“But,” Eve said with enough volume to pull Merribeth out of the memory. The scent of dying lilacs drifted through the open window, mocking her. “There is only one way to end all this speculation. You must get Mr. Clairmore back.”
“I must . . . what?” Now, the remaining blood in her body turned as cold as seawater.
Eve held up a hand. “Even if you no longer want him, you must get him back. That is the only way to save your reputation.”
“The only thing a renewal of Mr. Clairmore’s affections could prove would be that he doesn’t know his own mind,” Sophie intervened. “Besides, you assured me that attending this ghastly event would be the start of restoring her reputation.”
Merribeth was inclined to agree with her aunt. After all, that had been the plan.
It was like having opposing angels on either side of her. While Sophie and Eve had shared something of a friendship since their debuts nearly eighteen years ago, they couldn’t be more different. One was patient and cerebral, while the other had a reputation for causing trouble solely for the sake of her own amusement. Merribeth hoped this new proposal would not fall under the latter’s category.
“Precisely. The ton will see the alteration in his affections was merely the whim of a young man who didn’t know better.”
A whim for Mr. Clairmore, perhaps, but for Merribeth, it had been five years of waiting. Five years since William had made the comment about how easy it would be to marry her. Five years since she’d begun to see the future they could have together.
Yet in all those years, absolute certainty had remained elusive. While he’d spoken of marriage and children and a house in the village square, he’d never officially proposed. At least, not to her.
Now, she was no longer certain of anything.
Merribeth doubted Eve’s latest plan could change that. “Mr. Clairmore was the one who decided he no longer wanted to marry me. What makes you think he’ll change his mind?”
“We all want what we cannot have. So let him see that you’ve moved on without him and make him want you.”
Ignoring the frisson of warning that slithered down her spine, Merribeth asked, “How?”
A triumphant smile lit Eve’s face, rivaling the light emitted from the wall sconces. “Nothing unpleasant, I assure you. Simply spend a few moments in the company of a rake.”
Merribeth went still. It certainly wasn’t what she’d expected Eve to say. Then again, since when did Lady Eve Sterling say anything expected?
Sophie gasped. “I hardly think a seducer of young women is the answer to my niece’s prayers.”
“Perhaps she isn’t saying the right ones, then.” Eve laughed and then quickly pursed her lips. “Oh Sophie, it isn’t as if I’m suggesting her ruination.”
Her aunt settled her hands on her hips, her mouth a tight line. “Then what?”
“Merely a moment. A flirting glance. A whispered conversation. Perhaps even . . . a kiss.” She held up her hand, as if she were giving a reprimand on decorum, not lecturing on the finer points of debauchery.
“Surely a few more parties and balls, dancing with handsome, respectable gentlemen would work just as well,” Sophie coolly suggested. The only problem was, they weren’t receiving new invitations to parties or balls. By the silence that followed, everyone in the room realized it too—which left only Eve’s option.
“Kissing a rake will make her feel desirable. Confident. Every woman knows that when she feels a certain way, it shows. Men are drawn to that,” Eve said simply, as if she held an apple in her hands and had asked them both to take a bite, whispering a promise that it wouldn’t hurt anything.
Against her better judgment, Merribeth found her interest sparked. Was there a way to get Mr. Clairmore back, along with her future and her sense of certainty? While Eve’s plan seemed far-fetched at best, her manner of delivery was persuasive. Eve exuded confidence in all aspects of her life. In turn, men were drawn to her like black threads to white cambric—
What was she thinking? She couldn’t possibly be considering this. “We’ll be attending your house party by the end of this week. Therefore, I won’t even see Mr. Clairmore in time to make him jealous.” Not to mention, she was more inclined to rail at him for the havoc he’d caused instead of attempting to lure him back.
“I’ll invite Mr. Clairmore to the ball on the last night of the party and suggest in the invitation that it will be his chance to make amends.” As if the matter were settled with Merribeth, Eve turned to Sophie and pressed her hands together in a gesture of supplication. “If that toad Mr. Clairmore had ever kissed our dear girl with any ounce of fervor, then she wouldn’t be one step away from shriveling up like a grape left unattended on the vine. Just look at her, Soph. Doesn’t she deserve a chance to experience what we both felt when we were younger, however fleeting it was?”
A shriveled grape, indeed! Merribeth’s lips parted at the insult. She felt as if she were watching Lady Amherst’s play after all. Any moment, the crowd would start to applaud, and the curtain would fall.
But then, to her surprise, her aunt’s thoughtful gaze darted from Eve to her, as if the comment were a widely accepted fact, and the idea of kissing a rake held merit.
“It’s the surest way to save her reputation and mend her broken heart,” Eve said, pulling Sophie nearer to her way of thinking. Her aunt’s pale brow furrowed for an instant. Eve offered a small nod, as if an understanding passed between these friends.
That is enough! It was one thing to refer to her as an aging fruit but quite another to presume to know the inner workings of her heart, broken or otherwise. Lately, she’d been too confused and angry to decide exactly how she felt. At the very least, she should be allowed to decide for herself.
Merribeth released a frustrated breath that blew the curls from her forehead. “Forgive me for mentioning this, but I’m still in the room.”
“Gracious!” Eve said with a laugh and snapped open her fan, half-hiding behind it. “With your Wakefield brow, you look positively mocking.”
A fact that could hardly be helped. She was, after all, a Wakefield.
While her late mother had been touted as a pure beauty, with flaxen hair and soft beatific features, Merribeth had inherited her father’s devilishly dark hair and sharp, angular eyebrows. During his life, he’d been famous for the severe arch. However, her feminine version of the same had only brought her censure. Those who did not take the time to know her assumed her mocking countenance meant she saw herself as superior.
As a gently bred woman with no dowry to speak of, that was hardly the case. Only her aunt and her closest friends in the needlework circle truly knew her. Oh, how she wished Penelope, Emma, and Delaney were here to help her through this evening.
Merribeth did her best to school her features and rearranged the fall of curls over her forehead for good measure, silently wishing that her Wakefield brow was the only flaw in her appearance.
Sophie didn’t seem to notice and instead walked toward the door. “We should return. I’m certain we’ve missed the first act by now. Surely we can discuss this new plan to greater depth before your party.”
“Of course,” Eve said, closing her fan with a snap, a slow grin curling the corners her mouth as they started down the hall. When they neared the stairs, she stopped abruptly. “Devil take it! I’ve forgotten my lorgnette.”
Sophie placed her hand on the polished rail. “I’m certain you’ll see the play clearly enough. It is a very small amphitheater.”
“The lorgnette isn’t for the play, darling,” Eve purred as she turned to Merribeth and glanced down the hallway. “How careless of me. I must have left my reticule in the study when I stole in there for a glass of port earlier. Merribeth, be a dear and fetch them for me. It’s just at the end of this hall and around the corner.”
Merribeth hesitated, suddenly suspicious of the tragedy of the missing reticule.
Turning her, Eve gave her a playful push. “But of course, I would
never forgive you if you hid in the study all evening. So, hurry back. We’ll save a place in the back row for you.”
Even though the specter of suspicion loomed overhead, Merribeth had to admit that the idea of doing exactly what Eve suggested she not do was so appealing that she went without argument. After all, the likelihood of her aunt’s friend introducing her to unscrupulous gentlemen when she returned was too high to ignore.
As she walked at a fine clip down the hall, the thought was enough to expose the raw edges of her irritation and her Wakefield brow again. Heaven forbid.
“If I feel like hiding in the study for the rest of the evening, I will. Or if I feel like handing over Eve’s reticule to a footman and then hiring a hack to drive me home, I’ll do that too,” she said to herself with an admirable degree of conviction.
The latter held the most promise.
Finding the study, she pulled open the door, hoping to retrieve the reticule and then leaving Lady Amherst’s immediately. However, the light inside the room was dim, with only the wall sconces behind her to aid her search.
In the center of the room, two leather wingback chairs and a tufted sofa faced an unlit hearth. A large desk sat against the far wall. No reticule in sight. Yet she soon realized that with the curtains drawn in the room, her trespass into the study could easily be discovered by any of the guests outside.
Not wanting any more attention this evening, Merribeth quietly closed the doors.
Now, the only illumination came from the parted curtains, where the glow of torchlight from the outdoor stage filtered in like strands of pale gold silk. The muffled voices of the actors and a spattering of laughter from the audience drifted in as well, pulling her across the room and toward the tall, narrow window.
From this vantage point, she could see everything of the play and the audience alike. Now they were the spectacles on display, and she had the best seat in the house.
At last, she felt her anxiety and irritation abate. The thought of leaving without anyone the wiser, returning to the small townhouse at the end of Danbury Lane and steeling into the kitchen for a hot cup of coffee put a smile on her lips. A genuine smile too, not the one she affected for society.
Here, in her solitude, she needn’t worry about concealing the slight gap between her front teeth or the high arch of her brow.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted the glimmer of light reflecting off a series of cut crystal decanters atop a richly glossed cabinet. Reminded of how Eve had confessed to sneaking in here for a glass of port, she wondered if there might be brandy in addition to port. She’d always wanted to try brandy. However, Aunt Sophie didn’t allow spirits, only wine.
Feeling daring, as if Eve’s challenge for her to be brave had woven itself into the fiber of her soul, she quickly made up her mind. After all, this could be her only chance.
The only problem was, she wasn’t sure which decanter was filled with brandy.
Lifting up the stoppers one by one, she sniffed. Each of the five had a different aroma, from fruity and floral to woodsy and oaken.
Not knowing which was which, she decided it was best to pour a splash from each decanter into the waiting tumbler. Then, as she’d seen gentlemen do, she picked up the glass and swirled the contents. All the better to mix it, she supposed.
She gave it a tentative whiff and wrinkled her nose. Strange. The combined fragrances weren’t at all pleasant. Nevertheless, she was determined to try this concoction. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she touched the rim of the glass to her lips—
A throat cleared. A decidedly low rumble of a sound. A very male sound.
Merribeth’s eyes flew open on a gasp.
Turning, she suddenly realized she wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER TWO
In the dim light, Merribeth could barely make out the silhouette sprawled atop the tufted sofa. What she’d discerned at first glance as a haphazard heap of cloaks was now stirring to life. The rumpled mass took form, rising languidly, like the first curls of smoke from a chimney.
Her pulse was anything but languid. It raced hard and fast beneath the flesh of her throat. A whispered voice in her head urged her to flee.
However, her feet weren’t cooperating. It was as if she’d actually turned into the wallpaper she’d accused herself of being moments ago. Now, she felt trapped, forever pasted to this spot. She stared, unblinking, as the indistinct outline of a head atop a pair of expansive shoulders crested in front of the camelback sofa.
A man, then. She’d guessed as much from sound of his clearing his throat. Yet somehow, the confirmation escalated her riotous pulse.
The stranger remained in the shadows, his features obscured by the darkness. The spill of light from the window merely glanced across the toes of his boots. From their glossy points, she could see he wasn’t a servant but likely a guest. She should have felt relieved. However, knowing the type of guests on Lady Amherst’s list, this did not quiet her pulse a bit.
After all, his presence in a darkened room did not speak of someone looking for gossip but one escaping it. Why?
The more her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the more she took note of his shape, or more so his position. He remained carelessly sprawled, legs apart and bent at the knee, as if he were perfectly at home. Even in her limited experience with the opposite sex, she knew a gentleman would sit erect and cross his legs in the presence of an unmarried woman. He most certainly wouldn’t sit so . . . so brazenly.
Perhaps he was no gentleman at all, then.
Instantly, she recalled Eve’s adapted plan, which only made the coincidence of the “forgotten reticule” highly suspect. Most likely, she’d arranged the whole thing beforehand. Obviously, this man was part of a scheme. Meaning this man was, in fact, a rake.
Her pulse leaped higher in her throat, tripping at first and then sprinting like a rabbit from a fox. Only this fox—if Eve had her way of things—was set loose for the purpose of kissing the rabbit, not killing it. At the moment, Merribeth didn’t know which unnerved her more: the prospect of the former or the latter.
With effort, she swallowed. “Why are you here, sir?”
“Apparently to watch a miserable attempt at suicide.” With one arm draped over the back of the sofa, he lifted the other—which happened to be holding an empty tumbler—in a mock salute. “In vain, I tried to remain silent. For your sake. However, for mine, please do not drink that ghastly concoction. I should hate to be forced to explain your death to Lady Amherst.”
She didn’t know him, not from the sound of his voice at any rate. Certainly she would have remembered such a resonant baritone. Each enunciated word possessed a deep rumble, almost an echo, bringing to mind the sound of horses galloping in the distance. It was not a voice one could forget.
“Lady Amherst would relish the uproar of scandal from a death at one of her gatherings,” she whispered, rambling out of a need to collect her bearings.
“Precisely why I should hate to be the one to tell her.” He offered a dramatic sigh, as if pretending to be bored by their exchange. Yet she suspected he was grinning. “You’d leave me without a choice but to join the audience below, slip in unnoticed, and then feign surprise when one of the servants discovered your corpse.”
She refused to laugh, even though the bizarre and inappropriate impulse was there all the same, tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I should hardly think this will kill me,” she said with false bravado, lifting the glass once more. Only now did she notice that her fingers were damp. Most likely, she’d spilled some of her experimental blend when he’d startled her.
Strangely enough, it occurred to her that she was no longer startled. Her hands weren’t shaking. Her pulse had slowed to a more sedate canter. The only thing she could attribute it to was the sound of his voice—deep, resonant . . . hypnotic.
“Perhaps not, but it wounds my sense of taste greatly.”
He stood, moving unhurriedly as before, as if he did not want to frighten her. Or
perhaps it was simply his way, not to rush. He didn’t have the loose-limbed cockiness of a man her age, springing to attention with the desire to impress everyone with his agility and form. No, the stranger moved with a languorous arrogance of a man more settled into his skin. A sort of graceful conceit that suggested entitlement.
Now was certainly the time to flee, if ever there was one. She’d allowed his voice to lure her into a sense of calm. Still, she was aware of everything, watchful—nervous, certainly, but not as much as she should be—and more alert than alarmed.
For all she knew, he could be like one of those carnivorous flowers she’d read about in one of Sophie’s scientific journals—lying in wait, luring in his prey, and then slowly seizing and devouring.
He chuckled, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Might I approach?”
“For what purpose, sir?” She swallowed, watching as his shadowy arm reach inside his tailcoat.
In the next instant, he withdrew a pristine white handkerchief. He held it out far enough for the light to fall upon it, making it shine like a beacon in the room. “An uncharacteristically chivalrous one, I assure you.”
Merribeth stared, transfixed, as he took a step forward, allowing the light to fall on him too. She nearly gasped when she saw his face. She did know him. Or at least knew of him.
The Marquess of Knightswold, though everyone referred to him as Bane. He’d made his fortune in gambling. It was rumored that he’d bankrupted more than his share of gentlemen at the tables. Also, he was a rake of the first order, or so she’d heard. Positively unapologetic and irredeemable. He’d even tried to seduce one of her dearest friends, Emma Danvers, lately Emma Goswick, Viscountess Rathburn.
His hair was darker than hers, coal black and pushed away from his forehead in a careless, slightly mussed manner, as if a woman had recently run her fingers through it. Not that she would know what that looked like—though knowing he was a rake, she couldn’t seem to keep her thoughts away from the scandalous possibilities.
Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 2