A Lady's Point of View (18 page)

As for Miss Conley, she might yet
have prevailed, for she had a great advantage in beauty, but she stalked off in
a fury, and paid no more heed to the younger Mr. Roberts for the rest of the evening.

In the meantime, Germaine kept
glancing meaningfully from the marquis to Meg, as if displeased that he did not
dance with the governess. Was it possible she had developed a protective
feeling about a member of her future husband’s staff, an employee who was soon
to depart? That seemed unlikely, and yet she turned to the marquis and snapped,
“Lord Bryn, don’t stand about looking hangdog. Dance with Miss Linley!”

His lordship appeared taken
aback, but she’d left him little choice. With a stiff bow, he made the request
of Miss Linley, and she agreed before she realized the orchestra was beginning
a waltz. She had hoped for a less intimate Scottish reel.

Once, she had longed with all her
heart to waltz with a man for whom she truly cared. But now the dance seemed to
spring upon her like a hungry lion whenever she felt least prepared to fight
for her aplomb.

Her heart fluttered as they walked out together, and
when he placed one hand upon her waist, Meg blushed fiercely. If only she had
not attended tonight. Yet how could she have borne to stay away?

“How splendid
you appear, Miss Linley,” the marquis murmured.

“Thank you.” She dared to look up
at him, trying to store the sight of his beloved face for the long years ahead.
“It was kind of Miss Geraint to lend me her gown.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She has a very kind heart.”

“So it appears.”

They moved easily together, palm
against palm. Meg longed to run her hand across the superfine of his coat, to
press her cheek to his shoulder. How could she be such a wanton?

He held himself stiffly, his
manner remote. The consequence was to render Meg both grateful and deeply
saddened.

How fortunate that she was soon
to leave. And how heartbreaking.

The lordship fought to retain his
composure. He wanted this young woman in a way he had never before experienced.
The scent of her intoxicated him, although he could discern no particular
perfume. A subtly alluring fragrance wafted from her hair and skin, filling his
veins like a fine liquor, tempting but never entirely satisfying, so that he
longed to possess all of her and knew even that would scarcely be enough.

For the first time in his life,
the marquis understood the crazy things some people did. Men running off with
milkmaids, ladies marrying their butlers, couples dashing to Scotland in
defiance of their parents.

So this was love. And he had
found it too late.

For the brief spell of the dance, they were lost in
a world together, but then it ended. Drawing with difficulty upon his sense of
duty, the marquis relinquished Miss Linley, and gazed about for Miss Geraint.

Where the devil was she? He had a
duty to perform, and she ought to be compliant enough to allow him to do it
properly.

Germaine was at that moment
walking on the balcony with Squire Roberts, discussing the breeding of mares.

“I say,” the squire remarked at
last, “you don’t find this matter a bit, er, vulgar? I’ve no wish to offend.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” replied
Germaine, surprised that this down-to-earth chap would bother to apologise.
“What else is worth talking about? Anyone who worries about offending me is
wasting his time, for I’ve a stronger stomach than most men of my
acquaintance.”

“I’ll vouch for that,” agreed the
squire, who had seen the lady down three glasses of sherry in the past half
hour. “Well, if you promise not to take offence, what do you say to marrying me
instead of his lordship?”

There was a proposal to
Germaine’s liking. No edging politely toward the subject and then shying off.
No negotiations over marriage portions, and no nonsense about asking her
father, whom she doubted had any opinion on the subject. “Done,” she said.

“Beg pardon?”

“Done,” she repeated. “You have
got yourself a wife. Unless you’ve changed your mind. Have you?”

“Certainly not! Well, you don’t
say! You’ve given me an answer straight out. Damnedest thing!” Finally recalled
to propriety, Squire Roberts kissed her cheek and then, after stammering his
heartfelt thanks, went off to ask Mr. Geraint for his blessing.

Germaine hoped the man wouldn’t
be gone long. She’d been quite interested in what he had to say about stallions
and how to persuade mares to accept them.

It was then that Lord Bryn
discovered Germaine alone just inside the terrace doors. He would never find a
better time, he reflected. “Miss Geraint?” he said. “May I speak with you
privately?”

She cast a peculiar look at him,
but nodded and stepped outside. The marquis cleared his throat. Now that the
moment had come, doubts assailed him. More than doubts; certainties. But he
must carry on.

“You surely are aware of why you
and your family were invited here,” said Lord Bryn. “I, er, wish to ask for
your hand in marriage.”

“Too late!” boomed Germaine.
“Already promised myself to Squire Roberts. You need a more direct manner if
you’re to capture a lady’s heart, Lord Bryn.” She clapped him on the shoulder
and strode back into the ballroom.

Andrew stood open mouthed,
staring after her.

Then he went in search of Miss
Linley.

When the marquis appeared at
Meg’s side and asked to speak with her privately, she wondered whatever could
be the matter. She glanced worriedly at Germaine, but that lady only smiled
broadly and winked. Beyond her, on the balcony, Squire Roberts and Mr. Geraint
were conducting an earnest conversation.

In confusion, Meg laid her hand
on Lord Bryn’s arm and accompanied him to his study. She’d imagined such a
scene a hundred times, but the marquis could not possibly intend what she’d
dreamed.

He closed the door behind them, a
most improper thing to do. “Sherry?” The marquis offered her a glass and, with
a weak nod, Meg sank onto the settee.

“Have I done something wrong, my
lord?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He handed her the
liquid and she swallowed a gulp, nearly coughing at the unaccustomed fire.

The marquis moved around his desk
and sat on its edge. “How would you like to bring your mother to live at
Brynwood?”

“My mother? Here?” Meg couldn’t
think straight. How handsome he was in the glow of the lamp. Why did he watch
her so intently? She had to devise some excuse about her mother
      

“That is a very roundabout way of
proposing marriage.” Lord Bryn gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I realize
I haven’t done it properly. You’ve no father to ask, I gather, and I’ve no
acquaintance with your mother. So I put the matter to you directly.”

“But, Miss Geraint... ?”

“She has been stolen from under
my very nose, and by none other than Squire Roberts.” He spoke with dry irony.

‘They’re to be married?’’

“So she tells me.” He stared into
his wine, then regarded her directly. “Well, Miss Linley? Do you choose to
become Lady Bryn?”

Meg couldn’t believe this was
true. He hadn’t said he loved her, but why else would he make such an offer?
“My answer will be yes,” she said, “but first I must make an explanation.”

“I hardly think it can be so
important as all that.” The marquis crossed the room to sit beside her,
slipping one arm about her waist.

How she longed to lean against
him, to enjoy his touch. Yet she owed him the truth.

“We must be honest with each
other,” Meg protested. “I shall feel much better when we’ve laid our cards upon
the table.”

“Let us not talk of gambling at
such a time,” he teased.

“But…”

His mouth closed over hers. A
thousand stars swirled through Meg’s mind and, dizzied, she steadied herself
against the marquis. He held her firmly, his lips exploring her cheeks and
eyelids and brow.

All awareness of place and time
dissolved. Nothing existed for Meg but the warmth of his mouth, lifting her out
of this earthly realm. The two of them were flung among the heavens, lights
dancing about them. They were dancing themselves, to distant music, moving
against each other gently, and then with growing intensity.

His grip on her tightened, and
his lips traced the delicate curve of her throat, down to the soft white
expanse of bosom exposed by the fashionable gown. Shivers of desire ran through
Meg, and she understood in one blinding instant what it was she longed for, and
why in a moment she would no longer be able to resist.

“My lord,” she gasped with her
last ounce of resolve. “We are not yet married.”

“I cannot bear to wait much
longer.” With a harsh intake of breath, the marquis released her and turned
away, his shoulders tense as he fought for control. “I shall request the curate
to marry us as soon as possible. Damn the formalities.”

Before Meg could respond, a knock
sounded at the door. Muttering a curse, the lordship strode angrily across the
room. “Yes?”

It was Franklin. “My lord,
forgive me for interrupting you.” He maintained an impassive air that masked
any surprise at the sight of Meg, breathless and dishevelled. “Two rough
fellows have turned up demanding to see a certain person in the household.”

Lord Bryn frowned in annoyance.
“Well, deal with them as you see best. I have more important matters to tend
to.”

Franklin hesitated. “May I have a
word with you in private, my lord?”

The marquis scowled as though he
might refuse, but then said shortly, “Very well,” and stepped into the hallway.

Left alone, Meg tried to sort out
her emotions. Her body burned from his touch, and she knew it was dangerous to
delay their marriage, for they were not in full control of their passions. Yet
she could not marry without her mother and sister present. And there remained
the necessity of telling Lord Bryn her complete story.

The prospect hit her like a dash
of cold water. How would he respond? Surely if he loved her he would forgive
such an innocent deception. Or would he?

In the hallway the marquis
strained to comprehend the bizarre tale Franklin was recounting.

“A pair of drunkards? Asking for
Miss Linley? Nonsense!” He took care to keep his tone low. “Let me speak with
them.”

Franklin led the way to the
kitchen, where two scraggly men lolled before the fire, their cheeks and noses
scarlet from the combined effects of drink and heat.

“I wish to be alone with these
men,” Lord Bryn commanded. “Franklin may remain.”

He waited as the other servants
departed, since he had no wish for idle tongues to repeat whatever calumnies
these ne’er-do-wells might spread about Miss Linley. “Well?” he demanded. “What
is this story you’ve told my butler?”

“Ain’t no story,” said the
smaller of the pair, whom Franklin identified as Fred Coves. “We heard from the
family she was comin’ to work here, and thought it was time we paid her a
visit.”

“She’s our cousin,” added his
companion, whom Franklin declared to be Artie. “No harm in coming to see our
cousin. Expected she’d show us around a bit, fancy house and all.”

“I believe they’re salt miners
from Northwich way,” Franklin interposed. “In spite of their demeanour, my
lord, I see no reason to doubt their relationship.”

Relationship? These ruffians,
cousins to his Meg? The prospect of becoming a cousin-by-marriage to these
rogues was dismaying, but the marquis suspected they would be easily got rid
of—for a time, at least. “And you’ve come purely from motives of good
fellowship, is it?” The fellows exchanged looks. A narrowing of the eye, a
quirk of the lip told the marquis all he needed to know. “Or to intimidate her
into bribing you to leave? Is that it?”

A sneer revealed Fred’s rotting
front teeth. “We ain’t askin’ nothin’. She be our cousin, that be all.”

Meg wasn’t the sort to let
herself be pushed about, Bryn reflected. Time to throw these scoundrels out.
“We’ll let her speak for herself, then.”

He flung open the door, causing a
great deal of stir and stumbling among the servants who had crowded about to
listen. They started back apologetically, and at his order, one of the maids
ran to summon Miss Linley from the study.

A few minutes later he heard her
footsteps approaching. Odd how that he could have picked that soft footfall out
of a crowd. “Yes, my lord?” She stepped into the room, every bit as lovely as
she had been only moments ago in his arms.

“Do you know these men?” he asked
impatiently. “They’ve come to see their cousin. Have you anything to say to
them?”

“What, her?” snarled the fellow
known as Fred. “That ain’t Myra. She’s an impostor! What’s she done with your
governess, that’s what I’d like to know!”

Meg’s face turned an unnatural
white, and then she swooned.

Meg awoke to find herself still
in the kitchen, half-sprawled in a chair and being fanned by Mrs. Franklin. The
two nasty-looking men sat staring at her in dismay, and she realised that only
a minute or two had passed. If only it could be a century, and she awakening
like Sleeping Beauty into a new world.

“That ain’t Myra!” declared one
homely fellow, turning to his companion. “Eh, Fred?”

The other fellow shook his head.
“Don’t even have the Lindsay nose, do she, Artie? Though faintin’, well, that’s
somethin’ Myra does a fair bit.”

These men must be acquaintances
of the woman from the mail coach. Why had she never considered that someone
might come seeking that person?

“Well, Meg.” The marquis regarded
her with narrowed eyes. “What have you done with Myra Lindsay, and who in
heaven’s name are you?”