by Mary Balogh
"Sit down, Anne," he said. "You may eat the cake. I am sure I will have no room left for it by the time I have eaten this bread. It is quite excellent. Did you make it?"
"Oh, no," she replied. "No, my lord."
She sat in the chair across from him, on the very edge of the seat, her hands still clasped stiffly in her lap. She continued to gaze at him in the anxious way that more and more amused him.
Merrick's eyes narrowed lazily as he examined her from head to toe. Poor girl, she did not have much to recommend her. The plump figure and the too-round face gave her an almost childish appearance. It was no wonder the brother had not taken her with him to town. She was probably not a wench much in demand. However, she clearly was not a child. She knew how to send out an open-enough invitation.
"Is the town you talked of far away, Anne?" he asked.
"All of three miles, my lord," she said, "an almost impossible distance on a night like this." And she blushed painfully again and looked almost frightened for a moment.
"You must not worry about Bruce," Merrick said, smiling across at her. He leaned back from the tray, which was now empty of all except the plate of cake, and took up the brandy glass again. He swirled the contents absently in his hand. "He would not even attempt the distance on a night like this. And you have me to protect you." His eyes laughed at her.
Her hands were pleating and twisting the dress in her lap. She stared across at him and said nothing. His eyes continued to laugh. Why not? he was thinking. It was going to be a long and chilly night and the girl at least looked clean. It would be a shame to reject such a generous offer. And the poor girl could not have many thrills in her life. Why not?
"Will you show me my room, Anne?" he asked quietly, not removing his eyes from hers. "Is there one made up?"
"Yes, my lord," she said quickly, jumping to her feet. "You must have the master bedroom. It is the only one I am sure is aired. And there is a fire there."
Merrick's eyebrows rose. "Indeed?" he said. "Then lead the way, girl."
She took the branched candlestick from the mantel and hurried to the door. Merrick followed, the brandy glass still dangling from his fingers. He picked up his bag in the hallway and amused himself with an examination of the back view of the maid as she preceded him up the wooden staircase and along a short passageway until she stopped and opened a door. She disappeared inside and was setting the candles on a dresser when he entered. She turned toward him.
"I believe you will have everything you need here, my lord," she said, and she blushed yet again. "If you wish, you may use a nightshirt from this drawer." She indicated one in another dresser.
"I do not believe I shall have need of one," Merrick said, his eyes laughing at her again. "Will you turn the bedclothes down for me, Anne?"
She hesitated, but she crossed to the high bed and bent over it as she folded back the blankets and the top sheet.
Merrick came up behind her and waited for her movements to stop as she became aware of his closeness. He passed an arm in front of her and let his hand trail back toward him across her breasts. They were full and firm. Not bad at all, in fact.
She did nothing for a moment, though he heard a ragged intake of breath. Then she turned toward him, her eyes wide, her cheeks deeply flushed. He smiled knowingly down at her. Her lips, too, were not unpleasant beneath his own. They were warm and soft. He tried to gain entrance to her mouth by running his tongue lightly back and forth across her lips and finally stabbing between them, but he encountered only her teeth firmly clamped together. She whimpered a little against his mouth when he put a hand behind her hips and brought her against him. She was stiff and unyielding.
Hell and damnation, he thought suddenly, she was not a virgin, was she? One naturally assumed that even the most unattractive of maids had had some small share of rolls in the hay. This girl acted as if she had no idea of what he was about, though she offered no active resistance. He lifted his head and held her loosely by the waist.
"Have you not been touched before, Anne?" he asked.
"My lord?" she said, her eyes bewildered.
"Have you had no man inside you, girl?" he asked.
Her mouth moved but no sound came out. She had lost all control of her facial muscles and began to tremble jerkily against his hands.
"Don't be frightened," he said gently. "I am not going to ravish you, Anne. You were willing, 1 believe, but now find that the act takes more courage than you presently possess. Go to bed, girl. You are in no danger from me." He kissed her lightly on the forehead.
She stared at him for a moment until he smiled, stepped aside, and gestured mockingly with one hand toward the door. She fled finally in ungainly haste, neglecting to take a candle with her.
Merrick gazed at the bed and shrugged. Why had he suddenly displayed that pointless gallantry? She had smelled good, of some unidentified soap. She would not have stopped him. She would certainly have helped warm the bed on a night like this. But, of course, there would have been the tears, and perhaps hysterics, afterward. And such an innocent would probably have allowed him to get her with child. He supposed it really was not entirely fair that servants be expected to bear such shame just because they were servants. He shrugged again, eyed with misgiving those cold-looking silk sheets, and gazed first at the dying fire in the fireplace and then at the drawer that, with any luck, would contain some warm nightshirts.
Chapter 2
The time had come when Bruce Parrish had been forced to admit defeat. For three years he had struggled to retain the land he still held and somehow to make it pay its way. He had worked and economized in order to keep the house and the gardens neat and in order. But it was a sad fact that sometimes the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.
The Honorable Jonathon Parrish, younger son of a baron, had been left in comfortable circumstances on the death of his mother. There had been a sizable estate and an impressive, if not imposing, house. He should have been able to live comfortably on the income from his land and rents, especially since his wife had presented him with only two children. But the man never accepted the fact that it was his elder brother, less intelligent and with less charm and good looks than he, who had inherited the title and the paternal home. Jonathon Parrish had taken little interest in his property, using it only as a source of income to finance his hunting and his card-playing and his hard drinking.
When he died, his son, Bruce, far different in character from himself, discovered that his father's debts were enormous and that the land had been neglected for years. He already knew that the house furnishings had been allowed to grow shabby and the once-landscaped gardens overgrown. Bruce Parrish had tried, had puzzled over the problems for three years. But finally he had been forced to admit that he would never be able to both pay back his father's debts and spend the money necessary to recover the fortunes of the estate. He was a serious young man whose sense of duty was overdeveloped. If he must make a choice, he would have to choose repaying the debtors, who had already waited far too long. He decided that the house and the land must be leased. Not sold. He could not bear the thought of that-not yet, anyway. He would try what he could do with the lease money and what he could earn.
Bruce Parrish had a sister five years his junior. She had acted as their father's housekeeper and as his own for so long that he took her presence very much for granted. He never considered consulting her on any of the many problems that beset him. This occasion was no exception. He must be gainfully employed; she must come with him and keep his house, even though it was to be a far humbler abode than the one they had always known. She was informed only one week before they were to remove themselves from their childhood home that he was to be employed as a schoolmaster in a town thirty miles distant and that she was to go with him to live in the small brick schoolhouse that adjoined the school.
Anne Parrish did not put up any fight. She had always been a quiet girl, one who was inclined to be disregarded by those with whom she liv
ed closely. But she observed with a keen intelligence all that happened around her. She had understood what ruin her father's way of life was bringing to his family. She had watched her brother's efforts to reverse the process of years and had seen that it was hopeless. She knew that his decision was the only one that could have been made.
And, truth to tell, Anne did not feel that she would be losing a great deal. She had not been happy for four years, since she had been eighteen. Home had never been a pleasant place for her since the death of her mother eight years before. Her father had been almost always in his cups, always involved in his own selfish activities. His cronies had frequently haunted the house, their presence a trial enough even before Anne had reached the age to attract their coarse gallantry. Afterward it had been almost unendurable. Her father, when he noticed her at all, treated her as if she were a servant, and greeted with loud amusement any sign he saw of one of his drinking companions pinching her or even stealing a kiss.
Bruce might have made her life more tolerable. He certainly had none of their father's vices and coldly drove from the premises one man whom he caught addressing her as "my lovely." But unfortunately, he went to the opposite extreme. He was harsh and humorless. He viewed as sinful anything that suggested enjoyment or the slightest frivolity. He disapproved vocally of the only two people of whom Anne had ever been truly fond since her mother's death.
Sonia Davies was the only daughter of a neighboring landowner, an extremely pretty and vivacious young lady. She and Anne were almost of an age. They had always been close friends. And, indeed, Bruce had always appeared to like the girl until she grew to a very attractive womanhood. From that time on, he had voiced nothing but criticism of her preoccupation with her looks and with fashion and of her obvious enjoyment of gaiety. Anne had never considered herself very pretty, especially in comparison with her friend, but she had been satisfied with herself, had enjoyed poring over fashion plates with Sonia, had loved the afternoons they often spent together experimenting with each other's hair, planning their futures, the type of men they would marry, the number of children they would have. Sonia had left more than four years before for a London Season and had married a man with a comfortable income and a home sixty miles distant. Anne had seen her only twice since, though they corresponded regularly.
Then there had been Dennis Poole. He also had been a neighbor, a cousin of Sonia's, in fact. Anne had loved him for as long back as she could remember. Red-haired, brown-eyed, and extremely tall as he grew to manhood, he was a great contrast to any of the other men in Anne's life. He had loved her, too. There had never been a moment of great revelation. They had both known that they loved and that one day they would marry. Bruce had disapproved. Dennis was a younger son with few prospects, and Bruce had felt that his sunny, happy-go-lucky nature would not help him to make his way in a harsh world. But Anne would have defied Bruce and her father if he had offered any resistance when the time came. But the time never came. Dennis had ridden off to war as the greatest adventure of his life, and had died a hero's death in Spain in the Peninsular War.
Anne had no other friends. Acquaintances, yes, but no one in whom she could confide her innermost thoughts. Her natural shyness had grown on her, so that for several years she had appeared almost contented with the harsh and humorless Bruce, keeping house for him, satisfying him by avoiding any social function that he considered frivolous, and by wearing clothes so plain that she often considered that she could be mistaken for a servant. She had lost interest in almost everything that happened around her, living in a state of almost suspended animation, waiting for she knew not what. She realized occasionally, looking at herself almost without recognition in a looking glass and grimacing, that she had allowed herself to become shockingly overweight, and that it was a long, long time since she had even tried to do something with her hair, which was a rather uninteresting shade of brown anyway.
Sometimes she resolved to take herself in hand and to make the most of the few assets that she possessed. But when it came to the point, she always found herself making excuses. What was the point of spending hours creating a fashionable or attractive hairstyle when she had nowhere to display it? Anyway, Bruce would frown and accuse her of frivolity. And he liked to see her wearing caps at home. It really was not worth the effort of fighting with him. It was difficult to look attractive when one was so definitely fat. And how could she do anything about that when doing so would involve giving up food, her only indulgence?
Anne, at two-and-twenty, seemed to have given up on life. It made little difference to her whether she continued to live at the house where she had always lived, or whether she removed to the little brick school-house with Bruce. It was unlikely that he would ever marry. He had never shown any particular interest in any of the young ladies with whom they had come in contact in the previous few years, though Anne had wondered about his real feelings for her friend Sonia. She must be content, then, to spend her life looking after his needs while he provided her with the necessities of life.
The move was to be made in December, before the weather could be expected to turn harsh with winter. The belongings they were to take with them had been packed into a few trunks, the servants had been dismissed, and their own journey was to be made the day after the servants left. Both had been invited to spend their last evening with Bruce's particular friends, the Reverend Honeywell and his wife. Bruce had gone, but Anne had pleaded a whole list of last-minute tasks to be done before she could leave the following morning. To her relief, Bruce had not pressed her on the matter. She really could not have endured a whole evening of the vicar's moralizing.
The snow had taken her somewhat by surprise. Bruce had mentioned before he left that the sky was darkening and that he was likely to have to ride home through rain. But neither of them had considered snow. It seemed just a little too early in the year. But after darkness fell, when she peered through the library window to see if there was any sign of the threatened rain, she was amazed to see that the ground was completely blanketed in white already and that snow was hanging heavy from the trees that lined the driveway. During the next hour she abandoned all thought of expecting Bruce home that night. He surely would not be so foolish as to try to reach home when he had all of three miles of open country to cross. He was much more likely to stay at the vicarage and come home the next morning when he would have daylight by which to see his way.
Next she abandoned all hope of being able to travel to their new home the following day. The snow was becoming thicker by the minute and it did not look wet and ready to melt at the first ray of sunshine. This snow might stay for a while. Anne was not vastly upset by the delay. It would be inconvenient to be alone in such a large house without any servants, but she would contrive to keep herself- and Bruce when he returned-warm and fed. One consolation was that the same storm that kept them at home would also keep their new tenants from arriving. After an hour or so, Anne stopped wandering to the window and peering out. It was not a comfortable thought to be entirely alone in a large house at night, but there was an element of adventure involved. At least she would not have to worry about thieves or vagrants on such a night.
It was while she was consoling herself with this thought that the knock came on the door. It frightened Anne not a little, so loudly was the knocker banged against the door and so unexpected was the sound. She even found herself standing uncertainly in the middle of the library floor for a few moments until the loud banging sent her scurrying into the hallway. Bruce would not appreciate being kept waiting. But what could have possessed him to make the journey on a night like this? He might be somewhat worried about her being alone, but Bruce was nothing if not a prudent man. He was not in the habit of risking his own safety for the sake of gallantry.
Anne struggled with the bolts on the heavy door as her brother hammered on the other side for the third time. Finally all the bolts were drawn back and she was able to struggle with the door itself.
"Bruce," she sa
id, "you should not have…" Then she saw that it was not her brother standing there but a perfect stranger, who was muffled to the eyes and whose clothes were almost completely matted with snow.
As she stood there foolishly, not knowing what to say, he brushed past her into the hallway and it was too late to think of her own safety. Not that she could have turned him away anyway. It was a wild night outside, and anyone caught out there without shelter would be in a dangerous situation indeed. If only Bruce were there, or if only she could reasonably expect him to come…
Her eyes quickly took in the man's fashionable and expensive clothes, his air of complete self-assurance, almost insolence, and his frightening good looks. Frightening to Anne, that was. He was tall and straight. She suspected that the many capes of that greatcoat, which was even now shedding wet snow onto the floor, hid a pair of broad and capable shoulders. His hair, she saw when he removed his beaver hat, was flattened and untidy, but the most glorious shade of near black. His face was long, his nose aquiline, his cheeks creased by laugh lines. His eyes were a decided shade of blue and did strange things to her breathing when she told him that there were no servants to stable his horse for him. He looked so directly at her.
When he went outside again to tend his horse, Anne tried desperately to gather her wits about her. She had become uncommonly shy in the past few years, especially in male company. Yet now she was very much alone with a man who could only be described as very male indeed. She was agonizingly aware suddenly of her own appearance and her total lack of charms. Why, he had looked upon her and spoken to her more as if she were a thing than a person. She supposed that the unusual circumstances and his recent escape from an extremely uncomfortable situation gave him some excuse for his imperious manner. He had almost ordered her to build up the fire and to provide him with food and drink, just as if she were a servant. But still, she thought, hurt despite her common sense, he would not have spoken to Sonia so-or even to her, had she looked more the fashionable lady.