Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (18 page)

Merribeth’s heart went out to Eve, only now realizing how little she knew about her aunt’s friend. “I imagine seeing your nephew’s desire to end his legacy, when you and your ancestors have sacrificed so much for yours, must be difficult to understand.”

“Not at all.” Eve shook her head. That peculiar smile made another appearance, sending a shiver of warning through Merribeth. “I see that we are alike, in that the greatest asset to both of us is a single-minded determination to get exactly what we want and to give others
exactly
what they deserve.”

She wasn’t certain whether being blind to everything outside of one’s goal was an asset or a flaw. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Of course you do. Take Mr. Clairmore, for example, and his treatment of you. There are certain events in one’s life that can never be forgotten, events that drive a person to do things he or
she
never wanted to be capable of doing, but that offer a sense of peace all the same.”

Merribeth frowned, mulling that over. After William’s betrayal, did flirting with Bane—
kissing Bane
—offer a sense of peace? Not at all. She was feeling more turmoil inside her now than during those weeks when her reputation was on nearly everyone’s lips.

“My father-in-law wasn’t deterred by his sons’ deaths,” Eve continued. “He never stopped trying to reach his goal. He remarried a pretty young girl, before she’d finished her first Season. Yet she was, perhaps, too young. Both she and old Fennecourt’s last chance for an heir died in childbed. He followed a year later.” Eve punctuated her comment with an absent shrug, moved away from the window, and crossed to the open door. “I suppose it’s time I see about dinner. I’m sure the men will be arriving any moment, eager to share their birds with the cook.”

Merribeth watched her disappear into the hall. Her mind was at sixes and sevens. Was her single-minded determination to get Mr. Clairmore back at any cost truly like Bane’s quest for revenge?

No matter how much she wanted—vehemently and unilaterally—to deny it, she couldn’t.

Perhaps it was time to reevaluate her main goal. This whole idea of flirting in order to instill confidence had been Eve’s idea all along. And yet . . . she couldn’t possibly regret all of her own actions. Being brave in those moments that normally would have made her turn the other way had been liberating.

Already, she felt changed. She felt it in her skin each time Bane looked at her, as if he knew what had been inside her all along.

Yet if her ultimate goal no longer concerned flirting with him, how could she rationalize seeking him out? Then again, knowing he was so near and for such a short time, how could she possibly stay away?

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

B
ane stayed in the stables while the other men went inside to enjoy their scotch and brag to the women of their shooting kills. The day still hadn’t provided him the respite he needed.

In fact, today’s journey had only left him with the desire to return, to be nearer the source of his constant temptation. All day, he’d felt as if he were unraveling, and the only way to set himself to rights was to return and be stitched together again. To follow the others into the house and to find the person who seemed to be holding the other end of his thread.

Instead, he remained in the stables and brushed down the horses. The repetition of smooth, fluid strokes offered another distraction.

Now, he was in Gypsy’s stall. Cooing soothing words to her, he brushed her down and rubbed her distended belly. Her time was coming soon. No doubt, the foal would be big, like its sire. The knowledge caused Bane a modicum of worry.

As if hearing his thoughts, the mare lifted her head and gave a snort through her wide nostrils.

“You’ll do fine,” he said, wishing he were convinced. “When it’s time, I’ll stay right here with you, and you won’t have to be alone. Not for a minute.”

She blew her breath against his cheek, nudging him playfully. When he tried to resume his grooming task, she sidestepped and whickered. Looking at her, he noticed that her attention was on the open stall door. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he caught sight of a retreating slip of gray muslin.

Venus
. He felt an immediate tug deep inside. The impulse to go to her and bring her back made the muscles down the length of his legs jump. Yet, at the same time, his sense of self-preservation willed his feet to stay flat to the ground and not to move a single inch. There was so much at stake.

Gypsy nudged his shoulder, hard enough that he took a step forward to regain his balance. He glanced back at her. “Do you want to meet her?”

The silky black mare dipped her head. It might not have been a nod, but he decided it was close enough. While he could deny himself, he could never deny Gypsy.

Looking again at the open stall door, he watched as that gray slip of muslin and the woman within it emerged from the hall.

Miss Wakefield stopped a few feet from him, her fingers knitted before her. She tilted her head to the side. “What was her answer?”

“What makes you think she gave one?” he asked, warning himself that her curiosity was a dangerous entity, one that had the power to make him forget.

Somehow, he managed not to close the distance between them. The strength of his will even allowed him to turn his back on her and resume brushing Gypsy. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he watched Merribeth step further into the stall.

Apparently, fate had not yet finished doling out temptation to him. He steeled himself against it.

“You have a way with her,” she said quietly. “When you crooned to her a moment ago, she responded with different sounds, as if you were having a conversation.”

“Then you were eavesdropping.” The words came out with more censure than he felt. While he’d felt unraveled earlier, now, the closer she stood, the more tightly wound he became. It seemed the only thing his hunting trip had managed to do was to make him want her all the more.

Clenching his teeth, he kept to his task and brushed the pregnant mare with long, fluid strokes from her withers to flank.

“She’s beautiful,” Merribeth said, ignoring his jibe. “If I draw closer, will I startle her?”

Perhaps she shouldn’t worry about the way her presence affected Gypsy but what it did to him instead. Her nearness unsettled him, making his shirt and waistcoat feel tight and itchy. He wanted to relieve the discomfort by removing both items and then invite her to run her cool hands over his feverish flesh.

He blew out a breath as a shudder rambled through him. Gypsy exhaled a quick snort and scratched the ground with her hoof in impatience.

Beside him, Merribeth stilled. “I should go. It’s obvious she doesn’t want company.”

And it was obvious to him that Merribeth wasn’t truly talking about Gypsy.

Bane shook his head, even as a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He dropped the brush in the pail and turned to face her. “She hasn’t been introduced to you yet and isn’t certain she can let down her guard.”

He held out his hand in offering.

“Is that all it takes?” She slipped her fingers into his palm without hesitation, proving that she trusted his intentions far too much.

He wished she’d hesitated. Perhaps then, he would have been better prepared for swift tightening of the coil inside him. With it came a jolt that shot tracks of heat—as hot as a branding iron—up his arm and over his entire body. “It sometimes takes even less.”

Denying his endless list of urges with a force he didn’t know he possessed, he pulled her only a single step closer and settled her hand against the length of Gypsy’s nose.

His fingers splayed over hers, guiding her touch as he situated her so that she stood in front of him. “Let her snuff you and see that you are here with me. I won’t let anything happen.” He bent his head, inhaling the soft fragrance of her hair.

“I know you won’t,” she whispered, her voice low and sure.

Merribeth received a snort and nuzzle from Gypsy. Undeniable approval.

“I can see why you prefer her company to mine and that of the other guests,” she said with laugh as the mare’s forelock tickled her nose. “You’re at peace with her. She’s gentle and—”

“And wise,” he finished but didn’t dare correct her assumption. There was
one
person whose company he preferred. And it was making him insane. “She has excellent taste in people.”

Ignoring the compliment, Venus ducked her head and stepped away in order to retrieve the brush. She took up the task he’d abandoned with practiced ease, making him wonder if she kept a horse.

“I had a pony when I was a girl,” she said before he could ask. “Like Gypsy, he was dark as a raven’s wing but with a blaze of white. He would prance around with his head high, as if he were pony to the king. Because of that, I called him Ravencourt, and together we would ride to the edge of the forest that lined my father’s house and search for twinkling fairies at twilight.”

Ravencourt
. Of course. The name of his father’s estate and now his.

Bane nearly laughed aloud, not out of humor but out of incredulity. A laugh aimed at the gods for mocking him, for reminding him of his true purpose, and for tempting him with things that could never be.

Not for him anyway. But they could be for her . . . with someone else.

“Why are you going to marry a man you do not love?” The question was out before he knew what he was saying. He’d intended to ask why she’d come here to the stables. Instead, he asked her what he’d wanted to know since the first night of the party.

Now
, she hesitated before stepping around to the opposite side of Gypsy to continue brushing her. The mare closed her eyes in apparent bliss.

“Love is not necessary for marriage,” she said plainly, not bothering to deny his accusation. “Surely, as a member of the
ton
you understand that marriages happen for the sake of certainty—certainty of a legitimate heir, certainty of fortune . . .”

“Certainty of fidelity?” he mocked, crossing his arms, his irritation returning. “
Your
Mr. Clairmore has already proven untrustworthy on that account.” A man completely unworthy of the woman before him.

She pressed her lips together and drew in a breath that flared her nostrils. Her brush strokes punctuated the air. “I’ve tried to become practical in the recent weeks. Even cynical. I see marriage for what it truly is. Women throughout time have made the decision to marry for the sake of certainty, including my aunt Sophie. Why should I be different?”

Practical and cynical? No! That wasn’t her, at all. Venus was romantic and dreamy and full of innocent passion ready to be awakened. Yet she claimed love wasn’t necessary for her. He could believe that about anyone else. But not her.

“Why, indeed?” Frustration crawled up his spine, gripping the back of his neck like a vise. He lashed out at the cause. “If you choose to settle for whom you do not love, it can be no concern of mine.”

Gypsy whickered and shifted her stance. He knew his raised voice and changing mood was beginning to affect her. Not wanting to cause the mare distress when her time was so near, he gestured for Miss Wakefield to precede him out of the stall.

Without a word, Merribeth came around to his side, dropped the brush into the pail, and walked into the empty stall across the aisle.

He closed the door behind them, glancing down the long row of stalls toward the tack room to see if any groomsmen were hanging about. They weren’t, so he followed her and quietly closed them inside.

“You have no cause to be angry,” she huffed, glaring at him, her brow arched, her hands on her hips.

Oh, but he was. “Perhaps not,” he said, rolling his shoulders in an effort to dislodge this foreign anxiety that had no place in his life. It wouldn’t budge. “It isn’t your fault. Not everyone witnesses a marriage based on a deep, unshakable love, such as the one my parents possessed. If not for that, they would never have survived their trials. I’m merely pointing out your future trials, as any friend would.”

Her gaze softened marginally. “My parents were deeply in love as well. In addition, my aunt and her husband grew into love in the short time they were married. I believe in love, Lord Knightswold, but that isn’t what I need.”

He scoffed at her sudden use of his title, as if that formality could suddenly erase everything between them. “And the only thing you need is certainty?”

She walked over to the window, he suspected, to avoid looking at him. “At the very core of who I am, there is a ten-year-old girl who watched her father be swept overboard during a storm at sea. That same girl clutched her mother, only to have another wave wrench her from me as well.”

Bane stilled, his frustration receding on an exhale. They’d experienced the same horror. No wonder he was so drawn to her.

“That same girl,” she continued, her voice so quiet it compelled him closer, “saw her aunt fall to her knees when she learned the news. Then, as she clutched my waist and sobbed, she spoke the words that still haunt me to this day.” Her breath hitched, but she cleared her throat to disguise it. “
What will become of us?
” She looked over her shoulder, her face pale but her gaze strong and steady. “That is why I need certainty more than anything else. Even love.”

His heart broke for her
and
for the girl she once was. He hated the idea of her living her life without love, of not having what she deserved. She was too bright and passionate to end up as a cleric’s wife. She deserved more. But there was nothing he could do about it.

Even if he offered her an estate and enough money to live whatever life she chose—which he was surprisingly tempted to do—the action would cheapen her in the eyes of society.

She deserved a husband who loved her and children to hold. Nothing he could give.

Without anything else to offer, he walked across the crushed straw at his feet and drew her into his arms. She came without objection, her face nestling perfectly against his shoulder. This felt right, holding her close, his hands rubbing slow circles over her back, even as he felt the dampness of her tears soak through his shirt.