The next dance was the supper dance. Anne found her spirits lifting as soon as Jack left her in search of his next partner. She would be with Alexander now for the whole of one set, for all of supper and again for a set. She must make it memorable. She must notice the touch of his body, the expressions on his face, the words he spoke. This would be almost her last contact with him. After this, there would be only his presence in her bed for the little that would remain of the night by the time the dancing was over and all the guests had left. One more chance to be with him and one more chance to make love with him. Then perhaps endless years at Redlands.
It was a waltz. Anne had danced one earlier with Stanley, who had shown great patience when he had realized that she was unfamiliar with the dance. For the first part of the set he had danced only the basic steps with her, until she had caught the rhythm of the music and felt more confident. Only then had he taken her through some wild turns and twirls. Now she felt confident that she would not make a fool of herself.
It was really quite blissful. They did not speak at all, but there was no awkwardness in the silence. Alexander held her very firmly and led her through the waltz so confidently that she felt she would have floated along with him quite faultlessly even without the earlier lesson with Stanley. She became less and less aware of the other people in the room and of her surroundings in general, and more and more aware of the man who held her, the man who had become everything in life to her. She had tried not to let it happen, had tried to convince herself that her need for him was merely physical and that his character was not one that could arouse true love in her. But unfortunately, she had found, one's heart will not always listen to one's head, and the heart is inevitably the stronger of the two.
She was in love with Alexander, hopelessly and utterly in love with him, and she was no longer going to try to deny it. She would have this hour and this night, openly and vulnerably in love with him. The hurt of being alone again from tomorrow on was not going to be any the less if she refused to admit the truth to herself. She might as well open herself fully to the pain.
There was a general movement toward the supper room as soon as the waltz was finished.
"Are you hungry?" Merrick asked.
Anne shook her head.
"Let us walk in the garden, then," he said. "May I fetch you a shawl?"
"I shall get it," said Anne, and ran lightly up to her room. How well this hour was turning out for her. Instead of having to share her husband with a roomful of other people during supper, she would have him all to herself. Not that he was likely to talk any more than he had during the dance, but at least they could walk together. She would be able to feel his presence, store away one more memory.
They did indeed walk in silence for a while, crossing the lawn at the side of the house until they came to the cobbled walk before the house and then angling off toward the rose arbor. Anne snuggled inside the warm wool shawl that she had fetched from her room, though one of her arms was drawn snugly beneath his and held to his side. She wished that they might never speak, that nothing might ever happen to break the spell, the illusion that they were a normal married couple, in harmony with each other.
"Bella has your boxes packed?" Merrick asked at last.
"Yes," she said. "It was lucky that this shawl was close to the top of one of them. I will not keep the coachman waiting tomorrow."
"Perhaps we will give the coachman an extra day off," he said.
Anne looked up at him, a query in her eyes. "You think I shall be too tired to travel," she said. "I think not. Grandpapa's carriage is so well-sprung that I shall probably sleep on the road. Anyway, I shall be able to sleep all I want when I get home to Redlands."
"And if I tell you that you will not be going to Redlands?"
"What do you mean?" Anne asked.
"You are not going back there," Merrick said. "You will be returning to London with me the day after tomorrow."
Anne stopped walking to turn and stare at him. "Why?" she asked.
"Why?" he said with a laugh. "I tell you you are going to London rather than to Redlands and you ask me why? Because I have decided that it shall be so. That is why."
Anne searched his eyes, a pain in her throat that made drawing breath almost a physical effort. "No," she said. "Please do not do this to me, Alexander."
The remains of his smile disappeared instantly.
"Always," Anne said, having difficulty with her breathing, "always you must play the tyrant with me. You have always hated me, have you not? Even when you married me. You treated me with quite calculated cruelty the day after our wedding and then you abandoned me for more than a year. I believe you would have been well contented never to see me again, Alexander. But I have been forced on your attention once more. And now you find that you have not yet wreaked enough revenge on me for taking you away from your chosen bride. I did not miss noticing tonight that you have danced with her twice already. And so you must take me to London with you. Why, pray? So that you can flaunt your flirts and your mistresses before me? So that you can continue to humiliate me by showing me constantly that you have only one use for me?"
Merrick stood very still looking back at her, his face shuttered. "It appears to me," he said finally, "that you have not objected overmuch to the use to which I have been putting you. Or has your acting ability this fortnight extended beyond the stage and into our bed?"
Anne could feel herself flushing and was thankful for the darkness that surrounded them. "No," she said, "there has been no acting involved. You are a very good lover, my lord. I would guess that I am receiving the benefit of the lessons you have learned from a countless number of light-skirts. This has been a very pleasurable two weeks, but I fear that tedium would set in if the period were extended. You see, Alexander, I have used you in the same way as you have used me." Anne smiled and turned to enter the arbor.
Merrick was after her in a moment, grabbing her arm and turning her roughly to face him. "It is not true," he said. "You merely speak this way because I have hurt you and you wish to salvage your pride. Admit it, Anne. I can force you to do so, you know."
She laughed in his face. "Poor Alexander," she said. "It is quite beyond your understanding, is it not, that any female could resist your charms. Have you ever crooked a beckoning finger before and been rejected? You are much like your cousin, Jack, you know. Earlier this evening he, too, was forced to admit that he had failed to add me to a string of conquests. It is ironic, is it not, Alexander? Poor ugly, mousy, fat Anne Parrish! Take me to London if you wish. I shall enjoy the experience enormously. But every time you come to my bed, my lord, know that I am merely using you for my pleasure. In my heart I shall hate you as I have since the morning after my wedding."
Merrick's grip on her arm relaxed. "I had thought to show you some kindness," he said. "Perhaps the best kindness I can show you is to send you back to Redlands?"
"Yes," she said, and her shoulders sagged suddenly. She could feel the fight draining out of her. "Let me go back home, Alexander. It is too late for kindness. Let us only not hate each other. If you force me to live with you, I shall truly grow to hate you, I fear."
He stared at her for so long that she was afraid she would lose control and hurl herself at him. But finally he nodded. "I see," he said. "I am sorry, Anne. I did not fully understand until now. You shall go home tomorrow. I shall not burden you with my presence again."
Silence stretched between them again, a silence during which they continued to stare at each other. And all the unexpressed feelings and the unspoken words were locked inside him and he had no way, no right to speak them. He had forfeited the right more than a year before when he had bedded her and so callously insulted her and left her the morning after. He had forfeited the right every day since, every day during which he had done nothing to show a husband's care for his wife. He had hoped that tonight he would be able to start making amends, but he had not had the chance to say any of the things he had planned. He had been stopped very effectively by her anger and bitterness, her utter rejection of him. And he could not fight back. He had no right. The only way he could show his love now was to leave her, to allow her freedom from his presence.