Beyond Seduction (3 page)

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Merry's eldest brother, Evelyn, his wife indisposed by her latest pregnancy, had the dubious honor of ensuring his little sister did not languish by the wall. Even at a family party Merry wasn't one to gather beaus—though her following had not always been so sparse.

When she first came out, she'd had her share of admirers, enough to feel a flush of anticipatory pleasure before a ball. At one point, after Ernest's first proposal, she'd thought she might someday say yes to someone else—until she'd realized no one else would ever ask.

Apparently, when males reached a certain age, they lost their tolerance for female frankness. Overnight

it seemed her opinions were not as valid as their own. They forgot she'd been raised by a respected member of Parliament and, what's more, had a brain. Where once they'd marveled at her ability to take

a fence, now they held her horsemanship in disgust. What they'd praised in a girl, it seemed they could not stomach in a woman.

Beauty might have saved her, or charm, but she had neither. She'd lived too much of her life in the footsteps of her brothers. Even if she'd wanted to simper, she wouldn't have known how.

And now men her age cut their eyes away when she passed, as if to see her was to be tainted. To hell with them, she'd think each time it happened. To hell with them all.

Only her love of dancing induced her to suffer the indignity of being partnered by her brothers.

On this evening, contrary to his usual custom of chattering her ear off, Evelyn maintained a grinning silence through the waltz. When the last strains faded, he led her off the ballroom floor to the palm-lined alcove that held the punch tables. There, two more of her brothers waited with matching smirks. Merry's heart sank to her stomach. Isabel was right. Ernest was planning to propose. Obviously, the man didn't know better than to share his secrets with her siblings.

She sighed in exasperation. Her brothers were three handsome peas in a pod. Like her, they had light-brown eyes, fair, freckled skin, and Grandmother Vance's kinky red-gold hair—though only Merry had to wear it long enough to turn into a bird's nest by itself. True, Evelyn had, since the birth of his second child, cultivated an unfortunate pair of side whiskers, but the less said on that the better.

"So," she said, nonchalantly ladling herself a cup of heated wine, "come to roast me?"

"Nothing of the sort," said James, her second married brother. She hadn't seen him in months, not since his wedding. Like Evelyn, he glowed like a horse who'd been eating rich. His wife, too, was newly breeding.

Neither brother had wasted a moment ensuring their brides would be trapped at home.

"We like Althorp," he added. "We're happy for you."

She sipped her sugared port and tried not to wish it were a whiskey. "I've no idea why you'd be happy, since I'm determined to turn him down just like before."

"Seriously," said James.

"Seriously," echoed Evelyn. "Why won't you marry him? He can ride—"

"And shoot—"

"And he's always good for a loan."

Peter's contribution to the chorus dashed her last hope for support. Still unmarried and a mere two years older than herself, he'd helped her into and out of more scrapes than the others put together. Admittedly, her debut had put a distance between them—she'd had to be a bit of a lady at least—but lately, with the older boys gone from the house to start their families, she and Peter had grown close again.

Unfortunately, her repeated refusal of Ernest Althorp, who'd never been anything but kind to Peter, exceeded even his patience. "Come on, Mer," he said, "haven't you humiliated him enough?"

The accusation stung but she fought to keep a steady voice.

"I'm glad you like Ernest," she said. "I like him myself. But I hold the firm opinion we should not suit

as man and wife."

Her brothers goggled at her, clearly unable to comprehend what she was saying.

"Is it because he isn't as rich as we are?" Evelyn asked.

"Of course it isn't. How could you think that!"

"Then it's got to be that his father hasn't got a proper title—which shouldn't worry you, by the by, because you know if you two marry, Father will sponsor him for the Commons, no matter if he does think Ernest isn't cut-throat enough to play top-drawer politics. He'd have more standing as an MR"

"I don't care about Ernest's standing. At least, I wouldn't if I loved him."

Evelyn pulled a face. "Don't tell me you're still in love with Greystowe. That was ages ago and he's a married man."

"I'm not in love with anyone," she assured him through gritted teeth, though she wasn't certain that was true. Edward Burbrooke, the earl of Greystowe, was a political ally of her father. She still blushed when she remembered how she'd thrown herself at him as a chit of seventeen. He'd fallen for Florence Fairleigh: sweet, pretty, womanly Florence Fairleigh. No one since had stirred Merry the way he had, which was probably just as well. Her reckless streak hadn't abated much in the intervening years.

"Good," said Evelyn, his voice gruff. "Didn't like seeing my sis down in the doldrums."

Touched, Merry squeezed his arm. This was why she loved the big, overprotective dolt; why she loved all her oafish brothers. Evelyn, of course, could not quit while he was ahead.

"Althorp would never lift a hand to you, you know. Not even if you deserved it."

Merry let this implication pass. "It's not me I'm worried about. It's Ernest."

"Well, you can start worrying now," James warned, "because that's him coming through the crowd."

Merry turned and pasted on what was probably a sickly smile. Oblivious to the undercurrents surrounding his approach, Ernest beamed at her and waved, a tall, solid figure with a head of smooth blond hair. As usual, his evening clothes didn't quite fit his muscular form. Despite his lack of sartorial splendor, he was attractive: country healthy, country clean. Women turned when he passed, but Ernest never saw. He was a man without mystery, his strides sure, his eyes just a trifle shy.

"Merry," he said, clasping her hands with a fervor he did not usually display.

"Ernest," she answered.

His eyes crinkled happily at her tone. He couldn't have known the softness was born of pity.

*  *  *

As it happened saying no to Ernest was not as harrowing as she'd feared. Apart from stiffening like a

man before a firing squad, her friend took her refusal as he took everything: with good grace and a minimum of fuss.

"Are you certain?" he said. They sat alone in the conservatory, beneath the lantern-lit shadows of the palms. "Your mother led me to believe you might accept."

Merry wrinkled her nose. Did the duchess actually think Merry had heeded her gushing praise? "Er, no," she said. "Nothing's changed my mind. I care for you, Ernest, but I'm convinced we wouldn't pull well together. You know how I am: always wanting my own way. I'd drive you to drink within the year."

A muscle bunched in Ernest's jaw. "You could try to change."

"And you"—she nudged his shoulder with her own— "could try to meet another girl. I'm like an old

shoe for you. I might pinch, but you're used to me. You'd rather not stir yourself to find a better fit."

"I like you," he insisted, "and I know I'd be good for you."

This, of course, was the problem. Like everyone else, he thought he could fix her, and thought she ought to be grateful for the help. Frowning, she kicked her heels within her skirts.

"You can do better," she said.

"If it's about the rumors, I don't believe a one of them."

"Rumors?" Merry blinked in surprise.

"I heard someone say—" he began, then pressed his lips together. "Never mind. It's nonsense. I know what you would and wouldn't do. So if you're trying to be noble by refusing me ..."

"No." She covered his hand. "I'm refusing because I truly don't wish to marry you, because I don't wish to marry anyone. That's not going to change, no matter how many times you ask."

He pursed his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but all he said was, "Very well. If you're certain that's

what you want."

She was certain, more than ever. Despite her regret at the hurt she might have caused, she left him with

a sense of profound relief. Even Ernest could not mistake her this time. Her pride might prick at being

left with no suitors at all, but if that earned her the right to live as she pleased, she would swallow every drop of pride she had.

And all she had to do was convince her parents they ought to let her.

*  *  *

As soon as the duchess saw Ernest, an icy dread spread through her chest. She'd been so hopeful this time, so careful, even enlisting Peter to plead his case. Ernest had been good to Peter at school, his protector in the first years, his financial savior in the last. Were it not for his guidance, Peter might never have learned to stay out of debt. More than anyone, Merry's favorite brother knew Ernest's strengths.

If his endorsement could not sway her, Lavinia did not know what voice of reason could.

"I'm sorry," Ernest said with a resignation that made her want to slap him. "I wish I had better news."

She swallowed against the panicked pounding of her heart. "I'm sure you did your best, dear. We'll

simply have to try harder next time."

Ernest wagged his golden head. "She doesn't want there to be a next time."

"Of course she does." Hands clenched, Lavinia felt one of her nails snap inside her glove. "She's simply being stubborn. You and I both know marrying you is the best thing that could happen."

"I can't force her."

"Force her!" Lavinia's laugh was as sharp as cracking ice. "Darling, the girl doesn't know what's good

for her. Come now." She patted his slumping back. "If you love her, she's worth a fight."

He stared at her, mute and miserable, as different from his father as he could be. Normally, she was

glad for this; Ernest's decency eased her guilt. Tonight, though, she wished he had a fraction of his

sire's Machiavellian spine.

"I'll speak to my husband," she said. "I'm sure between the two of us we can sort our daughter out."

As she returned along the passage to her guests, Lavinia spotted Althorp in the smoking room with her husband and a circle of other men. Behind the clouds of tobacco they were laughing, deep and rough,

the way men will when women are not around. To her eyes Althorp stood out like a wolf among sheep, sleeker, slyer, more dangerously focused in his will. A second burst of laughter swelled. The resentment she felt at their ability to enjoy themselves was sharp.

No doubt Althorp had told one of his vaguely mean-spirited jokes. He had a gift for that: making one laugh when one should not.

She couldn't help seeing that the other men, while amused, regarded Althorp more coolly than did her husband.

Geoffrey looked up just then and flashed her a happy grin.

Fool, she thought—though how could he know to distrust this friend and country neighbor? Her husband was not stupid but neither was he suspicious. The depths of Althorp's deceit were beyond his capacity to imagine.

Seeing his expression falter, she forced herself to smile and mime regret that she could not stop. In truth, she had not the nerve. She didn't want Althorp to read her most recent failure in her eyes.