Mastering the Marquess (23 page)

“Oh, no,” she responded absently, still not looking at him. “Not selfish—spoiled.” She leaned back from the easel to inspect the canvas. “There is a difference, you know.”

Silverton's jaw dropped open, but he quickly snapped it shut. He fumed for a minute, irritated not only by her impertinent pronouncements but also by the fact that she still refused to look at him.

“Well,” he finally ground out, “what is the difference?”

Meredith carefully mixed another color on her brush and reapplied herself to the painting. He thought her hand trembled a bit, but her voice sounded oddly detached.

“People who are selfish lack generosity of spirit. They are spiteful and mean, and can only really love themselves. You, on the other hand, are a kind and generous man. You care for your family and friends. But because of your position in society and your”—she hesitated, and he saw a blush creep up into her cheeks—“your personal attributes, you have been given everything you could ever desire or need. No one has ever said no to you. You have never really had to work for anything. In truth, no one could blame you for being spoiled, since it is due entirely to the circumstances of your life.”

Why doesn't she just drop an anvil on my head
, he thought, dazed by her comment. She had delivered a devastating analysis of his character as calmly as if she had been commenting on the weather. No one except his aunt and uncle had ever dared speak to him in such a fashion. He had, of course, endured the vulgar taunts and jests of his friends, but that was different. That was simply how men spoke to each other.

In fact, he had always been comfortable with his place in the world: confidently at the top of the pile. But Meredith made him feel like a callow youth. It astounded him that an inexperienced young woman from the country could make him so bloody unsure of himself.

“You're wrong, you know,” he finally replied. He needed her to understand that the social mask he sometimes wore was simply that: a mask. “There are those who have said no to me before, many times. Aunt Georgina in particular has always tried to impress upon me the wisdom of putting the needs of others before my own. Since I am the head of the family, she has always wished me to cultivate a more serious and determined character. I regret you think she failed in that endeavor.”

In spite of his good intentions, Silverton felt a twinge of satisfaction when he saw her shift uncomfortably on her little stool. He leaned over and inspected her face, certain now that she regretted her candid remarks.

“In fact,” he continued, unable to repress the desire to exact a small measure of revenge, “you remind me greatly of Aunt Georgina. You're so solemn that you sound remarkably like her. Even your countenance has the same stern, disapproving expression.”

Meredith bit her lower lip. He watched with interest as her shoulders moved up around her ears.

“Lord Silverton.” Her voice sounded tighter than a drum. “Please forgive me. I have grown too accustomed to thinking of myself as a member of your family. I had no right to say what I did. There is no doubt you fulfill all your duties exactly as you should.”

He didn't reply, determined to force her to reveal what she really thought of him. Long moments stretched by as Meredith fiddled with her brush.

She cast him a hunted look. “It's just that sometimes you seem to lack . . .” She ground to a halt. Silverton suspected that she was now truly cursing her unruly tongue.

“Lack seriousness of character?” he prompted.

“No,” she blurted out. “Seriousness of purpose.”

Silverton frowned and leaned heavily back on his hands. He didn't know how to respond, since he was genuinely puzzled by her remark. There was no doubt Meredith had suffered much heartache over the years, but he thought it unnatural that a beautiful and wealthy young woman should hold such a grim view of life. It seemed to him that she actively resisted enjoying herself.

He cocked his head to one side and studied her face, which had turned rosy with embarrassment. “Meredith, considering that we have been blessed with such privilege, don't you think we should try to enjoy ourselves, just a little?”

“You seem to enjoy yourself too much,” Meredith retorted. Her eyes flashed with anger before she turned away, as if conscious that she had revealed more than she wanted to.

He realized with a jolt of understanding that he had just found the trail of breadcrumbs through the forest.

“And when do I enjoy myself too much, Meredith?”

She hunched a shoulder at him, refusing to answer.

“Did I enjoy myself too much last night?” he persisted. “Did I enjoy myself with Lady Isabel?”

Meredith jumped up from her seat and began hastily collecting her brushes and wrapping them in rags. Silverton pushed himself up from the grass, eyeing her closely as he brushed the dirt from his buckskins.

After a few moments he gently grasped her arm, taking the brushes from her with his other hand. Meredith froze at his touch, her color coming and going with a hectic flush. He slowly raised her hand to his lips, brushing it with a soft kiss.

“I may sometimes enjoy life too much,” he said, “but you, my dear girl, do not enjoy it nearly enough.”

She looked up to meet his gaze, her quicksilver eyes reflecting a tumult of conflicting emotions. To Silverton's dismay, those eyes began to fill, tears sparkling on her thick black lashes. Meredith blinked rapidly, turning her head to the side to hide her face. She tugged her arm, trying to escape his grasp, so he forced himself to let her go.

As he watched her grope in the pocket of her gown for a handkerchief, Silverton racked his brains, wondering what he could possibly do to ease a pain that he suspected had very deep roots.

He hated the sight of her tears, and he had never felt so helpless in his life.

Meredith pulled away from Silverton, unable to bear the look of sympathy on his handsome face. She hated it when people felt sorry for her. That it was Silverton made it even worse; he would never feel pity for a woman like Lady Isabel.

At the thought of that dainty beauty and her flirtation with Silverton, Meredith found her emotions suddenly veering off in another direction, rapidly converting to anger. She hastily reached down and retrieved a brush from her basket, plopping back onto her stool. If she pretended to paint, then at least she wouldn't have to directly confront Silverton's aristocratic arrogance when she answered him.

“Tell me, my lord,” she exclaimed, “what has there been to enjoy in my life so far? While it is true that Annabel and I are fortunate not to suffer impoverishment, there has been little else in our existence, to this point, to make us happy. I have only two things that give me joy—my sister and my painting.”

The tears were welling up in her eyes again, and she blinked hard to keep them from falling onto her cheeks. She cursed inside, having known all along that it would be a mistake to allow herself to talk to him.

Her heart had dropped to her shoes when she saw him striding across the meadow, his long, muscular legs eating up the space between them. Meredith had never expected him to follow her all the way out here, assuming he would eventually grow bored with the chase and leave her in peace.

Especially since the sainted Lady Isabel resided only a short distance away. After last night, Meredith had been sure he would prefer to spend time with someone more suited to the life he seemed to enjoy so much.

Instead, for reasons she couldn't fathom, he had chosen to violate her sanctuary and crash through her hard-fought reserve, just as he always did. And she had responded in the worst possible way, by insulting his character, his way of life, almost everything about him.

Why didn't she just dump a pot of paint on his head and be done with it, Meredith sighed to herself, clenching her brush in her fist. He unfailingly brought out the worst in her, especially after that unforgettable night in the library. She couldn't think of that encounter without feeling hot and restless, and angry at him for making her so uncomfortable with herself.

She glanced sideways and saw that his features were etched with gravity, but his beautiful eyes were softened with a warmth and kindness that soothed her wounded pride. When he looked at her like that she had to struggle against an overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms, ignoring all the warnings that swirled constantly in her head.

But she couldn't do that, no matter how much she wanted to.

Meredith knew that someday soon she would return to her solitary life at Swallow Hill. Despite his promises to her in the library, she knew how unlikely it was that Silverton really wanted to marry her. And even if he thought he did, she had no doubt his mother would strenuously oppose it. Lady Silverton had made that perfectly clear last night. Meredith also couldn't imagine that General and Lady Stanton would approve of the match, either, not after the pain their daughter—her stepmother—had caused them so many years ago.

No, Meredith knew she must continue to try to ignore him. Difficult, to say the least, since he would not go away and leave her alone.

“Meredith.”

She stifled a gasp. Silverton had moved very close, looming over her as he thoughtfully studied her work. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, head tilted to the side as if he were puzzled.

“Why do you paint such unsettling pictures?”

She blinked at him, surprised that he asked the question so bluntly. Most people danced around the subject, worried they might offend her or, even worse, that she might actually tell them why she did so.

“It's difficult to explain,” she hedged.

“Try,” he ordered gently.

Meredith glanced up at him, afraid she would see either amusement or disdain on his features. He gave her a steady look in return, and she had the feeling he wouldn't let her go until doomsday unless she made some attempt to answer his question.

“Well,” she said, swallowing against a sudden constriction in her throat. Picking up her glass from the other seat, she sipped, grimacing slightly at the bitterness of the drink. She was momentarily distracted by the thought that it was the worst lemonade she had ever tasted.

“Well,” she started again, “I don't intentionally select a particular scene in order to disturb anyone. My ideas usually stem from something I am feeling at the time. . . .”

She trailed off, realizing how inadequate any explanation must sound. How could she convey to him the grief and anger that often surged within her when she painted? How to describe the relief she experienced when she allowed that terrible power to flow through her fingers and manifest itself on the canvas? There had been many days when her painting had been the only thing that made her feel alive and capable of going on.

Silverton didn't move or make a sound, obviously determined to wait her out. Meredith bit her lower lip and tried again.

“I know it might seem strange, but I often think of my parents when I paint. Sometimes I feel overcome with sadness, and this is the only way I can seem to express it.” She stared into the distance, vaguely aware of the beauty of the rolling hills and the luminescent green of the early summer foliage that covered them. “I suppose it's the grief and sorrow that make me paint this way.”

She shrugged and finally looked at him, certain that a man who so thoroughly controlled his world could never understand what she was trying to say.

Silverton met her gaze, the intensity in his searing blue eyes seeming to reflect the hot summer sky. He reached down and gently stroked her cheek.

“My dear girl, is it only the pain you remember? Only the grief and bitterness you keep alive in your mind? Why can't you remember the affection your parents must have felt for you and your sister? There is no doubt in my mind that they loved you very much and that you will be loved again like that in the future.”

His words penetrated the icy barriers she had desperately erected around her vulnerable heart. She felt the terrible weight of her yearning for him, a burden she knew she would carry for the rest of her life.

“I don't know,” she said softly. “Perhaps I don't know how to do that. I have lost three parents. Losing two is tragic. Losing three is . . . simply absurd.”

Meredith lowered her eyes, noticing with surprise that she gripped her brush so tightly her nails dug into the palm of her hand. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her fingers while struggling to keep from bursting into tears. She hated that he could make her feel so mawkish about her life.

Suddenly, she became immensely annoyed with herself and with him. Could anything be more ridiculous than whining self-indulgently about the past? It didn't really matter what Silverton thought about her paintings anyway, or about anything else, for that matter.

Not really.

Meredith sat up straight on her stool. “This is what I feel,” she said defiantly, looking away from him and returning her gaze to her canvas. “This is what feels true and right to me. It is how
I
choose to remember my life.”

Silverton didn't answer, and the silence between them lengthened. Strangely, it did not feel uncomfortable to her. They did nothing for several minutes but listen to the occasional trill of a lark and the buzzing of the honeybees in the wildflowers of the meadow. Meredith felt the tension begin to drain slowly from her body.

She eventually worked up the courage to look at him. He stood quietly beside her, his manner subdued. She arched her eyebrows in inquiry, and his well-shaped mouth quirked into a devastating smile, igniting in her the slow burn of sensual longing that always remained so close to the surface.

“Meredith, has anyone ever told you what a terrifying creature you are? I feel the cold, dread fingers of a miserable fate creeping up my spine at this very moment.”

She reluctantly returned his smile, unable, as usual, to resist the pull of his warmth.

“Come,” he said. “It's much too hot out here in the sun—you are turning quite pink. Finish your drink, and I will take you for an exceedingly dull and merely pleasant walk through the dovecote garden. Not very exciting, I know, but I feel sure the insipid nature of our stroll will vastly improve the tone of your mind.”

Meredith took another cautious sip from her glass, wrinkling her nose at the strange taste.

“As you wish, my lord, but I would prefer not to finish this. I vow, it is the oddest-tasting lemonade I have ever had. And it smells bitter, too. I wonder if some of the lemons were rotten.”

Silverton had just extended a hand to help her up, but he paused at her words and plucked the glass from her instead. He brought the glass to his nose and sniffed. A gasp escaped his lips.

His other hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “How much of this did you drink?”

Meredith tried without success to tug her hand from an unbreakable grip. She suddenly felt oddly hot, and slightly sick to her stomach.

“Just a few sips. I told you, I didn't like it.”

He dragged her to her feet. “Come,” he said urgently. “We must get back to the house immediately.”

“Why?” she protested, casting a glance at her wet canvas. “I don't understand, my lord.”

His manner had changed so quickly that it began to alarm her. She had no choice but to follow him as he towed her across the meadow to the break in the trees.

Silverton glanced down at her face, his mouth set in a grim line. “How do you feel?”

He tried to hurry her along, but Meredith's legs began to feel very heavy and strangely detached from the rest of her body. She stumbled against him.

Silverton stopped, his eyes skimming over her, his expression even darker than it had been a minute ago. A prickling wave of apprehension washed through her.

And her stomach was beginning to churn with a burning nausea.

“Now . . . now that you mention it,” she stammered, “I don't feel very well.”

She grabbed his other arm and swayed against him. “I . . . I think I need to sit down.”

Silverton fought back the terrible fear rising in his throat. Meredith's face had gone dead white, the pupils of her eyes so large that all he could see was blackness limned with a thin circle of gray. She sagged heavily against him.

“What's happening?” she whispered.

Sweeping her into his arms, he stalked down the path as he held her tightly against his chest. He struggled to contain the volatile mix of rage and fear that threatened to overtake him; he must reassure her, not frighten her.

“The lemons must be rotten,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady. “You're obviously feeling the effects of that, and you'll have to rid yourself of the drink before you can feel better.”

Silverton couldn't bear to say what he really thought. She had been poisoned. The bitter scent in her glass had told him all he needed to know: someone had dosed the lemonade with cyanide.

“I'm sorry, Meredith.” He cradled her gently as he hurried through the woods. “When we get back to the house you'll have to take a purgative.”

She whimpered and turned her face into his waistcoat. “I'm going to be sick,” she gasped. “Put me down.”

He lowered her to the ground and quickly untied the ribbons of her bonnet, which he tossed aside into a pile of leaves. She tried to turn away, and he knew she was mortified at the thought of being sick in front of him.

“Don't be embarrassed, sweetheart,” Silverton murmured. “You're not the first person I've seen cast up his accounts.”

Meredith leaned forward and retched, her body twisting with the force of the spasm. Liquid spewed from her mouth onto the ground.

Relief surged through him when he saw a fair amount of liquid come up. She continued to retch and gag, bent over double, her hands digging into the dirt with the force of her body's contractions. He held her gently, stroking her hair back from her face as he murmured soothing noises.

Watching her hunched over on the ground, gasping breathlessly, was the worst thing Silverton had ever seen and almost more than he could bear to witness. He wrapped his arm carefully around her chest to give her more support. Her heart pounded like a hammer against him. His own heart, in turn, felt squeezed in the grip of some awful, sympathetic agony, keeping measure with hers in a rhythm of fearful emotion.

She can't die
. He repeated it in his mind, over and over again. He simply wouldn't allow it, he told himself as he gently rocked her in his arms.