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.
Yet somehow it is not so easy to resist when one is faced by the righteous and tight-lipped owner of a house with which one has made free for a night and a morning. Especially when that owner is accompanied by a very sober and stern-looking country vicar who stares at one as if he can see a devil and its pitchfork over one's shoulder. And more especially when one knows oneself not entirely blameless. It still seemed miraculous to Merrick that he had not bedded the girl when he had so obviously overcome any resistance that she might have offered.
Almost in a dream, he had agreed that the honorable thing to do was to offer for the girl. Before the idea had had a chance to take root in his mind, before he had had time to realize that he would lose Lorraine and all his dreams for the future, Merrick found himself in the library awaiting the arrival of the girl. Even then he had not realized the finality of the situation. Surely she would laugh at the notion of marrying a complete stranger and moving away with him. She would refuse him. Gallantry dictated that he treat her with courtesy. He had found when confronted with her that he could not be wholly truthful and explain that he was offering only because her brother and the vicar considered it the honorable course for him to take. He had had to pretend that he really wished the match.
But surely she should have realized the truth. She must know that in real life men did not that easily make a decision to marry a strange girl. She must know that she was a dowd whom no man in his right mind could fall for within the course of a few hours. He expected her to reject him, had not dared to think of what he would be facing if she accepted. His mind had become completely numbed by her reply. He could hardly recall now what he had said or how he had behaved toward her. Had his natural courtesy of manner prevented him from showing the horror and disgust that he had been feeling?
Merrick watched the snow outside the window become wetter. Soon it would melt off the roadways. There was the faintest chance that by late afternoon it would be possible to travel again. But the thought brought no comfort. He would be going nowhere for the next few days, not until after his wedding, and then he would have to make arrangements for his wife to travel with him. His wife! That little drab of a girl who even now looked to him all the world like a servant. What was he to do with her? He could not possibly take her back with him to London. The very thought of being seen with her by all his acquaintances, of having to face Lorraine with her,' made him feel nauseated.
And as he stood there by the window, a faint suspicion began to form in Merrick's mind and to grow by the minute. He had fallen surely into a cleverly laid trap. Miss Anne Parrish might be completely lacking in feminine attractions, but she had considerable intelligence. She must have seen almost immediately the night before how she could turn the situation to her advantage. She must have seen that he had mistaken her for a servant, yet she had made no attempt to correct his error. She had played along with his mistake, acting the part with great skill. She must have realized, little dowd that she was, that this was the great chance of her life. If she could only seduce him-yes, indeed, it was she who had been the seducer-she would be able to force him into marriage.
She had succeeded, of course, much better than she could have expected. She had kept her honor intact and yet still won her point. Perhaps she had realized that, too. She must know her brother and that vicar fellow pretty well. She would have realized that in their narrow-minded view of life even the fact that he had spent the night in the same house as she would mean that her honor had been compromised. It had really been easy for her. All she had had to do was ensure that he stayed at the house all night and long enough the next day for her brother to come home and find him there.
The more he thought of the matter, the more Merrick was convinced that he had discovered the truth. Why else would the girl have accepted him with such little reluctance? Of course, he had introduced himself the night before by his title, obviously a great mistake. He was wearing his most fashionable and expensive clothes. He must have appeared a great catch indeed. And what a foolish one! He might have known that country morality was far more straitlaced than that to which he was more accustomed. He should have pressed on the night before after warming himself in the house. She had told him that the village was a mere three miles away. It surely would not have been impossible to travel that far. But, of course, he could not have been expected to foresee the danger; he had taken her for a servant. And he could not really blame himself for that. She certainly looked every inch the part, and she was a skilled actress. Only her speech might have given her away.
Merrick found that he was clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides and that his teeth were so firmly clamped together that his jaw ached. It was all true. Reality was beginning to establish its hold on his mind. He was not dreaming. Within the course of a few hours, his whole life had changed. All his dreams and plans for the future were ruined, and his new plans hardly bore contemplation. He had committed himself to this girl and would have to marry her. But he was damned if he would pretend to like it. His life might never be able to take the course that he had planned, but he was not going to allow the scheming little chit to ruin it altogether. She would be made to feel very sorry indeed for what she had done. She might bear his name and his title, but she would gain nothing else from this marriage if he had anything to say in the matter.
Anne Parrish and Alexander Stewart, Viscount Merrick, were married two days later in the village church. The Reverend Honeywell officiated, and Mrs. Honeywell and Bruce Parrish witnessed the ceremony. No one else was present or even knew of the wedding. The new tenants of the house had not yet arrived, and the present occupants had been nowhere during the days that intervened between the morning after the storm and that of the nuptials. The vicar's wife served tea and cakes in the vicarage afterward, but the viscount refused the offer of a wedding meal. He had hired a carriage with which to take his bride to his home in Wiltshire and intended to start without further delay. Even so, the state of the roads made it uncertain that they would complete the journey before nightfall.
Anne had never thought that she would feel sorry to say good-bye to her brother and to the home where she had never known much of happiness. But she felt something very near to panic as the shabby coach, the best the village had for hire, drew away from the gate of the vicarage and the group of three standing there waving to her. Only then was it fully borne in on her that the man beside her-her husband-was a stranger. And a very quiet stranger at that. In the last couple of days, though they had occupied the same house, they had spent almost no time in each other's company and no time at all alone. She had been busy in the kitchen much of the time. He had spent a great deal of time outside, either in the stable endlessly grooming his horse or in the grounds of the house trudging through the snow. He had spent very little time even with Bruce, seeming to prefer to be alone.