Beyond Seduction (4 page)

As she left, her enemy's gaze fell like a weight upon her back.

*  *  *

The strength of her father's fury took Merry by surprise. She was so used to her mother's scolds she barely heard them. And why should she, when time and again her doting papa took her side? Alas, he

did not take her side tonight, the measure of his anger being that he could not wait till morning to

upbraid her, but must burst into her sitting room while old Ginny was combing out her hair.

"Merry," he said, his barrel chest swelling with indignation, "Lavinia tells me you refused Ernest's suit. Again."

To Merry's dismay, her mother swished stiffly in behind him. Her father wore his old quilted smoking jacket, but the duchess had not changed from her formal gown. The bodice hugged her in a daring

plunge of blood-red silk.

"Ginny," said the duchess, with a nod for the startled maid.

Ginny had once been her mother's nurse and was now so arthritic her chores took twice as long as they should. Despite this, she was too attached to the family to accept their offers to pension her off. Merry feared if her parents ever pressed the issue, Ginny would go into a decline.

As might she. After all, a nearly blind, nearly deaf maid could be quite convenient.

Accustomed to ignoring the elderly servant, her father spoke as if she were not there.

"Well," he said, "is it true? Did you turn Ernest down?"

"Yes, Papa," she admitted and looked meekly at her hands. She meant to disarm him, but the

appearance of humility seemed to anger him even more.

Or perhaps the presence of his wife made him want to look too strong to bend.

"Don't 'yes, Papa' me," he snapped. "Who else do you think will offer for you? Even the fortune

hunters will give up. You're a hellion and everyone knows it. And don't think I haven't heard about that stunt you pulled last week. Riding hell-for-leather in
Hyde Park
. In breeches no less!"

"It was a dare, Papa," she explained, wishing she could speak to him alone. "None of your sons would have declined it."

"You're not one of my sons! You're my daughter. I've indulged you, no doubt. Given you too much rein. But, by God, I'm putting my foot down now. You'll many Ernest Althorp or I'll know the reason why!"

"But I don't love him," she said, a tremor in her voice.

Her father's face turned the color of a brick. "Love has nothing to do with it. You simply can't stand the thought of a man having the right to tell you what to do. It's unnatural, Meredith, for a woman to be so willful. Do you want to end up a spinster? Do you want to die alone?"

"I'm only twenty."

"Twenty and impossible!" He threw up his hands and addressed the coffered ceiling. "I thought your moping after Greystowe was bad, but this! This is the limit, to refuse Ernest Althorp, a good, solid

man who positively dotes on you."

"Does he, though, Papa?" Merry couldn't help but ask. "Everyone says he adores me, but I think he's more interested in pleasing his father than marrying me. When I turned him down, he hardly even argued."

"Good Lord, Merry. Allow the man some pride. Just because he doesn't turn your idiocy into a scene from the opera doesn't mean he doesn't care."

Merry swallowed, vaguely aware that Ginny's gnarled old hands had settled sympathetically on her shoulders. "I don't want a scene from the opera. I just—I just want—"

"Yes?" prompted her father with a sarcasm he'd never turned on her before. "I'd dearly love to hear

what my fastidious daughter wants."

She tried to remind herself of what she'd seen in his portrait: the insecurity, the sense of being powerless in the face of change. He only wanted to protect her. That was the reason for his ire. She squared her shoulders and forced herself to meet his glare. She would speak to him as if they were alone, as if her mother weren't standing there, judging every word.

"I want a husband who'll let me be myself," she said, for once speaking nothing but the truth. "I don't want to be a bird in a cage; I want to be a woman in the world. Free to come and go. Free to read and think and speak just as I please. Dear as Ernest is, he wouldn't let me do that. You said it yourself,

Papa. He has his pride. I know it sounds terrible to you, but I'd rather never marry than have to live

as a proper wife."

Her declaration seemed to stun him. "What about children? Don't you want a family of your own?"

"I don't know that I do. Maybe with the right man. But until I find him"—she ventured a coaxing smile—"I can always borrow James's and Evelyn's. Their wives seem to pop out new ones every year."

"Merry," he said and shook his head from side to side.

Despite his concern, she sensed a weakening of his will. Praying inside, she clasped his big, broad

hands: hands that had tossed her in the air and always caught her, hands that had paddled her when

she misbehaved and ruffled her awful hair when she made him laugh. He had spoiled her and she

loved him for it.

But her mother was determined not to let him spoil her now.

"Darling," she said to Merry, her hand on her husband's coat. The duke shook himself as if her touch

had woken him from a dream. "You know this decision does not affect you alone. Think of the scandal

to the family, to your brothers and their wives should their youngest sister stay on the shelf. Really, dear, if we thought you'd find the paragon you describe we might allow it, but it's time we all faced facts. If

you don't marry Ernest, you will not marry anyone."

Merry had known everyone thought this, but no one had said it to her face. How much it hurt was hard

to believe.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience to my siblings," she said, with a quaver she could not overcome. "But I'm not afraid to be alone. Better a spinster than a slave."

"A slave," repeated her father. He eased his hands from her pleading grip. "Is that what you think I've made your mother? Is that what you call your brothers' wives?"

"Of course not, Papa." She flushed at the truth of the accusation. "I only meant—"

"Your father and I have discussed this," her mother broke in, her palm still bracing her husband's back. "For your own good, we are determined to save you from yourself."

"But—"

"For your own good," she repeated, her jaw as firm as iron. "We're giving you a week, Meredith, to reconsider your position. At the end of that week, if you have not come to your senses, we shall put

your horses on the block."

"No," Merry protested, the shock like a kick to her gut. Not her horses. Not Flick and Sergei and her

new Arabian mare. She tried to catch her father's gaze but he would not meet her eye.

"That's not all," her mother added, her voice so low Merry knew old Ginny could not hear. "Once your horses are gone, we're going to make some changes in the staff. We're going to hire a real lady's maid, one who can keep you on a lead."

"No," she said, a whisper this time. The thought that they'd find her a keeper didn't bother her half as much as the thought of losing Ginny. "You can't, Papa. I don't believe it."

Her father cleared his throat. "You know what you have to do if you want to stop it."

Still not looking at her, he strode to the threshold and paused. "A week," he said, and pulled the door

shut behind him.

The fire crackled in the silence as his footsteps faded down the hall. Merry's face was hot and a pulse beat raggedly in her neck. Tears burgeoned behind her eyes but she fought them back. She was not

going to cry. She was not.

But she almost did when her mother stroked her cheek. Merry's senses must have been more disordered than she thought, because her mother's fingers seemed to shake. Her tone was caressing. "It's for your own good, darling. Truly, it is."

Merry pressed her lips together. She could not speak for fear of saying the unforgivable. As if she sensed her turmoil, Ginny's brush resumed its careful stroking of her hair.

"Perhaps you should leave now, Lavi," the maid said with the familiarity and the tenderness of one who knew the family well. "Give everyone a chance to settle down."

Lavinia started at the sound of her voice, but did not disagree. "Yes," she said dazedly, "perhaps I should."

Merry did not release her tears until her mother had left the room. Even then, she struggled to contain

her angry sobs. She had never liked crying, not even as a child.

"Don't you worry," said Ginny, her strokes as steady as a stable lad currying a horse he meant to soothe. "Sometimes a creature has to follow its heart. Sometimes its nature doesn't give it a choice."

Her words made Merry's tears fall all the harder. Her own mother didn't understand her as well as her dear old nurse. She couldn't believe her father would really let Ginny go. Simply couldn't. Not if she

lived a hundred years.

Which left her with one conclusion.

Her mother was the evil genius behind her father's stand.

Two

A night of restless sleep hadn't shaken Merry's conviction. Her father hated punishing her, even when

she deserved it. So now she had no choice. She had to change her mother's mind before she could

change her father's. No matter how long the odds, this was a challenge from which she could not shrink.

Not surprisingly, she found the duchess closeted with her dresser. The changing tides of fashion were the chief concern of her mother's life. When Merry proved not only indifferent but a poor frame on which

to hang an elegant gown, Lavinia had lost most of her interest in her daughter.
She's a fencepost
, she'd lament to anyone who'd listen.
Gets it from her father's side
. And then she'd run her hands down her

own more generous curves, as if anyone could possibly doubt her claim.

Merry didn't think her mother did this to be cruel. She simply could not conceive of a life where anything mattered more than being perfectly turned out. To be fair, were it not for the duchess's efforts, Merry knew she'd be considered even plainer than she was. And her mother could be affectionate, in her absentminded way, though Merry was tempted to forget that now.

When she entered the suite, Lavinia was standing before a cheval glass. Her dresser, a woman even more ancient than Ginny, was known only as Madame. She rarely spoke, English or French, but was, despite her age, a genius with a needle. Merry's mother would order her gowns cut by Worth in
Paris
, then have them stitched at home. This was not for economy's sake; Lavinia scorned such schemes. She had Madame sew her clothes because the woman could fit a dress like a second skin.

At the moment, she and the seamstress were draping lengths of cloth across her bosom, apparently seeking the ideal color for a gown.

"The emerald plaid camel hair, I think," said Lavinia, "with the matching silk for the bodice and underskirt."

"The color is good," Madame agreed with an inscrutable pursing of her lips.

"Mother?" said Merry, before the two could continue what was sure to be a long discussion.

Lavinia spied her in the mirror. "If you're here to ask me to intercede with your father, there's nothing I can do. He is the head of this household. Besides, I agree with him. Remember how glum you were

when James and Evelyn wed? Imagine how you'll feel when Peter marries and all your friends have families, too. Women need occupation. And don't tell me you want to be one of those female postal clerks. Even you couldn't be that mad."