Mistress by Midnight. Nicola Cornick
gaze and his effortlessly authoritative presence, seemed to be able to disturb her, and that was only because for the past twelve years he had haunted her thoughts, and now that she knew that he had lied about her brother’s death she wanted to take from him everything he had—friends, reputation, respect.
She tried not to look at Garrick and found it disturbingly difficult. How had he known she would be at the Octagon Library today? It could be no coincidence. He was already a step ahead of her. A horrid thought struck her. Perhaps Garrick had gone to an inquiry agent like Tom and asked them to identify her. Merryn had no illusions about the sort of information that could be bought—or suppressed, for that matter—with enough money. She had seen it happen time and again.
She risked a glance at Garrick underneath the brim of her hat and then wished that she had not. He was not reading. His book lay discarded to one side, his quill idle on the desk.
He was watching her.
His gaze was thoughtful as it rested on her. It felt oddly as though he were studying her, learning her by heart. His eyes moved over her features, one by one: her hair, beneath the dowdy blue bonnet, the curve of her cheek, her mouth. He seemed to pause there for an inordinate amount of time and Merryn felt tightness in her chest and a constriction in her breathing. Her skin felt too sensitive, prickling from his nearness. It was odd and disconcerting. She kept her gaze on the page in front of her although the words danced before her eyes and made no sense. She knew even with her eyes averted that he was still watching her; she could feel his gaze like a physical touch, stroking her cheek, sliding along the smooth line of her jaw, brushing her lips like a kiss.
She caught her breath on the thought and, unable to resist the unspoken demand he was making, she looked up and met his eyes.
He was not looking at her at all. He was writing with every appearance of concentration. And as Merryn drew back, frowning a little, her body still humming with awareness, he glanced up and caught her staring. He raised one brow in a quizzical way Merryn could only categorize as insolent. A small smile tilted the corners of his firm mouth, a smile of such masculine self-satisfaction that she wanted to slap him.
Her face flaming, she bent furiously over the periodicals again. The Dorchester Advertiser, the Bournemouth Intelligencer … Not a single reference to Stephen’s death. It was as though he had been eradicated completely, as though he had never existed. She felt enraged. There was nothing for her here.
Then she had a thought, a flash of an idea. She turned back to the London periodicals for July 1802 with their record of routs and parties, events and guest lists. The season had been ending, the last glittering balls taking place before town emptied for the summer. And there on the guest list for a dinner at Lord and Lady Denman’s house on the night of July 25 was Chuffy Wallington, Stephen’s friend, the man who was supposed to have been his second at the fateful duel, who could not possibly have been in Dorset during the afternoon yet at a dinner in London that same evening …
Merryn’s hand shook so much as she scribbled down the details that her writing was barely legible. She closed the book carefully and got to her feet. She felt exhausted, her head aching. It was only a tiny scrap of evidence but it felt monumental to her, another fragment in the jigsaw that painted a very different picture of the events on the day of Stephen’s death.
She shuffled the papers together and got to her feet, placing the precious piece of paper in her pocket.
“I apologize,” she said to the hovering clerk. “I fear that I cannot concentrate further this morning. I will call to arrange another appointment. Good day and thank you for your assistance.”
She turned to go. Garrick Farne had not moved, not shown by one flicker of a muscle that he had even noticed her departure. Merryn slapped her gloves into the palm of her other hand and stalked toward the door. She resisted the urge to look back at Garrick even though she was sure he was watching her. Her nape tickled with awareness and the goose bumps rose over her whole body.
She was within three feet of the door when Garrick stepped out from behind the nearest bookcase and directly into her path.
NOW THAT SHE WAS CLEAN and it was daylight, Garrick could see that Lady Merryn Fenner was everything that he had imagined the previous night. She was a perfect miniature, tiny, blonde, beautiful. And she had the most vivid blue eyes that he had ever seen. There was something fierce in them, a challenge that was curiously at odds with the shabby bluestocking garb she wore. Her strength of character and intense spirit made a mockery of the dull blue gown, the dowdy bonnet and the demure gloves and reticule. They were just local color, disguise even. Garrick could see through her at once. She was not a simple society miss.
She had told him the previous night that she was five and twenty. It surprised him. He thought she looked younger. She was a good actress, he thought. That night in his bedroom she had looked small and defenseless, like the waif from the streets she claimed to be. He had been halfway to believing her story that she was homeless and in need of shelter. Had it not been for the cut-glass accent and the high quality of her gown he might have fallen for the lie. She was like quicksilver, changeable, slipping through his fingers. She had run from him before. This time, though, she would not escape.
He could see that she had absolutely no desire to speak with him. The stiffness with which she held herself and her furtive glances toward the nearest exit told him she wanted nothing more than to flee. That was understandable. And this was not, perhaps, the best place to force a confrontation, in the august surroundings of the King’s Library, with the King’s librarian and his assistants watching avidly from behind a stack of books. But that was too bad. He could not risk her running out on him again.
Her scent, that elusive fragrance of bluebells, wrapped about him and made his body clench with longing. Even without Hammond’s information Garrick thought that he would have known at once that she was the woman he had found in his bedroom, the woman who had slept in his bed, an intimacy that had haunted his thoughts ever since. He could picture Merryn between his sheets all too easily, her slight, lissom body lying where his had lain, her hair spread across his pillow, and her bare skin against the cool linen. He felt as though she had somehow imprinted herself on him and he could not break free.
She was looking at him with impatience and disdain, as though he was some importunate suitor or writer of particularly bad sonnets.
“I wanted to apologize,” he said easily, “in case I was the cause of your distraction this morning.”
He saw her bite her lip and knew that she was caught between the desire to give him a set down for his presumption and the equally strong desire to cut him dead and run away. The latter urge won out.
“I am sorry,” she said, “that it is quite impossible for me to talk to a gentleman to whom I have not been formally introduced. Excuse me.”
She made to pass him but Garrick put a hand on her arm. He lowered his voice and spoke softly in her ear. “Some might say that our informal introduction—in my bedroom two nights ago—would suffice as a basis for our acquaintance.”
He saw that she was a little shocked at his direct approach. No doubt she had not expected him to be quite so blunt. Gentlemen, generally, did not speak so frankly to a lady. Her body stiffened, her blue gaze narrowed. Her perfect bow of a mouth pursed in a way that made Garrick want to kiss her. The urge hit him hard, squarely in the stomach. He felt as though the breath had been knocked from his lungs, felt a hot pull of desire that went straight to his head and also lower down as well.
Something of his feelings must have shown in his face for he saw the blue of Merryn’s eyes heat and intensify for a moment as though responding to his need. Her lips parted on a tiny, startled gasp. He took a step forward, narrowing the distance between them to nothing. But already she was retreating, slipping away, the shimmer of desire in her eyes banished by cold disdain.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, “but I think you mistake me for quite another lady.” There was the slightest emphasis on the word lady. “I am not the sort of woman to be found in any man’s bedchamber. That would be most inappropriate.”
She