Pendragon (4 page)

Jeremy said to her, “The last time I saw you, Meggie, you were thirteen years old, and you were carrying around little Alec, teaching him the names of all the flowers. I remember asking you the name of one particular pink blossom, and you said it was a lost cause, you couldn't remember, and you'd made up so many names that Alec couldn't remember either. Alec burped, if I remember correctly.”

Meggie grinned. “I had promised my father and Mary Rose that if she had the babies I would teach them what was what. The names of flowers, however, defeated me. They still do. To me, a rose is a rose is a rose, all the rest is different smells. Alec is now seven years old, can you believe it? And Rory is four.”

“I look forward to seeing your family.”

Douglas said, “How long will you be in London, Jeremy?”

Jeremy said, “Well, Uncle Douglas, as it happens, I'm here for a very specific reason. Then I will be returning to my home in Fowey.”

Meggie sat forward, words spilling out of her mouth because she couldn't dam them up. “Come, tell us, Jeremy. Spit it out. You're here for my first Season, aren't you?”
You came because you had to come, something powerful brought you here, and now that you've seen me, you know what it is
.

He looked perfectly blank, but just for an instant. “Not only your Season, Meggie.” He paused a moment, then looked at his aunt and uncle, opened his mouth just as Darby said from the doorway, “My lord, Cook has sent you her favorite lemon tarts. She informed me that they were Lord Stanton-Greville's favorite.”

“Yes, they are,” Jeremy said. Conversation was desultory as Alex dispensed the tea and offered the cake plate around.

“They are delicious,” Jeremy said. “How is Oliver doing at Kildrummy, Meggie? I haven't received a letter from him in nearly six months.”

Meggie said, chuckling, “He is altogether too happy—you can just see him leaping over the sheep killers that haven't yet been filled in—you remember, Jeremy, the huge gouges in the earth that sheep, because they're stupid, have always fallen into? Anyway, he's filled in a number of them over the years. Oh yes, Oliver's very happy. You can just stand there and hear him whistling as he counts the sheep and cows and goats and directing any repairs on Kildrummy and the crofts, see that exuberant smile of his when he greets everyone in the village.” She paused a moment, giving everyone a chance to laugh, then added, seeing everything so very clearly now, “Do you know what else—he has announced, just last month, that he is ready to marry.”

“Good Lord,” Jeremy said, choking on the lemon cake. “Oliver, married? I'd believed him quite content in his single state.”

“He is thirty, I believe,” said Douglas. “I was leg-shackled at twenty-eight. Oliver is behind schedule and so I have told him. He is ripe.”

“Ah,” said Jeremy, and grinned a fool's grin, “I am also ripe. Perhaps it is predestined.”

“That's a nice thought,” Meggie said, and wanted to leap on him.

“Douglas wasn't particularly ripe,” Alex said and toasted him with her teacup.

“Just thinking about it makes me want a brandy. Jeremy, will you join me?”

“No, thank you, Uncle Douglas. I must be going. I very much wanted to see you, to see that everything was going well, and I see that it is. And here's little Meggie, all grown up now.” He rose, hugged Alex, shook Douglas's hand, and walked to Meggie. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take him right down to the floor and kiss him until he was silly with it. She wanted him to moan, something she had heard her father and Mary Rose doing when
they didn't think anyone was about. Jeremy took her hand, lingered just a moment—a bloody cousin's linger—nothing more. “I wish you the best during your Season, my dear.”

Meggie realized in that moment that Jeremy wasn't even close to feeling about her as she did about him. Well, after all, the last time he had seen her she'd been only thirteen years old, and she shuddered at that thought. He'd already been a young man. And he'd only seen her for the first time in many years just fifteen hours before. She had to give him a bit more time, to build memories she already had of him, and that meant creating the opportunity for him to fall tip over arse. She said with a guileless smile, “Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex aren't up as early as they used to be”—clearly a lie of the first order—“and I love to ride early in the morning before everyone is out and about. I would like to go riding with you tomorrow morning, Jeremy. Could you be here at seven o'clock? Is that too early?”

Jeremy said without hesitation, “I should like that very much. I would be delighted to observe an exceptional horsewoman in action. Tomorrow morning, Meggie.”

He squeezed her hand. And then he was gone. She heard him say something to Darby, heard the front door close.

Meggie said to her aunt and uncle, “He was only here for fifteen minutes.” Then she left the drawing room, humming.

“I don't like this, Alex,” Douglas said and downed his brandy. “I don't like this at all. He is too old for her. Indeed, I don't think he even saw her—you know what I mean?”

“I wonder,” Alex said, nodding, “what he was going to tell us before Darby came in.”

“I don't know. Maybe I don't want to know. Hopefully it was something to do with his new stud. I heard he was dealing with Marcus Wyndham. Now, there is a man I would gladly drink with.” A black brow suddenly shot up. “When did we become too old to ride in the morning?
All right, so we didn't ride this morning. On the other hand we didn't get to our bed until nearly three o'clock.”

His wife rose and walked to him. She was wearing a lovely soft pink silk dress that was, he saw, cut far too low, displaying too much of a magnificent bosom. She touched her fingertips to his sleeve and said, eyes twinkling, “And then you were resolved to show me an excess of affection, Douglas.”

Douglas looked at her barely covered breasts, grunted, and poured himself another snifter of brandy. His fingers still tingled at the thought of touching her. It was amazing.

4

M
EGGIE WORE HER
new dark blue riding habit with its beautifully worked lace spilling out over the bodice, fitted at the waist with a narrow cloth belt. The skirts were full and looked quite elegant spread around her as she sat atop Eleanor's back, her black boots peeping out, waiting for Jeremy Stanton-Greville. Stanton-Greville. She'd always thought two last names sounded rather absurd, but realized that if everything came to pass as she wanted it to, as she prayed it would, why, she herself would have two names as well. She started, surprised at herself.
Meggie Stanton-Greville
. Yes, it sounded simply perfect. She pulled in a deep breath and wanted to be sick, but she wasn't about to deny it. She wanted to marry Jeremy Stanton-Greville and she'd only known him as a man for less than a day. It was madness.

No, no, it wasn't as if he were a stranger to her, he wasn't. She'd known he was hers from that day when she was only thirteen years old. So she had forgotten him for five years. He'd probably forgotten her as well.

Now that she thought about it, deeply, she decided that two names had become, overnight, quite distinguished.

She yearned for two names.

It was exactly seven-thirty in the morning, a dreary cold morning, with fat gray rain clouds hanging low overhead. To Meggie, the gray clouds were lovely, the morning was
perfect, holding more promise than the day before, more delight than just an hour before.

Yes, it would rain, but not for several hours, that was what Old Hamish had told her. He was the head stable lad, all of sixty years old, gnarly as an old oak and very smart about the weather. Surely she would have Jeremy out of the park, off his horse, and under a lovely romantic shelter before it started raining. All she needed was two hours, maybe less. She was committed; she was focused. She just had to set Jeremy thinking on a straight line, one that led directly to her. She just had to assist him to truly understand why he was really here in London. A distant boom of thunder sounded.

Ah, let it rain, she didn't care. But her riding habit, her beautiful new hat. No, only Jeremy mattered, and how he would feel when she poured out her heart to him. Not immediately, no, it would surprise him, perhaps make him wary of a girl who professed to have fallen in love with him when she was thirteen. No, she would hold back until the time was right, until he looked at her and simply
knew
she was his mate.

She looked up to see two people riding toward her.

She looked away, lips pursing. Well, blessed hell, she didn't want two strangers anywhere near her. She just wanted Jeremy, and she wanted him alone.

The two horses kept coming straight at her.

Meggie cocked her head to one side and looked now, really looked.

It was a man and a woman. The man, who looked like a bloody centaur riding a magnificent black barb, was Jeremy Stanton-Greville. As for the woman, curse her eyes, she was young. She was riding very close to Jeremy.

Meggie felt her heart begin to pound, slow thumping strokes. Her breath suddenly
whooshed
out when she realized she'd forgotten to breathe. She waited, sitting very still atop Eleanor.

Jeremy waved to her. In just another short moment he and the young woman were directly in front of her, not more than three feet from Eleanor's nose.

“Meggie,” Jeremy said, riding his horse just a bit closer, extending his hand to take hers briefly, “I am so glad you're here. I wasn't sure that you would be here this morning. It's on the chilly side, you know.”

“Yes,” Meggie said, “I know. I wanted to see you.” But she wasn't looking at him in that moment, she was staring at the most beautiful young lady she'd ever seen in her life, who had also ridden a big closer. Her glossy black hair was arranged in artful tight curls around her face with the rest of it pulled up atop her head into an Adonis knot. So much black hair, thicker than a female deserved, just barely covered by a clever little riding hat with a curling feather that caressed her white cheek. Ah, and such lovely white skin. She was more beautiful than a woman should be. Meggie wouldn't be surprised if her bloody name were Helen.

The goddess smiled, a quite lovely smile that reached those incredible blue eyes of hers.

Jeremy said, “Charlotte, I would like you to meet one of my favorite cousins, Meggie Sherbrooke. Meggie, this is Charlotte Beresford, my betrothed.”

Betrothed
. In that moment everything in Meggie closed down. She'd heard the term
coup de foudre
—struck by lightning, to signify falling in love upon first seeing someone. This was a different sort of lightning. This
coup de foudre
sliced right to her heart and split it apart, shattering it into a million pieces.

“How do you do,” Meggie said in another's voice as the real Meggie lay there beneath Eleanor's hooves, mortally wounded. Both parts of her wished the heavens would burst open, right this instant, and every fat cloud would dump every ounce of rain until she drowned in it. No, until that damnable young lady named Charlotte drowned in it.

“I am very fine, thank you, Miss Sherbrooke,” said the young lady. She grinned toward Jeremy and lightly tapped her riding crop to his sleeve. “I have told Jeremy that he comes from such a distinguished family. His uncle Douglas is known by simply everyone, you know. I believe
your father is the vicar who is also Baron Barthwick of Kildrummy, is that right, Miss Sherbrooke?”

“Yes,” Meggie said, and hated Charlotte Beresford all the way to the soles of her lovely pale gray boots, that perfectly matched her riding gown and that damned artful little hat she wore.

“I have been told that your other uncle, Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke, Jeremy's brother-in-law, has even taken a seat in the House of Commons. So quaint for a younger son, don't you think?”

“Not quaint at all,” Meggie said.

Jeremy, who was looking a bit puzzled, hastened to say in the abrupt silence, “My brother-in-law hates to see children abused. He works tirelessly to abolish child labor.”

Charlotte said, “I am eager to meet him. You and I haven't spoken of it, but I must say that I feel the same way. It makes one want to weep to think of the poor little ones forced to work at looms for untold hours on end.” She nodded to Jeremy but continued to Meggie, “Jeremy is taking me to Chadwyck House next week to meet his sister and his brother-in-law. And also to Brandon House to meet all the Beloved Ones.”

Meggie wished Charlotte would shut her lovely pink-lipped mouth, particularly since everything that had emerged was filled with kindness and charm.

Damn the woman.

She was Jeremy's betrothed.

“Meggie,” Jeremy said now, pulling his gelding in beside Eleanor and motioning Charlotte to pull into the other side of her, “Shall we ride now? You and I can talk about your wild and fractious childhood tonight.” He paused, patted her hand. “I wanted you so much to meet Charlotte.”

“How very thoughtful of you, Jeremy,” Meggie said, that distant Meggie, not the Meggie who lay in pieces on the ground. When it began to rain a few minutes later, she didn't even blink, just smiled at Jeremy, at Charlotte, and said, “It is too inclement to ride. Goodbye.”

“Until this evening,” Jeremy called after her. She didn't
look back. Her beautiful new riding habit was wet, her riding hat quite ruined, when she finally walked into the Sherbrooke town house. Darby took one look at her and shouted, “My lady!”

When Alex came out of the library to see Meggie standing there, dripping on the beautiful marble entrance hall, she knew something very bad had happened. Not being a dolt, she knew it had to do with Jeremy Stanton-Greville.

 

Meggie didn't want to see either Jeremy or Charlotte again, actually, for the rest of her life. No, just Charlotte.

She'd loved him for so long. It didn't matter that she hadn't particularly thought about him for years at a time, all the feelings she'd birthed for him so long ago, had just remained dormant, waiting for her to grow up, waiting to burst into bloom when she was ready to take a husband. And there he'd been. As if Fate had plunked him right down in front of her.

Only he hadn't waited for her.

At that moment she decided she would never again look at a man with anything resembling liking. She would become the premier cat trainer in the entire sport. She would devote her life to the cats and to her parents and brothers. That gave her a bit of a pause. No, it would work. It would be fine. Perhaps when Lady Dauntry retired, she would mount the dais at the McCaulty racetrack and shout, “Free the Cats!”

She dressed beautifully for dinner. She knew even before she stood in front of her dressing table, ready for company, that she couldn't possibly look finer than she did at this moment. She gave herself a ghastly smile in her mirror. Timma, Aunt Alex's maid, said from behind her, “The pale pink, it is delightful on you, Miss Sherbrooke.”

“Thank you, Timma.”

“And your lovely hair, I have done an excellent job arranging it, just so.” Timma snapped her fingers.

Meggie tried for a smile, but couldn't find one. “Thank you, Timma.”

When she went downstairs, Darby was there, as if he'd been waiting specifically for her, she thought, which he had, and allowed him to lead her into the drawing room.

Jeremy Stanton-Greville and Miss Charlotte Beresford were there. Uncle Douglas, unbeknownst to her, had invited him to dinner. Jeremy saw her and immediately jumped to his feet. He said as he walked quickly to her, “You are not thirteen years old any longer, Meggie.” He kissed her hand, hugged her, then stepped back. “You look quite beautiful.”

“Thank you, Jeremy.”

But she saw that his eyes couldn't even remain on her face for more than an instant, perhaps two, before swinging back to Charlotte, who looked like a princess, sitting there, her lovely dark blue silk skirts fanned out around her, her décolletage not comparing to Aunt Alex's, but still, all that young very white flesh on display would make a man bite his tongue before swallowing it.

She nodded toward Charlotte. “Good evening, Miss Beresford.”

Charlotte trilled a laugh. “Come now, we will soon be related. Do call me Charlotte.”

Meggie couldn't say,
“No, you miserable hussy with your big breasts, I would like to shoot an arrow through your heart.”
So she merely smiled and nodded. “No, we won't be related. Jeremy is not a blood cousin,” she said and turned her full and complete attention to her aunt and uncle.

Meggie didn't remember much of the evening when she rode Eleanor the following morning with her aunt and uncle. She wasn't remembering much of this, either. She kept her head down close to Eleanor's sleek brown neck and let the wind rip through her hair.

She wanted to go home but knew she couldn't. It would distress her father and Mary Rose, and Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex, particularly since they'd been so delighted to present her. They'd gone to so much trouble, smoothing her way, ensuring that she would have a grand time during her first Season. And the very worst was that they would
also know what had happened and Meggie didn't think she would ever live that down. So she would remain and she would enjoy her Season. Blessed hell, she would enjoy every moment of the next two months.

She bit her lip to keep from crying. She would never cry for any man again.

She didn't believe her aunt and uncle realized her feelings for Jeremy, which made her profoundly grateful that she hadn't said anything. She had to be merry, laugh, tell them how very much fun she was having. Meggie wanted to howl to the ever-present bloated gray clouds overhead.

 

Meggie Sherbrooke was declared an
original
that Season of 1823. She was the most sought-after young lady in all that crop of debutantes, and feted until she should have been heady from her success, and become quite conceited. Her admirers were legion—that was the ridiculous word Meggie had heard Lady Ranleigh say about the gentlemen who never gave her peace, and she would have laughed, if she'd cared one little bit, but she didn't.

Uncle Douglas received four offers of marriage, each of them from excellent gentlemen, and each he discussed with Meggie. If any had interested her, then he would have sent the young man she'd selected to go see Tysen, but Meggie just shook her head when he presented them to her.

“Lord Marcham's son, Lancelot, is quite unexceptionable, Meggie, and appears quite taken with you. He really cannot help his unfortunate name.”

“No, thank you, Uncle Douglas,” she said, and that was that, similar words used to decline each of the other offers.

Douglas wrote to Tysen and Mary Rose at least once a week, his early letters filled with Meggie's successes, then they were filled with Meggie's disinterest in any of the gentlemen who praised her very nice Sherbrooke blue eyes, her lovely Sherbrooke hair, her somewhat distracted wit.