The Wild Child (35 page)

A truly worldly thought occurred to Meriel. If she became a “normal” member of society, the wealthy daughter of an earl with an equally well-born husband, she would have social power in the county. If she wished to extend her friendship to an uncommon couple—a general’s daughter and her foreign husband—most, perhaps all, of the local gentry would follow. With wry amusement, she recognized that if one was part of society, it was best to belong to the upper echelons and have power to help one’s friends.

With a click like a key fitting into a lock, she suddenly understood why Renbourne wanted her as wife, not mistress. To be husband and wife was a declaration to the world, a statement that they belonged together. He had said as much, but she hadn’t truly grasped what he meant. Though Meriel didn’t share his respect for marriage—look how badly Jena’s husband had behaved—she better understood his point of view.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard Kamal say, “It is time we found milady and took her back to the house.”

“I wonder where she can be—it’s not so large a garden that she could go far.” Jena caught her breath.

“Heavens, you don’t think she’s back by the fountain, do you?”

“There is but one way to find out.” The bench creaked as weight came off it. Meriel’s heart jumped with alarm. Even good friends would not like the fact that she had eavesdropped on such private moments. But there was nowhere to run—the fountain circle was in the corner of the larger garden and had only one entrance.

Barely in time, she took the only course possible and curled up on her side in the grass as if she’d fallen asleep in the sun, the daisy in one hand. With effort she made her breathing even, keeping her eyes closed as footsteps approached.

Kamal said softly, “She sleeps.”

“Probably still feeling the effects of the drugs from the asylum,” Jena said with equal softness. “She looks tired.”

They were being so kind that Meriel felt a stab of guilt at her eavesdropping. Perhaps some of the social conventions she’d scorned had legitimate uses—such as not violating the privacy of others.

“No need to wake her.” Kamal’s strong arms lifted her, as they had so often when she was a child. She made a small show of coming partially awake, and tucked the daisy into his beard. Then she cuddled into his shoulder as he carried her back to the house.

With sadness, she realized that he might never again carry her like this. Though he had been her rock and her refuge, both of them were moving forward into new lives, and the relationship between them would change.

Change hurt.

During Meriel’s walk, all arrangements had been made for the journey, including a portmanteau of hastily collected garments for the future bride. There was a brief discussion on whether or not Kamal would accompany them, but he decided it was more important to return quietly to Warfield and reassure the ladies that Meriel was well. A similar message had already been sent to Lord and Lady Amworth. Well before midmorning, the carriage rumbled down the drive of Holliwell Grange, and they were on their way. Meriel had donned stockings and shoes again in honor of the leave-taking, but even before they reached the main road, she’d pulled them off and was wriggling her toes in relief. Renbourne smiled and took her hand. “You must be frayed to the bone with so much socializing and shoe wearing.”

She nodded, glad that he understood. Except for Kamal, he was the only person whose company didn’t tire her. In fact, when Renbourne was near, she felt… energized.

They reached the intersection with the main road, and Renbourne rapped on the roof of the carriage.

“Time to tell the driver that we are going to Scotland.”

She looked at him. “No.”

As the carriage slowed to a stop, he turned to her in surprise. “I thought that we had agreed Scotland was a better choice.”

“You said that, not I.” Her eyes narrowed. “I have seen maps. London is closer, and in all ways better.”

He frowned. “London can be a painful place, Meriel.”

“I can bear it.”

She waited tensely, thinking that if he dismissed her opinion out of hand, she would throw her shoes at him. She had no gift for being told what to do.

But he said, “Very well. You’re right that in most ways, London is preferable.” Leaning out of the window, he called to the driver, “Head for the London road.”

Satisfied, Meriel leaned back in her seat. Renbourne listened very well. A good trait in a future husband.
Chapter 33

Blessed by fine, steady winds, Kyle’s chartered ship made swift progress back to Britain. He’d be home before Dominic expected him.

Constancia had been buried in a quiet churchyard beside an orange tree, so the blossoms would sweeten her resting place. Her namesake doves, las palomas, cooed from the bell tower as the coffin was lowered into the earth. Teresa had wept for her mistress, but Kyle had watched dry-eyed. He’d already shed his tears for his wife.

Teresa chose to stay in Spain and return to her native town. Kyle left her with a purse of gold that had rounded the girl’s eyes and would provide her with a handsome dowry if she found a young man to her liking. Then, more alone than he had ever been in his life, Kyle took ship for his homeland. He spent much of his time standing in the ship’s bow and watching the wheeling gulls as his mind returned again to Cadiz. Would he ever see Spain again? He’d liked what little he’d seen, but guessed that the memories would be too painful to ever allow another visit.

Even to himself, he could not describe his emotions. Sorrow, of course, for that would always be with him. But mostly he felt empty. Hollow as a bubble that would blow away in the first breeze. The knowledge that Lady Meriel Grahame awaited was a welcome anchor. The unfortunate girl could never be to him what Constancia had been, but she needed a husband to look out for her, and to administer her inheritance with a care no hireling could provide. Though her uncle thought that marriage and perhaps children might cure her disordered wits, Kyle suspected that was wishful thinking. However, he had promised to do his best by the girl, and he would, unless Dominic had failed in his role. But the substitution should have gone smoothly—how much could go wrong in a quiet place like Warfield? Dominic was thoroughly competent when he chose to be, and he’d wanted the scheme to succeed at least as much as Kyle did.

A gull screamed by no more than a dozen feet away. Remembering the bread he’d brought from his breakfast, Kyle broke off pieces and tossed them into the wind. The swift, greedy birds caught the morsels before they could touch the sea.

He had debated whether to reveal his marriage to anyone back home, but decided against it. Not because he was ashamed of his love for Constancia—never that. But knowing that people would gossip or make rude jokes about his marriage to a courtesan many years his senior was abhorrent. Such talk was unworthy of her memory.

To the world, Lady Meriel would be the first and only Lady Maxwell. It was enough that Kyle had loved Constancia, and she had known it.

Chapter 34

By the time they reached Mayfair, Dominic was wishing he’d argued Meriel out of coming to London. The long journey was hard on her to begin with, for she was unused to spending days trapped in a small, jarring coach, and the need for haste meant that stops were few and brief. But London was far worse than the extra miles to Scotland would have been. The city always assaulted Dominic’s senses when he returned after a spell in the country, and this time the rank odors and clamorous noise seemed infinitely worse because he was imagining how Meriel must feel. As soon as they reached the fringes of the city, she withdrew into a corner of the coach, face pale and her body knotted in a way that said she did not want to be touched. Conditions improved somewhat when they entered cleaner, more fashionable Mayfair, but it was still London and stressful. He forced himself not to fuss over Meriel, but he could not dismiss a deep fear that she would break under all the strain she had experienced recently. If that happened, she might retreat to her private world so far that no one, not even he, could reach her.

It would have been so much easier if he had fallen in love with a normal, boring girl. The trouble was that such girls were… boring.

He’d thought hard about where to stay in the city. Though his valet, Clement, should be back from the country, Dominic’s rooms were no place to take an unmarried young lady. A quiet, respectable hotel seemed a better choice, until the sight of Hyde Park gave him an idea. Stopping the coach, he gave the driver a new address. As he settled in the vehicle again, he explained, “I just realized that we can probably stay with some friends of mine, Lord and Lady Kimball. I don’t believe they’ve left for the country yet.”

Meriel tensed even more. “Fashionable people?”

He shook his head. “They’re both painters, and they have the artists’ tolerance of unconventional situations. I can’t think of a household in London that you would find more congenial. They even have quite a nice garden, by London standards.”

She relaxed a little. “Why do you know painters so well?”

How did one explain the spark of mutual enjoyment that was friendship? It was as mysterious in its way as romantic love, though thankfully more common. Sticking with the facts, he replied, “Lady Kimball—Rebecca—is a well-known portrait artist. A lady I once knew was sitting for a portrait and asked me to keep her company.” As an idle young man about town, Dominic had plenty of time to indulge such requests, particularly since the lady who asked was a widow with whom he’d been having an amiable affair.

“My friend and Rebecca got into a conversation about the pose and I wandered off, ending up in Kenneth’s—that is, Lord Kimball’s—studio. He was a soldier—a real one, not a mere pretender, like me. He’s famous for his pictures of war, and the consequences of war.” Dominic thought back to the moment he’d entered the studio, and been stopped in his tracks by the almost completed painting on Kimball’s easel. That was the day he discovered the power of art.

Shaking off the memory, he said, “Kenneth was painting a scene from Waterloo, and that started us talking. I was a very junior cavalry officer while he was captain of a company of the Rifle Brigade, but we were both there, which created an immediate bond. He’d commanded enough young officers like me to understand how I’d been affected—probably better than I did. By the time my friend’s portrait was done, Kenneth and Rebecca had adopted me as a sort of little brother. For years I’ve run tame around their house. They will not be shocked to find us on their doorstep.”

Meriel nodded slowly. “They sound… comfortable.” And clearly she was in need of comfort, though she didn’t look as if she expected to find any.

“The knocker is up, so they haven’t left town yet,” Dominic said as the carriage halted in front of a handsome corner house. “This place used to belong to Rebecca’s father, Sir Anthony Seaton, president of the Royal Academy. Have you heard of him?”

Meriel nodded. Sir Anthony, charmingly arrogant, would be gratified to know that even a total recluse who paid no attention to the world knew his name.

“When Kenneth and Rebecca married, Sir Anthony gave them this large house, and bought the smaller one next door for himself and his wife,” Dominic explained. “A door was cut through on the ground floor so the two families can wander back and forth but still have privacy. I don’t know another household like it.”

Though Dominic had intended to go into Kimball House alone to explain the situation, Meriel climbed out of the carriage after him. No stockings, but she’d slipped on her shoes. Pale, dressed like a servant, and looking as if she would shatter at a touch, she was an odd sight even in London. No sooner had he and Meriel been admitted by the maid than a small boy shot through the entrance hall.

“Uncle Dominic!”

With a grin, Dominic swooped the five-year-old over his head before setting the child back on his feet.

“What happened to saying hello before attacking?” he laughed. Turning to Meriel, he said, “Meet the Honorable Michael Seaton Wilding.”

To the boy, he said, “Please pay your respects to Lady Meriel Grahame, who has done me the honor to agree to become my wife.”

As the boy bowed, a light voice from the steps accused, “Uncle Dominic, you didn’t wait for me to grow up.”

He glanced up and saw a red-haired girl of eight coming down the stairs, her small body swaddled in a paint-marked smock. “I’m sorry, Antonia,” he said apologetically. “But I feared that I would pine for you for the next ten years, and then you would break my heart by refusing to marry me anyhow.”

“Very likely.” The little girl curtsied gracefully. “Welcome, Lady Meriel.”

Next to appear was Rebecca Wilding herself, wearing a smock with almost as much paint as her daughter’s. “Dominic, how lovely to see you. It’s been too long. Did I hear something about an almost wife?” Her eyes widened when she saw Meriel, the lust of a fascinated painter shining in the hazel depths. As a hound ambled in and leaned against Dominic, the last human member of the family came down the stairs, burly as a stevedore and smelling faintly of turpentine. “Quite a commotion,” Kenneth Wilding observed as he scanned the increasingly crowded hall. “What am I missing?”

By the time all of the introductions were performed, two cats had also materialized, and Meriel looked ready to faint. Dominic put a protective hand on the back of her waist as he considered the best way to proceed.

Meriel solved the problem by straightening to her full height. “Lady Kimball, would you mind terribly if I visit your garden?” Her ironic gaze went to Dominic. “This will be much easier to explain if I’m not present.”

Not turning a hair, Rebecca said, “Antonia, take Lady Meriel to the garden, and then leave her in peace. Michael, back upstairs to your lessons.”

Meriel and Antonia left, the dog and one of the cats, a large gray tabby, pattering behind. When the adults were alone, Kenneth remarked, “There’s obviously quite a story behind this. Do tell us what is going on, Dominic.”

“Gladly, though I ask that you not tell anyone else, not even Sir Anthony and Lady Seaton.” Dominic accompanied his friends into the drawing room at the back of the house. After they took seats, he gave a terse summary of Mend’s background, how he’d come to meet her, and the reasons why a swift marriage was essential. He concluded with, “This is a great deal to ask, but would you be able to let us stay here one or two nights, until I can make the arrangements for the wedding?”