Love's Patient Fury (The Deverell Series Book 3) (12 page)

“I will do it cautiously or I will do it not at all,” Camden countered grimly.

An arched brow. “The stage must be well set before we travel to London next month.”

Camden shook his head. Finally, he said, “Your arrogance is galling at times. How the devil will you get to London with both your wife and Lucien Merrick in tow?”

Varian handed Camden a letter. “Take this to Margaret.”

“The Dowager Duchess of Dorset? Now I know you’ve lost your wits.”

“Even the largest mastiff in the yard has a master. Lucien Merrick is no different.”

Camden gave Varian a hard stare and then sighed heavily. “I will see you in London next month, then?”

Varian snapped the carriage door shut. “Next month, my friend. And send me Christina.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The days began to run together for Merry. Her life at Bramble Hill had returned to the routine it had been before her kidnapping. Only now the cherished rituals felt strange and the peaceful laziness of her days left her melancholy.

Each night she was taunted by memories. In the darkness hours she fought against going to Varian. The restlessness of her flesh kept her from the sleep she desperately needed. The want to pretend it could be as it once was between them on ship and that this lie they lived was true was nearly overpowering.

As terrible as the nights were, her days were worse. Each morning she woke to some function forced upon her by her family. An afternoon tea. Supper at a neighbor’s. Card parties and country balls. Meaningless social gatherings she half suspected were designed to keep her apart from Varian.

Even as busy as each day was, she could not keep Varian from her mind. She could not ease the ache around her heart. She could not escape the taunts in her thoughts as too often she replayed those dreadful words Varian had spoken the night they had married.

She could forgive him each and every cut he delivered that night, except that one, those quietly spoken words which haunted her waking hours.
He loved Ann
. He had never said those words to her. Just once, if he told her he loved her, maybe she could find a way to move past her hurt.

On this day, three weeks after their arrival at Bramble Hill, Merry was in the yard behind the modest brick cottage of Jane Coleman, wife to the Merrick’s under-coachman. They were making candles, as they had done often as girls, only now they were surrounded by Jane’s children. The mild fall afternoon was alive with the laughter of children at play and women pleasantly at work, curling smoke of the fire pits and the spicy fragrances they had stirred into the wax.

Brushing her damp brow with the skirt of the apron she’d borrowed from Jane, Merry began to fill the molds with the blend of wax and scents, and struggled to keep from her mind her husband.

She rarely saw Varian and in fact knew little of how he passed his hours at Bramble Hill. He came and went as he pleased, with no explanation to her. During their infrequent moments together in the presence, always, of her watching family, she maintained a carefully icy manner toward him. They were speculated upon, and her father’s never waning scrutiny only increased her distress. Her greatest fear was that somehow her father would discover her husband was the infamous pirate Morgan.

There was too much danger in Cornwall for Varian. It would be foolish to believe he would stay much longer. While she knew not the specifics of his intrigue against Rensdale, she was certain his vengeance had commenced and those endeavors a large part of what occupied his mysterious days away. It had been the focus of his life for nearly a decade, a careful and patient pursuit he had devoted himself to. His devotion to Ann would not permit him another delay.

Merry rubbed her cheek against her sleeve, recalling the time she had offered herself to Varian if he would but leave his past behind and live out his days with her in Virginia. He had refused all she offered him that day. His heart would not permit him to fail Ann, while the very same heart permitted him to fail
her
frequently.

Putting the tapers in the wax, Merry wondered if the desperate agony in her body would ever end so again she might know a small measure of peace. She hated Varian. She loved him. A brutal paradox that failed her at every turn. There were times she wanted to curl in his arms and beg him to love her. There were times when her love brought the suffering to her soul in such force she feared she would break. There were no times he did not consume her thoughts.

When the perfect comes the partial will pass away.
What Merry had not known on that long ago day when Varian had spoken those words to her was that love dissects you into parts, for she was indeed in parts. The woman who loved him, and the woman who hated him. And both women helplessly trapped in her flesh by a desire that refused to wane.

She twirled her wedding band on her slim finger. It was a heavy ring, too heavy for her dainty hand, and there were times it felt the weight of the world was there.  It was a symbol of all things she’d done wrong in the past year. A symbol of her disgrace. A reminder of her unhappiness, and the mark of her foolishness over a man.

Jane’s sweet voice pulled Merry from her thoughts. “You are very quiet, Your Grace. What is wrong?”

“Please don’t call me that, Jane. We are friends. We will always be.”

“All right, Merry,” Jane said, though she was ill at ease and it showed. “It warms my heart you cherish our friendship as I do. If I am your friend, let me be your friend. Why are you so sad?”

Merry forced a smile. “It should be no wonder why I am sad, Jane. I am a scandal and my family is in disgrace. The whispering in Falmouth is vicious and unending. All of society gossips about me. Gossips about my hole-in-the-corner marriage. Talks about my husband’s villainy.  I have brought such shame to my family.”

Jane said nothing. She could not manage even a modest denial of Merry’s words, for they were true. “It will all be well in time, Merry. All things right with time.”

Merry made a busy show of her work.

Jane sank down onto the chair beside her. It was an impertinent question, but she asked it anyway. “What manner of man is His Grace?”

Merry’s face shot up, flushed with anger. “Give no credit to those vile rumors you’ve heard. They are untrue.”

Merry was quick to defend of her husband. It told Jane much. She smiled. “I often times suspect God created men as a curse for women in spite of the fact that the bible claims we were created from Adam’s rib.”

Jane smiled and went promptly back to work. There was such peacefulness to Jane’s life. At this moment, Merry envied Jane her life, and the certainty of her fate. A year ago she had set off on a foolhardy quest to avoid this very circumstance—marriage, the love of a man, children—and oddly the happiness of Jane’s world was the very thing Merry envied today.

Merry dragged out the afternoon, her hours with Jane a welcomed balm for her troubled heart. At dusk, Spencer Coleman entered the kitchen of his modest dwelling and froze in mid-step. Her Grace was sitting in a hard back chair, his daughter in her lap. Spencer stripped off his hat and gave a proper greeting as soon as he composed himself.

Jane crossed the kitchen to her husband. “We were late finishing our labors with the candles so supper will be late as well. Go wash and keep the children from my hair so we may eat before the morrow.”

Spencer was only too grateful to flee the kitchen.

Merry sipped a glass of cool apple cider and watched the swishing dance of Jane’s skirt as she moved about the kitchen in a flurry. “You have a rare hand with children, Merry, “Jane remarked, ladling soup into a bowl. “Cecilia is never quiet in the evening hours, but she is quiet with you.”

Merry touched her lips into Cecilia’s golden hair, breathing in that sweet scent only babies carried. She ran her cheek along the chubby skin of the baby’s arms, placing little kisses on her wrists and hands. She smiled as the baby laughed and tugged at a handful of her curls.

Looking up at her friend, Merry remarked, “Do you know, Jane, this is the first baby I’ve ever held. It is a remarkable feeling to have a baby in your arms.”

Jane lifted a brow. “You have returned from your year greatly changed.”

Merry pressed her cheek against the baby’s face. Her thoughts drifted to the child nestled in her womb. She would never regret this part of her history with Varian. This small part of Varian was hers, and always would be, whether he loved her or not. She collected the baby more closely into her, blowing airy patterns with her lips against the baby’s soft cheeks, noting that Cecilia was too drowsy to stir. She laughed.

A sound startled her. Looking up, Merry found Varian hovering beside Spencer in the kitchen. The cottage seemed to shrink from his towering presence. She had not seen him for several days. He had left yet again without explanation to her, and she was rapidly learning well how to be an injured wife. The last thing she had expected was for him to search her out in Jane Coleman’s cottage.

Varian was impeccably dressed in evening attire, an emerald coat over a white waist vest. His cravat was tied simply, a twist and a knot, but the lax fashion only complimented his perfection. His black eyes were sparking when they met hers and he let just enough hint of a smile touch his lips, giving every appearance he was pleased to see her. It was a flawless show on the heels of having been gone without warning or explanation.  Every emotion inside Merry began to rapidly twirl with her foolish ache to step into the arm he held out to her. Instead, she performed an act of stillness on the chair.

Varian said, “It is getting late, Merry. I didn’t want you walking back to the house alone.”

Merry looked away, surprised Varian had even noticed her gone from the house and equally surprised he’d known where to find her. “There is no need to see me home.”

“Perhaps, but I will not manage the worry well if I don’t, Little One,” he said, touching her nose with a fingertip, a careless, playful gesture that had the strange power to hurt her. “Let me decide what I will and will not do. Give the babe to me. I don’t want her weight in your arms while you stand.”

Varian lifted the toddler from her lap in sure and capable movements. He stood, holding the baby against his chest in one arm as he offered her a hand.

Jane rushed over to Varian. “Please, Your Grace. Let me take Cecilia from you!”

A softening teased at the edges of Varian’s lips. Jane’s eyes widened “Stop your distress over this,” he said, in an easy and amused way. “Cecilia is the second most enjoyable thing to have happen to me today. First was watching my lovely wife with her.”

Jane flushed and wasn’t exactly sure what she should do next. It was Spencer who spoke calmly and roused her from her uncertainty. “Jane, take the babe from His Grace.”

Not able to lift her eyes, Jane dropped a quick curtsy and said, “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

She moved to collect her daughter and gently eased her tiny form from the duke’s powerful arms. Her hand brushed his chest and she blushed fiercely.

Varian pretended not to notice Jane’s ill-ease with him. He pretended not to notice Merry’s as well. She could hardly look at him, an indication of where her mood sat this night.

“We should go, Merry. We’ve imposed upon the Colemans long enough.”

Merry nodded, ignored the arm Varian offered her, and moved quickly past him out of the house.

It was a quick walk from the under-coachman’s cottage to the main house. They walked in silence, at some point Varian had taken her hand, and Merry stared at his fingers holding hers. His touch whispered through her veins, reminding her she had not gone to him in many nights. He was strangely quiet, but she could feel tension beneath the surface of his flesh. She wondered what to make of that. He’d sought her out and now he said nothing.

His thumb moved in a gentle glide on the top of her hand. The restlessness of her flesh grew. She closed her eyes. Damn him.

At the house he stopped outside of the door. Something in how Varian looked at her made her unrest whirl faster. His voice, quiet and gentle, surprised her as much as his words. “Don’t go to your room. Come directly to mine.”

There was a short silence while she looked at him. It seemed so long ago they had been happy together. Another lifetime. Slowly, his hand lifted so his thumb could glide her cheek, and the tenderness of his touch had the unpardonable power to hurt her.

“There is much I have to say, Merry. And I am going to say it one way or another. You cannot hide from me forever.”

Hide, indeed
. He was the one who left at a whim and she was forced to suffer, living in a life that no longer felt her own. He could do as he pleased, which he did quite frequently, and she was trapped here.

She proceed him up the stairs. The long corridors of the house were empty. Even Moffat had retired and only a few lamps were left burning. The Merricks kept country hours. Early they rose and early to bed.

She looked at her bedroom door. “Goodnight, Varian.”

He did not release her hand. His gaze fixed on her in a wandering hold and his voice was a husky whisper. “Each day you hold yourself from me is agony. Come to my bed this night, Merry.”

The urgency in his voice made her tremble. The passion in his eyes burned her so. Her blood flamed in answer. She owed him only her scorn. Why did she let him repeatedly have her body?  Why couldn’t she get the words from her mouth? Why could she not obey her own will and stay away from him?

Her disobedient body moved with him down the hallway. She heard the lock of his bedroom door click behind her. She should not have followed him this night. It would do her no good to give in to the weakness of her flesh.

Instead of going to the bed, she went to his writing table, struggling to focus on anything but him. It was cluttered with papers. She wondered at the oddity of Varian leaving so much lying about for anyone to see. He had always been so cautious on the
Corinthian
. Every document, every letter held behind lock and key, even from her.