”

  It said something about his age, or the fact that he had a baby daughter, that his surprise mixed with sympathy for her parents.

  By the time the set ended, and he bowed to Mrs. Harbison one last time, he felt he had done his duty. He said as much to Letty and she nodded. “Yes, any more time on the dance floor would find The Gossips speculating about which young lady has caught your interest.”

  Before he could answer he could see she was distracted by something in the hall.

  “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I must welcome this guest personally. It is her first social event since coming to England after the death of her husband. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.” Meryon bowed. “Thank you for the dance.”

  The orchestra began the next set with a waltz and Meryon watched several couples take to the floor. He added the waltz to the list of a dozen selfish reasons why he missed Rowena. She had liked to dance as much as he did. He had noticed it the night they met. Their delight in dancing together had never faded.

  Grief swamped him without warning. His eyes filled and he knew he must find a quiet spot for a moment. If The Gossips saw his eyes water they would talk about it for days.

  Meryon went down the nearest passage. The sounds of the waltz faded and the air grew less cloying.

  The first door he opened was filled with card players. He raised a hand to the group, but they barely noticed him.

  He found a quiet spot on his second try. The dark room was well aired, with an underlying scent of lemon oil polish, which was all he wanted for company.

  Avoiding the furniture, little more than hulking shapes in the dark, Meryon found a chair near a fire screen that hid the empty grate. He sat down, relieved beyond reason.

  These days his life was equal parts a search for justice and the burden of sorrow, with only the children for relief from his dark thoughts.

  Settling into the comfort of the velvet-covered chair, Meryon stared at the embroidered fire screen and did his best to make his mind a blank.

  Minutes passed in a haze of memories that he pushed out of his mind as soon as they appeared. His brothers’ silence, knowing no words that could console him. His sister’s sadness even once she was beyond tears. Michael Garrett’s words, so atypical of the vicar he was: “God is a puzzle to me in this and faith is a weak comfort.”

  The children. He curled his hand into a tight fist. Rexton’s constant “Where is Mama?” despite being content enough with his nurse. Alicia’s crying as though she knew Mama was gone, inconsolable for days.

  All those months in France had done no more than delay a grief that he had been unwilling to face. He’d filled his days with artists, diplomats, government officials, and the occasional visit to the demimonde of Paris.

  Tonight proved that time and distance had not enabled him to forget what he’d lost. Rowena.

  Do not think of her. Do not let the memories in. Even as he commanded it, he remembered one night: Rowena wearing her favorite golden evening frock, asking him to be sure that her glorious pearl necklace was fastened securely.

  Burying the memories, he crushed them into a tight ball that settled near the stone-cold place he called his heart.

  Meryon stood up. He would find Letty Harbison, give her his thanks, go home to Penn House. The children would already be abed but he could work on his bill for Parliament. He should start on the wording, list those likely to support it, and examine the calendar for a likely opening for the first reading.

  He would also see what his secretary had unearthed about Bendas and if John Coachman had anything to report after this week of spying on the old fool.

  When he was halfway to the door, someone opened it from the other side. Stepping close to the wall, out of sight, Meryon remained perfectly still, annoyed that even here he could not find privacy.

  Surely they will not stay when they see a dark room. Unless it’s a couple looking for a quiet spot.

  Meryon had grown used to the dark. He could see well enough to make out the furniture, if not any details. He searched for another door.

  He’d sat near the fireplace and saw no door on that wall. Facing the fireplace, he identified a settee. A game table and chairs filled the other half of the room. He saw no door on that wall either.

  If it was a couple fumbling with the door latch between kisses, he would have the upper hand. No one wanted that kind of gossip spread.

  He waited, curious, impatient, and just a little amused to see who had found his hiding place.

  A woman came in, alone. Her fragrance announced her presence, roses with a hint of
musk beneath, more alluring than sophisticated.

  She wore a gown of gray taffeta with an iridescent quality that caused it to glimmer in the light from the passage. A Juno rather than a fairy, the upswept hair emphasized her height. He could not see her face but wondered if it was as fine as her figure.

  Elegant came to mind first.

  Distraught second.

  She remained silent, her breathing ragged, the very air between them filled with her distress. She closed the door and leaned against it, staring at the floor.

  “Oh, Edward.” She breathed the name, then stumbled to the settee that faced the fireplace, not more than six feet from where he stood.

  She sat down, covered her face with her hands, and began to sob. Not quiet tears, but the kind that railed against fate. Lyn completely understood her barely suppressed scream of desperation.

  He recognized grief, especially a woman’s grief. She had lost a lover or a husband, perhaps not to death but lost as surely as if he had died. Each uneven breath drew one from him, each sob made his own heart hurt until he had to swallow against an answering lump in his throat.

  Why could women not grieve in silence? Their voluble sensibilities always left him uncertain. A feeling that made him as uncomfortable as their tears did. With Rowena, his attempts at comfort had always made things worse.

  Escape. He took a step away from her. He needed to escape. She wanted privacy. She could have it.

  Meryon took another step toward the door.

  She looked up at the ceiling and still did not see him.

  “God, oh God, please give me the strength … Edward, please help me. I feel so alone.”

  She whispered the prayer, speaking as softly as her tears would allow. When she drew a deep breath, he could tell even without words that she had done with crying.

  All at once, the woman straightened and stood. When she saw him in the shadows, she gasped and raised a hand to her heart.

  He had been discovered.

  2

  I BEG YOUR PARDON, madame.” Meryon stepped out of the shadows and bowed. “I am neither Edward nor God, but you are not alone.”

  “Yes, yes. I can see that. What are you doing here?” Asperity laced her voice.

  “The same thing you are,” he said, smiling a little. “Though I suppose I could have been waiting for someone or hiding from a man who wants to sell me his horse.”

  “Is that so?” Interest replaced her brusqueness.

  Now he had started a conversation. God help him.

  “If you are doing the same thing I am, then you must be either grieving or hiding.” The woman leaned forward. “Or perhaps both.”

  Meryon did not answer immediately, trying to identify her. Not one of The Gossips and definitely not the too-forward girl from the dance floor. This woman had left childhood behind a delightful number of years ago.

  “Ahh.” Her voice sounded all-knowing. “You want to hide, even from me. I am so sorry to have intruded. I will find another room.”

  “You do not owe me an apology. I will go. You need the privacy more than I do.” He moved closer to the door, had his hand on the latch before the woman spoke again.

  “My husband died almost eighteen months ago.” She spoke quickly. “One moment he held his violin, practicing Mozart. The next he lay at my feet, dead.”

  She sat down, as though the truth had drained her.

  “I am sorry.” Meryon turned back to her. “So very sorry.”

  “Thank you for your sympathy, sir.” She spoke the perfunctory phrase without obvious emotion, but in the deep quiet he could hear her trying to control her tears. She blew out a sharp breath of annoyance, a singularly inelegant gesture.

  “I will leave you alone, madame,” he tried again.

  She reached a hand out, not quite touching him. “No, please stay. For a few moments more.”

  Meryon could count a number of reasons why a woman would want to speak to a gentleman in private. The obvious did not apply, for surely a woman her age, and a widow, would know that she could not trap him into marriage with a game as old as this.

  “I thought I had finished with the tears,” she explained, “and then tonight I heard someone playing a violin. He had too much talent for the orchestra and did his best to play down to their level. It reminded me of so many things, but mostly of Edward. I needed to cry.” She tried to smile, but it was a miserable failure.

  Her words made him feel a fool. The whole world did not live to trap him, to catch the Duke of Meryon in some peccadillo. Garrett had the right of it. His brother-in-law insisted that grief distorted all sensibilities.

  He relaxed. Then the Duke of Bendas came to mind. Once the bastard felt the web of ruin tighten around him, Bendas would try for retribution. Could he have already figured it out? Was she part of his retaliation?

  Meryon stared at the mystery woman. “I do understand the need to grieve, madame, and I am sorry.” He moved closer. “My wife died a year ago.”

  “Oh.” He heard new tears in the single word as she reached out again and this time touched his arm.

  In that touch he could feel the confusion of her heart: warmth, sincerity, sympathy, pain, hope. If she was acting, it was a brilliant performance wasted on an audience of one.

  “I hear heartache in those words, sir. You have my deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down beside her, near the spot she patted with her hand. They sat quietly, she with her eyes closed. In the frail light from the street he studied her profile. The dark lashes resting on her cheeks, her full lips, the rise and fall of her chest as she grew more composed. She had the face of a Madonna, of a grieving princess of some European country, lush, lovely, and not quite a part of this world.

  “Cry if you must, madame.” Meryon recognized a kindred spirit with a gaping wound where the heart should be. The pain had brought a wisdom that he would have been happy to live without: that life was filled with opportunities he’d ignored, thinking he had forever.

  “It is a weakness to cry now. It has been so long.” She shook her head, her pretty earrings swinging with the motion. “It will hurt my throat.”

  When she turned to him, her composure seemed fully restored. “Edward insisted that tears made everyone uncomfortable. I am impressed, sir. Few men tolerate crying with such equanimity.”

  “I had practice. When my wife was increasing she was inclined to tears.”

  Her smile of understanding drew one from him.

  “Were you in town when the princess and her infant died last November?”

  “No, I was in France until recently. My sister tells me that everyone mourned; tears and sober clothes were the order of the day everywhere, even in Derbyshire, where she lives.”

  “Yes, I heard this too.” She paused. “And yet, sir, it is less than three months and she is forgotten, or at least no one mourns.” Her sorrow had disappeared, replaced by anger. Or was it disgust?

  “It is what the Regent wants. He himself held a soiree in February. And I cannot fault him, madame. He must give his brothers time to marry and beget an heir. Of all people his daughter would understand.”

  She was silent again as she considered his words. How rare that was, at least in his experience of women. “It could be. Men are more practical than women.”

  “That is obvious flattery, madame. My wife would insist that I never gave a thought to what was involved in even the simplest request.” Meryon smiled, not meaning to sound cynical. “As for the prince, we both know there is more to it than that. He does not wish to face the truth that he too will die someday.”

  “That is what I think as well! Though I have not met him and have only heard stories of his excesses.”

  “I have been in his company more than once, madame, and, from what I have seen, he surrounds himself with as much pleasure as he can as though that will make up for what is missing in his life.” Meryon stood and looked away. That was not the wisest thing to have said about a man to whom h
e pledged allegiance.

  “Yes, I see we think the same in this. It’s as though he is armoring himself against a devil that beats at his door, not realizing that pleasure is the devil’s finest ally.”

  Meryon’s raised eyebrows were his only comment.

  “Oh dear, you think I have spent too much time among Papists.” She tossed off the comment without sounding either apologetic or embarrassed. “You may be right. You see, I have lived in Italy until recently.”

  “Ah, yes, and Italy is full of Roman Catholics. It would be hard to avoid them.” He spoke through a laugh. “But that is not why I kept silent.” He sat next to her again. “In essence I agree with you. Prinny thinks he will find what he needs by sharing his wealth and living extravagantly, wasting money that could be used more wisely.”

  “But, sir, whether it is used well or not, money cannot buy what he needs most.”

  “Your gown is not made of sackcloth, madame.”

  She laughed. “How kind of you to notice. But,” she faced him with a rustle of her skirts, “you will also notice that neither one of us is among the crush on the dance floor, seeking entertainment while we look for that ever-elusive quality called happiness.”

  “Ever elusive describes happiness perfectly. I have found contentment, but happiness has proved too much to hope for. I’ve never liked the social whirl, the Season,” he admitted. “Now I like balls and parties even less.”

  “I would rather practice the harp for hours, and I do dislike the harp, than watch men and women meet, mate, and think that will guarantee happiness.”

  “You do not believe in happiness?” He had yet to meet a woman who denied it.

  “I believe in happiness. Too much so, sir.” She sighed. “I had it in my marriage. But the loss of it is so very hard to bear.”

  “But loss is a blow that one can recover from,” he said.

  “You think so?” For the second time their eyes met and held. She stared into his and did not look away.

  “One can recover?” she asked.

  “We have to believe it, or how could we go on?”