Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (17 page)

“As I suspected,” Bane mused. When Amberdeen gave him a questioning look, he went on. “She believes a foal would settle the land dispute between the two of you.”

Amberdeen looked ahead, as if he could see through the stone façade of the estate to pinpoint the exact location of its mistress. “She knows very well that there is only one
acceptable
proposal to settle matters.”

Now that Bane had that puzzle answered, some of the pressure surrounding him lightened. He could breathe easier. A morning mist hovered over the grass, resembling the steam rising from his stallion’s nostrils. He was starting to feel better. More like himself. Riding always helped him clear his head and focus his thoughts. He knew what was important.
Revenge.

The only reason he was here at all was because of the bargain he’d made with Eve. She had information for him. Information to exact his revenge was the only thing he wanted. There was no room for Venus in his life. She was a distraction he should avoid.

If only he could.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

B
y the time Merribeth was brave enough to walk down to the breakfast room and chance another encounter with Bane, she learned the men would be hunting all day. Her shoulders sagged in relief. At least she wouldn’t have to face him today.

Of course, that wouldn’t keep her from thinking about that blistering kiss. Or about William and how guilty she felt, because she hadn’t thought of him at all until this moment.

Why had she never felt this dithery with William? He’d certainly never caused her such turmoil that she’d questioned nearly everything she knew about herself.

She supposed it was because William was perfect for her. Everyone said so. He fit into her life nicely without causing any uneasy stirrings.

Kissing Bane had made her feel positively wild, filling her with primitive notions—like wanting to keep him in the library and press her lips to every pulse point on his body, craving to learn the beat of
his
drum. Even as that thought kept her riveted, she still wanted more. More of the sound of his voice and the way it stampeded through her entire body. More of his wry wit and teasing banter. More of his dark warnings about servants’ stairs and losing one’s sanity over a kiss. And more of those, too.

He unsettled her. Made the secret places inside her churn and throb. Since they’d first met, he’d never left her with a moment’s peace.

So then why did she crave to see him again and continue to feel this way?

It made no sense. Yet now, she suspected she knew what William had meant when he’d told her that he felt violently toward Miss Codington.

She pondered that for a moment as she placed a crumpet on her plate and then took a seat beside her aunt at the glossed maple table. Bleary light filtered in through the mist hovering outside the broad windows, casting gray shadows within the breakfast room.

Sophie eyed her over the tarnished rims of her glasses, concern evident in the furrowing of her brow. “You didn’t sleep.” She reached over and patted Merribeth’s hand before she nudged the jam caddy in front of her plate. “Don’t worry so. We’ll get him back. There’s still time.”

Him.
Her aunt meant
William
, of course. This was all for William. She’d given him the last five years of her life, only to have him leave her reputation in tatters. And that was before she’d done anything to deserve it.

Oh dear.
But now she’d kissed a rake—
twice
—and all to regain William’s affections. She kissed another man. Not only that, but she wanted to do it again.

In the very least, she should feel guilty.

“Doesn’t this seem strange, Sophie? That I’m here, learning to flirt with other men so that I can regain William’s affections.”

Her aunt’s gaze turned thoughtful and distant, the way it did when she’d learned something new from one of her journals. “I admit, I was skeptical when Eve first announced this plan. It seemed the opposite of what a young woman with her reputation hanging by a thread would normally do.”

Merribeth blanched. “How sweetly put.”

Sophie blinked and focused on her. A small smile lifted her features, making her look years younger. “That, right there, is the reason I went along with it. Ever since that night at Lady Amherst’s, I’ve noticed a change in you, in your demeanor, in the little things you say. It reminds me of a journal article I read, involving the trials that a boy must go through in order to be considered a man in his tribe. First, he must venture out alone to hunt and kill an animal. Then he must consume either the blood or the heart. Finally, he must skin the animal and wear the pelt at a ritual ceremony.”

Merribeth swallowed down a rise of bile in her throat and pushed her plate away, no longer able to look at the raspberry jam atop her crumpet. “I don’t see how that pertains to me.”

“This entire ordeal is your trial—your effort to become accepted by your tribe.”

Her tribe—the
ton
. The notion was disheartening. “Then why do I feel more like the hunted animal than the boy?”

“At first, perhaps,” Sophie said with a nod, pursing her lips. “But once you were challenged, you switched places. You picked up the spear, as it were, and decided to take control of your own fate.”

Best not tempt fate.
A shiver raced through her at the memory of Bane’s final words to her last night. “And the animal I must kill? What
is
that, exactly?”

Sophie turned back to her breakfast. “That is for you to figure out.”

This still didn’t answer her question. By deciding to go along with Eve’s plan, she’d essentially picked up a symbolic spear with the intent of slaying a nameless, faceless beast. Yet the beast had a face, didn’t it? Wasn’t William the beast she needed to slay—
marry
—in order to belong to her tribe?

The idea didn’t help abate the queasiness of her stomach. “I think I’d like to explore more of the house this morning. Would you care to join me?”

“Normally, I would love to,” Sophie said around a bite of ham, “but Lady Archer and I are going into the village shortly to speak with Reverend Sandleland. Would you like to join us? I’m sure there’s plenty of room in the carriage.”

Merribeth stood and considered her options. Though she had loved needlework, now, each time she picked up a needle and thread, all she could see was her wedding dress and the uncertainty of her future. All she could see was a life without hope, without children and, most depressingly, without love. Without her needlework to occupy her, or any desire to resume it, she was left with her thoughts as her main occupation. The prospect of going on another quest with Aunt Sophie held even less appeal. “I think I’d rather rummage through the attic and see what old costumes I can find, if any.”

Sophie dabbed her mouth with a napkin and grinned, hope lighting her eyes. “I imagine you’ll find interesting costumes, as well as needlework that might inspire you.”

“Perhaps,” Merribeth said absently. Her thoughts were more focused on the question of what she must do to take control of her own fate. She doubted she’d find it in the attic. In fact, the only time she’d felt she’d had any control of her own fate was when she’d lost all control in Bane’s arms.

Fool that she was, she hoped to lose control again.

A
fter spending the rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon in the attic, discovering more gowns and fine needlework than she had ever seen in one place, Merribeth had taken out the silver needle, thread, and handkerchief her friends had given her. However, while lounging on the divan in her room, she hadn’t been inspired. The bare scrap of linen had stared back at her, as if waiting for her to pick up the tiny spear that would decide her fate.

She couldn’t do it. That feeling of certainty was still out of reach.

Frustrated, she settled down in the library with a book and watched the sun sink below the tree line. The gentlemen had not yet returned from their hunting trip. Her aunt and Lady Archer were resting before dinner. Eve was in the parlor with Cordelia and Daniela.

Merribeth was daydreaming when she heard the scrape of the door along the carpet behind her. Peering around one of the chair’s wings, she saw that it was Eve.

“A book instead of needlework in your lap? That is not how I usually see you,” Eve said as she stepped into library.

Merribeth remained in her curled-up position. “I blame it on this old chair. I walked past the door and saw it sitting here, all alone.” She left out how the memory of Bane’s kiss had lured her here.

“I’ve never liked that chair. The red upholstery has faded to an unattractive orange hue. It’s coarse, like a horsehair blanket. And no matter how many times I have the servants air it in the sun, it still smells musty.”

“It’s quite comfortable.” Surprisingly enough, as the cushion was flat and bowed in the center, too.

“Yes,” Eve mused, stopping in front of the window to stare out at the rolling hills. “My husband loved that chair.”

“Lord Sterling?”

Eve laughed. “No, he hated anything that was older than he was—which wasn’t much—but included my legacy.” She turned and lifted her hands to encompass everything around her: the house, the lands, and the centuries that had built and protected it.

Having thumbed through the book of the family’s history in her lap, Merribeth knew that every one of Eve’s ancestors had felt that this place was worth dying for, as if their very lifeblood ran in veins beneath these grounds.

“It was Spencer who loved that chair,” Eve continued, turning back to the window, her voice quiet, as if to keep the heartbreak from being heard. “He understood my love for this land better than anyone could. Of course, his father’s obsession had a great deal to do with that. Similar to my love for this land, the purity and longevity of the Fennecourt line was what the old marquess prized above all else.”

Merribeth puzzled over this. “Is the Fennecourt line prolific, then?”

“Not at all. In fact, Bane will be the last.”

Will be.
The words left no room for speculation. It was a simple statement of fact.

“When he spoke with my aunt the first night, he seemed rather adamant about never marrying. As the last of his line, one should think the opposite would be true,” Merribeth said, trying not to reveal her curiosity.

In profile, with the waning afternoon light behind her, a peculiar smile settled on Eve’s face. “Bane would sacrifice everything to ensure that his grandfather’s legacy dies with him—an act of ultimate revenge against the man who tried to take everything from him: his parents, his home, his title. And all because his mother had gypsy blood. According to the old marquess, she wasn’t pure enough to produce a true heir.”

Merribeth cringed, the idea appalling her. It seemed like an archaic belief that she might have read about in one of Sophie’s scientific journals. “But he is a true heir. His blood is Fennecourt, of that there can be no question. Otherwise, he wouldn’t hold the title.”

“Yes, though it took years for him to get it back, once the old marquess had it stripped from him.”

Merribeth uncurled her legs and shifted to the edge of the chair, wanting to understand how Bane came to be the man he was. However, she also knew she must keep her interest under guard.

“In the end, I think the real reason behind the old marquess’s hatred was vanity,” Eve continued without prompting, being uncharacteristically straightforward. “Every time my father-in-law looked at his grandson, he saw nothing of the Fennecourt line—the tawny hair, pale skin, and green eyes. While Bane’s stature and physique might have been, and still are, exactly like his father’s, his hair, eyes, and even the olive tint to his skin all came from his mother.”

His grandfather had hated Bane for something he couldn’t control. A grandfather was supposed to love you and dote on you. At least, that was the fond memory Merribeth had of her own. “You implied that Lord Knightswold’s grandfather was responsible for his parents’ deaths as well.”

“It was never proven. Carriage accidents are common enough,” Eve said with a flippant gesture, her gaze fixed out the window. “Bane was lucky enough to be thrown from the wreckage before it dashed his parents and their driver over the cliffs.”

“Oh!” Merribeth’s hand rose to her throat. “He was there when they—”

“A tragedy you both have in common,” Eve answered with a nod, and that peculiar smile returned. “He was slightly older than you were. Fourteen, I believe. At that point, he came to live with Spencer and me. Unfortunately, he brought his grandfather’s hatred with him.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You see, with Bane alive, there was still the matter of the title going to an impure Fennecourt. So the old marquess managed to destroy the church records of the wedding between Bane’s parents, and he convinced people Bane was a bastard, which put Spencer in line for the title.”

Merribeth gasped, unable to hide her feelings of outrage and the unfairness of it all. “Surely, there had been witnesses at the ceremony, someone who would vouch for his legitimacy.”

“Anyone who did found themselves ruined by scandal, put in debtor’s prison, or simply disappeared altogether.”

She felt sick. How could one man harbor such hatred? “And your husband?”

“When he adamantly spoke up for Bane’s legitimacy, Spencer lost his entire inheritance, his lands, and his money. We came to live here, believing distance would settle my father-in-law’s quest. It didn’t.” The cold remnants of a longstanding abhorrence hardened Eve’s expression. “Of course, while Bane was off at school and then later, while playing soldier against the French as an enlisted man, Spencer battled to keep my legacy from being stolen by his father as well.”

Merribeth took offense at the way Eve had said Bane had been “playing soldier,” as if his heroism meant nothing, but she didn’t let on that it bothered her. Eve was no doubt bitter about the entire tragic episode, as anyone would be.

“Then, one day, it was all too much for Spencer,” Eve said quietly, but there was a razor edge to her voice. “Somehow, he got the idea stuck in his head that if he weren’t here—if his father no longer had a target for all his hatred—then it would stop. That my legacy would be saved. So he rode to his father’s house and hanged himself in the study.” She said the last without expression, as if the ordeal had stripped her of emotion. Or perhaps, because her anguish was buried so deeply that nothing could escape.