Lavinia didn't see how telling the truth could be anything but awful. For the moment, though, in the soothing shelter of his arms, she let herself believe she would survive.
Twenty-one
The carriage set Nic down at the corner of
Pall Mall
and
swiftly through a misty summer rain. Men hurried by him on the pavement, their uniformly black umbrellas bobbing like crows' wings above their heads: clerks and bankers, he suspected, eager to
reach their homes. Exhaling softly in relief, he slipped from the bustling stream and up the steps to
the duke of Monmouth's club.
His was the largest on the street, two long floors of arched windows with a heavy, garlanded frieze to
top them off. Given the grandeur of the place, he wasn't surprised that the Cerberus at the door—a mournful undertaker of a man—was not happy to see Nic's sun-browned, canary-waistcoated, slightly dampened self.
"The duke will see me," he said and handed the man his card.
Nic's tension over the coming meeting was so great he couldn't enjoy the celerity with which he was admitted once the man returned. He buttoned his coat as they climbed the marble stairs. Merry's father didn't need to see his eccentric dress.
Monmouth himself met him at the door to a lofty, book-lined room. Other gentlemen sat inside, reading, smoking, or quietly .playing cards. As if to forestall Nic's entry into this sanctum sanctorum, the duke immediately gestured down the hall. "We can speak in the visitor's room," he said, both his voice and manner stiff.
Though he was sorry to see the reaction, Nic couldn't blame him for it. He had, after all, despoiled the man's daughter.
As they entered a dingy parlor, a waiter wheeled in a drinks trolley, then withdrew and closed the door behind him. The furniture, an assortment of chairs and knickknack tables, was clearly cast off from the rest of the club, its cushions worn, its wood marred with cracks and stains. With deliberate rudeness, Monmouth poured himself—and only himself—half a tumbler of whiskey. He carried the drink to the single window and gazed down at the carriage traffic in the street. Sensing he ought to let his host
collect his temper, Nic waited for him to speak.
Monmouth swallowed a mouthful of liquor, then turned his head to face his guest. His expression was hard, his eyes keen but unreadable. "I marvel that you have the nerve to come here."
"I would not have," Nic answered, "were it not for the urging of my heart."
"Your heart," Monmouth repeated, his gaze sharpening even more. His glass hung halfway to his
mouth, the subtle vibration of the fluid all that showed he was not as calm as he appeared.
That, at least, Nic and he had in common.
"I am in love with your daughter," Nic said. "I would like to ask you for her hand."
Monmouth set his drink on the sill with a quiet click. He was breathing hard, head down, both hands clenched in fists.
Nic knew what was coming as soon as he saw the duke inhale.
He did not, however, do anything to evade the explosive punch.
The force with which it connected staggered him. His vision blurred, the pain seeming to spike straight through his brain. Almost immediately, his nose began to bleed.
"Well," he said, handkerchief pressed to the flow, "I see where your sons get their gift for scrapping."
Monmouth seemed shocked by his own behavior, though he did his best to hide it. "I will not apologize for that," he said. "My daughter may be ... in difficulties at present, but she need not stoop to marrying
a painter, no matter if he has claimed the privileges of a spouse."
"No apology required, I assure you. I earned this broken nose, as I'm sure I earned the one I got from your son. What I have not earned is your scorn for the way I make my living. I have not been honest
in every aspect of my life but in my art I've always given full measure, as you yourself have cause to know."
"You ruined her!" Monmouth insisted, red springing fresh into his face. "I don't care what she said
about it being her idea. You took advantage of my daughter. You're older than she is and should have
had more sense. And if you think offering to marry her makes it better, you are mistaken. I'll not have
my daughter leg-shackled to some commoner, to a filthy rake with paint under his nails!"
Monmouth's anger filled the air like burning ice but Nic did not shrink from it. He had earned the right to stand as this man's equal, not because of his birth, but because he'd finally proved—to himself if no one else—that he was ready to pick up the mantle the former marquis had dropped. Thanks to his mother's idea of training, Nic's muscles were hardened from manual labor, his fingers stained with ink from hours of slaving over Northwick's books. His heart felt stronger, too, in ways he had not expected. After all these years apart, he and his mother had been strangers, much like he and Cris. Now he thought—with work and patience— they all might end up as friends.
He was richer for that, and more confident. When he answered Monmouth's accusation, he did so with as much dignity as he could, considering he had a square of blood-sopped linen squashed to his nose.
"Most of what you say is true, and promises of reform mean nothing until I prove them. But I believe I can convince your daughter I am in earnest. What's more, I believe she would be happy to let me try."
"People will laugh at her," Monmouth said, though less heatedly than before. "They will say she is desperate if she marries you."
"Most likely," Nic agreed, "though I do not think her a slave to pride. Still, she is a rare woman. She deserves the best, including a titled husband if she cares to have one. That is why I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anyone but Merry in fifteen years. I am not a commoner. I am the seventh marquis of Northwick. For personal reasons, I did not claim the title until now. Sharing it with Merry cannot erase what I have done, but I trust no one will say she has married beneath her."
Monmouth stared at him, every bit as stunned as Nic expected. "She did not tell me," he said once
he'd found his voice. "I cannot believe she did not tell me."
Nic could believe it, but having his guess confirmed filled his heart with admiration. "When your daughter and I parted," he said, "she remained in some doubt as to my feelings. I imagine she did not want to see me forced into a marriage she wasn't certain I would welcome."
"Are you saying she loves you, too?"
"I believe that to be the case."
Monmouth blinked. "Well," he said, patently at a loss.
Turning back to the rain-spotted window, he stroked the neatly groomed edges of his beard. He was
once again the man Nic had painted: proud but human, wanting to do right but uncertain what tiiat was. After a seemingly endless pause, he offered Nic the drink trolley's bucket of shaved ice.
"Grab a handful," he said gruffly. "That nose is going to swell."
"Thank you," said Nic, relieved to finally be able to tilt his head back.
"She did defend you," Monmouth grudgingly admitted. "Practically swore she held you down and had
her way. S'pose it's time we let her make her own decisions, since that's what she's likely to do in any case." He sighed with a resignation only a parent could express. "You may call on us tomorrow. If my daughter wishes to see you, I will not prevent it, but neither will I argue on your behalf."
Nic lowered the ice to thank him, but Monmouth forestalled him with a look, half warning, half amused. "My daughter can be extremely stubborn, Mr. Craven. Convincing her to give you a chance will be up
to you."
"A chance is all I ask," said Nic, and left the duke with a formal bow.
* * *
TOO RESTLESS TO SLEEP. MERRY TOSSED IN HER lightly sheeted bed. Tonight her sisters-in-law had thrown a dinner party at Evelyn's town house, and she'd been the honored guest: an apology, Lissa confessed, for being so slow to show support.
Merry had been touched but also troubled, because they'd invited Ernest, too.
His estrangement from his father was taking an obvious toll. He had circles beneath his eyes and his hair was almost unkempt. Rumor had it Althorp was furious over his son's continued loyalty to Merry—over other disappointments as well, though Ernest could not know that.
The duchess's confession had shocked Merry but, in a sad way, did not surprise her. Maybe her mother did love her. Maybe the tears she'd shed so copiously were a sign of remorse and not just regret that
she'd been caught. Whatever the case, Merry suspected she'd always guard her heart against her. Forgiveness might come with time but probably never trust.
At Merry's insistence, her brothers were made privy to the truth on the grounds that they, too, might
need to brace themselves for more scandal. Though their mother's tears seemed to weigh more persuasively with them, even they were regarding her with reserve.
Knowing one's mother had had an affair was bound to change a son's opinion.
This was part of the reason she hesitated to share the whole story with Ernest. Despite her mother's
pleas not to risk enraging Althorp, her father had left the choice to Merry. "You're the closest to him," he'd said, "and perhaps we've all kept too many secrets. If you think he'll be better off, then he should know." But would Ernest be better off? Would knowing free him from dancing to his father's rune? Althorp probably didn't deserve a son like Ernest, but did Ernest deserve to hate his father? He'd
shown some spine already. Maybe that was enough.
Still undecided, she'd found him alone in Evelyn's parlor.
With a grimace for being caught brooding, he set a miniature of Evelyn's wife back on the mantel.
"I've never seen my father like this," he said without preamble. "Why can't he respect my choice to support a friend? He flies into a fury one moment, then shuts himself up to drink the next. I swear he's aged ten years in the last two weeks. I've tried to talk to him but he refuses. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was afraid of me."
Merry stroked his sleeve. "Maybe he is."
Ernest stared at her. "What do you know, Merry? What does everyone know that they aren't telling? Your brothers have been strange to me all night, your mother won't meet my eye, and your father
asked if I needed a vacation."
Merry signed. "I want you to think before you answer. If your father had done something awful, would you truly want to know?"
"Something awful to you?"
"Only indirectly. And what he did, he did for you."
Frowning, he pulled her to sit on the couch. "Tell me," he said, and so she did. The white-lipped self-control with which he listened cut straight to her heart. She apologized for being the one to tell him but he thanked her.
"If I have to hear it," he said, "I'd rather it come from my best friend."
That cut her, too, that he considered her his best friend. She stared at her knotted hands. "What will
you do?"
"I don't know. If I tell him I know, he may take it out on your family."
"But you shouldn't have to pretend!"
"My father and I spend a lot of time pretending. This wouldn't be anything new."
A history lay behind those words that she, his supposed best friend, had never guessed was there. This
is wrong, she thought. Someone should know and love the whole of who Ernest is. Of course, if by chance he had feelings for her, that someone should not be Merry.