Dartmoor, England
This must be the dreariest place on earth, Adeline thought, viewing the hideous stone gargoyles with distaste. The gargoyles in question were much like her grandson’s current residence, Windgate Abbey, in which she now stood: cold, eerie, and savagely misshapen. Like the gargoyles, which featured the worst possible physical attributes of the ugliest known creatures, both real and mythical, the additions to the abbey reflected the most grotesque architectural innovations of the past six centuries.
Built in the thirteenth century as a Cistercian abbey, Windgate had been confiscated by Henry VIII during his dissolution of the monasteries, at which point it had begun its metamorphosis into a country house. If legend stood correct, and Adeline didn’t doubt for a moment that it did, the house had been given to a Vane ancestor as a reward for helping the king win the heart of Jane Seymour, his third queen. That that ancestor was most probably instrumental in the beheading of the king’s existing wife, Anne Boleyn, was a detail that was never discussed.
Standing now in what had once been the chapel nave, but now served as the entry hall, Adeline found herself considering that very detail and thinking that the monstrousness of the house reflected the sin for which it had been a reward. She had just turned her mind to comparing it to Michael’s four other estates, all exceedingly pleasant places, and wondering what had possessed him to choose this one as his refuge, when the majordomo came into view.
In keeping with the abbey’s alarming image, the servant was a cadaverous-looking giant of indeterminate age with beetled black eyebrows and a twisted beak of a nose. As if those unfortunate traits weren’t off-putting enough to callers, should anyone actually have the temerity to call, the man had an unnerving propensity toward baring his teeth when he spoke, the pointiness of which created the disconcerting effect of a vampire about to partake in a snack.
He was baring those teeth now as he sketched a surprisingly graceful bow. “The duke is in the summer parlor. If you would be so good as to follow me?” As surprising as his grace was his voice, which was nothing short of beautiful.
“Thank you, Grimshaw,” Adeline replied, nodding cordially. For all that he was a fright to look at, he really was a dear man.
Grimshaw bared his teeth further, into what was his version of a smile, then turned on his highly polished heels and led her up a stone staircase, and into the tortured maze that was Windgate Abbey. As Adeline followed, she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps the most startling aspect of the majordomo wasn’t so much his barbarous looks as their astonishing contrast to his elegant attire. If ever a man was immaculately groomed, it was Grimshaw. Indeed, there was many a London buck who could stand to emulate his style.
It was the thought of London and the city’s glittering denizens that dragged her mind back to her grandson. Once upon a time he had been the most beautiful and fashionable of them all. And that opinion wasn’t just grandmotherly pride. Before his illness had taken its toll, the entire ton had acknowledged and revered him as their preeminent gallant. He was the man other men wished to be, the one the women sighed over and dreamed of wedding. Indeed, so much the rage was he that it wasn’t at all uncommon for the ladies to raise their cups during tea and propose toasts to his numerous charms. Michael, who had been spoiled from the cradle by adoring females of all stations, had simply accepted their homage as his due.
Passing from the original stone abbey building into the timber and brick Tudor wing, Adeline considered how much less devastating his current situation would have been and how much easier he might have borne it had he not been so celebrated. After all, being a demigod of sorts had meant that he’d had much farther to fall than if he had been a mere mortal. It also meant that his condition had been granted less tolerance than would have been allowed a lesser man.
As a prime example of manhood, he had naturally been expected to be impervious to all weakness and imperfection. To show that he was indeed vulnerable and ultimately flawed had been viewed as a betrayal of that expectation, and was thus judged unforgivable. That his flaw should manifest itself in such a shocking manner had made the ton, which had once so worshiped him, turn away in disgust. As for Michael …
She sighed, her heart aching at his suffering. Her poor, darling Michael. For a man who flourished on feminine attention and thrived on manly sport, being ostracized by society had been the cruelest fate imaginable. Of course, not everyone had abandoned him. He’d had a few true friends who had remained loyal, or would have had he allowed them to do so. Unfortunately he’d chosen to view his condition with the same scorn as the ton, and his resulting shame had caused him to push away those who would have given him comfort. In the end, when it became clear that there was no cure for what ailed him, he’d shut himself away in this gloomy tomb of a house, rejecting company for fear of humiliating himself in front of others with one of his unpredictable spells.
No doubt he would have shunned her as well had she allowed him to do so. But of course, she wasn’t about to allow any such thing. She loved him far too much to leave him alone in his torment. Besides^ she truly believed that there was hope for him someday having a happy and fulfilling life. And at that moment, she saw Emily Merriman as the key to that hope.
Adeline nodded her affirmation. She’d contemplated Effie’s proposed match between Emily and Michael at length. And after much thought and several sleepless nights, she’d decided that her friend might very well be right, that it was the infirmity of Michael’s spirit, not his body, that was keeping him in his invalid state. Indeed, the very fact that he remained debilitated, despite his lengthy freedom from spells, gave credence to her theory. Thus, Adeline had decided that the best medicine for him was female companionship. A hoyden, to be exact. A beautiful one who would turn his world upside down and shock his thoughts away from his woes. And Adeline had no doubt in her mind that Emily Merriman was the very hoyden for the task.
Why? Because the gel was an American. And if she was anything like the other American women she’d met, she was certain to be livelier and more headstrong than her prim English counterparts. Add that natural American audacity to the fact that she’d been raised by a houseful of men, and you were bound to get a chit with the mettle to deal with Michael’s foul moods. Indeed, after a lifetime spent in masculine company, there was most probably nothing he could say or do that she hadn’t already heard or dealt with before. That meant that she was unlikely to be intimidated or shocked by him, which gave hope to the chance that she would see the pain that fueled his bitterness and recognize him for what he was: a wounded man in desperate need of love and understanding.
If she possessed even a shred of her grandmother’s enormous capacity for compassion, she would strive to befriend him and perhaps someday even learn to love him. As for Michael, once he saw that she was no milk-and-water miss to be scared away by his growls, there was a chance that he would respond to her kindness and that they might eventually become man and wife in more than just name.
It was a chance. And she was willing to take any chance to heal her grandson. Now she must force him to take a chance as well.
Fully comprehending the unpleasantness of the task before her, Adeline continued to trail the majordomo, stopping when he signaled for her to do so. With mounting dread of the coming battle, she waited outside the parlor door as he announced her, chanting Euphemia’s advice over and over again in her mind.
I mustn’t give him a choice. I mustn’t give him a choice.
Knowing how furious Michael was going to be when she voiced her command made it the hardest advice she’d ever taken. Breaking her chant to remind herself that she was doing what she was about to do for his own good, she nodded at Grimshaw, who was now motioning her into the room, and stepped over the threshold.
Full of light and color, the summer parlor was the one room in the house of which Adeline actually approved. Dating from the early Stuart reign, it boasted not only what she considered to be the most magnificent plasterwork ceiling in England, but the grandest parquet floor as well.
Done in a palette of green, gold, and red, the room was paneled in grained wood upon which was emblazoned the most exquisite arabesque painting imaginable. In the northeast corner stood a white marble fireplace, whose top was ingeniously worked into the paneling; spanning the entire west wall was an enormous oriel made grand by Venetian windows. Lounging on a daybed within the oriel, his long form swathed in an emerald damask dressing gown, was her grandson.
“Michael, my love!” she exclaimed, rushing to where he lay. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.” Grimshaw was on her heels carrying an ornately carved Yorkshire chair, which he stood ready to deposit wherever she chose to sit. This location, of course, was right next to her grandson, who didn’t so much as open his eyes in acknowledgment to her presence.
Settling into the chair, Adeline took his alarmingly cold hand in hers, noting with a pang how ill he looked. The poor, poor dear. He was so very thin, far thinner than she’d ever seen him. And beyond pale. Why, even his lips were ashen, blanched to the same sickly grayish-ivory hue that resulted when wool was improperly bleached. In truth, the only thing about him that appeared in health was his overlong hair, which at the moment tumbled in a tangle of glossy dark waves and curls across the gold velvet pillow beneath his head.
Wanting to weep at the sight of him, she lovingly chided, “My darling boy, whatever have you been doing with yourself? You look positively dreadful.”
It wasn’t until Grimshaw took his leave that Michael responded, though he still didn’t open his eyes. “You would look dreadful, too, if you had been purged twice, bled half to death, and forced to swallow three emetics in as many days,” he snapped, the strength of his voice at odds with his wan appearance.
Adeline gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. “I know your treatments are difficult at times, dear, but—”
“Yes, yes. I know. They are for my own good.” He made a derisive noise. “So you and Eadon keep telling me.”
“Yes, and it appears that they are working. Don’t forget that you haven’t suffered a spell in almost seven months. Even you have to admit that that fact alone marks an amazing improvement.”
His lips twisted sardonically, though he still didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Whether or not I have ‘improved’ is a subject up for debate. Indeed, as you, yourself, so tactfully pointed out just now, I look dreadful, and I can assure you that I feel ten times worse than I look.”
“Michael,” she began, desperately wishing that there was something she could say or do to alleviate his misery.
He cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. His voice reflecting the brusqueness of his gesture, he growled, “What do you want, Grandmother? Has Eadon reported some transgression for which you have come to scold me? Or have you, heaven forbid, found some new cure to inflict upon me?”
Had he not been so obviously wretched, Adeline would have replied in like curt coin. Since, however, he was clearly peevish from illness, she let his surliness pass and gently responded, “Can’t I visit you simply because I love you?”
His thick black lashes lifted at that, revealing the stunning jade eyes that had once caused such a fervor among the ladies. Gazing at her with undisguised cynicism, he replied, “You could, but you haven’t. The only reason you ever come to Dartmoor is to make my life miserable. Why, even at Christmas, which, if I remember correctly, was the last time you visited, you couldn’t resist the temptation to foist one of your quacks upon me.” He snorted. “As I recall, the man was Italian, and a very merry Christmas gift he turned out to be. I couldn’t stir from my bed the entire month after he had finished with me.”
He smiled then, but in a way that held no humor or pleasure. “So, Grandmother, what sort of lovely surprise do you have for me this time? A Russian obsessed with the bowels, perhaps? One who will blister my belly and deluge me with yet more clysters? Or have you found an Egyptian who wishes to shave my head and cover my scalp with leeches?”
Adeline felt a niggle of guilt at his words. Several of the cures she’d insisted he try had been, in retrospect, rather harsh, though the hope they had presented at the time had made it seem worth her forcing him to endure them. Remembering that hope and telling herself that any one, or even all, of those cures could be responsible for the current abatement of his spells, she replied, “Let me assure you that I am quite content with the progress you are making under Mr. Eadon’s care. And unless you start suffering frequent spells again, I see no reason to seek other cures.”
Michael stared at his grandmother, not certain whether to be relieved or alarmed by her news. While Eadon’s remedies weren’t exactly what anyone would call pleasant, they weren’t as brutal as some he had endured. Of course, had he been given a choice in the matter, which he hadn’t, thanks to his grandmother and her manipulation of the English courts, he would have chosen simply to be left alone. In truth, as repulsed as he was by his spells, he was beginning to think that they were easier to bear than the hideous weakness he suffered from this latest course of treatments.
It was that weakness that now left him too fatigued to formulate a proper, stinging comeback. Hating his malaise and resenting his grandmother for forcing him to endure it, Michael closed his eyes again and testily muttered, “Would you please just say what you have come to say and leave me alone? I wish to rest.”
“Of course you do, poor dear. And rest you shall. We can speak later, when you feel more the thing.” Her hand moved to his hair then, gently stroking. It was a soothing gesture, one that over the years had become as familiar and reassuring as his own heartbeat. And despite his bitterness toward his grandmother and his wariness of her motive for visiting, Michael began to relax.
For a long while thereafter they remained like that: Michael drifting between consciousness and slumber, wanting to sleep but still too apprehensive of his grandmother’s reason for visiting to do so; Adeline, wondering how best to approach the subject of his marriage to Emily Merriman.
It was Michael who finally broke their uneasy trance. “Grandmother?” he murmured, his eyes still closed.
“Yes, darling?”
He shifted his head slightly, urging her to stroke all the way down to his nape. When she complied, pausing to massage the back of his neck, he sighed his pleasure. “Feels good.”
“Of course it does. Now hush and go to sleep.” She expertly kneaded her way down to where his neck curved into his shoulder.
He released a soft moan of appreciation. “Mmm … can’t sleep … not until you tell me what you wish to discuss.”
“I told you that it can wait until you feel better.” There was a note of gentle chiding in her voice.
He smiled faintly, another moan escaping him as her fingers found a particularly stiff muscle in his shoulder. “I doubt I’m going to feel much better than this. In fact, I cannot recall feeling so very good since the last time you did this.” He moaned again to illustrate his point. “Ahhh. Think you might be able to teach Eadon to rub my shoulders like this? I promise to stop grumbling about him if you do.”
She chuckled. “Unfortunately, no. He is a man, and the pleasure you are currently experiencing comes from what is commonly called a woman’s touch.”
Ah, yes. A woman’s touch. His gut gave a sudden and painful twist. Of all the things he missed about his former life, women and their touch was what he missed the most … especially those touches that teased and tantalized his most intimate parts. Unfortunately, such touches and the pleasures that inevitably followed were the things he was least likely to experience again, at least in the foreseeable future.
As he dejectedly contemplated that bleak fact, his grandmother’s hand stilled. “Michael, love? What is amiss?” There was a sharp note of urgency in her voice.
He grunted and shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary … well, at least nothing out of my ordinary, such as it is.” Smiling at the bitterness of his own irony, he opened his eyes and gazed up at his grandmother. When he saw her expression, oddly perplexed and full of worry, he added, “What makes you ask?”
She frowned. “You look so grim all of a sudden. Why?”
“I always look grim these days, or so you and Eadon are always saying,” he reminded her, evading the question. There were some things a man simply didn’t discuss with his grandmother, and his sexual desire was one of them.
“True, but never while I am plying my woman’s touch,” she countered, outmaneuvering him.
“Mmmm, yes. Speaking of your woman’s touch—” He jerked his head at her hand, which now rested on his shoulder, indicating his wish that she resume her stroking and massaging.
She shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, no. Not until you tell me what had you looking so devastated just now. Something is clearly distressing you, and I want to know what it is.”
Michael sighed, easily recognizing the expression on her patrician face. How could he not? He’d seen it hundreds of times while growing up. And as it had back then, that expression now told him that she expected an immediate answer to her question and that she would brook neither argument nor evasion.
He returned her gaze for several moments, trying to concoct an appropriate lie. Then he remembered her uncanny talent for seeing through fibs and resigned himself to telling the truth. Feeling as if he were fourteen again and had been caught with his hand up the chambermaid’s skirt, he muttered, “If you must know, your mention of women’s touches reminded me of my past mistresses and how much I miss their—er—physical intimacies.”
Rather than looking shocked or embarrassed, as he had expected, she smiled faintly and nodded. “Of course you do. You are a young man, and young men have certain appetites that need to be satisfied on a regular basis.”
“Indeed?” he murmured, for lack of a better response. What else could he say to that?
She nodded again. “Yes. It is something that Effie and I were discussing—”
“You and Effie discussed my—my appetites?” he sputtered, genuinely appalled. That two such respectable old dragons would even consider his sexual needs was a notion that utterly staggered his mind.
“Of course we discussed them,” she retorted primly, eyeing him as if he had just asked a very stupid question. “I discuss everything with Effie, especially those things that concern you. She is, after all, my bosom-bow, and she loves you almost as much as I do.”
“Be that as it may, my manly needs are hardly an appropriate subject of discussion for women,” he pointed out stiffly.
She snorted. “Pshaw! Don’t be such a prig, Michael. You know as well as I that men discuss women in such a manner all the time and see no harm in doing so. What is wrong with us women doing the same?”
A prig was he? A prig! Michael met his grandmother’s steady gaze with indignation, his eyes narrowing as he noted her sparkling amusement. All right, then. If she indeed saw nothing wrong with discussing sexual matters, then he would forget that he was a gentleman and do so. Carefully donning his most blasé expression, the one he always assumed when discussing such matters at his club, he nodded and replied, “Fine. If you truly wish to have this conversation, then perhaps you would be so good as to tell me what you and Effie decided should be done about my appetites.”
“Why, they must be satisfied, of course, and we have just the plan to help you do so.”
“What!” He more roared than said the word. So much for being blasé.
She nodded, clearly unperturbed by his towering outrage. “We decided that your grimness stems from your spending much too much time alone in this dreary heap of stones. And that the very thing to raise your spirits is a lovely gel.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed at her response. “You didn’t, by chance, just happen to bring a ‘lovely gel’ with you, did you?” Heaven help him, but he would strangle her if she had.
“Of course not.”
He exhaled a sigh of relief.
“But one will arrive next week.”
“What!” The walls practically shook from the force of his shout.
His grandmother nodded, smiling as if she hadn’t heard his eruption. “The gel is Effie’s American granddaughter, Emily, and she is reputed to be quite a beauty.”
For several moments Michael remained too stunned to reply. When he finally managed to speak, his words came out in a hiss. “Are you telling me that Effie wishes me to satisfy my manly needs on her granddaughter?” And here he’d thought he had been shocked before.
She couldn’t have looked more pleased with herself. “Yes, but not until after you are wed, of course.”
Michael’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times; then he bolted upright and thundered, “Good God, woman! Have you gone mad?”
“Of course not,” she returned calmly, “and if you don’t wish all of England to continue to believe that you have, you will wed the gel and get her with child.” Firmly grasping his shoulder, she tried to force him back down on the daybed. “You really must lie down and rest. You are going to need your strength for when your bride arrives.”
“Like hell I am,” he spat, resisting her efforts. “If you think that I am going to wed some American chit whom I have never even met, you can think again. I will not do it!”
“You will,” she shot back, her eyes growing hard as their gazes clashed. “I command you to do so.”
Michael glared at her, too incensed to do more. After a beat he found his tongue and bit out, “You have heard the rumors, I assume? The ones my most recent mistress has been spreading?”
She shrugged. “Of course. Everyone has.”
“And has it ever occurred to you that they might be true?”
Another shrug. “You know that I never heed such gossip.”
“You bloody damn well should, because in this instance it just happens to be true!” He spat the words through gritted teeth.
His grandmother recoiled slightly, but never lost her air of composure. Not that he’d expected her to. As far as he knew, nothing had ever shattered her aplomb. True to form, she shrugged yet again and coolly replied, “True or not, it hardly matters now. That episode happened over two years ago and much has changed since that time, including you. Given your improvement, I am certain that such a thing will never happen again.”
“You are damned right it won’t, because I refuse to put myself in the position to suffer that kind of shame again. Ever!”
She made a clucking noise behind her teeth. “Such stuff and nonsense. You don’t really expect me to believe that you intend to remain celibate, do you? Why, the very notion is absurd.”
Michael snorted. “Tell that to your quacks. According to their expert opinion, excitement of any kind can provoke spells. Because of the incident with my mistress, I have been specifically instructed to avoid sexual arousal at all costs.”
His grandmother snorted back. “Pshaw. They were simply being cautious. If their theory of excitement provoking spells were indeed true, you would be having one now.”
“Be that as it may, there will be no wedding.” Michael gave his head a firm shake, determined to squelch her outlandish plan once and for all. “When Effie and the chit arrive, you will explain that it was all a mistake and send them on their way. And you will never—I repeat, never!—so much as even consider such a scheme again. Do I make myself clear?” He more roared than uttered that last line.
Oh, he’d made himself perfectly clear. Adeline, however, had no intention of abandoning her plan or her last hope for his happiness. Again reminding herself that the marriage was for his own good, she adopted her most authoritative mien and decreed, “There will be a marriage, and that is that. I command it.”
“Of course you do. You do nothing but command me these days,” he flung back, meeting her gaze with cold, resentful eyes. “However, unlike the cures you have forced upon me in the past, you cannot have me held down and simply inflict this marriage on me. I have to speak the vows willingly, you know.”
“Yes. And you will.” Despite her exasperation with him, she was pleased to see a spot of color rise in his cheeks.
“And if I refuse?”
She let his inquiry dangle in the air for a moment, then brought it crashing to earth with, “Then I shall have you declared mad and you shall be committed to Bamforth Hall.” Bamforth Hall was the genteel asylum where he had been confined during several of his more aggressive cures. It was a place he both despised and feared.
As she had expected, he looked horrified. So horrified, in fact, that she felt her resolution waver. It was just a threat, of course. She would never send Michael back to Bamforth, no matter the circumstances. Unfortunately, it was the only threat she knew powerful enough to sway him to her will.
After several moments, during which what little color he had gained during their argument drained from his face, Michael recovered himself and said, “You know as well as I that you would never do such a thing. Not when it means handing the duchy over to the Pringles.”
“Wouldn’t I?” she softly challenged.
He smiled rather smugly. “No. Never.”
She smiled back. “You are wrong. I would if the Pringles relinquished their infant son into my care, which we both know they would do in a heartbeat if it meant gaining the duchy.”
His jade eyes narrowed, and to Adeline’s relief, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in their depths. “I don’t believe you. Why would you do such a thing? You always said that you would die before you would allow a Pringle to assume the Sherrington title.”
“I will do it because you shall give me no choice, not if you refuse to marry. You know as well as I that if you die without issue, which is exactly what will happen if you do not wed, the title will automatically go to the Pringles. And we both know how disastrous that will be. However, if I were to take their son, Benjamin, now, while he is young, I might be able to raise him into an heir worthy of the Sherrington duchy, thus ensuring the continued eminence of the title.”
He raised his eyebrows, visibly skeptical. “Indeed? Well, then, if you are indeed so very worried about the duchy, why take a chance on my marriage to this … this …” He snapped his fingers. “What is the chit’s name again?”
“Emily,” she supplied. What was it about the name that made it so difficult to remember?
“Ah, yes. Emily.” He shook his head, as if thinking the same thing. “Anyway, as I was saying, if you are so very set on ensuring the Sherrington duchy, why take a chance that my marriage to this Emily chit will bear fruit? As I have explained, there is a good chance that I will be unable to consummate the union. And even if I can, there are no guarantees that my seed will produce an heir.”
Adeline shrugged, hiding her grin as she sensed victory close at hand. “There are no guarantees that the Pringle boy can be made worthy of the Sherrington duchy, either. However, given the choice, I’d wager on a Vane against a Pringle any day of the week. Unfortunately, you refuse to give me that choice, so I must cast my lot with the Pringles.”
“But why now and why this Emily chit?” he inquired softly.
“Because I am old, and I wish to have things settled.” She sighed, suddenly feeling every one of her eighty-two years. “I—”
“Good heavens! You aren’t ill, are you?” he interjected, his gaze frantically searching her face. If he had looked horrified by the threat of Bamforth, he looked doubly so now.
“No, no. Of course not. I’m in as fine a feather as I was at twenty,” she replied, touched by his concern. Despite his current resentment of her, she never doubted for a moment that he loved her. Patting his wan cheek in a way that conveyed her own love for him, she added, “To answer your question, I have selected Emily because Effie’s recently deceased son left her charged with the duty of finding the gel a husband. If you could push aside your stubbornness for a moment, you would see that she is a perfect match. She is, after all, a Merriman, which means that she comes from noble blood, and you know what a dear our Effie is. By all accounts, Emily is every bit as lovely and kind as her grandmother.”
“That and the fact that there isn’t a gently born girl in all of England who will have me,” he added, wearily. Rubbing his temples as if they throbbed, he sighed and lay back down again.
“Yes, that too,” Adeline agreed quietly. “Emily Merriman is my last hope for you.” As she uttered the words, she began lightly stroking his temples.
He made a soft sound and closed his eyes. She had continued the soothing action for several moments when he murmured, “Will you really have me committed to Bamforth if I refuse to wed the girl?”
Though it pained her to utter the words, she replied, “Yes. I am sorry, but I shall have no choice. The only way the Pringles will hand over their son is in trade for the duchy. And in order for me to give it to them, I must declare you mad and prove the point by sending you to Bamforth.”
“And here I thought you loved me,” he muttered.
“I do,” she exclaimed fiercely. “Do not ever doubt that I love you. Unfortunately, I know where my first loyalty must lie, and that is with the duchy. Were your priorities in order, yours would lie there as well, and I wouldn’t be forced to make such a heartbreaking choice. But make it I must.”
He heaved a heavy sigh and slowly opened his eyes. Looking as if he were going to a particularly excruciating death, he murmured, “I suppose you must, which leaves me with no choice but to wed this Emily chit.”
“No choice at all, unless, of course, you prefer life at Bamforth,” she briskly replied.
He grimaced. “I think you know my preference.”
Indeed Adeline did, and she smiled.