Candice Hern (86 page)

"It is too bad that we cannot say our proper thank yous to the duke and duchess," Gram said as her eyes scanned the crowd milling about the reception area. "But I doubt they will even miss us in this squeeze. I will send a note round to Her Grace tomorrow. It was a lovely ball, was it not?"

"Yes," Meg muttered, wondering how much longer she could maintain her composure when her heart was breaking and would surely start bleeding all over the floor at any moment.

"Oh, my dear," Gram said as she gently patted Meg's arm. "You really are feeling ill, are you not? Let us hope your brother has the carriage ready. One can only hope that the traffic will have thinned out a bit from the mad crush when we arrived."

The footman returned with their cloaks, and the two ladies made their way down the sweeping marble staircase. Terrence met them at the entry and—thank God!—had the carriage waiting. He handed Meg and Gram into the coach before jumping in himself to take the seat opposite. Meg kept her eyes closed on the short trip to Duke Street, where Terrence had leased a town house for the Season. No doubt believing her asleep or ill, neither her grandmother nor her brother spoke during the trip home.

As the coach bounced along the streets of Mayfair, Meg directed her thoughts away from the full mortification of her encounter with Sedge. She concentrated on the jostling ride, the soft velvet of the squabs that cushioned each bounce, the regular clip-clop of the horses hooves on the cobblestones, and squeezed her eyes more tightly to hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

* * *

Sedge wandered aimlessly through the dark edges of the garden, feeling as though he had walked into someone else's dream. Nothing made any sense. Nothing. First, Meg coldly rejected an honorable offer of marriage. Then stunned him with this latest offer of her own. On occasion, Sedge had had to deal with mistresses who had designs on being wives. Never had he thought to find a woman he wanted as a wife who had designs on being his mistress. It did not make any sense.

These last few months did not make any sense. It had all started with that stupid carriage accident. Sedge absently reached up to finger the scar over his left temple. Perhaps that knock on the head had done more damage after all. Perhaps the brain fever had affected his reason. Dear God, perhaps he was no longer completely sane. Was that not possible? He had heard of blows to the head severe enough to result in brain damage. Is that what had happened to him?

He came upon a rustic wood bench and plopped down upon it. Still touching his scar, Sedge began to consider the very real possibility that his reasoning had been impaired by his accident. It was the only explanation. Try as he might, he could not seem to make sense of anything. Meg's behavior, now and at Thornhill, proved to be a complete enigma. His own feelings had become so jumbled he no longer even knew what he wanted. One minute he wanted her, the next minute he did not.

He felt helpless to reason through anything. He could not seem to logically consider the situation in his usual plodding but pragmatic way, because he simply did not understand it. Nothing about it seemed logical.

Sedge rose and ambled his way through the garden, determined to return to the house, fetch his cloak and hat, and take his leave. Assuming he could find his way. He no longer had any confidence in his mental faculties. Perhaps he would wander, hopelessly lost, for hours until some kind soul came to his rescue. Poor old Sedge, they would say. We have to keep an eye on him now, since he is not able to look out for himself.

But soon enough, he found himself at the base of the horseshoe steps. He had made his way after all. Somehow. Not bad, he thought, for a pitiful half-wit.

Now, if he could just get the hell out of here without further embarrassing himself.

Chapter 21

Meg maintained a stoic silence as her maid helped her out of the dark blue silk gown. She had been so proud of this gown. It had made her feel sophisticated and worldly. Now, she could not wait to be rid of it.

How she wished she were at Thornhill, where she could pull on a pair of breeches and take Bristol Blue for a brisk gallop. But there was nowhere in Town that accommodated such neck-or-nothing freedom. Or such blessed solitude. She would have to make do with the privacy of her bedchamber. If only Pansy, her maid, would hurry.

While Pansy brushed the gown and carefully hung it in the wardrobe, chattering all the while, Meg began to unpin her hair. The maid then unlaced Meg's stays, helped her out of her chemise, and dropped a fresh muslin nightgown over her head.

After dismissing Pansy, Meg dragged herself across the room. All at once, the pent-up emotions of the evening burst forth in a torrent of tears as she flung herself facedown on the bed. She cried for her broken heart, her naïveté, and her foolish pride. She let the full force of her jumbled emotions— shame, heartache, confusion—expend themselves in great wracking sobs, soaking the linen sheets beneath her face.

It was in this state of abject misery that Gram found Meg when she entered with an herbal tisane.

"Good heavens, my dear," Gram said as she rushed into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar in her haste. Quickly depositing the teacup on the nightstand, she sat down on the bed, lifted Meg's shoulders, and pulled her granddaughter into her arms. "There, there," she said in a soothing voice as she rocked Meg against her plump breast, as she had done so many times when Meg was a girl.

"Oh, G-Gr-Gram!" Meg stammered through her tears.

"Hush, now," Gram said, holding Meg's head down against her shoulder while gently stroking her hair. "Do not try to talk yet. You just have a good cry first."

And Meg did. She had no idea how long she wept in Gram's comfortable arms. But some time later, feeling drained, she pulled away and rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She sat thus for several minutes, breathing deeply to combat the hiccups that followed the tears. All the while, Gram's hand massaged up and down her back in gentle circles.

"What is it, Meggie? Can you tell your old Gram what happened to upset you so?"

"Oh, Gram." Meg kept her eyes covered. "It is Lord S- Sedgewick."

The soothing hand moving on Meg's back came to an abrupt stop. "Lord Sedgewick? Have you seen him, then? What has he done?" Gram pulled Meg's hands away from her eyes and forced her to look up. "Meg, what has he done to you?"

"N-Nothing."

"Meg! You must tell me." Gram took a deep breath and her voice became less agitated. "Please, love, you must tell me. Has that young man done something to ... to hurt you?"

"No, no," Meg said, still battling hiccoughs. "It's m-me. Not h-him. It's all m-my fault. Oh, Gr-Gram! What have I d-done?"

"I do not know, love. What have you done?"

And so Meg told her. She told Gram everything. From the beginning, and leaving nothing out. She told how she had fallen in love with Sedge six years before, and how she had done so again. How that love had deepened during the times they had spent together at Thornhill. How she began to hope that he might have some feelings for her as well. How he had kissed her. How she had felt when he kissed her. And how he had offered her carte blanche.

* * *

After bringing Meg and Gram home to Duke Street, Terrence had retired to his study, where he indulged in a glass of brandy. The night was early yet, and he had plans to meet some friends later at Boodle's. But he did not wish to leave without first making sure that Meg was all right.

Poor girl. She had looked so down-pin. Meg was seldom ill. She enjoyed the vigorous, blooming health of a girl raised in the country who got more than her share of exercise. It was likely the fast pace and late hours of life in Town had finally had its effect on her. That, and the wretched air, and the rich food, and too much drink, and not enough exercise. It was a wonder anyone could remain healthy in such circumstances. Though he enjoyed coming to Town on occasion, Terrence always looked forward to his return to Thornhill. He supposed he was a country gentleman at heart, and always would be.

He took the last swallow of brandy and rose from his comfortable leather chair. He should check on Meg. She had had enough time to change clothes and crawl into bed. He would just peek in to see that she was all right.

As he approached the landing on the second floor, he could hear Meg's sobs. Horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that tore at his heart. As he neared her bedchamber, he heard his grandmother's soft voice through the partially open door. "There, there," she was saying.

Unwilling to intrude, Terrence entered his own bedchamber, just across the hall. He had never heard his sister cry like that. He had never heard anyone cry like that. What on earth had happened? He must ask Gram later. He did not imagine Meg would appreciate his barging in to see what was the matter. Besides, he was not very good with crying women. He never knew what to do or say, and always felt awkward and embarrassed. He would let Gram comfort her. Poor Meggie, she sounded so miserable.

He puttered around his bedchamber for some minutes, hoping Meg's tears would have ended by the time he entered the hallway again. He examined his cravat and decided it looked limp from the exertions of the Portland ball. He pulled out a fresh stack of neckcloths, untangled the one from his neck, and began the task of arranging a perfect Mathematical.

Satisfied, after three tries, that the folds were flawless, Terrence surveyed the rest of his attire in the cheval glass. After dusting a piece of lint from his sleeve, he was ready to go. Entering the hallway outside his bedchamber door, he heard the voices of Gram and Meg. At least his sister seemed to have stopped crying. Thank goodness. Meg was not the crying sort, and it gave him a twinge of concern to think what might have caused such wretched sobs.

As he closed his own bedchamber door and turned to head down the hall to the landing, an overheard snippet of conversation in Meg's room stopped him up short.

"He asked you to be his mistress?" Gram said, her voice rising on the last word.

"Yes," Meg replied in a soft, quavering voice. "He offered me carte blanche. He even mentioned a house, jewels, and carriages."

Terrence stood unmoving in the middle of the hallway, his hands balled into fists at his side. Someone had offered Meg a slip on the shoulder? Who, by God? What scoundrel had so insulted his only sister?

"Good heavens," Gram said. "I am afraid I truly misjudged that young man. He seemed so amiable. I would never have expected Lord Sedgewick to suggest such a sordid arrangement."

Sedgewick! Good God. How dare he!

Terrence moved away from the door, afraid to hear any more details. Afraid to vent his anger in front of Meg, in case she might misconstrue it as directed at her. He hurried down the two flights of stairs to the entry hall. Sedgewick must have been at the Portland ball. That is why poor Meggie was so upset that she had to leave. How dare he insult her so!

As Terrence entered the carriage that had waited on the street in front of the town house, he suffered an anger stronger than any he had felt in his life. Dear, sweet, beautiful Meg. Innocent Meg. How could any man presume to make her such an offer? And Sedgewick, of all people. A man who had accepted Terrence's own hospitality. Who had been rescued and nursed back to health in Terrence's home. Who had spent hours and hours alone under the same roof with his sister.

Oh, God. How far had he taken his insults? Had he attempted to seduce Meg at Thornhill?

Terrence recollected the warnings of Sedgewick's cousin Albert Herriot. He had thought them ridiculous at the time. It had never occurred to him, never once, that Herriot might be right. Even worse, it had never occurred to him that Meg would inspire that sort of attention.

How could he have been so blind? She had grown into a beautiful woman. He knew that. He had recognized that for some time now, especially when some of the stablehands ogled her long legs clad in a pair of his own breeches. But she had always seemed like such a... a tomboy. He had simply never imagined she would willingly receive any man's particular attentions.

What a fool he had been. Since coming to London—and for the first time he thought he understood why she had wanted to come—he had seen her for the beautiful young woman she was. He had seen men drawn to her like bumblebees to red clover. And he had watched her handle her circle of admirers with ease. When had she grown up so?

But he had known about Sedgewick. Herriot had warned him. He had known, and had done nothing to stop it. My God, what had he done? How could he have allowed such a thing to happen to his sister?

Oh, Meg. Please forgive me.

The more he thought about Sedgewick, the angrier he became. The man had seduced the entire family. Gram doted on him. Terrence himself had liked him immensely. He had used that dammit-all smile to twist them all around his finger.

By Jove, he would have satisfaction from that blackhearted scoundrel. The man would be exposed for what he was: a charlatan and seducer of innocent young women. Terrence would see Sedgewick dead or exiled, he cared not which, so long as he never laid eyes on the bastard again.

Terrence had never felt a hatred of such pagan intensity. His preference would be to kill the rascal with his bare hands. To put his fingers around his throat and throttle him until the last breath was squeezed from his body.

But he could not do that. Justified as he was, he could not do that. Like all gentlemen, he was bound by the rigid rules of honor. But he would get satisfaction. By God, he would.

As the carriage wound its way through the traffic outside the Portland ball, Terrence pulled off his right glove and began absently slapping its fingers against his left palm.

* * *

Meg sat up in her bed, pillows propped up high behind her. Gram sat at her side, holding her hand, legs stretched out next to Meg's. Two sets of bare toes peeked out from beneath white muslin nightgowns.

Gram had been so wonderful. Meg did not know why she had kept all her worries to herself for so long. Sharing them with Gram was akin to purging her soul of shame and heartache. She felt so much better, so much less stupid. For Gram had understood. She had not scolded or lectured or belittled the matter. She had understood.