The Wild Child (12 page)

The older man gave a sigh of relief. Rising to his feet, he said, “Before we rejoin the ladies, would you care for a stroll through the gallery upstairs?”

Knowing the suggestion wasn’t casual, Dominic said, “Of course.”

Silently he accompanied Amworth to the gallery, a long room on the north side of the house. A gentle promenade in bad weather, it had wide, diamond-paned windows on one wall and paintings on the other. Amworth stopped at a portrait near the entrance and lifted his lamp so light fell clearly across the canvas. The picture portrayed a smiling young woman with flaxen hair sitting on a stone garden bench. On her lap was a small and angelically lovely little girl with sparkling light green eyes, while a craggy man with humor and intelligence in his gaze stood behind. If Dominic wasn’t mistaken, the setting was the Warfield rose garden. “Your sister and her husband with Meriel, I assume.”

“It was done just before they went to India.” Amworth gazed broodingly at the painting. “They had been married for years and had begun to despair of having a child. Then Meriel came. They both doted on her.”

“Why did Lord Grahame take his family to an unhealthy place like India?”

“Emily wouldn’t hear of him going without her, and she wouldn’t go without Meriel. Grahame’s mission was for only two years, so they thought it would be safe enough. Meriel was a remarkably healthy child.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression bleak. “It wasn’t disease that killed my sister and her husband.”

“You and your sister were very close?”

Amworth’s eyes opened. His face looked very worn. “Emily was only a year younger. We were constant companions as children, and stayed friends until she died.”

The property ownership question intrigued Dominic. Grahame and Amworth both had family seats, while Emily had owned Warfield in her own right, and apparently she and her husband had used it as their primary residence. He’d better not ask about that, though; it might be something else Amworth and Kyle had discussed.

They walked along the bank of paintings. Many of the portraits showed men and women who were small-boned and very blond. The women often had Mend’s fey, otherworldly air. Dominic remarked,

“The family resemblance is very marked.”

Amworth stopped by a Tudor family portrait. “I wish there was a picture of the first Meriel. The family archives indicate that she was much like my niece, except that she had black hair. Her husband, a Norman earl, was very blond. Those traits have come down through the family for centuries. Family names and titles have changed, but the blood has carried on, often through female inheritance. Warfield was never made part of an entail, so it could be left to a daughter if there was no male heir. My niece is a direct descendant of the first Meriel.” He sighed. “I hate to think that will all end now.”

“Surely there are other branches of the family.”

“True. But my own sons look more like their mother.” He hesitated before adding with some difficulty,

“Elinor has been an ideal wife and mother and countess, but… she has never been able to accept Meriel. She finds mental imbalance disturbing. When the boys were small she was concerned for their safety.”

He didn’t need to say any more. Dominic understood how Amworth had been torn between the demands of his position, the needs of his own family, and those of his niece. Probably he would have taken her into his own household if his wife had not objected. He’d done the best he could to see that Meriel was loved and happy.

He and his niece both deserved better than a pair of liars.

Chapter 11

After a pleasant evening of conversation, a tea tray was delivered to the drawing room. Mrs. Marks was pouring for Lord Amworth when Meriel materialized in the doorway. She’d changed from her evening gown into a flowing dark Eastern garment, the kind designed to cover as much as possible of the female form to prevent lustful male thoughts. Not that it worked. The folds of dark fabric merely stimulated the imagination. At least they stimulated Dominic’s.

Carrying a tray with three small bowls and a cluster of slender sticks, Meriel crossed the Persian carpet on soundless bare feet. Her hair had been released from its complicated style and braided again. Mrs. Rector smiled. “How nice. Meriel is going to do mehndi tonight in your honor, Lord Amworth.”

Eyes downcast, Meriel knelt before her uncle. Dominic had a sudden sense that the role of submissive handmaiden was a game for her. Perhaps she’d seen the real thing in India and added it to the collection of her personalities. Submissive Handmaiden. Dedicated Gardener. Fairy Sprite. Wild Child. Amworth’s tired face lightened. “I’d like a wrist band if you please, Meriel.” He rolled his left sleeve up and offered her his wrist.

She dunked a pad of cotton into a bowl and sponged the skin around his wrist. Then she dipped a slim stick into the other bowl, which contained henna paste. With swift, deft motions, she began to draw a complex, paisleylike pattern on his wrist. Her concentration was total. As Dominic had thought after seeing the mehndi on Kamal, it took skill to create such a design, particularly without guidelines. He noted with interest that she’d darkened her brows and lashes, as Eastern women often did. Against Meriel’s fair skin and flaxen hair, the effect was exotic and wickedly alluring. When she’d finished Amworth’s mehndi, she went to Mrs. Rector. The older woman said thoughtfully,

“I’d like an anklet, Meriel. Will you gentlemen excuse me while I turn my back on you for modesty’s sake?”

She moved to a large wing chair that faced away from the fireplace, where the others were seated. Fabric rustled as she raised her skirts and peeled off a stocking so Meriel could work on her ankle. Dominic sipped his tea, amused and rather touched at this evidence that a woman didn’t lose the playful desire to adom herself merely because she was no longer a girl.

The anklet took some time to execute. When it was completed, Mrs. Marks proffered her right hand and arm. Meriel drew a delicate vinelike pattern that started on the older woman’s third finger. From there the mehndi wound across the back of Mrs. Marks’s hand and wrist, continuing up her forearm before it twined to a halt just below the elbow.

As Meriel worked, Mrs. Marks explained, “It’s necessary to leave the henna on for an hour or two until it dries, Lord Maxwell. Then it can be brushed off, leaving the pattern.” Her eyes twinkled. “I suppose this seems very odd to you.”

“Unusual,” he admitted, “but quite charming.”

He was looking forward to Meriel’s ministrations, but after she finished with Mrs. Marks, she made the rounds of her three subjects and patted a solution from the third bowl on the designs, then gracefully withdrew. Disappointed, he wondered if she had run out of the henna preparation. Or wasn’t he worthy of her efforts?

Mrs. Rector got to her feet, covering a ladylike yawn with one small hand. “It is rather late, isn’t it? I shall see you all in the morning.”

Since Meriel was gone, Dominic was ready to retire. Was it really only this morning that he’d followed her up to the castle? Much had happened in one day.

Morrison awaited in the bedroom to help him out of Kyle’s fashionably tight coat. The valet would not soon forgive Dominic for wrecking the garment he’d worn earlier in the day. Not in the mood for the older man’s disapproval, Dominic dismissed him after the coat was off. The rest of his clothing he could manage unaided.

Glad to be alone, Dominic wandered to the window as he unfastened his cravat. Outside, the geometric patterns of the parterre were faintly visible in the moonlight. He’d always enjoyed this view, never more than now, when he’d labored on it himself.

His door opened and he turned, thinking Morrison had forgotten something. Meriel stood in the doorway, dressed in her Eastern costume and holding her mehndi tray. Closing the door behind her, she crossed the room to Dominic and knelt demurely at his feet, fluid garments swirling. Then she raised the tray in a wordless offer.

He cut off his automatic protest that young ladies never came to gentlemen’s bedrooms. Meriel existed outside society’s usual rules. “So my turn has come.” He smiled at her. “Will you give me a wristband like your uncle’s?”

She gestured toward the upholstered chair. He sat and unbuttoned his cuff so she could paint his wrist, glad he hadn’t been excluded from her list of subjects.

Taking his hand with smooth, cool fingers, she studied his wrist with a frown.

“Is something wrong?” He looked down and guessed that the hair on his wrist might interfere with her painting. He was about to suggest that Meriel put a design on the back of his hand when she stood and quite unselfconsciously began unfastening his shirt buttons. He caught her hand, startled. “Meriel!”

She raised her head and looked at him with such transparent innocence that he felt ashamed of himself. Now that he thought about it, Kamal had mehndi on the throat, so this was probably a standard practice for her.

Reminding himself that it was a good thing for her to become comfortable with a man’s body, he finished undoing his shirt and pulled it over his head. Though he felt some embarrassment at being half-naked in front of her, Meriel was quite unconcerned. She perched on the arm of the chair and thoughtfully traced his collarbone with a fingertip, apparently considering her design.

His blood began beating with uncomfortable force, for her light touch was more arousing than a caress from a practiced woman of the world. Kamal had the advantage of being a eunuch, and her sworn protector. Safe from the provocative lure of a maiden’s touch. Dominic had no such defenses. Decision made, Meriel cleansed his skin with a fluid whose tangy scent reminded him of pine. Then she dipped a stick into the henna and began to draw on the triangle of flesh above his left collarbone. As the rich, earthy scent filled his nostrils, he had a charming view of her bright hair and the occasional sweep of darkened lashes.

Too charming. He closed his eyes and tried to fasten his mind on other things—Latin declensions were suitably tedious—but his attention came stubbornly back to her. Blending with the other scents was a tantalizing perfume, and he could feel the warmth radiating from her hand. The drawing stick produced a sensation somewhere between a tickle and a sensual tease, and why hadn’t he noticed how warm the room was… ?

He opened his eyes again and stared across the room at the Chinese wallpaper. Forget that an exquisite young woman was hovering over him. Pretend she was some incredibly gnarled old hag he’d discovered in a bazaar in Damascus… She lifted the stick from his skin, and he heard a faint tap as she rested it in the bowl. Then her fingertip rubbed across his nipple. He almost jumped from his skin. “Jesus, Meriel!”

She looked at him with that innocence again. “This is really not at all proper, Meriel,” he said unsteadily.

“You should return to your room.”

Ignoring that, she prepared his skin, then drew a delicate, vinelike design around his nipple. Did she do this to Kamal? Even if she did, should he allow such intimacy?

What the devil should he do? He didn’t want to distress her—but damn it, she was distressing him! All he could think about was her nearness, and her desirability. He could almost taste the soft skin of her nape under his lips…

Grimly he held on to his fraying willpower while she painted a design around his other nipple, then decorated the area above his right collarbone. With a final flourish, she connected the two areas with a web of lines that curved across the base of his throat.

He gave a sigh of relief when she finished and set her materials on the table beside the chair. Now she would go back to her room, and he would read something quietly while the henna dried. He could surely find some deadly dull improving work in the library to cool himself off. But instead of moving away, she slid her hand caressingly down his chest in a slow, sensual exploration. Fire shot through his veins as the desire that had been building kindled into flame. He almost reached up to pull her into a crushing embrace.

Almost. With barely suppressed violence he shoved himself from the chair and didn’t stop until he was on the far side of the room. Back turned to her, he clenched his hands, breathing hard as he fought to maintain his control.

She was fey. At least half mad. Not responsible for her actions. She was going to be his brother’s wife. Would she even notice the difference between him and Kyle on their wedding night? The bitterness of that thought dampened his craving.

He turned and found that she was right beside him, a question in her eyes. She lifted a hand toward him. He caught it before she could touch him again. “Meriel, this kind of closeness is only proper between husband and wife. Until you are ready to be a wife, there should be… more distance between us.”

He hoped that she understood the tone if not the words, but she just stared at him, her green eyes intense. Not the eyes of a child at all.

Her gaze dropped, sliding over his body with slow thoroughness as if she was memorizing every pore, every hair, every taut muscle. Feeling profoundly naked under that probing gaze, he ordered, “Go, Meriel. Now.”

Her gaze reached the front of his pantaloons. He hardened as if she’d touched him physically. He knew with absolute certainty that he could draw her into a kiss, and she would come willingly. She was curious. Naturally sensual. She probably wore nothing underneath that flowing, exotic garment… His brother’s wife. He turned her around, placed a tense hand in the small of her back, and ushered her firmly to the door. “Begone, witch. No more mehndi until your wedding night.”

Kyle would have to be dead not to become an ardent bridegroom under the influence of Meriel’s enchanting blend of innocence and sensuality. His thrice-damned brother, who still commanded Dominic’s loyalty even though he might not deserve it.

He closed the door hard behind her and turned the key in the lock.

Then he leaned against the Chinese wallpaper, and shook.

She almost fell over Roxana, who thumped her tail happily at the sight of Meriel. Feeling like a bird whose feathers had been ruffled by a high wind, she stood very still and tried to understand what had just happened.