Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 9

  “Bending rules? What fun is bending something when it could be more fun to shatter it to pieces?” Daniela’s seductive drawl drew closer.

  Startled, Merribeth squeezed Bane’s hand. He squeezed back in reassurance.

  The baron chuckled as his footfalls stopped. “I’ve a mind to break a few.”

  “Why, Archer,” Daniela said with a muffled giggle. “What if your wife discovers us?”

  “Are you saying you’re not my dear Petunia? How could I have made such a mistake?”

  Merribeth nearly groaned at the lie. At dinner, she’d wondered if his drunkenness was a pretense he used to flirt with other women without being called out for it. Now, she was sure of it. The despicable man.

  “If she finds us, I’ll let out a shriek and tell her you were saving me from a spider. I do detest them, you know.”

  “And if she doesn’t believe me, I’ll simply tell her you’re all the same in the dark,” Archer continued, panting slightly. “It’s worked before.”

  All the same in the dark? Merribeth looked up, expecting to ask Bane. As if sensing it, he turned and placed his hand on her shoulder, though whether to quiet or reassure her, she couldn’t tell.

  Surely, it couldn’t be the truth. Men had to have more sense than that. After all, she knew Bane by the sound of his voice. Even if he hadn’t spoken, she would have recognized him by scent. Not to mention by the way he filled every space around him and seemed to take all the air for himself.

  He was doing that now, especially with his hand on her shoulder, his thumb absently stroking the seam of her capped sleeve as if imbedding himself into every stitch. She could hardly catch her breath.

  “Certainly your roaming hands ought to tell you the difference,” Daniela said to Archer.

  Merribeth had heard enough. How could she stand by and listen to this horrid adultery take place. Poor Lady Archer!

  Bane shifted quickly and pressed his hand against her lips, as if he sensed she couldn’t hold her tongue a moment longer. At the same time, he drew her out of the doorway and headed down the far hall, away from the loathsome Archer and Daniela. She was careful to keep to the runner, so that her steps were muffled. It surprised her that she could barely hear Bane’s steps as well.

  “Aye, and you don’t mind either. In fact . . .” Archer’s voice trailed off for a moment, the silence broken by Daniela’s breathy moan before he continued. “I think you like it. And here I thought you were hoping to play a game of seek and sigh with Knightswold.”

  “What does it matter? You’re all the same in the dark,” she mocked, her voice barely audible now that Bane and Merribeth had reached the end of the hall.

  Bane opened a door and pulled Venus inside before he released her hand. His reluctance to do just that puzzled him. However, he needed both of his to make sure the latch wouldn’t make a sound as it fell into place.

  Pale, silvery moonlight filtered in through two narrow windows, casting the room in shades of gray. At least it was enough light to see the outline of furniture in the room. That way, neither of them was likely to stumble.

  He went to the chest at the foot of the bed and reached inside. Pulling out whatever clothing or coat was on top, he quickly bundled the heavy fabric into a cylindrical shape and laid it at the bottom of the door. “So that our voices will not be heard,” he whispered, sensing her unspoken question.

  “Where are we?” she asked, her voice more curious than wary. He wished it were the other way around.

  “My bedchamber.” The hushed words filled the room, charging the air. He shook his head, warding off errant thoughts. “You needn’t worry. Unmarried maidens with marital designs are not to my taste. So if you have any for me, abandon them quickly.”

  To her credit, she didn’t gasp or start. Instead, he caught a glimpse of a smirk before she turned and crossed the room toward the far window. It was open just enough to create a breeze, drawing in the cool sweetness of dewy midnight. Or perhaps that was her scent, drawing out an emerging poet within him.

  Again, Bane shook his head as he propped one shoulder against the corner post of the bed and watched her silhouette.

  “Yes, I’m already aware you are not one to take advantage when presented with an opportunity in a darkened room. Yet apparently, the same cannot be said of me. Oh, wait. We are pretending we’ve never met before, are we not?” She leaned forward, her face out the window, and breathed in. “Yes, I prefer that.”

  Moonlight on her dark hair, weaving paths of starlight . . . His thoughts trailed off as he realized she was doing it again—turning him into a horrid poet.

  “As do I,” he said, wanting to bait her into an argument, though he knew not why.

  Any other woman would have bristled but not her. She laughed instead, the sound teasing the inner canals of his ears, forcing him to swallow down each trill, making them a part of him.

  “You think rather highly of yourself. Holing up away from society because you fear every unattached maiden is vying for your hand. You needn’t worry,” she said, tossing his own words back to him over her shoulder. “My marital designs are already engaged.”

  Though he’d meant to rile her, somehow she’d turned the tables. For reasons beyond him, he felt irked. “What about his? Is he free to accept your suit?”

  When he saw her shoulders stiffen, instead of feeling triumphant at achieving his goal, he instantly felt like ass.

  “Eve assures me that he will renew his affections of his own accord.”

  Still, her response chafed him, and his next words were out before he knew what he was saying. “You have put your faith in my aunt? My, what a lambkin you are.” Even though he tried to sound amused, there was a distinct edge of bitterness.

  “Believe me, I would have nothing to do with her scheme if I were left with another option.” She breathed out and turned back to the window. “Even if I were to find another man willing to marry a penniless woman with few connections, my sullied reputation would carry on with me. My husband would lose respect. Our children would be outcasts by association. In addition, the alternative option is spending the rest of my days with Sophie and tainting her reputation instead. So, you see, I am at a crossroads.”

  “This gentleman, this man”—for he was no gentleman—“who jilted you, is he a simpleton or did he know what he was doing to your reputation?”

  “Ours was not an official engagement but more of an understanding,” she said with an exhausted sigh, as if she’d spent far too many hours in contemplation over this topic. “We’d known each other since I was ten years old and first moved to Berkshire with my aunt and her new husband. William was our neighbor, his father a wealthy solicitor. We played together, partnered at country dances. As we grew older, many commented on what a fine pair we made. So when he told me how easy it would be to marry me and began speaking of children, I took that as his way of professing his intentions.” Her voice grew quieter. “Instead, I only recently discovered, he merely believed he was speaking with a friend about his future. Not ours.”

  Bane held back the impulse to cross the room and offer . . . what, he didn’t know. Comfort, perhaps? Although the only method of comfort he could imagine would be in his arms and in the nearby bed, and that he would not do. “He should have made it clear from the beginning.”

  “Perhaps. And then, perhaps I should have asked him to clarify instead of spending the past five years planning our life together.” She shrugged and absently ran her fingers down the edge of the curtain. After a moment, she said, “My dress was beautiful.”

  “Pardon?” He was distracted by the movement of her fingers over the fabric, remembering how they’d felt in his hair. How they might feel on his flesh.

  “My wedding gown. I spent the past five years embroidering every inch of the muslin. At first, I only meant to add a curling ivy border to the hem, but as time went on, the gown became more elaborate.” She sniffed and tried to hide the swipe of her hand against her cheek. “It’s reall
y quite lovely.”

  This time, Bane grabbed hold of the post to keep from crossing the room to her. Bringing her here was a mistake, he could see that now. Too much was at stake—the wager, his revenge, Gypsy.

  He thought he’d have more control over his response to her than this. The most ludicrous part of it was that this conversation wasn’t the least bit arousing. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was talking about wedding gowns and confessing a need to plan out every detail of her future, which was another reason why he avoided debutantes and balls.

  However, he found himself wanting her in a way that he’d never experienced. This wasn’t about idle curiosity or an escape from the mundane. This wasn’t about desire either, although that was always present when she was in the room. This was about her.

  Likely, this strange feeling had everything to do with the bargain he’d made with Eve. The simple fact that he couldn’t make love to Merribeth, or kiss the tears from her cheeks, or comfort her with endless hours of pleasure must be the sole reason he felt desperate to do so.

  The overwhelming impulse startled him. He had to get her out of his room. Out of his thoughts. Out of his reach. While there were countless ways of bringing her pleasure that did not require him to don a preventative or steal her virginity, for the first time he didn’t trust himself with the strength to hold back.

  He’d never been this tempted before. Widows and courtesans tempted him, not virgins. Not married women either, for that matter. Then help her marry, a voice whispered. It was the only solution.

  “I’ll help you.” The words came out in a frantic rush.

  She turned her back on the window and stared at him. “Help me with what?”

  “This task Eve has put upon you.” He made a stirring motion with his hands, impatient. “I’ll teach you to flirt. I’ll help you win back your Mr. Clairmore.”

  Merribeth didn’t know whether to be offended by Bane’s offer or grateful. Her first instinct was to take offense. After all, she’d endured Mrs. Pearce’s pitying words and uncalled-for-boldness on a private matter.

  It had been humiliating to have her problems announced to Bane. Once again, she was the museum spectacle, the curious specimen of the Desperate Wallflower in Dire Straits.

  She drew in a breath, forcing herself to look on the bright side. For reasons unknown to her, Bane seemed eager to help her, not humiliate her. That alone helped chase off embarrassment. He had a way of making her feel comfortable about saying what she wanted to say, without risk of censure. So in the end, it was easy to feel grateful.

  Of course, there was a different feeling that didn’t sit well with her and that caused the twinge of pain.

  It was silly, she knew, to be hurt that he was eager to help her get Mr. Clairmore back. As if the offer clearly stated that he didn’t want her for himself—which of course she already knew. So why should hearing him say it directly wound her?

  “Very well,” she said, her tone formal and stiff, even to her own ears.

  “Very well?” He made a sound in his throat. His gray eyes caught a shred of moonlight, seeming to absorb it until those two intense points were all she could see. “With my help, you are assured success in your scheme. Besides, I never embark on a task or wager unless I’m certain of victory. Perhaps a little gratitude is in order.”

  It wasn’t her scheme, but she didn’t bother to correct him. She actually found his bristly behavior amusing. “I am a quick study, Lord Knightswold. And the first thing I learned from you was not to assume that the rumors about you were true. So far, in our short acquaintance, I’ve seen no evidence that you can assure my success. You’ve displayed no particular prowess for flirting. However, if it will please you to hear it, before you’ve even put forth the smallest effort to assist me, then here it is: thank you. I am ever grateful for your assistance.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. His gaze speared through her like a silver needle through silk. Even though he stood perfectly still, waves of energy flowed from him, stinging her flesh with tiny pinpricks of awareness.

  He released the post and regarded her for a moment longer. Only now did she realize he’d been gripping it the entire time. She wondered at the reason for that but even more at his reason for letting go. Now that she’d challenged him, would he cross the room to her to prove himself worthy of rumor?

  She held her breath, waiting. Hoping. A breeze blew in behind her, stirring the fine hairs at her nape, making her shiver.

  Then he shook his head and chuckled. “Keep your thanks for a fortnight, Miss Wakefield.” He moved to the door, his steps not as unhurried and languid as usual. Obviously, he was ready to see her go. “I imagine the task will not be a simple one. For either of us.”

  “I imagine not,” she said, already hearing regret in his tone and trying not to take offense. Head high, she crossed the room, prepared to walk out the door.

  Bane held up a hand as if to ward her off. Now, she did take offense. He acted as if she carried an infectious disease. Wallfloweritus or something equally ghastly.

  “Let me make certain the path is clear before I escort you.”

  She glared at his retreating form, waited a breath, and then stepped over the threshold.

  He returned at once, blocking her way. “Neither of us can risk having you seen leaving my room. Or walking this hall, for that matter.”

  “It is highly unlikely that I would endure censure for the sake of being on this path.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Apparently, you still have much to learn about holding on to the shreds of your reputation.”

  “Perhaps,” she hissed through her teeth, wishing she could raise her voice above a whisper. “Though I would warrant that no one could find fault with me for walking to my own room, which happens to be there.” She pointed to the end of the hall.

  She’d recognized her window when she’d looked out of Bane’s. Why Eve had put them in such close proximity puzzled her. She reasoned it was likely due to the fact that only a certain number of rooms had been prepared for guests. Compared to the other guests with whom she might have been neighbors, she decided to be grateful.

  “Your room”—He swallowed, causing his jaw muscle to twitch—“is next to mine?”

  When he said it like that, she couldn’t help but swallow as well. It was rather scandalous. “Apparently so.”

  “I’ll have it changed at once.”

  Irritation at his eagerness swept over her. Now it was her turn to cross her arms. “Yes, and when you tell your aunt that you’d like a different room, be sure to tell her the reason. I’m certain she would love to hear how you found out.”

  Right at the moment when she was certain that steam was rising from her head, he chuckled.

  “Miss Wakefield, this might be the longest fortnight of our lives.”

  Of that, she had no doubt.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “. . . the perfect morning for a walk,” Aunt Sophie concluded.

  The first part of her statement had gone unheard beneath Merribeth’s yawn. However, the last part left Merribeth enough of a clue for the appropriate response. Not only that, but she could identify uncalled-for-cheerfulness when she heard it.

  She squinted against the sunlight cresting over the rolling hills to the east. “If it were the perfect morning, I’d still be asleep.” Instead, she’d lain awake most of the night, thinking about Bane and his sudden desire to help her win back Mr. Clairmore. What had prompted him to aid her in something that he must view as trivial? He gave every indication of loathing the institution of marriage. Why had he seemed so adamant—nearly desperate—to ensure hers?

  Her aunt cast an entirely too smug grin. “We turned in early last evening.”

  Merribeth grumbled.

  “I warned you about having more than one cup of coffee last night.”

  Coffee. Her entire body whimpered with longing at the mere mention of the word. “A better warning would have been, ‘My dear niece, I pl
an to barge into your room before sunrise and pester you until you agree to walk the grounds with me.’”

  “And aren’t you glad you indulged your poor, aging aunt? We have seen so much of the lands this morning. Did you know that the ruins of a ninth-century leper hospital are nearby as well? I even heard talk of relics from pagan Danes who once sought refuge here. Can you imagine? I think tomorrow—”

  “Absolutely not. Tomorrow, I already have firm plans to avoid the sunrise.”

  Sophie frowned and reached up to remove her glasses. Once they walked into the shadows of the tree-lined path, the temperature cooled and fogged her lenses. However, not having perfect vision didn’t prevent her aunt from casting a look of disapproval. “The whole purpose of our attending this party is to enjoy ourselves. I’ve seen what the past few weeks have done to you. The merriment has left your eyes. I want you to have fun and to—”

  “Be brave.” If nothing else came of this house party, at least these lessons would cease in less than two weeks.

  “Precisely,” Sophie said with a nod. She rubbed her lenses with the corner of her shawl.

  “Still, I cannot guarantee my attendance tomorrow morning,” Merribeth said in all seriousness. “I distinctly heard my coverlet and pillow conspiring to hold me captive until luncheon. I fear no amount of bravery will save me.”

  Apparently, her aunt’s sense of humor had yet to awaken. “We only have this fortnight. After that . . .”

  Merribeth drew in a deep breath, prepared to tell Sophie that she would take her task of regaining Mr. Clairmore’s affections more seriously, but in the same moment, she caught the scent of something delicious on the breeze. “Do you smell coffee?”

  She turned, sniffing the air for another whiff. Yes, coffee! Up ahead, a host of angels directed a beam of heavenly light to a thatched roof and the long fieldstone structure of the stables. The scent grew stronger. Her mouth watered as her feet propelled her across the dewy lawn. The promise of the dark elixir was close now.