Merrick frowned and pulled his horse out into the middle of the road, so that he might pass a farmer's wagon loaded with hay, which swung precariously from side to side in front of him. Why did he have to think of Anne and spoil the lighthearted mood that the day and his destination had brought on him? The trouble was that she so often ruined his mood. He just could not put her out of his mind, and the more time passed, the more he thought of her.
It was terrible enough to know that one had done wrong, but it was even worse to know that one had been too lazy or too cowardly or too something to do anything to put the situation right again. The trouble with guilt was that it had the tendency to fester and grow. And the longer one put off the moment of restitution, the harder it became to do anything. He had known soon after leaving his wife at Red-lands, perhaps even before leaving, that his suspicions and accusations were unjust. He had gone over almost word for word their first meeting and had admitted that she had made no deliberate attempt to deceive him into thinking that she was a servant.
And in light of her real identity, he could see that her manner had not been flirtatious at all.
This knowledge had not done much during those first few days after his return to London to soothe his frustration and his bitterness at the changes in his life, but it had made him feel guilt at the way he had treated an innocent young woman. He had made no attempt at all to make her feel at her ease after their wedding, when he was taking her away from her brother and all she had ever known as home. He had treated her on their wedding night as he would a light-skirts, without any regard for her tender sensibilities. Even though she had seemed to enjoy the experience, he had been wrong to treat her so. And then there had been those brutal words he had spoken before leaving. It would have been better far to have left before she had risen from bed.
He had known all this very soon after leaving her, and he had felt the necessity of apologizing, of doing something to make her life more livable than it could be in that bleak and shabby place that he could never quite think of as home. The trouble at first was that he could not face seeing her again. He remembered the plump figure, the round and childish face, the plain features, the lifeless hair, the apparent lack of personality. The fact that he had found her unexpectedly exciting in bed he had conveniently forgotten. He could not-he would not-live with her as his wife. So he had put off the moment of doing something for her. He would go down to Redlands in the spring, he had promised himself at first. Then it was to be during the summer, when the Season was over. When summer had drawn to a close, he had admitted to himself that he was too embarrassed to make the journey. The moment had passed.
He had tried in small ways to salve his conscience. Whenever she wrote to him to ask for something- once, he gathered, it was some flowers, and another time something else for the garden-he would immediately write to assure her that she could continue with her plans. Sometimes he wished that she might demand more so that he could give more. But he became more and more incapable of meeting her. He had spent a sleepless night a few months before after denying her the chance to visit a friend of hers for a week. He would have been only too glad to let her go if the friend had lived anywhere but in London. But how could he let her come to the capital, where he would risk the embarrassment of meeting her and where it would quickly become known that the Viscountess Merrick was in town but not at her husband's residence?
Merrick eased his horse to a walk as a country inn came into view just ahead. He dismounted and turned his mount over to an ostler while he entered the taproom and ordered a mug of ale. The taproom was empty. It was obviously too early in the day for the local people to be relaxing in the inn, and it was not the sort of place where carriages would often stop. He exchanged pleasantries and comments on the weather with the innkeeper and moved into the chimney corner with his ale.
He almost wished now that he had told Anne that she might accept his grandmother's invitation. It might have proved a good opportunity to meet her again and to settle her into a more desirable way of life. The presence of all the other members of the family was one fact that had made him react so negatively when he had first read her letter. He had not wanted the whole tribe to witness the awkwardness of their meeting. But now, on second thoughts, he wondered if the presence of other people would not rather have eased the tension and helped them to communicate as sensible adults.
It was too late, anyway. He had said a very positive no, and she had not written again to argue the point. It was just as well. It would be very depressing to have to spend two weeks in the company of such a dull creature, being civil to her for the sake of appearances. He would enjoy these two weeks for what they were worth, catch up on the news of all the cousins and uncles and aunts, resist any attempts on the part of Grandmamma to order his life, and then return to face the Season that would soon be in full swing. He would have Eleanor to help keep him from brooding. It really was most satisfactory to have a married woman as mistress. She offered everything he could desire in company and sensual gratification without any of the demands on his time and emotions that he had found so wearing with other women. Lorraine would probably be back by the time he returned, too. Her honeymoon would be over. But he had to admit to himself that he had felt no more than a pang of nostalgia when he had read her betrothal announcement in the Gazette.
Merrick put the empty mug down on the stone hearth and got to his feet. His horse had been fed and watered and was waiting for him at the door when he went outside. He swung himself into the saddle and was on his way again. Perhaps he would pay his wife a visit during the summer. He really should look over the estate in person again, anyway.
Chapter 6
Freddie Lynwood arrived a day early, much to the annoyance of the Duchess of Portland. But as she said to Anne when her grandson finally allowed himself to be led up to his bedchamber after three cups of tea, five cucumber sandwiches, and four currant cakes, she might have expected as much. Dear Freddie did not have as many wits in his attic as might be deemed his fair share, and as a result, he had developed a keen sense of anxiety. He knew that he was forgetful and that his brain frequently became addled. Consequently, he kept important appointments as soon as he remembered them, and honored invitations in the same way. One of her favorite stories was of his arriving at a London home for a ball, only to find that the family were on their way out to the theater. The ball was scheduled for two days hence. Freddie had been quite undaunted, but had announced that he would stay.
"Only forget if I go back home," he had said. "Won't mind if I make m'self comfortable, will you? Don't need to put yourselves out on my account. Will send home for a change of clothes. Don't let me stop you going to the play."
And he had bowed them off the premises with punctilious courtesy and proceeded to make himself comfortable in the best chair in the drawing room, clad all in lace and silks. He had made himself indispensable on the day of the ball, balanced at the top of a ladder held by two footmen, fitting dozens of new candles into the chandeliers.