Something, indeed.
“Not really,” Merribeth lied. “I made an appearance, bore the scrutiny, adjourned to the retiring room”—she left out the shameful bit about molesting Lord Knightswold—“and then returned home early to finish packing for the house party.”
Penelope reached over to squeeze her fingers. “Then it was truly horrible. I worried for you.”
“I know. You all warned me how it would be. Especially after Delaney went last year. However, I had to make an appearance in order to work my way back into the fold.”
The trio scoffed at that.
“It isn’t fair for you to be punished because Mr. Clairmore is an idiot.”
“True,” Merribeth agreed. Who was she to argue? “Lady Eve says that I should get him back and that it could be the only way to restore my reputation. Sophie agrees with her.”
Delaney scowled and lifted a finger as if ready to rally the troops for battle. Then she shook her head and went still. Her hand lowered to her lap, her fingers drumming automatically, as if unable to hold still for too long. “It could work . . . if you could somehow lure him back.”
“Eve claims that men are drawn to confident women and that I’ve been acting like a stable puppy, afraid of being kicked.”
Their gazes fell away. “Well, lately . . .”
Ouch. She’d hoped they hadn’t noticed how lost she felt. Yet they were her friends for a reason. Merribeth nodded. She hesitated but then said, “There was another part of her plan.”
“Oh?”
“She claims that flirting instills confidence.”
“Flirting? I suppose,” Emma interjected, “with the right man, that is. As long as he’s receptive. You wouldn’t want to flirt with an overly shy gentleman and end up scaring him off. You both could end up scarred for life. Then again, you wouldn’t want it to be the other way around either.”
“Certainly not,” Penelope agreed. “There are scores of men to avoid. Rakes, in particular. A sensible man would be the best for your task. While a sensible gentleman is occasionally a challenge to flirt with, he is worth the effort.” No doubt she was referring to her own Mr. Weatherstone.
“I don’t know, Penelope,” Emma said, that glowing smile returning to her face. “A rake—at least a reformed rake—might be the perfect man for the task.” No doubt she was thinking of her own husband.
“A rake?” Delaney asked, incredulous. “Even a reformed rake would bring her only more scandal. And I know better than each of you how easy it is to have your name on everyone’s lips. I don’t want that to happen to our Merribeth.”
They were all trying to protect her, yet she was the one who’d already kissed a rake. And not the reformed type either. If anyone needed to worry about taking flirting too far, it was she. “I’m certain Eve will employ the assistance of one of her friends to guarantee the latter doesn’t happen.”
The three of them exchanged a look of doubt, Eve’s reputation having preceded her. However, no one said it aloud.
“Then, only one question remains,” Penelope said. “Is the return of Mr. Clairmore’s affections truly what you want?”
The question gave Merribeth pause. He’d hurt her when he confessed to such passionate feelings about Miss Codington. After last night, however, she could see how easily a simple kiss could addle one’s brain.
Perhaps that’s all it was for him—a temporary madness. If that were true, then Eve’s plan was bound to work. Yet more distressingly, she couldn’t help wondering why the idea didn’t make her feel any better. After having her own indiscretion, could she forgive him his?
“What I want is . . .” not to have my greatest fear come to fruition, not to face my future alone, not to live each day in uncertainty. The words clogged her throat, and she had to clear them away. “Mr. Clairmore, of course.”
“There is one way to know for sure,” Emma said and reached over to place a small parcel on Merribeth’s lap.
“What’s this?”
“It’s from all of us,” Penelope said, and the others nodded. “We’ve noticed how you’ve lost interest in needlework.”
Merribeth untied the string and unfolded the paper. Inside were a gentleman’s handkerchief, a length of silver embroidery thread, and a shiny new needle. “Thank you, but I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember the handkerchiefs Penelope embroiders for Mr. Weatherstone each year?” Emma asked. “I did the same for Oliver for a wedding gift.”
Merribeth looked to her friends, not quite understanding. “You think I should put Mr. Clairmore’s initials on this?”
“No . . . well, only if Mr. Clairmore is the man you truly love. This is a way to be certain. If you love him, that is.” Which, apparently, Delaney didn’t believe for an instant.
Merribeth had to wonder—did she?
CHAPTER FIVE
Lady Eve Sterling’s country manor was located in Suffolk, not far from the harbor. As Merribeth exited the carriage, a cool breeze rushed over the peony blossoms, and a sweetly scented caress stirred the raven locks escaping her bonnet. She stared in awe at the sprawling stone manor that would be her home for the next two weeks.
According to Sophie, the land and property had been in Eve’s family since the sixteenth century, a gift once bestowed on a knight of the realm. The manor came complete with gatehouse, stables, chapel, and a pond that had been a moat centuries ago.
Ahead of her stood a wide oaken doorway. Recessed into the stone façade, narrow mullioned windows lined the first and second floors, catching the early afternoon light. The third story hosted dormers that resembled eyebrows arched in speculation.
Merribeth knew a thing or two about that. “How many guests did you say were attending?”
Sophie directed the footmen with their luggage and then turned to answer her. “I believe there will be twelve in total.”
Only a dozen guests in a house this size would seem a paltry amount, although Merribeth was thankful the number was relatively small. “I imagine more of her friends have stayed in town, as it is not yet the end of the Season.”
“Perhaps, though it will be her first house party in many years. She wanted to keep this party more intimate,” her aunt said, gathering her knitting satchel from within the carriage. “She has rooms and servants aplenty to accommodate us all very well.”
“To have such a home, I wonder why she does not have parties often,” Merribeth mused.
“Likely due to the fact that her most-recent late husband did not care for the place. In fact, he did his part to ensure it was stripped from her, scoundrel that he was. He left her with a hillock of debts, abusing her abominably.” She lowered her voice. “Although I try not to speak ill of the dead, I will say that I am glad he is no more.”
Merribeth leaned in to whisper in her aunt’s ear. “Then how is Eve able to keep such a fine house, in addition to the one in town and servants to fill them?” She knew from their own financial woes that people in dire straits were forced to make difficult decisions. Keeping a smaller house with only one or two servants was one of them. In fact, their home in Berkshire was little more than the size of Eve’s gatehouse, and they could only afford to keep a cook. If it hadn’t been for Eve’s generosity, Merribeth never would have had a Season. So then, how could Eve afford any of it?
“Her nephew, from her first marriage to Mr. Fennecourt, keeps her in good standing. I daresay, he’s had to come to her rescue on more than—my dear, we should not speak of such things. Not only is she our hostess but my friend as well. After losing touch with her for a dozen years, gossiping shows a severe lack of faith on my part.” Sophie pressed her lips together, looking askance above the rims of her spectacles, though more so with affection than admonishment. She shook her head as they crossed the threshold. “No more. I believe I’ve told you enough to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Never,” Merribeth replied with a grin. In fact, she was more curious now than ever. When Eve had simply shown up at their hou
se in Berkshire, little more than two years ago, she never questioned her aunt’s unlikely friendship with Eve or even the reason why Sophie had never spoken of her. Instead, she’d been more excited at the prospect of having a London Season. Though it shamed her to admit, she’d been so busy with her friends, Mr. Clairmore, and embroidery that she’d taken her aunt for granted.
She opened her mouth to ask why she’d never heard mention of this nephew of Eve’s until now, but the question disappeared from her tongue as they entered the foyer.
Merribeth was in awe.
Gleaming marble floors shone like mirrors beneath their feet. The far walls curved in, giving the space a semicircular feel, with rounded archways that led off to other rooms. Above them, the vaulted ceiling could put a church to shame, painted with a mural that made it appear as if one could glimpse heaven from this very spot. Ahead, a wide staircase, ornately decorated with a wrought-iron balustrade, curled like a serpent toward a minstrels’ gallery.
“You’re here,” Eve called from the gallery, giving an uncharacteristic clap of glee.
As if she’d designed the house as an accessory to her wardrobe, flattering golden light followed her descent down the curved stairs, the train of her crimson gown trailing a step behind, as if flames licked the hem.
Sophie removed her straw bonnet and handed it to the maid, along with her knitting satchel. “Of course we are. We wouldn’t have missed your first house party since . . .” Her words trailed off, leaving an obvious void in the room.
“I know,” Eve said with a nod when she reached the bottom, her eyes going hard for an instant. Then she blinked and continued forward to embrace Sophie. “You are the first of my guests to arrive, not counting my nephew. Then again, he doesn’t count.”
Another mention of this mysterious nephew blared in Merribeth’s ears like the blast of a horn at the start of a foxhunt.
Eve turned to Merribeth, took her by the shoulders, and startled her by pulling her in for a quick embrace. “I can’t wait to introduce the two of you. He’s nearly as sharp witted as you, and I just know you’ll keep each other amused.”
Why was it she never recalled hearing of him before? Surely, as Eve’s benefactor, he would have been invited to dinner in the very least. Yet even more suspiciously, why was she hearing so much of him now?
“I’m not certain I want to amuse anyone.”
“Don’t worry, pet,” Eve said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t steer you in his direction. Why would I, if your main goal was to reclaim Mr. Clairmore? It would hardly be worth my effort anyway. My nephew is a confirmed bachelor and abhors the idea of marriage. I was merely suggesting that the two of you could make clever dinner conversation. That is all.”
If that was all, then why didn’t the instinct for caution wane?
Inwardly, Merribeth shook herself. Likely, she was on edge and overtired from the journey. There was no reason for her to imagine Eve was manipulating her—even if Eve was known for her infamous plots. “Then I’ll have something to look forward to this evening,” she said graciously.
Eve clucked her tongue. “Nonsense. You loathe the very idea, but I appreciate your effort of sincerity, nonetheless. Sophie, she has learned a trick or two from you, I daresay.” She smiled again as if she had a surplus of amusement stored away in one of the many rooms. “Now, the two of you must want to settle in and refresh yourselves after your journey. Feel free to explore the house, if you are so inclined.”
A maid in a frilled cap and apron appeared from an unseen doorway at Eve’s words. “Right this way, if you please,” the maid said with a curtsy before turning to lead them up the stairs.
The jangle of carriage rigging rang through the open doors. It announced the arrival of more guests, and Merribeth was grateful that neither the maid nor her aunt stopped to wait on an introduction. There would be plenty of time for those formalities later.
A new frisson of nervousness swept through her as she wondered if the next two weeks would be like the last two. Would she be caged in a house full of people who knew about her circumstances?
“One good thing about a party in a manor this size,” Sophie said as they followed the maid down a series of halls, “is that there is always a place where one can catch a breath of fresh air.” She reached over and squeezed Merribeth’s hand briefly.
In other words, don’t be nervous. She gave her aunt a nod of understanding. Now, if she could simply convince her stomach to stop churning, then all would be well.
They were led into a vast chamber with chintz wallpaper covered in violet blossoms. The immense bed was the size of a small sailing vessel, with diaphanous lavender curtains tied to each of the thick, richly carved posts. Overlapping lengths of velvet curtains adorned the arched window situated behind a tufted chair in the same hue. A marble-topped vanity sat in the corner with a vase of freshly cut irises.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” another housemaid said from the doorway, her gaze on Merribeth. “Your chamber is this way.”
Her own chamber? She looked to Sophie, who seemed not at all surprised by this. “Go. I have toured this house before. Now, I want to rest until dinner.”
Not one to argue about such a pleasant surprise, Merribeth followed the maid down the corridor and around another series of maze-like corners. The journey gave her time to think on how strange it was for her room to be so far from Sophie’s. After all, she was still an unmarried woman, and her aunt was her chaperone.
However, when her nervousness threatened to return, she reasoned it could be that the rooms in between theirs were uninhabitable for guests. If Eve’s late husband had left her with a hillock of debts, it stood to reason she could not maintain all the rooms in a manor this size.
While she’d set her mind at ease by the time they reached her door, she wasn’t at all prepared for the sight that greeted her.
Her chamber was as vast as Sophie’s, perhaps even more so. Situated on a corner of the manor, her room was essentially inside a bartizan turret. Warm, golden sunlight filtered in through two banks of windows, adorned in draperies the shade of ripe peaches, with pale diaphanous sheers billowing in the breeze. Draped silk in the same hue fluttered against the rails of her colossal bed like a negligee. Painted peach blossoms decorated the walls, interspersed with hanging fruit so tempting that she wondered if the room was meant to resemble the Garden of Eden.
The footman carried in her luggage. At the window, she stared out at the vast rolling hills, dotted with the brown thatched roofs of the village houses, nestled together as the land gradually merged with the cliffs overlooking the harbor.
Looking out, her hand pressed against the churning sensation in her stomach. It was difficult to look out in the distance and not think of her parents or the terrible day they were swept out to sea.
While the nightmares had lessened in frequency over the years, they’d left a permanent mark on her. A need for certainty of her future. That was precisely why she was desperate that this plan of Eve’s should work.
Anxiety made her feel flushed. Heat pricked at her scalp, threatening to make her perspire. Merribeth turned away from the view and focused on something else to keep her head straight. She stepped past the lush, cream-colored Turkish divan and over to the second window.
Unlike the other, this one did not host a far-off view of the sea but the length of the house instead. The corner of her room ended abruptly, jutting away from the main structure. Looking closer, she noticed a narrow balcony directly outside.
Unable to resist, she turned the small iron handle and opened the window. The air was cool and sweet, scented by the tall grasses and drooping willow branches beside the pond. She breathed in deeply. A sense of calm filled her. If her task was to spend the next two weeks in this place, she believed she could manage.
Before she left this view, she paid closer attention to the length of the house before her. Beneath the angle of the slate roof, windows dotted the expanse. Like hers, each room had a narrow balcony
with a carved stone balustrade. The other views, however, were aimed toward the harbor and not the house. It seemed odd that this window should face the windows and balconies of other rooms. Stranger still, the window nearest hers was situated so closely that the balconies nearly touched.
Back inside her room, Merribeth found that the maid and footmen had gone, and she was at her leisure. She sank down onto the sumptuous pillows on the divan and smiled with pure delight. Automatically, she covered her mouth to hide her smile, but then remembered she was alone and could smile all she liked without ridicule.
And so she did.
Bane planned to hide in the east wing library for as long as he could. After all, it wasn’t officially a party until all the guests arrived. The stipulation in his agreement with Eve regarding his participation, or lack thereof, didn’t count. Not yet.
He knew his place in this wingback chair was only temporary. Far too soon, he would be forced to endure the company his aunt had chosen for his two-week stint in hell. His primary challenge would be avoiding a certain buxom widow that Eve had invited solely as a means to tempt him into losing their wager.
He’d flirted with Daniela Pearce at Tattersalls recently. While she knew nothing of horseflesh, her words suggested she knew quite a lot of another flesh. Enough to pique his interest, which was a true accomplishment these days.
The real pity was that he’d always enjoyed sex, the feel of a woman’s flesh, the sounds of her ecstasy, the power he felt at knowing he could make her weep from the stroke of his fingers or the flick of his tongue. He had an appetite for it—a thirst that had gone unquenched for longer than he cared to admit. Seduction was more of a rote behavior anymore.
With any luck, after the wager with Eve concluded, Daniela Pearce could be the cure he sought.
Bane shook his head, stroking the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip. A cure? Or another diversion that would run its course? He was more prone to believe the latter. Besides, he already knew she wasn’t worth the risk of losing Gypsy. He doubted any woman was.
Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 6