Miss Merryweather’s words stayed with Barnaby half the night, jostling for space in his head along with everything Marcus had said. His skull would surely burst soon, from the pressure of all that was crammed into it. Sleep came in snatches. He woke at dawn, weary and unrefreshed, to the quiet sounds of a housemaid laying a new fire in the grate. When she’d gone, Barnaby burrowed deeper into his bedclothes and tried to find unconsciousness again, but already thoughts were turning over in his head. It was like having a nest of writhing eels inside his skull. They wouldn’t stop moving.
He closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing . . . and the eels in his head slid over one another and gave him Lavinia. Lavinia, sobbing in his arms. Lavinia pressing her warm, salty lips to his.
Memory unfolded: returning her kiss, unthinkingly and instinctively, wanting nothing more than to comfort her—and then jerking back when he realized what he was doing.
The eels in his head obligingly produced another memory: Lavinia’s face—the starry, tear-filled eyes, the soft, vulnerable mouth. Please kiss me, Barnaby, she’d begged. Please make me feel safe.
And he had. God help him, he had. He’d gently kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, gently kissed every inch of her exquisite face, and Lavinia had clung to him, and kissed him back, and sighed his name.
Somehow, gentle comfort had become passion and he’d found himself consumed by a fierce, overpowering tenderness. Their kisses had become more urgent. He hadn’t noticed Lavinia opening his breeches—he’d been too lost in her mouth—but he’d sure as hell noticed her hand on his cock. He’d released her abruptly, jerking back as if scalded, cracking his head painfully against the wall.
Please, she’d whispered, tear-stained and achingly beautiful. Please, Barnaby. I know you won’t hurt me. And tears had welled again in her eyes, and he’d been lost. Lost and doomed.
If he’d thought about it, he would have known that Marcus had never hit her. But he hadn’t thought. He’d accepted her lies, had seen himself as her savior, her protector.
Lavinia had been the one to unfasten his breeches, but it had been he who’d gently pushed her gown up to her waist. He who had settled himself carefully between her thighs. He who had fucked her.
He’d wanted to protect, to comfort, to love—and instead he’d destroyed. Destroyed Marcus’s marriage. Destroyed the most important friendship he’d ever had.
Lavinia had sighed and trembled in his arms, and clung to him, and whispered that she loved him, and in that moment, he’d loved her, too, so fiercely, so protectively, that if Marcus had walked into the folly, he’d probably have killed him.
But Marcus hadn’t.
Once Lavinia had gone, the reality of what he’d done had sunk in. And on its heels had come shame. Shame, like ashes in his mouth. Shame so intense he’d almost vomited. He’d retreated to his study and got thoroughly drunk and he had vomited, had spent half the night vomiting. It had emptied his stomach, but done nothing for the shame.
“Fuck,” Barnaby said, under his breath. He flung back the bedclothes, padded barefoot to the window, and opened the shutters. Daylight flooded in. He leaned his hands on the windowsill and gazed out at Woodhuish and sighed.
What am I doing here?
Barnaby sighed again, and pushed away from the windowsill. He turned to the cheval mirror and looked at himself: red-brown hair standing on end, tired hazel eyes. That afternoon in the folly had turned him into someone he didn’t recognize. I don’t know who I am anymore.
He raked his hands through his hair and rang for hot water.
The day limped past. Marcus didn’t inflict another excruciating tête-à-tête on him. Miss Merryweather didn’t skewer him with her astuteness. Everyone was polite, friendly, tactful. He had a sense that Marcus and Lady Cosgrove and Miss Merryweather and even the servants were tiptoeing around him, waiting. Waiting for him to leave or stay or jump off the damned cliff.
Barnaby couldn’t decide whether it was worse to be young Charles’s godfather or not. Worse to stay or to go.
He rode as far as the River Dart with Marcus, ate luncheon at the abbey in the open gallery that had once been the monastery cloister, strolled the grounds with Lady Cosgrove and Miss Merryweather, and then suddenly dusk was drawing close, and he was in the entrance hall, waiting for the carriage to take them to the ball.
Barnaby fidgeted with his cuffs. Why did I let Miss Merryweather talk me into this? He felt like Robespierre headed for the guillotine. All that was missing was the tumbrel.
Marcus strolled down the stairs and took a moment to check his neckcloth in the mirror, adjusting the knot fractionally.
Barnaby scuffed one shoe on the polished flagstones. “Are you sure you want to be seen in public with me?” he said, in a low voice.
Marcus didn’t look away from his neckcloth. “I’m not going to bother answering that.”
Barnaby blew out a breath and tugged at his cuffs again.
Marcus turned away from the mirror. “I think you’ll enjoy it,” he said, leaning his shoulders against the wall. “Sir Anthony’s interested in improving his land. I told him to talk to you. Sang your praises, actually.”
Land improvement? Barnaby scuffed his other shoe on the flagstones. He could talk about land improvement for hours. Crop rotation. The new grasses. Animal husbandry. But it was hardly a topic for a dinner party.
A clatter of hooves came faintly from outside.
“The tumbrel’s here,” he said glumly.
Marcus laughed—and Barnaby found himself almost smiling back.
“It’s not as bad as that.” Marcus pushed away from the wall. “The Ances are nice people, and so are the Tuckney-Smythes. Ask Merry; she’ll dissect their characters in detail for you. She has a very keen eye.”
I’d noticed, Barnaby thought dryly, and then he said, “Miss Merryweather mentioned a fiancé yesterday. I’m guessing . . . he’s dead?”
“Accident at sea, several years ago. He was in the navy. Merry did tell me his name. Henry . . . Henry Marlow. Lieutenant Henry Marlow.”
Barnaby nodded.
Marcus glanced at the clock, and the staircase. “The Woottons should be there tonight, too. I can guarantee they’ll be delighted to meet you. Five daughters.”
Barnaby’s head jerked back, as if he’d been slapped. “Jesus Christ, Marcus! You haven’t been touting me as a bridegroom? I’m the last person any woman should marry!”
Marcus snorted. “If you believe that, you’ve got a maggot in your head.” Then, his eyes narrowed. “You do believe it.” He took a step towards Barnaby and lowered his voice and said fiercely, “For crying out loud, Bee, let it go.” He shut his mouth and turned away as the butler bustled into the entrance hall, his shoes slapping briskly on the floor.
“The carriage is ready, sir.”
“Thank you, Yeldham.”
The countess and Miss Merryweather chose that moment to descend the stairs. A smile lit Marcus’s face when he saw his wife. The countess wasn’t pretty, but she was a very attractive woman, slim and elegant in a gown of amber silk shot with gold. Spectacles perched on her nose, and behind the lenses, her eyes were dark and intelligent. Barnaby thought, not for the first time today, that the gossips who’d labeled her plain must be blind.
The countess wasn’t pretty, but Miss Merryweather most definitely was. Barnaby blinked, and took a second look at her. Flaxen ringlets, laughing eyes, dimples peeking in her cheeks. In that gown she was very definitely not a young girl. Short and slender, yes, but with a woman’s breasts.
He tore his gaze from her, cleared his throat, and made his leg to both ladies.
Miss Merryweather crossed to him, almost bouncing on her toes. Her gown was the exact shade of blue as her eyes. “The minuet and a country dance. You promised.”
“Indeed, I did.”
That promise no longer seemed such a grave mistake.