He hesitated for a long moment, clearing his throat before answering, “Perhaps.”
It was the nicest thing anyone could have said to her, even if it was a lie.
There was no way she could reject her aunt’s offer and they both knew it. It had been the answer to their prayers. Her great aunt was willing to take her in, to provide her with a proper London debut. She’d never have such an opportunity otherwise. And it wasn’t just the idea of an advantageous marriage that appealed to her mother.
Jane had been born the eldest of two daughters. As her mother told it, the girls’ Aunt Cynthia had offered to sponsor one of them for a Season. Lydia, the fairer of the two, convinced their aunt that she’d be the most likely to find a match. She promised after she was married, she would send for Jane. But Lydia never did send for her sister, and as a result, Jane never left Middlebury. She was haunted by that reality, often reminiscing about what could have been—what
should
have been.
Jane lived her life in the shadow of that missed opportunity and Meredith remained her mother’s only chance at redemption.
She looked squarely at Derek. “Let’s get married—right now. We can run off to Gretna Green. You kissed me. That
must
mean you harbor some sort of feelings for me. Marry me and I can stay here . . . with you. Your father could give you a plot of land. Surely we could earn enough to help with my mother’s expenses. I don’t care about being rich, I just want to be happy . . .” Her voice cracked as she buried herself against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. She’d do anything to remain in Middlebury, to stay with Derek.
He gently stroked her hair. “Mere, I can’t marry you.”
She abruptly pushed him away. “I’m good enough to kiss, but not good enough to marry? Now, I wish I would have swung harder.”
He gestured for her to keep her voice down. “It’s not that. You’re too good—
too
good for me. You shouldn’t have to settle for a farmer when you could easily win a prince.”
“And what’s wrong with being a farmer’s wife?”
“Nothing . . . for anyone else. But you deserve better. At the very least you deserve a choice in the matter. You’ll never get that here.” He stared at her unblinking, his cornflower-blue eyes growing dark.
“Of course I have a choice. You’re not the only man in Middlebury, you know.”
“Close enough to it—unless you fancy one of my younger brothers. You know as well as I do that you’ll have far better choices in London. You deserve the right to
choose
, not just
settle
. Lady Browning is giving you the chance of a lifetime. Think of all you’ll learn in the city. I’d never want you to miss out on that. You’d resent me for it. Hell,
I’d
resent myself for stealing such an opportunity from you.”
She hadn’t expected him to take her mother’s side. But now that he had, it made sense. There were so many opportunities, so many more things to learn about the world. In London, she’d have access to books and teachers. Her mother wanted nothing more than for her to have the chance
she’d
been denied. Leaving for London was the least she could do. “I barely know my Aunt Cynthia,” she mused. All she could remember about the woman was her scent—reeking as if she’d bathed in a vat of rosewater. “And what about you?” Meredith asked with a twinge of worry in her gut. “What if I never see you again?”
“You’ll see me. I promise.”
Her heart fluttered. Suddenly, the stairwell felt quite small and the air around them, unbearably warm. “Do you mean it?”
He finally looked at her again. “More than I’ve ever meant anything in my life. I’ll write to you. Every week. And who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll be able to present myself to you as the gentleman you deserve—not the boy you resolved to marry just because you were scared of leaving.”
He leaned over, stopping just a hair from her lips. She could feel his warm breath on her face, the sensation sending chills up her spine, her pulse pounding in her ears. He placed the lightest of kisses on her mouth, his lips barely grazing hers. A moment later, he retreated, and she felt a deep sigh escape.
He sat silent for a moment, then without warning he rose and walked toward the drawing room where the adults were finishing up their game. She sat there, alone, her mind full of questions, her heart aching for something she didn’t have a name for.
Chapter 2
London,
1811
Meredith sat at the pianoforte, playing Beethoven. Her nimble fingers leapt from key to key, the well-loved arrangement memorized from the countless times she’d played it before. She’d been playing more lately, her music the only thing she had to occupy her mind.
Her mother had promised she’d quickly adapt to life in London. Yet four months later, she felt just as lonely and helpless as if she’d been sent to a foreign land, not merely a two-day ride from Middlebury.
“Beethoven again?” Lady Cynthia Browning walked into the music room, the scent of rosewater announcing her arrival.
After Meredith played the final note, she looked up. “I happen to like Beethoven.”
Sitting on a settee, Cynthia draped her arms over the back. “I noticed. I just thought for once you could play something a bit more cheerful. Perhaps some Mozart? He was sort of a happy fellow, wasn’t he?”
Meredith folded her hands in her lap. “Maybe next time. I don’t feel up to playing anymore today. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just retire to my rooms now.”
Cynthia arched an elegantly shaped brow. “So early? We haven’t even had dinner yet.”
She stood from her bench, shuffling her sheet music into a neat pile. “I’m not hungry.”
Cynthia patted the empty space on the seat next to her. “Don’t go so soon. Come sit.”
Meredith started making her way toward the door. “I don’t think so. I . . . have a headache.”
“Then I’ll call for some wine.”
Bewildered by her aunt’s remedy, Meredith stopped mid-step. “What good would that do?”
Cynthia shrugged. “It always takes care of my little aches and pains. Whenever I’m under the weather, I feel much better after a few glasses.”
Meredith grimaced. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. It’s not as bad as all that.”
“Well then, since your headache doesn’t appear to be too debilitating, you can sit with me for a bit.” She patted the seat again, and this time Meredith felt obligated to join her.
“How long have you been in London now?” Her aunt gestured toward the footman for refreshments.
“Four months, two weeks, three days, and I’m not quite certain about the hours,” she mumbled.
Cynthia nodded. “Yes, well, give or take those few hours, I believe I’ve given you more than enough time to shake this homesickness of yours.”
“I’m not homesick,” she lied, squaring her shoulders.
“So what is it then? There must be a reason for all this brooding. You mope about as if you’ve been imprisoned. This is a townhouse, not the
Tower
. You should be having the time of your life, but instead, you’re starving yourself, hiding away in your rooms, pounding out depressing music, and holding your breath for the daily correspondence.”
Meredith said nothing in response. What could she say? Luckier than most girls in her position, she couldn’t help the way she felt. Here she was given a wardrobe full of sumptuous gowns, one for every day of the week, had servants who catered to her every whim, and tutors for every subject—including her very own pianoforte instructor.
It was more than she could have ever dreamed, but not at all what she wanted.
As if her aunt had a premonition, a footman arrived with the day’s correspondence on a tray. Meredith felt the familiar tingle in her stomach, anticipation coursing through her veins.
She indeed waited for the correspondence each day. Her mother wrote sporadically and when she did, it was usually to ask after money. But those weren’t the notes that inspired her bated breath and rapid pulse.
She was waiting for
his
letters.
Every week, like clockwork, another would come. He never wrote about anything in particular, just random thoughts about the goings on in the village. He’d remark on the weather, crops, and the health of his family. Not once had he mentioned their encounter on the stairs, or the kiss they’d shared.
But each time she opened one of his letters, she relived that moment. As her fingers traced the curves of his writing, she imagined herself touching the lines of his face.
Cynthia looked disapprovingly at the tray. “Another note from Middlebury?” She handed it to Meredith, only to snatch it out of her reach at the last moment. “She must be a very devoted friend to write so faithfully.”
“He.” Meredith corrected.
Her aunt smiled, setting the letter down on a nearby table. “
He
?”
It was a simple word, but the way her aunt said it made the unassuming pronoun sound downright salacious. “Yes, my
friend,
Derek.”
Cynthia’s eyes lit up and Meredith cursed herself for providing more fuel for the fire. “Could he be the reason for your melancholy? Instead of homesickness, would a more apt description be
lovesickness
?”
She vehemently shook her head. “Of course not. I’ve known Derek Weston since I was a small girl. We were neighbors and his family was good to me, that’s all.”
Cynthia nodded, the cogs of her mind obviously still at work. A few moments later, she broke the tense silence. “Letters from home are like nursery room blankets. They’re warm and comforting, but we can’t take them with us forever.” She took Meredith’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Sometimes, it’s best to leave the remnants of our past behind.”
That was Derek—warmth and comfort. But she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him behind entirely.
She didn’t return her aunt’s affection, nor did she reject her hand. “It might do me some good to go home and visit my mother for a bit.”
Cynthia shook her head. “Your mother is quite fortunate to have such a dedicated daughter. I know you must miss her very much, and I’m certain she misses you. But I’m not sure if that would be the best course of action.” She smiled. “I think what you need is to make new friends—here in London.”
Meredith snorted. “I’m not sure I’m up to meeting anyone yet.”
The tea arrived and her aunt proceeded to serve. “I’d love for you to meet a group of girls I know. They could benefit from befriending someone like you.”
“A group, you say?”
“Small group. Very exclusive. But someone with your beauty and intelligence, why, you’d fit right in.”
Meredith reached for the sugar. “I just think a trip to Middlebury would go far to lift my spirits.”
Cynthia sighed. “Your mother wrote to me, still complaining of stomach pains and needing some assistance to pay for her medicines. There’s a hospital in Bath that specializes in conditions such as hers. It’s very exclusive and equally expensive. I suggested that if she’s willing, I could easily arrange for her to stay there, indefinitely, until she feels better. The waters there are renowned for their healing properties. Of course, she could always leave
after
you’ve had your visit.”
Her mother was always ill with one thing or another, but they’d lacked the funds to send her to a proper physician. Here was the chance for her to finally get better. And any place in Bath, especially an exclusive hospital catering to the needs of the wealthy, would undoubtedly be an improvement over their dilapidated country cottage.
“Life in the country is hard, Meredith. Your mother is counting on you to help ease her struggle. Your particular assets are far more valuable than any harvest or livestock could ever be. Securing a good match could change all your lives for the better.”
“What assets? I have no dowry.”
A sly smile crept up Cynthia’s face. “A dowry isn’t the only asset a woman can possess. Won’t you have some cake?”
Meredith licked her lips, tempted by the perfectly round and intricately decorated pink cake.
“I know it won’t happen overnight.” Cynthia continued. “But I think it’s time you give London a proper chance.”
The promise of a better life for her mother made it difficult to reject the logic. Meredith gazed at the unopened letter on the table, the untouched piece of cake sitting next to it.
A choice needed to be made.
She reached for the cake, choosing to take a bite out of the future her aunt so earnestly offered.
Chapter 3
London, 1812, One year later . . .
As he approached the Grosvenor Square residence, Derek Weston absently touched the pocket of his great coat—as if the stack of letters Meredith had sent him could provide some kind of protection against his self-doubt. His mind skipped back to their long conversations, the single kiss they’d shared, and the sting of regret for encouraging her to go. But that regret was about to be remedied—for most of his life, he’d waited for
this
very moment.
The time to propose to Meredith Castle had finally arrived.
When she’d first told him she’d been offered the chance to leave Middlebury to stay with her wealthy great-aunt in London, he’d been happy for her. Exceptionally bright, such an environment would only serve to foster her natural gift for music, as well as provide her with an opportunity for an advantageous marriage. Not that he’d wanted her to marry anyone else, but her family had very little and her best chance for success was using her God-given beauty and charms to land a wealthy husband. As much as he loved her, he’d refused to saddle her with a parting declaration of love. Instead, he’d wished her the very best and promised to write every week.
He’d let Meredith go because that was what was best for her.
Because that’s what you do when you love someone
.
Still caked in grime from the previous days’ travels, he stared at the foreboding door in front of him—the only thing standing between him and the love of his life.