Mastering the Marquess (22 page)

Fortunately, Meredith would never find out, since she had no intention of accepting his offer. She lay awake at night thinking of little else, and there was no doubt in her mind that if she married him it would only be a matter of time before he grew bored with her. Even worse, she would eventually irritate him with her lack of social polish, an essential quality in the circles in which he moved. He needed a true lady accustomed to the ways of the ton, one who wouldn't embarrass him with repeated social blunders.

He needed someone like Lady Isabel.

Just looking at the elegant young woman made her stomach curdle with resentment. The Wrackleys' daughter was a stunning beauty, petite and slender, with classical features and a tea-rose complexion. Next to her, Meredith felt like a gawky, aging spinster.

Even worse, when Lady Isabel had chatted with Silverton before dinner, Meredith couldn't help but notice what a striking pair they made. Apparently, Lady Silverton thought so too because she had done everything she could to throw them together, including seating the earl's daughter next to him at dinner.

And to make the evening just as horrible as it could possibly be, Meredith also had to suffer the plague of Lady Isabel's encroaching toad of a brother, who clearly thought his tasteless advances were every woman's dream.

“Ah, Miss Burnley,” the viscount suddenly murmured in her ear, “the evening air whispers of fragrance and romance! I insist that you join me on the terrace—your dusky beauty will surely outshine even the glorious rays of the setting sun.”

Meredith's hands itched to box the side of his head.

“Thank you, my lord, but no,” she said firmly, turning her back to him as Annabel came to sit beside her.

“Sophia told me to come over and rescue you,” Annabel whispered. “That horrid boy has been nattering at you all night. Do you want me to try to draw him away? I'm sure I could persuade him to come out to the terrace with me, if you like.”

Meredith laughed. “No, darling, but thank you. I suspect that if you did, Robert would be very unhappy. He's glowering at us both this very instant.”

Annabel glanced over at her fiancé and giggled. “Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that. He's really getting terribly possessive, isn't he?”

“Getting possessive?” retorted Meredith. “Really, Annabel, it's a miracle he hasn't locked you in a room by now. He's been devoted to you from the first, but now he's become positively proprietorial.”

The two sisters looked at Robert, who gazed at Annabel with a look that managed to be both stern and adoring at the same time.

Meredith chuckled. “Robert seems to have undergone quite a change in the last few weeks, ever since your grandfather gave him permission to marry you. I think he would carry you around in his pocket, if you let him.”

A silly grin spread across her sister's face. “Yes, I know. Isn't it wonderful?”

“Yes, darling, it is.” She smiled at Annabel, but inside she wrestled with a stabbing pang of regret at the thought of losing her sister so soon.

Much to Meredith's surprise, General and Lady Stanton had given their unqualified approval to the match. Her ladyship never said another word about her plans for Annabel to marry Silverton, apparently content with the young couple's decision. In fact, the relationship between Annabel and Robert seemed to bring a sense of closure to the tragic estrangement that had sundered the family for so many years. Everyone rejoiced in their happiness. Meredith tried to rejoice, too, but she dreaded the years of lonely solitude stretching before her like a blank canvas that would never see color.

Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a sharp little scold, resolving to drive such gloomy reflections from her mind. Annabel was radiantly happy and healthy, and that was all that mattered.

“Attende, everyone!” Lady Silverton stood in the center of the drawing room, gently clapping her hands to silence the quiet chatter. “Lady Isabel has agreed to play for us tonight. I assure you, we are in for a rare treat.”

Annabel murmured a swift apology before slipping away to join Robert, who impatiently awaited her return. Meredith sighed, resigning herself once again to the torture of Viscount Tuddler's undivided attention. She wondered how much worse the evening could get.

She had her answer a moment later, when Silverton took Lady Isabel's hand and escorted her to the pianoforte. The young woman murmured something to him and then laughed; it was a delightfully light sound that caused Meredith's chest to constrict with pain. A knowing smile curved Silverton's lips as he gazed down at her, and he said something in response that made her laugh again.

“What a lovely couple they make, don't you agree, Lady Wrackley?” Lady Silverton settled gracefully into the chair next to Meredith.

“Simply charming!” With a flick of her wrist, the countess motioned to her son to vacate the seat on the other side of Meredith. The young man glared at his mamma but took himself off to join his father, who seemed to be happily drinking himself into a stupor.

“Miss Burnley, do you play?” enquired Lady Wrackley as she fussily arranged her draperies.

“No, your ladyship, I do not,” Meredith replied quietly.

“Miss Burnley is an accomplished artist, however,” said the marchioness, “although some might say that the subjects of her paintings are rather odd, especially for a young lady.”

Meredith could hear the undisguised contempt in Lady Silverton's voice.

“Dear me,” tittered Countess Wrackley. “How unusual. My Isabel, as you will hear, plays and sings like an angel. She is much sought after for musical evenings in London.”

At that moment, the angelic Isabel brought her hands gracefully down on the keyboard and began to play a popular aria by Handel.
Oh God
, thought Meredith, swallowing hard,
she really does play amazingly well
. Even worse, Lady Isabel looked serenely beautiful as she proceeded to dazzle the guests with her musical prowess.

“Isn't she divine, Miss Burnley?” asked Lady Silverton in a stage whisper. “So accomplished, so very much the lady. She is just the kind of woman I would wish my son to marry.”

Struck dumb by that comment, Meredith simply nodded her head.

“Her deportment is perfect, and she would make him an excellent hostess. More importantly, she would never inconvenience him. My son hates to be inconvenienced.”

“What do you mean?” Meredith inquired faintly. She knew Lady Silverton was baiting her, but she still couldn't stop herself from asking.

Lady Silverton's well-bred laugh trailed shivers down Meredith's spine.

“Surely, my dear, you are aware of Silverton's reputation. He is a notorious flirt who has broken any number of hearts over the years.”

In all fairness, Meredith had never seen him flirt with anyone but herself, although what had occurred in the library two weeks ago was certainly a great deal more than flirtation. She looked at him as he stood by the pianoforte, an easy smile on his perfect face as he turned the music for Lady Isabel. All at once, Meredith came to the realization that she had been an absolute fool.

“A man like Silverton cannot be expected to change his nature simply to please his wife. And a young woman like Lady Isabel will never be so foolish as to embarrass him with displays of passion, or intemperate behavior.” Her ladyship gave a delicate shudder. “Such displays are, of course, repulsive to any man in Silverton's position. It would make him a laughingstock amongst his acquaintance.”

The marchioness inspected Meredith from beneath her eyelashes. Obviously satisfied by what she saw, she leaned back in her seat, languidly fanning herself as she nodded in time to the music.

Meredith, however, found that she could only stare blindly at the floor as the cold despair inside her effectively turned whatever heat remained into an impenetrable block of ice.

Silverton tried manfully to focus his attention on his land agent's droning voice. Normally, he would have listened with great interest to Peterson's report on the expected yields of the apple orchards this fall. Kent was famous for its orchards, and the fruit from the Abbey provided a lucrative source of income for the estate.

But Silverton's mind had drifted away from the ledger books an hour ago, when he saw Meredith and Annabel emerge from the house and walk down the terrace steps. Through the open windows of his library, he had watched them amble across the lawn on their way to the wooded path leading to the north escarpment.

The sisters had carried baskets full of art supplies. They were followed by two footmen who fairly staggered under their loads of easels, stools, and other accoutrements necessary for a morning of artistic activity. Meredith had turned around to talk to the men, gesturing at the unwieldy burdens each of them carried. Silverton hadn't been able to hear her, but she had obviously offered to help them with their loads.

His servants had declined, of course, shaking their heads vigorously in reply. No wonder his staff had become so devoted to Meredith, he thought. She treated them with a quiet courtesy that unintentionally illustrated the obvious lack of such conduct in Lady Silverton.

He frowned when he thought of his mother and her behavior at last night's dinner party. She had been positively effusive toward the Wrackleys, doing everything in her power to throw their daughter in his path. It had been impossible for him to avoid Lady Isabel. His mother had made sure that any attempt on his part to elude the girl's company would have been perceived by the other guests as an obvious slight by their host.

Even more disturbing to him was the look on Meredith's face during Lady Isabel's performance. His insides had twisted with frustration as he had helplessly watched his mother and Lady Wrackley drip poison in her ear. He could only guess what they had said to her, and the misery on Meredith's face had made him feel wild. It had taken all his willpower to remain at Lady Isabel's side, calmly turning the pages of her music like a trained monkey.

Unfortunately, as soon as the performance was over, Meredith had excused herself and fled the room, evading him once again.

Today was the day, however, that all such evasions would come to an end. Silverton vowed to himself that he would track her down this very afternoon and explain to her in no uncertain terms her future as his wife. He knew Meredith loved him; it was long past time that her doubts about him were laid to rest. His mother would have to be dealt with, of course, but convincing Meredith of his affection and loyalty claimed priority over anything else.

Besides, his primitive self was becoming increasingly unmanageable. He needed to feel Meredith's soft body melting against his, needed to feel the lush warmth of her perfect lips as they gently returned his kisses. That and only that would satisfy the predatory urges he struggled to control.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Peterson's monotone voice recalled him to his surroundings. “Have I failed to make myself clear?”

Silverton smiled apologetically at the plainly dressed man who sat on the other side of the old-fashioned, carved oak desk. “Forgive me, Peterson, what did you say?”

Extending his arm across the desk, Peterson indicated a row of figures in the ledger. “If you will compare the numbers in this column, Lord Silverton,” he intoned, “to the numbers in the next column, you will see the projected income that will result from the increased crop yields at harvest this year. These projected yields seem to bear out the efficacy of the changes we have made in the management of the orchards on the south estate.”

Peterson was an exemplary land agent—honest and thrifty to a fault. But he had to be as boring as any man that had walked the earth since the days of Adam. Today was worse than usual, and Silverton simply could not get his intellect to cooperate with the task at hand.

His gaze drifted again to the view out the window. He came alert when he saw Annabel emerge from the woods and cross the lawn, swinging her bonnet in her hand. She climbed up the steps to the terrace and disappeared into the house.

Meredith was alone at the escarpment.

Silverton was just about to dismiss the land agent when he heard another pair of footsteps on the flagstone walk that led to the kitchen gardens. Rising from his chair, he strolled to the open window. A footman appeared around the corner of the house, carrying a small tray with two glasses and a pitcher full of an iced beverage.

The servant hurried toward the path that Annabel had just returned on. His obvious destination was the escarpment, and, just as obviously, Meredith had no intention of returning to the house anytime soon.

“Peterson.” Silverton ruthlessly interrupted the endless recitation of facts and figures.

“My lord?”

“That will be all for today.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Peterson methodically gathered up his papers, stacked the ledgers, and solemnly bowed before exiting the room. Sighing in relief, Silverton strode over to the library's French doors and stepped outside.

He turned his face up to the early afternoon sun, absorbing the heat and light that reflected off the white marble of the terrace. Stretching his cramped arms, he pulled in a deep breath, inhaling the humid air scented with the heavy aroma of cut grass and blooming rosebushes.

Silverton never minded the summer heat. He loved the country in all kinds of weather as long as he could be outside—cantering on his roan hunter through the deer park or the woods of the Abbey, talking to his groundskeepers or tenants, riding with the hunt during the season—he loved it all. As much as he enjoyed the tumult and excitement of London, it was here at Belfield Abbey that he found contentment. Even more importantly, he was never bored.

Except, on occasion, with Peterson, he admitted wryly.

He crossed the terrace and ran down the steps that led to the broad lawn ringing the manor house. Striding across the grass, he entered the woods and took the narrow path now used only by the groundskeepers but which had once been the entrance to the magical forest of his childhood.

Silverton had spent endless hours playing in these woods. He had launched countless quests for the Holy Grail or embarked on hunts for treasure hidden deep in Merlin's cave. His childhood innocence had faded years ago, but the dense and shadowed forest with its long ago memories still exerted a subtle pull on his imagination.

He hunted again today, but this time it was a not a game for children, and he knew exactly where to look for his elusive prey.

Deep in the woods, he paralleled the regular path that led to a small meadow on the edge of the escarpment. Although it was after noon, the strong light of the sun only dimly penetrated the thick canopy of ancient oaks. The air was still, the heat having silenced most of the birds and small animals. Silverton heard only the sound of his boots crushing the dried leaves on the overgrown path, and the occasional rustle of a squirrel or vole burrowing through the undergrowth.

Suddenly, he heard loud footsteps pounding down the other path, coming from the direction of the escarpment. Through the trees, he glimpsed a man in footman's livery, running as if he were in a panic. It must be the servant who had brought the drinks to Meredith, but shadows cast by the heavy oak canopy obscured his face.

Silverton frowned to himself, struck by the footman's strange behavior. He froze in his tracks, wanting to observe the servant without alerting him to his presence.

The man stumbled to a halt, turning to stare back along the path to the meadow as if waiting for something to happen. The sounds of his labored breathing echoed harshly through the quiet of the deep woods. Before Silverton could identify him, the footman pivoted and raced back down the path toward the Abbey.

He stood for a moment, watching the servant disappear into the trees. Then he turned and strode quickly through the undergrowth, cutting diagonally from the path in his hurry to reach the meadow. His desire to see Meredith became acute, underscored by an apprehension created by the footman's flight through the woods. He accelerated his pace, the oaks around him beginning to thin as he neared the edge of the escarpment.

Bursting through the tree line, Silverton jerked to a stop as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the midday sun after the gloom of the forest. He blinked, and the meadow slowly came into focus. His gaze swept across the space before him, and he saw her sitting peacefully in the sunshine. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees, catching his breath as a hot rush of relief flowed through his body. God only knew why the footman had acted like a madman—he would have to find out later—but Meredith was clearly fine.

Forcing himself to inhale a slow breath, Silverton willed his muscles to relax before stepping away from the trees to cross the meadow to join her. She had her back to him, perched on a wooden stool before her easel, only a few feet from the edge of the escarpment. Annabel's easel was close by, her empty stool serving as a table for the tray that contained the drinks.

The setting could not have been more idyllic. The meadow, dotted with red and white wildflowers, overlooked the undulating chalk hills of the North Downs of Kent. It was a landscape made for artists, a varied expanse of woodlands, pastures, and orchards, with the occasional church spire rising in the distance.

Silverton walked slowly across the meadow, allowing his boots to rustle in the grass so she would hear him coming up behind her.

Meredith's nose practically touched the canvas, so absorbed was she in her work, but at the sound of his footfall she put down her brush and turned in her seat. A ready smile began to light her face.

That smile faded as soon as she saw him, replaced by a somber expression he found both surprising and annoying. Clearly she had been expecting Annabel. Even more clearly, he was not a welcome substitute.

Silverton smothered an irritated groan. He knew Meredith had been upset when she fled the drawing room last night, but he had hoped a good-night's sleep would have lightened her spirits. Now, instead of enjoying the luxury of finally having her to himself, he would be forced to devote most of his energy to discovering her reasons for avoiding him.

Perhaps, he briefly reflected, he should simply pull her down into the grass and remind her of the heat that had scorched them both that night at Stanton House. But as Silverton observed the firm set of her elegant jaw, he realized that such a decisive strategy would likely meet with limited success. Reigning in his impatience, he forced himself to smile as he sat on the ground beside her.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said in a tight little voice before returning her attention to the painting.

“Good afternoon, Meredith.”

Silverton stretched up to inspect her work. He experienced a shock. Instead of a sunny rendering of the bucolic vista stretched out before them, Meredith had chosen to paint the gently rolling hills as covered in a blanket of snow and ice. It was grim depiction—gray, lifeless, and chill.

Puzzled, he tilted his head in an unspoken question, but she ignored him. He decided, for the moment, to let her do so, leaning back on his arms to give himself a better view of her face.

She carefully dipped her brush into a small pot of paint and leaned forward into the canvas, her brow wrinkling in concentration. Silverton thought she looked adorable, with her hair swept back from her face in a loose knot, her nose crinkling as she pondered the next brushstroke.

He loved the focus and intensity of her gaze, remembering the last time he had seen that look. It had been in the library at Stanton House, when she had lain half-naked and panting across his lap. He couldn't wait to have her in his arms again, when he would unleash all that intensity for himself as he slowly penetrated her silky flesh.

Silverton luxuriated in that delightful image for a few minutes, allowing the silence to stretch between them.

“Meredith,” he finally said, letting his eyes roam over her face, “I wanted to speak to you last night but you left the room before I had the opportunity to do so.”

Her hand froze in midair. She cast him a veiled glance before resuming her work on the canvas.

“How odd,” she murmured, her voice and expression revealing nothing. “I would think you had many opportunities both before and after dinner to do just that.”

“Yes. Well . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words to explain the situation. “You might think so, but the situation was not . . . convenient.”

Once again she paused in midstroke, frowning intently at her painting as if she expected it to begin speaking to her. Then she calmly resumed her work.

“I'm not surprised,” she eventually replied.

This time he had no trouble hearing the frigid tones in her voice.

“Lady Silverton told me that you never inconvenience yourself for anyone's sake.”

“What?” He sat up straight.

“Would you like me to repeat myself?” she asked politely.

“No, thank you,” he muttered. This was not the conversation he had anticipated when he had come searching for her. He stared at her, willing her to look at him so he could gauge the intention behind the remark.

Meredith kept her face turned away, concentrating on her work. She seemed almost disinterested in the conversation in general, and in him in particular.

Silverton felt his lips curve in a humorless smile. He had never thought of himself as vain, but her unexpected comment stung his pride. He pulled one leg up and rested an arm on his knee, pondering the situation.

“My family has, on more than one occasion, seen fit to label me as a selfish creature,” he said.