They ate and drank sparingly from the hamper; Sir Barnaby was of the opinion that it would be morning before sufficient rubble had been cleared and the roof shored up with timber. He quenched all the candles, including the one in Charlotte’s lantern. The only light came from her own lantern—one single, flickering, golden flame. The grotto became dark and shadowy, but instead of being frightening, it was strangely cozy. Her awareness of the weight pressing down on them had faded. What she was mostly aware of, was Sir Barnaby. They sat with their backs to a wall, side by side, wrapped in blankets. Their shoulders touched—the lightest of pressures, barely felt—and yet Merry was vividly conscious of it, vividly conscious of Sir Barnaby’s quiet breathing, of his presence alongside her.
The disconcerting shyness that had stricken her at the ball returned. She felt self-conscious and bashful and inarticulate.
Why am I so shy?
Because she was head over heels in love with Sir Barnaby. Because she desperately wanted him to love her back. Because she didn’t know whether he did.
He liked her—of that, she was certain—but he didn’t look at her with his heart in his eyes, the way Marcus looked at Charlotte. He was courteous and friendly and cheerful and, most of all, kind. His shoulder was touching hers because he knew she was afraid, because he was letting her know she wasn’t alone, because he was trying to make her feel safe.
And it was working. She did feel safe. She sat in the almost-dark, with the weight of a hillside resting on top of them, and knew she should be scared, but she wasn’t.
Because Sir Barnaby was with her.
An hour later, the grotto felt much less cozy. Cold seeped from the rock floor, from the walls. Merry hunched into the blanket and shivered. “Cold?” Sir Barnaby asked.
“Freezing,” she admitted.
“Um . . .” Sir Barnaby said. “We’d conserve warmth if we, um . . . Do you mind if we touch?”
Merry’s awareness of him flared—and with it, the shyness. “No.”
Sir Barnaby cautiously put an arm around her.
“That doesn’t help much,” Merry confessed several minutes later, still shivering.
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Sir Barnaby hesitated, and then said, “Pretend I’m your father,” and he picked her up, blanket and all, and settled her on his lap as if she were a child, tucking her inside his own blanket, putting his arms around her.
Merry stiffened—not in offense, but in a surfeit of shyness—and then forced herself to relax. “That’s much better. Thank you.” She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Sir Barnaby smelled strongly of rock dust, and beneath that, of sweat and horse and sandalwood soap.
She thought of Henry. Stocky, dark-haired Henry, with his bulldog face and blunt way of speaking. Henry, whom she’d loved. Whom she always would love.
Henry, dead at sea four years ago.
Merry inhaled Sir Barnaby’s dust-sweat-horse-soap smell again, drawing it into her lungs, and felt a deep ache of love. Love for Henry. Love for Sir Barnaby.
On the surface, Sir Barnaby was nothing like Henry, but underneath, he was very similar. He had the same practical nature, the same vigorous, inquiring mind, the same kindness.
You would have liked Henry, if you had known him, she told Sir Barnaby silently, and she breathed in his scent again, and felt the ache, and the certainty. Certainty to the very marrow of her bones.
This man.
Merry had no idea how many hours she slept, but when she woke, she was shivering again. The grotto was pitch black; the lantern had gone out—but with Sir Barnaby’s arms around her, she didn’t feel afraid. “Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Are you cold?”
She felt him shiver. “Yes.”
“We need to move.” She uncurled stiffly and clambered off his lap. “Where’s that tinderbox?”
“Here.” Sir Barnaby lit another candle and placed it in the lantern. Light flickered across his weary face. His hair looked like a hayrick.
“Let’s dance.”
Astonishment crossed his face. “Here?”
“Of course, here. There’s room enough, if we’re careful.”
Sir Barnaby glanced at the highest point of the grotto roof. “I suppose there is.” He climbed to his feet, moving slowly. “Lord, I feel like an old man.”
He looked rather like one at this moment, his hair gray with dust. Merry wanted to hug him; instead, she busied herself with the hamper. “Here, have some lemonade. And would you like some of these grapes? They’re from Marcus’s estate in Kent.”
The sweet, juicy grapes and tart, thirst-quenching lemonade cleared the cavern taste from Merry’s mouth. Sir Barnaby looked rather more alert. “All right,” she said briskly. “Let’s start with a minuet.”
They took their places opposite one another. Shyness ambushed her again. She felt suddenly as gauche and awkward as a schoolroom chit. Merry took a deep breath. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re twenty-five, not fifteen.
Sir Barnaby bowed, Merry curtsied.
Sir Barnaby had taken off his gloves to eat. So had Merry. When their bare fingers touched, her awareness of him intensified sharply. Her heart gave a little kick in her chest, and began to beat faster.
Sir Barnaby held her fingertips lightly, and yet Merry’s whole hand burned. The heat spread as they danced, far more heat than the stately steps of the minuet deserved. Merry didn’t feel cold or scared; she felt vividly alive, the blood humming in her veins.
“How about a reel?” Sir Barnaby suggested next.
They danced a reel, at the end of which they were laughing and capering like children.
“Whew!” Sir Barnaby said, panting. “Now I’m warm.”
Merry laughed up at him and hugged her joy to herself. This man.
They gulped more lemonade, and then Merry said, “Would you like to learn a new dance? It’s very fashionable in Vienna.”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s called the waltz. It’s quite simple. Triple time. The basic step is this.” She demonstrated the man’s step, counting one, two, three, one, two, three—and Sir Barnaby copied her. “Now, stand facing me, and take my right hand in your left, and your right hand goes at my waist, here, and I put my hand on your shoulder like this.”
Their bare palms pressed together. Merry’s shyness swept back. She found herself not quite able to meet Sir Barnaby’s eyes. Her stomach tightened and her heartbeat began to hammer in her ears. “It can be as energetic as you like, but let’s start at walking pace. One, two, three . . .”
Sir Barnaby picked the dance up in less than a minute. “Excellent,” Merry said, trying to smother her shyness. “Now, add some turns if you can.”
Sir Barnaby could.
“Excellent,” Merry said again. “Let’s go faster.”
Faster, they went, up and down the grotto, and the faster they danced, the closer Sir Barnaby had to hold her. Indecent, critics had labeled the waltz, and Merry could see why. It was an intimate dance. Thrillingly intimate. Her shyness warred with a heady exhilaration.
When they were both short of breath, Merry called a halt. They stood for a moment, holding on to one another, panting.
Merry’s heart began to thud even faster. This man.
She experienced an almost overwhelming impulse to stand on tiptoe and press her lips to his.
Sir Barnaby’s gaze dropped to her mouth. He hastily released her and stepped back. “More lemonade, Miss Merryweather?” His voice was cool and polite, putting distance between them.
Merry hugged her arms. Had he felt the same impulse? “How much is left?”
Sir Barnaby turned to the hamper. “One and a half flasks.”
“A little, then, please.” A feeling of euphoria built in her chest. I think he wants to kiss me.
Sir Barnaby poured them both lemonade. Once he’d drained his glass, he glanced around and his expression became faintly embarrassed. “Perhaps we should, er, allocate a privy.”
“There are three caves off this grotto. One has that skeleton, but the other two are empty. Charlotte and I thought we’d use them. One each.”
His expression lightened. “Ah, good.”
They used their respective privies, washed their hands in the water seeping down the passage wall, and then ate some ham and grapes from the hamper. Sir Barnaby was friendly, cheerful, courteous—and looked at her as little as he could. He offered her more grapes, refilled her glass, told her a string of anecdotes that made her laugh, and avoided meeting her eyes whenever possible.
Why?
Merry nibbled her grapes and observed him, and came to a conclusion: Sir Barnaby was attracted to her—but because he was a gentleman and they were trapped here together, he was trying very hard not to show it.
Sir Barnaby packed up the hamper, brought out his pocket watch, announced it was half past three, and suggested they try to sleep again. He shook out the blankets and handed her one, but this time, when they sat, his shoulder didn’t quite touch hers.
Without that contact, Merry found herself acutely aware of the weight of earth and rock pressing down on them. She shuffled sideways until their shoulders touched. Sir Barnaby seemed to tense slightly. “You all right?” he said.
“A little scared,” Merry admitted.
“We’re going to get out of here,” Sir Barnaby said firmly. “I promise you.”
You can’t promise that, Merry thought, but she said, “I know,” as if she believed him.
They huddled in their blankets, side by side. The cold seeped through her blanket, seeped through her clothes, and the colder she became, the more she felt the weight of rock above them. Thousands of tons of rock, poised to fall on them.
Merry tried to repress her fear and failed, tried to repress her shivers and failed.
“Cold?” Sir Barnaby asked.
Scared. “Yes.”
He hesitated. “Would you like me to hold you again?”
“Yes, please,” Merry whispered.
Sir Barnaby settled her on his lap and wrapped his blanket around her. For some reason, it made her want to cry. Her throat closed and her nose stung and her eyes burned, and it took all her self-control not to burst into tears.
Merry leaned her head against his chest and struggled to control her breathing. Don’t cry. But it was almost impossible not to when Sir Barnaby held her like this, his arms around her, and when she knew that the slender columns holding the roof up were going to snap like twigs and the hillside was going to fall on them.
All of a sudden, Merry knew that she had to tell Sir Barnaby how she felt about him. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew the roof was going to fall. She had to tell him she loved him, because if she died without telling him, and he died without knowing, it would be the most terrible thing in the world.
She drew in a breath—and found her tongue paralyzed by more than shyness. Fear, that’s what this sensation was: fear. Fear that Sir Barnaby would reject her.
Am I such a coward?
Father had always said that the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life was to ask a viscount’s daughter to marry him—but he had had the courage to ask, and her mother the courage to accept, and it hadn’t mattered at all that her mother had been disinherited because they’d been happy, truly happy.
Father had the courage to do this; therefore, so do I.
Merry took a deep breath. “Sir Barnaby, will you please marry me?”