She looked back at him earnestly, trying to discern from the expression on his face the reason behindthis strange turn of events. She had been in the kitchen earlier that morning when the viscount had come downstairs, looking quite immaculate despite the fact that he wore the same clothes as the night before. He was even shaved. Anne guessed that his shaving gear was in the leather bag that he had carried with him when he arrived. She had been trying to cook eggs and ham over the stove, which had taken her a long time to light earlier. Fortunately, he had made no adverse comment on the lack of variety that their breakfast was to offer. He had merely told her to bring the food to the dining room as soon as it was ready, and had wandered off again.
He had invited her to join him at the table when she took the food in on a tray, looking as amused as he had the night before when she had hesitated about joining him. But he had made little attempt to converse with her, beyond a compliment on the quality of the coffee she had brewed. He had browsed through an old periodical that he must have brought from the library.
Bruce had arrived home as she was carrying the dishes from the room. He had walked all the way from the village, wading up to his knees in places, he said. But he had felt compelled to make the attempt, knowing that his sister was alone at home. The vicar had come with him, refusing to allow his friend out into the white world without some companionship. Anne had taken them into the dining room, where the viscount was still hidden behind his periodical, and had introduced the three men. She had left the room with the loaded tray just after the guest had leapt to his feet and flung his periodical to the table. That was the last she had seen of him until Bruce had come to her in the kitchen and told her to go to the library.
Anne had quickly dried her hands and gone. Bruce was clearly in one of his moods. He was grim and tight-lipped. Clearly he considered her behavior bad-mannered in the extreme. It must be that he expected her to remain with their guests, smiling and trying desperately to think of something to say. He could not understand that in the absence of servants work piled up. Someone had to keep the house tidy, cook the meals, and wash the dishes.
But when she reached the library, it was to find only the viscount there. And suddenly she was "Miss Parrish." And he had made her a formal proposal of marriage. It was all most romantic and utterly frightening-and downright impossible.
"Yes," she stammered. "I mean, if you really wish it and if Bruce has given his consent. Yes, I would be honored. If you truly wish it, that is. My lord." Like a schoolgirl. Gone was the Anne of the daydreams.
The smile and the charm were gone from his face instantly. He almost snapped to attention. His jaw clenched. "Then that is settled," he said matter-of-factly. "How fortunate it is that your brother chose to bring a clergyman with him this morning, since it seems that we will be housebound for at least the rest of today. We will be able to make arrangements with him to be wed within the next few days, and I shall be able to take you to Redlands as soon as the roads are passable again."
"Within the next few days?" Anne echoed faintly. "You wish to be married so soon, my lord? Do you not have family members that you wish to have present?"
"Not at all," he said briskly. "I have always considered elaborate weddings to be an utter foolishness. A church and a minister and a couple of witnesses are quite sufficient to make a binding marriage. It will be time enough for my family to be informed when the deed is accomplished."
This was not the stuff of dreams at all. There was to be no large church, then, and no crowds of admiring guests and laughing well-wishers afterward. Just the village church and the Reverend Honeywell and Bruce. But did it really matter? Was there not something unutterably romantic about the notion of taking the fashionable world by storm? She would be introduced to his family and his friends as his wife. How surprised they would all be! If only she had a chance first to lose some weight and to improve her wardrobe. But no matter. She would do both in the course of the next few months, and even the viscount would be surprised to discover that his wife could be attractive.
The viscount! She did not know his given name. She blushed with embarrassment as she looked up at him. Would he think of telling her? It was impossible to ask him when she was already betrothed to him.
He observed her blush unsmilingly. "Since you have been stranded here without servants, ma'am," he said, "I can imagine that you must have a thousand and one tasks to occupy your time. I must not keep you. I shall discuss the arrangements for our nuptials with your brother and the vicar, and refer them to you later for your approval." He took Anne's hand, which was still pleating the stuff of her gown, straightened her fingers with his own strong hand, and raised them briefly to his lips.
Left alone in the library, Viscount Merrick crossed again to the window and stared unseeingly out at the snow, his hands clasped behind his back. His mind and his feelings were as frozen as the world without. Even more so. There was water dripping from the eaves across his line of vision. There was no comfort at all for him.
How, in heaven's name, had he got himself into such a coil? He still could not quite convince himself that he was not asleep, locked into some nightmare from which he could not shake himself loose. Yesterday-just a matter of hours ago, in fact-he had been riding with as much haste as he could muster to London and Lorraine. Their betrothal was to be announced within the week. He was to be back in the world he knew and loved, the world with which he felt thoroughly comfortable. He had been annoyed to think that the storm might delay his return to that world by so much as a day. He had considered the appearance of this house a stroke of good fortune once he had accepted the necessity of that delay.
But now! He was betrothed to a girl whom he found in no way attractive, honor-bound to marry her within the next few days, sentenced to spend the rest of his life shackled to her. A girl whom he had considered to be a servant until a very few hours ago.
The events of the last couple of hours were so jumbled in his mind that he had hardly sorted out yet what had happened. He did remember that when the brother had arrived in the dining room and been introduced, he had not needed to inquire if he was the owner or a servant left in charge. The answer was very obvious. And he had realized in a flash that Anne was no servant, either. Her speech was quite genteel. He should have noticed that instead of drawing his conclusions entirely from her mode of dress. He should have known from experience that in the country people did not always dress according to their station. It did not take Merrick long to learn- from the Reverend Honeywell-that brother and sister were the grandchildren of a baron and close relatives of the present holder of the title.
Merrick's first thought had been one of relief. He had come uncomfortably close to compromising a lady's honor. It was no servant girl that he had almost seduced the night before. But the feeling was short-lived. It soon became very obvious that both Parrish and the vicar considered that the girl's honor had indeed been compromised very badly. She had spent a night alone with him, and even though they did not suspect him of having behaved in an ungentlemanly fashion, and even though they knew that Anne's behavior was always above reproach… Merrick had not listened to every word or argument. But their meaning had been patently clear. The only way the situation could be redeemed was for the two who had been alone together to be wed.
He could have resisted, Merrick supposed now, watching a heavy pile of snow finally lose its hold on the bare branch of an oak tree and crash to the ground. It was quite ridiculous really to suppose that honor was compromised when circumstances as drastic as those of the night before had forced two people into company together. It was not even as if they had been trapped together in a single room. They had been in a large house that must have at least eight bedchambers. Why would the proper minds of those who would hear of the incident suppose that they had occupied only one of those rooms? Such a notion of honor was old-fashioned, and rightly so.