Pleasured (27 page)

Damon’s eyes widened, and across from Meg, Lynette sucked in a sharp breath. Given their reactions, Meg studied the new arrivals with interest. The woman in front was blond, with pale blue eyes, and her stick-thin figure was clothed in a fashionable double-breasted traveling coat of navy blue. An elegant bonnet, kid gloves, and kid half boots completed the sophisticated picture. Behind her stood a bland man and woman, both of them expensively dressed but neither with
the eye for fashion of the other woman, whom Meg took to be Lady Basham.

“Hallo, Damon.” Lady Basham swept into the room as Damon rose to his feet. “Surprised?” She extended her hand to Damon and turned her cheek for a kiss of greeting.

“That is putting it mildly.” Damon took her hand, bowing over it, ignoring her waiting cheek. “Welcome, Lady Veronica.” He nodded toward the other couple. “Mr. Twitherington-Smythe. Ma’am.”

“Such formality, Damon.” Lady Veronica kept her careful smile in place as she swiveled toward the table. “And Lynette. How delightful to see you.” Her eyes swept on past the girl to Lynette’s governess, giving her a slight nod, before her gaze settled on Meg. “You dine with the help here in the country? How very . . . quaint.”

“Meg is our friend, Aunt Veronica,” Lynette said quickly, blushing. “She saved my life.”

Veronica’s brows lifted and she studied Meg coolly. “My. That was fortuitous.”

Meg rose to her feet, never one to back down before disparagement.

Damon shifted so that he stood closer to Meg and slightly in front of her. “Pray allow me to introduce you to Miss Munro. Miss Munro, Lady Basham, Lynette’s aunt. Mr. and Mrs. Twitherington-Smythe, the late Lord Basham’s cousins. I believe, Lady Veronica, that you are well acquainted with Lynette’s governess, Miss Pettigrew,” he added drily. He gestured vaguely toward the table. “Pray sit down and join us.”

“Oh, we are not dressed for dinner, Damon,” Lynette’s aunt protested.

“We are quite casual here,” Damon returned pleasantly.

“So I see.” Veronica cast a pointed glance at Meg.

Meg, suddenly very aware of her plain gown, felt a blush start in her cheeks and was irritated with herself. What did she care what this snobbish woman thought of her? But she did; she could not help but feel the gulf between her and the other women, which seemed to be widening by the moment.

“Suit yourself.” Damon turned toward the butler. “Show our guests to their rooms, Hudgins. I am sure you must have some prepared for unexpected guests.” Damon’s tone gave a light stress to the word
unexpected
. “And no doubt they would like their meals brought to their rooms, as well.”

Lady Veronica gave a brittle smile. “No, no, Hudgins, I would not put you to such trouble. Since we are so informal here, I am sure we are all happy to dine just as we are.”

Without bothering to glance at the other couple for their opinion, Veronica strolled toward the table. Damon quickly moved to pull out the chair beside Meg. Instead, Veronica paused at the end of the table, looking at Meg, and Meg realized that the woman expected to sit in the chair Meg occupied. The aristocracy were seated by precedence; Isobel would doubtless know just how it went.

Feeling the hated blush again, Meg started to move, but Damon clamped a hand on her shoulder, holding her in place. “No need to change places, Miss Munro. As I said, we do not stand on formality here. Veronica?” Damon went on silkily, pulling the empty chair back a trifle more, leaving the woman little choice but to sit or make a scene.

Meg saw the flash of anger in Lady Veronica’s eyes, but she gave a regal nod to Damon and sat in the chair he offered. The servants began to serve the new guests immedi
ately, but Meg suspected that the food had grown a mite cold by now. A glance at Damon’s carefully expressionless face and cool dark eyes told her that the thought probably gave him some satisfaction. Meg, too aware of Lady Veronica’s seething anger beside her, couldn’t garner much enjoyment from it. It warmed Meg’s heart that Damon had insisted she sit beside him, but she knew it would probably have been better if he had let Meg move and given his sister-in-law the seat of honor. Lady Veronica, however haughty and unpleasant she had been to begin with, firmly hated Meg now.

“I am surprised to find you have become so ruralized, Damon.” Veronica fired her first shot. “I suppose out here in the wilderness, it is to be expected. I vow, we quite feared some hirsute sort wrapped in tartan might stop my coach.”

Beside her, Mr. Twitherington-Smythe gave a harrumphing laugh and added, “Quite true, my lady. Quite true.”

“Mm. The Scots blood does run strong in us,” Damon mused. “I confess lately I have felt a distinct urge to grab my ancestor’s claymore and venture out to wreak havoc on unsuspecting travelers.”

Lynette choked on her drink and hastily covered her mouth with a napkin. Her eyes danced merrily as she looked across at Meg, and Meg pressed her lips together firmly, turning her gaze down to her plate.

“Eh?” Twitherington-Smythe looked confused. “Oh. Ha! Yes, I see. You have some Scot in your ancestry.” Meg was not sure whether the man was asking for confirmation or explaining the joke to his wife.

“Damon, you do so love to tease.” Veronica’s hand clenched around her fork, but she forced a tiny laugh into her voice. “You know I did not mean you. Why, there is
scarcely enough trace of Scots blood in you to count.”

“I am only one-quarter Scot,” he agreed pleasantly. “But I have discovered since I’ve been here that the Highlands exert a powerful pull. I have been learning to dance a reel. However, I daresay I do not have the fortitude to take up the bagpipe.”

Lynette dissolved into giggles, keeping her napkin firmly clamped to her mouth.

“Honestly, Damon, you are a complete hand.” Veronica managed an indulgent tone. “You should not say such things or you will alarm Miss Munro. After all, she does not know you as we do.”

“Oh, I imagine she knows me well enough.”

Meg felt his eyes on her, but she did not dare to look at him, certain that if she did, her face would reveal the underlying meaning of his words.

“Oh! I must not forget—Lord Upchurch bade me give you his regards.”

“Indeed?”

“I saw him at the Duchess of Chiverton’s soiree. I was surprised to see him; as you know, Lady Upchurch is said to be quite ill. Everyone was there—the Little Season has begun, you know. Cumberland and even Prinny himself graced it with his presence, so I presume Upchurch felt he could not miss it. It was dreadfully boring; you know how her parties are. It was too bad you were not there to keep us all amused.”

“I was unaware you found me so entertaining. I fear we are quite dull here at Duncally. Little to do but ride or walk in the garden.”

“But you must know that I adore gardens. I have always enjoyed the gardens at the Hall. Of course, now that my
sister is no longer there, ’tis not the same. I was not surprised you found the memories of Amibel too much to bear. Still, I am sure it will heal in time. The Hall is too lovely to spend much time away from it.” She turned toward the man on her other side. “Have you visited Rutherford Hall, sir?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had that privilege, my lady. Lovely spot, I’ve heard. My cousin Lord Harrington has been a guest there on occasion, if I remember right. Good man, Harrington; I was named after him, you know. Of course, he is not a first cousin. I believe the relationship is a second cousin—or is it a first cousin once removed? Do you know, Miranda?”

“No, dear,” his wife squeaked out, the first, and only, words Meg heard her utter throughout the meal.

The evening progressed in much the same way, with Lady Veronica continually turning the conversation back to people and places of which Meg had no knowledge, with the wordy help of Mr. Twitherington-Smythe. Miss Pettigrew seemed to hang on the woman’s every word, but Damon’s responses grew shorter and farther between. Across the table from Meg, Lynette slipped into boredom, pushing her food around on her plate and slumping in her chair, her eyelids drooping.

When at last the dinner ended, Lady Veronica stood, which brought everyone else to their feet. “Come, Lynette, we must withdraw and leave your father to his port. Mrs. Twitherington-Smythe? Miss Pettigrew?” Veronica did not bother to glance at Meg.

“A charming custom I choose not to follow at Duncally.” Damon also rose to his feet. “I join the ladies after dinner.”

“Oh. My.” Lady Veronica looked nonplussed and Twith
erington-Smythe goggled.

Meg seized the opportunity the moment of silence presented. “Lynette, I believe the excitement of your aunt’s arrival has tired you out.” Meg moved around the end of the table to take the girl’s arm. “It has not been long since you were unable to leave your bed. I’ll take you upstairs.”

Lynette started to protest, then snapped her mouth shut, her eyes sparking with understanding. She sagged a bit more, looping her arm through Meg’s, and leaned against her. “I
am
a bit tired.”

“What? You have been ill?” Lady Veronica said.

As you would have known, Meg thought, if you had bothered to discuss anything but yourself all evening.

“Are you feeling worse?” Damon’s eyes darkened with concern and he started forward. Meg, her back toward Lady Veronica, gave him a wink, and he stopped, his face clearing. “Ah, well, then of course you must go to bed.” He leaned in to kiss his daughter’s cheek, murmuring, “Traitors.”

With a quirk of her lips, Meg whisked Lynette out into the hall, leaving Damon to deal with his guests.

Meg was resolved not to pry any information from Lynette about her aunt, much as Meg would have liked to, but she had no need. Lynette began to talk before they reached the stairs. “I am so sorry. Aunt Veronica was rude. She is that way with everyone. Well, never with Papa, of course. Only with all of us who are . . . less than she is. She treats Miss Pettigrew like a servant, and yes, I know Miss Pettigrew is something of a nuisance—she irritates Papa terribly—but Aunt Veronica uses Miss Pettigrew when she wants and then acts as if the woman barely exists.”

“Uses Miss Pettigrew? How? Why?”

“To get information. Not so much about me, I think. She is—well, she acts fond of me, but it is not real. And she pretends to have loved Mother dearly, but when she came to visit us, Aunt Veronica rarely spent much time with either of us. She likes the Hall, I think, more than anything. She is a widow, and Lord Basham’s estate was entailed, so she has only a bit of income that he left her, and she had to return to my grandparents’ home to live. It is Papa she is interested in, really. I think she wants to marry him.”

The girl’s words stabbed Meg’s heart, and for a moment she could not breathe. That was foolish. She knew Damon would be bound to marry again; men were always mad for a son, and with a man of Damon’s station, it was a necessity. She had never expected permanence with Damon. Nor fidelity . . . at least not in the long term.

“Papa laughed at the idea, but I do not think I am wrong.”

“No, I daresay you are not.” Meg thought of the woman’s actions, her spite toward Meg and the way she had swallowed her ire when she spoke to Damon, answering him with sweetness, however clearly false. Something hard as iron and fierce as fire raged up in Meg.
That woman w
ill not have him.
Meg knew she would ultimately lose Damon, but by God, it would not be to Lady Veronica.

“He would not marry her, would he?” Lynette asked Meg, frowning.

“I think not.”
Not if I have anything to do with it.
“It did not seem to me that your father was well pleased to see them.”

“No, he was not.” Lynette giggled. “I could hardly keep from laughing when Papa was talking about being a Scot . . .
and then that man had to work out what Papa meant. Mr. Thickerton—no, Twitt—Twittenham—”

Meg could not hold back a chuckle. “Twitterton-Smythe.”

“No, no, that’s not it either.” Lynette burst into laughter. “Twitherington! Twitherington-Smythe.”

They turned into Lynette’s room. The breathing tent and inhalation bowl were long since gone, but a kettle sat near the fire, and Meg used it to brew Lynette’s nightly tisane. Lynette changed into her nightclothes and settled into bed with the mug of tea Meg had prepared.

Quietly, gazing down into her mug, Lynette said, “I thought—I hoped Papa would marry you.”

“What?” Meg gaped at the girl.

“I know he likes you.” Lynette looked up. “He always . . . brightens when you come into the room.”

“Oh, Lynette . . .” Meg frowned a little, searching for the right words.

“No, I know.” Lynette sighed. “It isn’t done. Though I don’t see why; I’d ever so much rather have you for a mother than someone like Aunt Veronica. But Papa always does his duty. My mother used to say so, though she sounded very bitter about it.”

Meg firmly swallowed the emotions swirling inside her. “Lynette, love . . .” She brushed a strand of hair back from the girl’s forehead. Meg found she had to swallow her tears. “There is no one whom I would love more to have as a daughter than you.”

“Do you love him, too?” Lynette gazed into her eyes.

“Mayhap I do.” Meg looked away. “But you are right: it
is not done. We are so very far apart, your father and I—in birth, in home. Mardoun would not even think of marrying me, and in any case, we Munro women do not marry. I have my freedom and your father has his name.” Her words sounded hollow, even to her. Meg let out a breath and tried again. “Don’t fret. Your papa will choose wisely when—when he marries again. And you will be uppermost in his considerations, I am sure of it.” Meg forced a bright smile. “There now. Enough of this. ’Tis time for you to rest. And dinna worry about your papa. Or me, least of all.”

Lynette smiled and handed her the empty cup. Meg set it down and tucked the girl into bed, turning out the lamp as she left the room. Outside in the hall, she stood for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. Then she strode across into her room and began to pack.

24

M
eg had been in her
own room only a few minutes when she heard the others coming upstairs. Damon’s door closed, and the rest continued down the hall, much to her relief. She had feared Hudgins might place one of them in the other room on the balcony, between Damon and Meg.

Damon appeared at her balcony door, and she went forward to greet him, her heart lifting as it always did. He pulled her to him for a long, slow kiss, then took her hand and strolled with her to the comfortable chair beside the fire.

“Thank heavens Hudgins had enough sense to stick those people at the other end of the hall,” he said, echoing Meg’s thoughts as he sat, tugging her down into his lap. “I cannot imagine what possessed Veronica to come here, much less drag that fool Harry with her. A duller man I’ve never met, and his wife hasn’t two words to say—though I suppose that is probably a good thing since she must be bird-witted to have married the man.”

Meg laughed. “I thought they were friends of yours.”

“Good gad, no.” Damon sent her an appalled glance. “Do not tell me that is your opinion of my taste?”

“No, how could it be?” Meg asked pertly. “When you have a partiality for me?”

“Very true.” He kissed the crook of her neck, stroking his hand down her side and along her thigh.

“Lynette thinks Lady Veronica is here to lure you into marriage.”

“So Lynette told me a few weeks ago. I find it hard to credit. But if that is Veronica’s intention, she has certainly gone about it in a deuced poor fashion, barging in here uninvited, two utter wet gooses in tow.” Damon rested his head against hers, idly drifting his fingers over her nape. Suddenly his hand went still, and Meg felt his body tense beneath her. “What is that?”

Meg glanced up and saw that he was scowling at her packed bag.

“Oh.” She took a breath. “Those are my clothes. I am returning to the cottage tomorrow.”

“No. You cannot.”

“I cannot?” She straightened and cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You know what I mean.” He grimaced. “Meg, I don’t want you to leave.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is it because of Veronica? I know she can be—no, she
is
a snobbish bore. I would send her packing, but she is Lynette’s aunt. I shall talk to her, tell her that if she wishes to remain here, she must change her behavior.”

“In what way? Are you going to ask her to give way to someone far below her in rank? To break bread with the bas
tard daughter of a Highland healing woman? To live cheek by jowl with your mistress?”

“Stop.” The red of anger flared along his cheekbones. “I will not have you talk about yourself in that manner.”

“Did I misstate the facts in any way?”

His eyes flashed. “Damn it, Meg, you are not—”

“Not what? The woman whose bed you sleep in?”

He surged to his feet and began to pace, his face stamped with frustration. “Has anyone offered you any disrespect in this house? Have I not treated you with honor?”

“Damon, no!” Meg reached out and took his hands between hers. “You have made me feel nothing but valued. No one has said anything to me. That is not the point.”

“What is?”

“I should not be here. I have a house; I have a life. That is where I belong.”

“You can do whatever you want here.” He waved his hand vaguely. “The stillroom is yours. The herb gardens, the kitchens, whatever you want.” He pushed on. “Lynette needs you.”

“She is well. And I will check on her—every day if you wish.”

“She will miss you.” He stopped, then went on in a low voice, “I will miss you.”

“And I will miss you.” Meg went to him and slid her arms around his waist, leaning against his chest. “But, Damon, we must think of your daughter.”

“I am thinking of her. She would tell you to stay as well.”

“It is not right for her to live in this situation. What would you say about a man who allowed his mistress to
reside in the same house with his young daughter? What would anyone in your society say?”

“She does not know. We have been discreet.”

“Do you honestly think your sister-in-law did not know what we are to each other the minute she walked in the room? Do you think the servants don’t suspect that you spend your nights in here with me? Does Blandings not know?”

“Of course, he does. It’s useless to try to hide anything from his hawk eye. But he would never gossip.”

“Others will. It is scarcely the sort of thing you want whispered about your daughter behind her back.”

He clenched his fist. “I will not let—”

“Yes, yes, I know, you will force everyone to your will. But the fact is, Damon, you cannot control everything. People will say you raised Lynette loosely, that you brought her up in the company of a hussy. It will reflect not only on you, but on her. I realized it tonight when Lady Veronica and her friends arrived. I saw how it must appear to them. What people would say. And I knew that I have been selfish to stay here this way.”

Damon glared at her in frustration for a long moment, then let out a curse and turned away. “Yes, very well, you are right,” he said sullenly. “But I do not want . . . I cannot lose you again.”

“You won’t lose me.” A tender warmth blossomed in her chest, and Meg went to him. “Damon, I am not severing myself from you. I am only moving back to my home. I believe you managed to find your way there before.” She cast a flirtatious glance up at him, laying her palms flat against his chest. “It may not be as easy, but surely I am worth a bit of trouble?”

He smiled faintly and put his hands on her arms, sliding them up and down. “You are worth a great deal of trouble.”

“Then you will come see me?” She curled her fingers into his lapels and went up on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. “At the cottage? Or perhaps the standing stones?” Her eyes sparkled.

“Yes. I will be there.” He pressed his lips to hers with more force. “You could not keep me away.”

“Good.” Meg narrowed her eyes. “But I warn you, if you fall prey to Lady Veronica’s wiles in my absence, I will have your lights and liver. And hers, too, for good measure.”

“Then I shall be very careful to avoid her.” Damon laughed and pulled Meg to him. “I have grown very tired of talking about Lady Basham.” Sweeping Meg up in his arms, he carried her toward the bed.

Whatever Meg had said, it was not at all the same without her, Damon thought, gazing glumly down the table at his guests. For one thing, if Meg had been here, he would not be marooned at the most tedious dinner party he had ever attended, with the brainless Harry on one side and Damon’s archly flirting sister-in-law on the other. He would have enjoyed talking to Jack and Isobel, but Veronica in her precedent-precise way had stuck the plebeian Jack farthest away from the head of the table, with Mrs. Twitherington-Smythe and the dry-as-dust minister and his wife between.

Jack’s eyes, Damon saw, were glazing over as the minister droned on. It was some comfort, Damon supposed, that he had company in his misery. Isobel, on the other hand, was
far too stiff, her pleasant gray eyes too hard, to be sleepy. Isobel had never been what Damon would term friendly to him, but tonight, after one encompassing glance at the guests, she had frosted over entirely. No doubt she, like he, wished that Meg were here.

Harry’s idiocy might have been somewhat entertaining if Damon had been able to glance over at Meg and see her gold eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter. Any amount of time could be whiled away pleasantly as long as he could watch Meg and contemplate the night ahead.

There would still be the night with her—as soon as he could escape the castle—but it was not the same as it had been when she was in the house. It was a pleasure all its own to lie with Meg in her soft bed, the air scented of herbs—indeed, just stepping into the cottage never failed to subtly arouse him, as if Meg herself were enveloping him—but the result was that he had not spent the night in his own home for an entire week. It brought a fresh reluctance and regret each morning when he had to slip out and leave her sleeping there, soft and warm and sweetly curved. Not to mention that it was a dashed nuisance having to leave early enough so that no one would see him tromping back into the castle at that hour. The only alternative was to leave earlier, right after they had made love, and that was even more unappealing.

The torturous thing, though, was that Meg was not here with him all the time. He missed the sound of her voice. Her laughter. The little tickle of anticipation knowing that he would walk into a room and see her there. He missed talking to her, seeing her. Before when she was not with him, when he had been in his study or sitting with Lynette, he had known that if he wanted to talk to Meg, he had only to walk
into the sitting room or the stillroom or the gardens, and he would find her there. Now it seemed that he idled away his entire day, waiting until he could leave for Meg’s cottage.

He was relieved when at long last Veronica rose, indicating that it was time to abandon the gentlemen to their port and cigars. Even more fortunately, the minister went with the ladies. Too bad Harry remained, but at least one did not have to mind one’s tongue with him. With a sigh of relief, Damon poured brandy into their glasses, and the three men settled back to sample cigars from the humidor proffered by Hudgins.

“Excellent cigar,” Harry pronounced, rolling the thing between his fingers and taking a long, appreciative sniff. “I always say, your hospitality is the finest.”

As if the man had ever been invited to his house before, Damon thought, but he merely gave a bow of his head to acknowledge the compliment. A bit of devilment then sparked in his eyes. “Perhaps we should have a game of whist later. What say you, Kensington? I am sure Harry is up for it.”

“Indeed,” Harry responded heartily. “Though I have to warn you I am a dab hand at cards. Cumberland refuses to play with me.”

“I am game to risk it,” Jack replied carelessly. “But perhaps another night. My wife will likely scorch my ears if I linger too long.”

“I am sure time hangs more heavily on her hands in the drawing room,” Damon agreed.

“How so?” Then Harry’s face cleared. “Oh, I see, because that long-winded chap is in there with them.” He chuffed out a hearty laugh. “You have the right of it, Mardoun.”

“Isobel was sorry to see that Meg was not here tonight.”

“Yes, I thought she was looking daggers at me,” Damon agreed. “I can assure you I had nothing to do with the matter. I didn’t even know we were entertaining until I walked into the dining room.”

“Meg?” Harry asked. “Who is—oh, you mean that bit of fluff you were keeping when we arrived. Quite the stunner, that one, I must say. I wouldn’t mind having a go there myself.”

Jack’s hand went still, cigar halfway to his mouth, as he turned a cold gaze on the visitor.

Damon’s eyes turned black as the pits of hell, and he leaned forward. “Do not”—he bit off the words—“speak of Miss Munro.”

Harry goggled at him and began to sputter, “No, I assure you, no disrespect meant. I would not dream . . . never poach. Under your protection, of course.”

“If I were you, I would stop before you dig yourself deeper,” Jack advised mildly.

“Yes. Well, of course.” Harry swallowed hard, looking like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a wolf.

“Miss Munro is well respected around the loch,” Jack went on. “Something of a sister to my wife.”

“Oh! I say. Never meant . . . wouldn’t presume . . .”

Damon pulled his gaze away, waiting for the red haze to recede. Harry was a fool, nothing more. Damon himself had put Meg in that position, which, as always, touched a raw nerve in him. “Let it be, Harry.” Damon took a long drink of his brandy.

“My lord.” Hudgins appeared in the doorway, then came forward at Damon’s gesture, saying in a low voice, “There is a man here to see you. The, um, one you hired recently.”

“He has news?” Damon’s voice rose in interest.

“I believe so, my lord.”

Damon shoved to his feet, stubbing out his barely smoked cigar. “Gentlemen, excuse me. And pray give my apologies to the ladies. I have business to attend to.”

Damon was late. Meg started once again to the door, then stopped, telling herself she was being foolish. It wasn’t as if the man had told her he would be here at any certain time. Indeed, he had not told her he would be here at all. Just because he had visited her every evening—and more than once during the afternoon, she thought with a secret smile—did not mean that he would continue to do so every night. He could have something else to do. Jealousy flared up in her as she thought of his playing cards with Lady Veronica or perhaps turning the pages of music while she played the piano.