The Cornish Heiress (18 page)

Trembling with nervousness lest Philip come back too soon, Megaera
began to remove her clothes. She could have rung for a maid to help her, but a
year of dressing and undressing herself in her smuggling clothing had made her
swift and skilled at buttons and ties in a way most unusual for a girl of her
class. Most of them had never dressed or undressed themselves in their lives,
and Megaera had found it awkward at first, but she was used to it now.

Actually there was little enough to do. The black velvet
spencer could be drawn off easily. The low-bosomed gray twill gown was a little
more difficult because of the myriad tiny buttons that closed the sleeves.
However, it was a well-worn dress and the button loops slipped over the buttons
without trouble. Automatically Meg hung up her spencer and gown. That was another
thing ladies did not do, but obviously one could not leave unusual garments
lying about for a maid to pick up. Megaera was so accustomed to hanging her smuggling
garments in a locked press in Edward’s room that she sometimes hung up her own dresses—which
horrified Rose.

Underneath the dress was virtually nothing, although not so
little as some really fashionable ladies wore. Megaera was not one who drew on
a pair of knitted silk, flesh-colored tights, pulled a diaphanous, short-sleeved
gown over them, and considered herself fully clothed despite freezing weather.
She wore a delicate tucked and ribbon-trimmed chemise and a straight petticoat
with a flounced hem over knee-length, lace-edged drawers, which hid the garters
that tied her silk stockings just above her knees.

Young and slender and with a body hardened by much walking
and riding, Megaera did not bother with a body band to flatten her stomach or a
breast band to lift her breasts; the one was as flat, the other as high and firm
as any woman could desire. As she stripped off her undergarments she cast a
single look down at her body and smiled. No one could disapprove of that milky
skin, delicately veined with blue, or the small dark-rose nipples that crowned
her breasts.

In the next moment, however, she frowned. A nightdress was going
too far. Besides—the frown smoothed out—her pantalets and chemise were really much
prettier than any of her nightdresses. She pulled those delicate garments back on
and found a soft blue crepe peignoir frothed with ecru lace. It had been part
of her trousseau, but she had only worn it three or four times. Her lips grew
hard for a moment. The time during which she had wished to please and attract Edward
had been very brief, and it was seldom that she needed a peignoir even during those
few weeks. Usually Edward was out in the evening, returning only long after Megaera
was abed.

She pushed that memory away forcibly, but she had little
time to brood in any case. She had barely taken off her shoes and stockings and
replaced them with a pair of velvet slippers when there was a scratch at the door.

“Who is it?” Megaera called, suddenly afflicted with a
horrible sinking feeling.

Had Philip found a group of male cronies to occupy his time?
It was just the sort of thing Edward had done, even on their wedding trip. He
would tell her to go to their rooms, saying he would be coming to join her—and
then send a message by a waiter to inform her he would be delayed because he had
found a partner for piquet or a group that wished to play basset. And Edward had
never given her warning of his coming by scratching at the door.

The answer to her question brought a flush of pleasure to
Megaera’s face. She should have known better, she told herself as she called,
“Come in.” Philip might be only a smuggler’s bastard, but he was a greater
gentleman than Edward had ever been. He would not walk in unannounced, not even
into the room of a woman who had agreed to act as his wife on only a few hours’
acquaintance.

He proved himself a “gentleman” even more thoroughly when he
entered. Although his eyes widened and he swallowed hard, he said nothing.
Instead he came forward, lifted Megaera’s hand, and kissed it formally. Philip
was a sensitive young man and he had seen not bold invitation but extreme nervousness
on Megaera’s face. He was grateful to her for her delicate reply to a question
he had no idea how to ask.

“Each time I see you,” he said, “you are more beautiful than
the previous time.”

“Don’t say that,” Megaera replied, pretending crossness, but
she did not pull her hand from Philip’s grasp. “It is impossible to maintain such
a record.”

“Not for you.”

Gently he drew her closer. She did not resist, but he could
sense tension in her. Nonetheless he kissed her, lightly in the beginning and
then, when she did not try to escape him, more demandingly. At first she seemed
totally passive; then, slowly, her free hand crept up his arm toward his neck.
At this interesting moment there was a new scratch at the door.

Reluctantly Philip lifted his head and stepped back, calling,
“Just a moment.” He did not move away immediately, but looked down at Megaera,
who met his eyes. She appeared a trifle dazed, but more at ease. Philip smiled at
her. “I told you,” he murmured. “You are more beautiful than ever.”

Then he kissed her forehead and led her to a chair near the
window. “Come in,” he called when she was seated.

The waiter entered carrying a salver that held two bottles and
two glasses, which he set on the table. Philip nodded to him and said he would pour
himself. Megaera noticed that the man did not linger, and she guessed that he
had been given his pourboire earlier or that Philip had promised he would take care
of the staff later. Probably both, she thought amusedly when she saw the alacrity
and depth of the servant’s bow as he let himself out.

“I was not sure just what you would like to drink, my dear,”
Philip said, “or whether you would prefer that I did not drink at all.”

“No, don’t be silly.” She shook her head. “You are the most
considerate person I have ever met. You cannot forgo your pleasure to pander to
my prejudices.”

“My pleasure is pleasing you, not in a glass of wine, Meg,”
Philip said. “I am drunk enough, having tasted your lips. Believe me, it will
be no sacrifice to drink ale or cider instead of wine, and I have ratafia for
you.”

“That’s the prettiest speech I ever heard,” Megaera
exclaimed. She tried to laugh, but her eyes were full of tears, and she had to
get up and go over to look at the bottles to conceal it. “You have some very
tolerable sherry here,” she remarked, striving for calm. “I know. I brought it
into the country myself. I wonder which of my customers sells to this inn. I
don’t distribute so far. I’ll have some of this, if you please.”

The reminder that she was a smuggler was very deliberate.
Philip’s consideration, the nearly formal tone of what could only be considered
a courtship, was touching her more deeply than she desired. It was very
necessary to remind herself that he could never be anything more than a casual
lover. Red Meg could want him, but Mrs. Edward Devoran must not fall in love
with the illegitimate offspring of a Breton fisherman. There was also the
possibility that recalling Philip’s attention to her profession would change
his manner. That would hurt, Megaera knew, but it would be most salutary.

In fact, if her statement had any effect, it was the
opposite of what she feared—or hoped. Philip followed her to the table and
uncorked and poured the wine, smelling and tasting it before he offered a
second glass to her. Then, instead of renewing the embrace, he gestured her
back to her chair and took the one opposite.

“There is one thing we have not considered,” he remarked,
sipping the wine slowly. “I think it will not be possible to have the goods we
have bought delivered either to The Mousehole or to the cave.”

Megaera blinked, then her lips twitched. “Are you making
polite predinner conversation?” she asked.

Philip’s eyes twinkled. “Well, yes. Obviously this is not a
subject particularly dear to my heart just now, but I dare not kiss you again
because I do not believe I would be able to stop.”

“Would that be so terrible?” Megaera asked, her eyes fixed
on her glass.

“Yes it would, my beautiful darling,” Philip murmured “I
want very much to love you, but not in haste or with an ear cocked for the
coming waiter. You would not like to know there was a man waiting outside the
door guessing all too accurately what we were doing.”

Megaera shuddered. “How ugly.”

“Yes, and besides, the lovely dinner I ordered, picking and
choosing with such care what I thought would please you, would be all spoiled.
That would be an appalling finale to an appalling performance, do you not
think?”

“I certainly do!” Megaera agreed, laughing, delightedly.
“What a clever devil you are. First you turn me down and then you make me glad of
it. And you’re right about the goods, too. I must think of a place where they
can be left without arousing suspicion.”

“I am afraid I can be of no help in that, except… If we only
had one wagonload, I could hire a wagon and drive it myself, but I am afraid we
will need more than one.”

“You
are
clever, Philip I could drive the second
wagon if we need one.”

“Could you? It is not the same as handling a string of
ponies. I am not sure you are strong enough, my love. Those cart horses are
very powerful, and the hired beasts have often been abused, so that their
mouths are shod in steel.”

“Yes, probably, but they’re also worn down. You could pick a
placid team for me. Surely they would be less trouble than a pair of
whisky-frisky, high-bred, overfed carriage horses.”

“And when have you driven a high-bred pair?” Philip asked.

Megaera bit her treacherous lips and turned her head away.
She knew she should tell Philip that the coachman in the house where she had
been employed had been cozened into teaching her to drive, but she could not.
She preferred simply not to answer. Let him think what he liked. As long as she
could she would not tell a direct lie. Philip saw her distress and remembered
immediately that she was very secretive about her background. He reached across
the table to touch her hand.

“Sorry, Meg, that was not really a question. I know you do
not like prying, and I had no intention of doing so. Forgive me?”

“With all my heart. I wish…”

But that was a lie. Megaera did not wish she could tell
Philip the truth because she did not believe things could be the same between
them if he knew she was the daughter of a baron and the heiress of a
considerable estate—if she could ever free it from debt. Surely that would make
him either self-conscious or conceited. It is not every smuggler’s bastard who
had the daughter of an old and honorable family as a mistress.

The thought was so ugly that tears filled Megaera’s eyes,
but she was saved from needing to explain by the arrival of dinner. It took two
waiters and a maid to carry all the trays of dishes and arrange them, and by
the time they had done so, Megaera had forgotten all about the degradation of
her fine old family name and was laughing helplessly.

“Philip, you are mad,” she protested. “Is this your tastefully
selected dinner? Do you think I am a wolf or a lion? Or are you expecting an
army to join us?”

He looked around at the multitude of dishes with a faintly bemused
expression. “I do seem to have overdone it a bit,” he admitted, then glanced at
her with a glinting smile.

“I am afraid my mind was not
completely
on the
dinner. The landlord kept suggesting things and—and I am hungry. They all
sounded good.”

“I’m hungry too,” Megaera confessed, still laughing, “but…
Well, we shall do our best.”

They did, making up for a very scanty luncheon, but without
visibly diminishing the quantity of food. However, Philip had the brilliant
idea of keeping back the dishes which did not need to be hot to be tasty. They
talked easily about food, about wine, about the business they were doing for
Pierre. When they could eat no more, Philip rang to have the dishes, except for
two or three, removed. He refilled the glasses with wine and, as he bent over
her, Megaera sniffed.

“Have you taken to wearing scent?” she asked.

“Scent?” Philip repeated blankly. “Do you think I am a
man-milliner? No. What can you mean?”

“I don’t know, but you do smell delightful. I noticed it
before, but I thought I was imagining things. You must have touched something
in the warehouses I suppose.” Her eyes danced. “Very nice. I would encourage
you to continue to use it, but it’s a little too delicate for your coloring?”

“Good Lord,” Philip said, reaching into his pocket. “I
forgot. I meant to give you these when we first came in. Look, Meg, they are
only trumpery, but are they not pretty?”

He laid the things he had bought for her on the table with
so innocent an expression of pleased surprise that no woman in the world, no
matter how hardened to selling her favors, could have mistaken his delight in
giving a pretty toy for an attempt to pay for what he hoped to receive. Since
such a transaction had never entered Megaera’s mind, there was no shadow on her
face to spoil her cry of pleasure.

“I shall treasure them always,” she promised, tracing the
glowing mother-of-pearl inlay.

“Well, no, they are not worth treasuring, but they are
pretty, and the scent—”

“They are treasures to me, Philip,” Megaera said. “I think I
will never own anything as precious.”

“Meg, darling…“ Philip’s voice, sounded frightened, and he
drew her up to him and held her tight against, him.

She clung fiercely, fighting tears and despair. She could
not love him. She
could
not! A night’s pleasure now and again, that was
reasonable, but she could not
love
him, nor allow him to love her.

Until that moment Philip had been thinking—as his stepmother
would have said with crude French cynicism—with what was in his breeches. He
was a considerate, well-bred young man. Kind even to the girls he paid, he had
responded unconsciously to Megaera’s delicate behavior with gallantry. He knew
he preferred being with her to being with any other woman in his entire
experience, but he had not considered what that meant until Megaera’s simple
avowal had pierced his heart.