Lady of the Lock Page 21

  “Unkind, Montsale. Do you have no regard for the feelings of others?”

  “You have been attempting to teach me for nearly a decade. Have I not improved?”

  “Based on recent actions, not a whit.”

  He seated himself beside her and calmly handed her the cup of punch. As she took a slow sip, deliberately hiding herself behind the cup, he said, “If you must have the wood with no bark on it, I came to Devizes to find you. We have much to discuss. Will you drive out with me tomorrow, join me in a picnic, preferably as far from the banks of the K&A as possible?”

  Much to discuss? Her heart said one thing, her head something quite different.

  He was going to make her an offer.

  He was going to tell her he was getting married.

  He—

  “Well?” he demanded in tones not quite as bland as usual.

  Mandy’s chin came up. She looked him straight in the eye, her face as blasé as his own. “A picnic would be delightful, I’m sure. And did you not ask for this dance? I believe the lines are forming.” She stood, handed the cup of punch to a passing footman and offered a tiny smile of satisfaction as Montsale did not quite make it to his feet ahead of her. Turning her back on him, she led the way onto the dance floor.

  Mandy floated about her sitting room in an exhilarated imitation of a courtly dance—curtseying, twirling, an idiotic smile fixed on her face as her azure skirt swirled around her. He’d come to her! And never left her side the remainder of the dance. We have much to discuss. Tomorrow they were to picnic. Alone.

  Out of breath, she finally collapsed onto the room’s serviceable burgundy plush sofa, wishing she had not broken her fan, which her burning cheeks sorely needed at the moment.

  Much to discuss.

  If only she knew what he meant.

  Surely he had not tracked her to Devizes for a farewell already well said by more than a year of silence. Nor danced every dance with her—except those where they sat nearly head to head, exchanging experiences of the long months they were apart—because he was about to tell he was betrothed.

  And yet men could be so—

  Two sharp raps on the door cut off her useless speculations. Montsale? Silly! Of course not. Papa? Very likely. And for nearly the first time in her life Mandy did not want to see him, for she knew quite well what he’d come to say. With great reluctance she crossed the room and opened the door.

  Heaven help her, he looked as solemn as the day he’d heard about the tunnel disaster. Mandy returned to her seat on the sofa, watching him carefully as he slumped into an upholstered chair with the resigned determination of a man mounting the gallow’s steps.

  “Amanda . . .” John Merriwether paused, heaved a sigh. “I am so sorry, my dear. I had thought this crisis long past. But the truth is, you’ve frittered away your life on this man, and in the end he will not have you. Or if by some miracle he does, Carewe will make your lives so impossible you will each come to rue the day. Amanda, look at me!”

  Mandy raised her head, revealing tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. He was right, she knew he was right, yet her heart refused to grasp the truth.

  “Have you made an assignation?” John demanded.

  “We are driving out tomorrow,” Mandy murmured. “Picnicking.”

  “Good God!”

  “Please, Papa, do not deny me this,” she begged. “Except for a few moments in the garden at Castle Carewe, we have never been alone.”

  “And rightly so!”

  “Papa, please. Just this once. You know I would never behave in a disgraceful manner.”

  “But what about Montsale?” he shot back. “Can you make such a claim for him?”

  “Pa-pa,” Mandy chided, “you know quite well Montsale has always been the perfect gentleman.”

  “But now he is a man on the hunt, and let me assure you, my dear, such a man is capable of anything!”

  “Do not say that, I beg of you. I cannot believe it.” Never. Not Montsale. Not her Bourne.

  John ran his hands through his hair, propped his chin on his fist. “Amanda, I admit it’s possible the boy has struggled as hard with his feelings as you have. But it would appear he has finally made up his mind, and I assure you any offer he makes will not be marriage.”

  Wide-eyed, Mandy stared at him. “No-o, Papa. He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t.”

  For several long moments silence filled the room. “Amanda . . . Mandy, my dear, you are no longer a child, although sometimes I find it very difficult to remember that. Another year and you will be of age and I must learn to let the reins go. You have always been a woman of great good sense, as was your mother. I will not quarrel with you about this assignation with Montsale, but only beg you to be cautious, to be the gentlewoman you were raised to be and not let a man of high rank and great physical appeal turn your head.

  “I am a child born of lust, Amanda,” John continued inexorably, “and I will not see you fall into that trap. It is a stigma a man may rise above if fortune smiles, but for a woman there is no coming back. Do you understand me? To love à corps perdu is wondrous for only a short while, leaving the rest of your life for regrets.”

  Once again, Mandy bowed her head, gazing blindly at the hands clasped in her lap. “Yes, Papa, I understand.”

  John stood up. “I am so very sorry to have spoiled your evening, my dear. Goodnight.”

  Mandy sat motionless for a very long time, her mind too numb for any thought but No, no, no . . . and no! And then it struck her. Not once tonight had she thought of the Challenor Tunnel. Nor of the blame she placed on the Challenor family for the cave-in disaster. She could claim that a year of mourning had brought her to a more realistic view of the tragedy. But the truth was, Montsale had walked back into her life and she had simply melted, her brain as well as her body casting herself at his feet to be tread upon.

  She was a shallow flibbertigibbet.

  An addlepated numbskull.

  Featherbrained.

  The stark reality? Montsale was the dreaded Pied Piper and, instead of standing proud, holding her ground, it appeared she would follow him straight into the sea.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The sun shone; fat fluffy clouds floated against an autumn blue sky. The air, though a trifle brisk, failed to penetrate Mandy’s gown of amber superfine, augmented by a matching spencer and bonnet. Two white ostrich plumes, one curling down almost to her chin, provided what she hoped was an appealing prospect as Montsale shot her an occasional glance while navigating his curricle through the market-day crowds thronging the streets of Devizes. She should despise him—at the very least shun him—yet here she was, seated close beside him, with a picnic basket strapped onto the stand where his tiger usually rode.

  Should she cast old wounds in his face or simply enjoy the moment, sit back and let matters take their course?

  She had decided that last night, had she not? Else she would have had Papa turn Montsale away when his curricle rumbled into the courtyard this morning. Yet the row of bodies laid out in the farmer’s barn, the grim, tear-streaked faces of the widows and children still haunted her.

  Time will heal. That’s what everyone said. And look what had happened last night She had basked in Montsale’s admiration and not given a thought—

  “I did not see Appleton last night,” Montsale said. “Is he assigned to another project?”

  “The lines of Torres Vedras.”

  Montsale’s hands dropped and the team sprang forward. He quickly checked the horses before expressing his astonishment. “I imagine he has all the right skills,” he offered. “Your father trained him well.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Do you correspond?” the marquess inquired, his voice neutral, but Mandy sensed it was not a casual question.

  “We do. Luke is like a brother to me.”

  “Ah. And Tharp and Prescott? Are they brothers as well?”

  “Yes.” Mandy kept her head turned away, her face well
hidden by her bonnet so he could have no inkling how gratifying she found his questions.

  “Any other suitors I should know about?”

  “Several. I plan to renew their acquaintance while in Bath this winter.”

  Silence. Followed by a sudden change of subject. “I have a place in mind for our picnic,” Montsale offered. “I noticed its charm on my way here and asked the farmer’s permission to return for an hour or two.”

  “Delightful,” Mandy murmured, her tone as bland as his.

  Not another word was spoken until they crossed a small bridge and Montsale turned his team onto a farm track, bringing them to a halt in tall grass above a winding stream. He unloaded the picnic basket, helped Mandy down, and they walked down a slope dotted with widely spaced trees to where the small stream tumbled over a picturesque arrangement of rocks.

  “Oh, I should have brought my sketchpad,” Mandy cried. “It is truly lovely.”

  “And far too small to float a narrowboat.”

  Mandy granted this sally a rueful chuckle. How could she possibly stay sad or angry when the love of her life had unbent enough to display wry humor in a place of Eden-like beauty?

  Montsale opened the basket and produced a blanket, which he spread over the grassy bank before helping Mandy to be seated. A wine bottle and two glasses came next. The silence of the countryside enveloped them. Mandy heard only the gurgle of the stream, the hum of insects, and the pounding questions in her head.

  Much to discuss.

  Montsale lifted his glass in salute. Mandy followed suit, the clink of their glasses ringing loud and clear, as if to announce some epoch moment. Their eyes met. She caught her breath, gulped, quickly hiding her breathless reaction behind a sip of wine. And promptly choked.

  And choked . . . Montsale pounded her on the back multiple times before simply taking her in his arms and holding her tight, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, it’s all right, hush now, Mandy, I have you safe.”

  She dug her forehead into his chest and finally managed to whisper, “I am mortified, my lord. Mortified.”

  He’d called her Mandy.

  “Have you forgotten your promise to call me Bourne?” he whispered in her ear.

  “We were children.”

  “Not quite.” He lifted her chin, once again capturing her gaze, but this time infinitely closer. Surely what she saw shining in those unmasked gray eyes was love?

  He lowered his head, their lips met. Warmth. Light. Goosebumps. At last, at long last her dreams were come true.

  Abruptly, he pulled away, cool air rushing in to fill the gap between them, chilling her to the bone. “My abject apologies,” he said, “but having you so close . . . I could not resist the temptation.” He reached for the basket. “I promised you a picnic and you shall have it.”

  Mandy, her flaming cheeks drained to parchment, could only watch as he laid out packets of chicken, cheese, pickles, soft fresh bread and butter. Her heart still pounded, her head whirled. Would he have kissed any young woman he held in his arms? Had she seen only lust in his eyes, not love?

  When all the food was unpacked, Montsale sprawled on the blanket, leaning on one elbow, his long legs stretching onto the grass. As they ate, he occasionally pointed out a cloud picture in the sky. Mandy’s responses were monosyllabic. The marquess called her attention to a trout jumping in the stream, leaving rings of ever-widening circles, no doubt in an attempt to grab a mouthful of the waterbugs drifting by. Mandy nodded and continued to eat without tasting a thing, each flavor reduced to a bland nothing by thoughts so conflicted there was no room for the simple pleasure of taste.

  Their idyll was broken as a mail coach and four horses clattered over the bridge above them. “An almost perfect spot for a picnic,” Bourne murmured.

  Fool! How could she have spent her life surrounded by the male of the species and not be able to accept that their brains worked quite differently? Montsale had likely picnicked with a dozen women, casting kisses about like a rich man tossing coins to beggars. It meant nothing. Time to shrug off his kiss, untie her tongue, and remember she was the Lady of the Lock.

  Mandy opened the final paper-wrapped packet and handed Bourne an apple tart. “Do you go to Castle Carewe soon?” she asked. “The watercolor is ready, and it seems far safer to send it with you than trust it to the mail.”

  “Watercolor?” He frowned, obviously puzzled.

  “The watercolor of the castle which your father requested,” Mandy prompted.

  Bourne stared, not quite taking it in. “Carewe . . . a watercolor of the castle?” he repeated, sounding foolish even to his own ears.

  Mandy’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know?”

  “Not a lick of it. Explain, if you will.”

  Swiftly she told him of the duke’s visit and his request that she re-create her sketch of the castle in watercolors.

  “My father paid you a visit at Upper Berkley Street?”

  “He did.”

  Bourne gazed at the apple tart clutched in his hand as if he’d never seen one before. “And requested a painting?”

  “Indeed. I admit I thought it strange.”

  “The old fox,” he muttered. “I wonder what he was up to.”

  “I had hoped he admired my work!”

  Ignoring her indignation, he asked, “Was he friendly?”

  “Charming, actually. He even engaged me in conversation about his vast art collection.”

  Good God, what did it mean? Bourne wondered. And did Carewe’s obvious approval of Miss Merriwether affect what he had to say to her? Possibly, but now that he had finally come to a decision, carefully arranging things so he might speak to her in complete privacy, he was not about to back away. This was an issue he had evaded for years, and another opportunity might not readily come his way.

  Bourne polished off his tart, washed it down with the last of the wine. He took a deep breath. “Mandy . . . Amanda” Yes, her formal name seemed more appropriate to the moment. She gazed up at him, blue eyes gleaming in the sun, patently unaware of the significance of the moment. He launched into his prepared speech. “We have been friends for many years, have we not? More in absence than in presence, but friends nonetheless?”

  Mandy nodded, her expression quizzical. Clearly, she had no idea what he was attempting to say. Bourne ran a hand through his hair, ducked his head to hide a grimace. And deviated from his prepared words. “I tried, God knows I tried, to put you from my mind. But I found it impossible. You haunted me, you little termagant, never hesitating to give as good as you got. A woman of intelligence as well as beauty.”

  She gaped at him, as if he’d gone mad. And perhaps he had. Time to grasp the words he’d planned to say and eschew extemporization. “Amanda, I apologize that it has taken me so long to express my feelings for you. But I want you to know how much I care for you, how much I’ve missed you, how much I want to keep you in my life.”

  Her lips parted, hope blossomed in her eyes. A sudden wave of uneasiness shook him, but he plunged on. “I know you are devoted to the building of the canal, but it is almost done, and I need you. Desperately. Come to London with me. I shall buy a house for you, set you up with an annuity for life. Support any children we may have, give them the best education, as Bridgewater did for your father—”

  The horror on her face. The fury. She jumped to her feet, hands fisted, staring down at him as if he were Lucifer himself. One last fulminating look and she turned and ran up the slope to the road.

  “Mandy! Amanda!” He caught up, attempted to grab her arm. Vehemently, she shook him off. As if he’d been some giant spider. She reached the road, turned toward Devizes, and kept walking.

  “Amanda Merriwether, come back here. You can’t walk all the way back to town.”

  She quickened her pace.

  Bourne stalked back to the stream, packed up the picnic, strapped the basket to his curricle, and set his team to a walk. Five minutes later, he caught up with her, pacing along, her bonnet hiding her
face, although he had no trouble picturing the grim lines of her features. “I’m sorry,” he called. Would he never be done apologizing? “I love you, I wanted you so badly I lost my wits. I knew you would never— Mandy, I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

  She kept walking.

  “Mandy, get up here and stop this nonsense. You’ll wear through your soles and still be miles from town.”

  She stiffened her shoulders and kept walking.

  Bourne passed her, stopping the team a quarter mile down the dusty road, allowing her to trudge right up to him. Allowing him a clear view of her damp, dusty face and the fury that radiated from every pore.

  Praying his team would not run away, he leaped down, stepped straight in front of her. “Just because I offered you carte blanche does not mean I don’t care what happens to you. I care very much. And I am not walking my team at your pace all the way back to Devizes, nor am I driving off and leaving you here. So allow me to assist you into my curricle, or I am going to bloody well pick you up and put you there!”

  She huffed a breath, made an abrupt right and stomped to the curricle. Her body was stiff as he hoisted her onto the seat, in sharp contrast with the warm, supple young woman he had held in his arms less than an hour earlier.

  He tried to apologize twice more. The bonnet sheltered her thoughts as well as her face. When they reached the Bear Hotel and he lifted her down, allowing his hands to linger around her waist. “Mandy, this isn’t the end.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “it is.” And left him standing there, knowing he’d made a complete ass of himself. Not so much as a lingering backward look as she entered the inn and closed the door.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Bath, January 1810

  “He didn’t!” Hetty Oglethorpe exclaimed, her eyebrows raised so high they were lost in the shadow of her bonnet. “He dared, he actually dared make such an offer?”

  Hetty and Mandy were seated on a stone bench not far from the underground passage that led to the grotto at the center of the Sydney Gardens maze, a place eminently suited to the recounting of a person’s most private thoughts. Yet sharing Montsale’s perfidy could only go so far in alleviating Mandy’s still simmering mix of anger and anguish.