The Madcap Masquerade (18 page)

“No, don’t say such a thing.” She scrambled from his lap, her luminous emerald eyes clouded with some disturbing emotion he couldn’t define.

He reached for her, but she evaded him, once again pressing her back to the tree trunk and covering herself with the carriage robe as if by hiding her body from him she could will it to resist the response his touch elicited in her.

Perplexed, he propped his elbows on his knees and stared at her. “What is it that troubles you, Meg? Why are you so afraid to believe I’ve come to care deeply for you?”

“Fear has nothing to do with it.’

“Oh but it has. It’s all too obvious you’re afraid to trust your heart to me. But why? I’m not the irresponsible rake you believe me to be. I swear I’ll treasure your heart and protect it from everything and everyone that could hurt it—even myself, if need be.”

Maeve heard the sincerity in Theo’s voice and felt a great, painful crack open in her heart. Never, in all her life, had she wanted anything as much as she wanted the future he promised—the future she could never have.

She knew as sure as the sun above her would set this evening, that she would spend the rest of her days grieving for the fulfillment she would never find in his arms, the beautiful black-haired babies she would never suckle at her breast.

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. With all her heart, she wished she could end her tortuous masquerade here and now before she risked hurting him—and herself—even more. If it were only her future at stake, she would break her silence and consign the squire and his plans to the devil, no matter what it cost her.

But what of Theo? He needed to marry an heiress to save his precious Ravenswood. If not Meg, then whom?

And what of her sister? Until she knew Meg’s wishes, her lips must remain sealed.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather finish this discussion at another time, when I’m not so cold and wet,” she said wearily. “There are things about me you should know—things that will make you realize I am nothing like the image you’ve formed of me—and I promise to divulge them. But right now, I can think of nothing but a hot bath and a soft bed.”

Theo blinked as if emerging from a dream. “Good lord, what am I thinking of? I should have rushed you home the minute I carried you out of the water. I’ll never forgive myself if you end up with lung fever because of my stupidity.”

He quickly rose to his feet, gathered the four corners of the picnic cloth together and dumped the entire contents into the picnic basket. “Wait here. I’ll come right back and carry you to the carriage, since you’ve apparently lost your slippers,” he said, starting toward that vehicle, basket in hand.

“You’ll do no such thing. I’m perfectly capable of walking.” Maeve took a tighter hold on the robe and followed Theo toward the tilbury. Once again she’d managed to stave off the inevitable. But her luck couldn’t last much longer. Sooner or later her frayed nerves or her guilty conscience would give her away.

Mrs. Pinkert met them at the door when they arrived at Barrington Hall. “Lord A’mighty, whatever have you done to yourself, Missy,” she squealed when Theo lifted Maeve from the carriage and insisted on carrying her into the manor house.

“It’s a long story, which I’m sure Miss Barrington will tell you in good time,” Theo said before Maeve could get a word out. She managed a broad wink at Mrs. Pinkert, which let her know he was not in the best of moods. Apparently belted earls took injuries to their pride very seriously.

He started up the stairs, a determined look on his handsome face. Maeve opened her mouth to protest but instantly thought better of it. In some mysterious way, carrying her about as if she were an invalid seemed to bolster his flagging self-esteem. Very well, so be it. Lily had often complained that men were unpredictable creatures; Theo was certainly proving the point.

“My chamber is the first door to the left of the stairs on the second floor,” she directed and received a curt nod for her effort.

“Miss Barrington is in need of a hot bath,” Theo called over his shoulder to the gaping housekeeper. “Please arrange for one to be brought to her chamber immediately and notify her abigail her services are needed.”

Maeve cringed, fully expecting Mrs. Pinkert to respond in the same surly fashion as when the squire issued an order. To her surprise, the rotund housekeeper mumbled, “Yes, your lordship. Right away your lordship,” and sprang into action as fast as her swollen feet and unwieldy body would allow.

“I’m impressed, Theo.” Maeve laughed. “I doubt Mrs. Pinkert has moved that fast in the last ten years.”

His only reply was a grunt, which reinforced her suspicion that he was beginning to find his water soaked burden a bit heavier than he’d expected.

The door to the bedchamber was ajar. Theo pushed it open, strode through the doorway and stopped dead, obviously searching for some place to deposit a woman in her condition without doing irreparable damage to the furnishings. He settled on the pretty little ruffled stool sitting before Meg’s pretty little ruffled dressing table.

Maeve watched him straighten up and gaze about him at the very feminine pink and white room—at the lacy canopy above the narrow, satin covered bed, the partially embroidered altar cloth in its tambour frame, the doll collection.

“I’d never have guessed this was your bedchamber,” he said, a puzzled look on his face. “Somehow it doesn’t look like you.”

Maeve swallowed hard. “I tried to tell you that you didn’t really know me. You wouldn’t listen.”

“I can see now that I should have.” Theo frowned. “Maybe we can have that talk you mentioned tomorrow. If you’re up to it, I thought we might visit an ancient Roman-Christian church that’s not too far from here. I think you might find it interesting, and I hesitate to say it—romantic.”

A touch of his usual cynical humor tinged his smile—something Maeve realized she’d sorely missed in the past hour or two. “At least it has the advantage of being on dry land.”

Maeve knew she should beg off. Her plan to store up memories for the future had backfired on her. She knew now that every moment she spent with Theo would simply make it that much more difficult to return to the lonely life awaiting her in London.

She couldn’t bring herself to refuse him. As a dying woman might cling to the last faint breath of life, so she clung to these last hours with Theo, painful though they might be. “It sounds delightful,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

He gave a stiff little bow. “I’ll plan on calling for you around one o’clock then.”

He hesitated in the doorway as he was about to take his leave. “Are you in the habit of praying, Meg?” he asked.

He took her by surprise. “I can’t say I’ve actually formed a habit of talking to God on a regular basis,” she stammered. “But yes, I do pray on occasion.”

“Good. I believe this might qualify as one of those occasions. I’d do so, myself, but I seem to have lost the knack.”

Once again, the ironic smile played across his strong, sharply chiseled features. “All things considered, it might be well if one of us prayed that the blasted roof doesn’t cave in on us while we’re nosing about the ‘romantic ruin’.”

The ‘romantic ruin’ was everything Theo had claimed and more. It was, in fact, not a ruin at all, but a solid little church with both walls and roof intact.

The printed plaque at the entrance announced that it had been constructed during the time of Constantine, and Christian worship had continued in the chapel through the dark ages and even beyond the departure of the Romans from Kent in the early part of the fifth century.

It went on to say that this had been a favored chapel of the devout Frankish Queen Bertha, consort of the heathen King Ethelbert of Kent, who was converted to Christianity by St. Augustine in the late sixth century.

Maeve had had no formal religious training. Lily considered the clergy a bunch of pious hypocrites; they, in turn, considered her a fallen woman beyond redemption. As a result, Maeve had developed an unorthodox kind of faith through her own reading which was a far cry from either the Church of England or the Church of Rome. But the thought of walking in the footprints of St. Augustine still sent shivers down her spine.

Without thinking, she slipped her hand into Theo’s and felt his strong fingers encircle hers in a way that told her he felt the same sense of timeless awe as she. “Notice the brick,” he said, indicating the unique, narrow bricks that formed all four walls of the little church. “They were hand-fashioned by the Romans who invaded this area sometime in the fourth century. It’s a lost art now.”

“And the roof is the same beautiful silver-gray slate I’ve been admiring on the local farmers’ cottages,” Maeve added.

Theo ducked his head, and together, they stepped through the low, arched entryway into the silent, musty-smelling chapel. Heavy oak beams, darkened with age, crisscrossed the ceiling above them. Four rough-hewn benches of the same native wood faced a small, crudely carved altar, on which a lighted candle testified to the existence of a caretaker.

“Am I seeing things, or is that a painting above the altar?” Maeve asked. “Surely no painting could survive four centuries in such a place as this.”

“Of course it couldn’t, even though it’s painted on wood, not canvas. But it’s been here as long as I can remember and none of the locals could give me a clue as to the identity of the artist.”

With her hand still in his, Theo led her around the benches to stand at the chancel rail and stare at the painting of a sweet-faced Madonna, with dark eyes and raven hair, holding a plump, dark-haired baby. “It’s a crude rendition of a familiar subject and the figures are slightly out of proportion, but I’ve been strangely fascinated by it since the first time I saw it—as if something deep inside me recognized my kinship with the lady.”

Maeve nodded. “She does resemble you—certainly more than your own mother does. Whoever the artist was, I think he must have empathized with the lonely Roman soldiers who built this chapel so far from their homeland, and endowed the holy pair with the features and coloring of the wives and babes they’d left behind.”

Theo smiled down at her, the light of the single candle gleaming in his dark eyes. “You think I look Italian then?”

“I do, indeed.” Maeve chuckled. “You would look very much at home in the uniform of a Roman soldier, thanks to that Italian gardener we agreed was somewhere in your background.”

“Actually, she was a maid.”

Maeve stared at him, startled by the solemn note in his voice. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying my mother—my real mother—was an Italian maid who was my father’s mistress. I met her for the first time a se’enight ago. She looks very much like the Madonna in this little painting, which is why it seemed appropriate to bring you here to tell you about her.”

“But that makes you—”

“A bastard. A legalized one, but a bastard nevertheless. I can see, from the look on your face, how deeply I’ve shocked you. But, believe me, you can’t be any more shocked than I was when I first learned the truth of my birth.”

“I’m not shocked; just surprised,” Maeve lied, though, in truth, her knees were trembling so badly she had to grip the chancel rail with both hands to steady herself. It was not the fact of his illegitimate birth that shocked her, but rather that Theo would entrust her with knowledge that could bring scandal and disgrace to the noble house of Hampton should it become public.

She took a deep, calming breath and turned to face him. “Why have you told me this?”

“I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t planned to until after we were married, and I was absolutely sure of you. But yesterday, when I saw how worried you were about divulging what you apparently consider some deep, dark family secret, it occurred to me you might find it easier to trust me with your secrets if I trusted you with mine. I want no lies between us when we begin our life together, Meg. Not even lies of omission.”

Maeve couldn’t bring herself to look at him. How it had come about that this incredible man should fall in love with a plain, bookish sort of woman like her was more than she could fathom. But love her he must; she no longer doubted it. If God was seeking to punish her for her sinful ways, he had found the cruelest of methods.

“I am not as courageous as you, and the tale I have to tell is far more ugly than the one you’ve told me. I think I must write you my truth in a letter,” she said in a hoarse whisper, and watched his beautiful, sensuous mouth form a protest.

She stopped him with a finger to his lips. “No, it is best this way. I give you my solemn promise I will begin writing my letter tonight and have it in your hands no later than the day after tomorrow—the first day of June.”

The truth was she couldn’t endure the anguish of being near him a moment longer. Nor could she bear to see the tenderness in his eyes turn to hatred, the passion to disgust.

She could wait no longer to hear from her twin. This heart-wrenching situation between Theo and her had to be resolved. He wanted there to be nothing but truth between them. Very well, she would give him that truth, sordid though it might be. Then, like the coward she was, she would run back to London to lick her wounds in the privacy of the little house she’d paid for with a broken heart.

But first…She reached up to cup his beloved face in her hands for the last time. “Tell me, Theo,” she whispered, “do you think the little Madonna, who resembles your mother, will be scandalized if you kiss me in this house of God?”