Resisting Miss Merryweather

Chapter 1

Chapter One

April 6th, 1807

Devonshire

Barnaby Ware let the curricle slow to a halt. He gazed past the horses’ ears at the high-banked Devon lane that opened like a tunnel on his left. The knot of dread that had been sitting in his belly all morning tied itself even tighter. Picturesque, a voice noted in his head. The tall banks were clothed in grass and wildflowers and shaded by overhanging trees.

“This’ll be the lane to Woodhuish Abbey, sir,” his groom, Catton, said, with a nod at the lightning-struck oak on the far bank.

Barnaby knew, but he didn’t lift the reins, didn’t urge the horses into motion.

Four days it had taken to get here, each day traveling more slowly. Today, he’d practically let the horses walk. And now, with less than a mile left of his journey, all he wanted to do was turn the curricle around and head back to Berkshire.

“No mistaking that oak,” Catton said, after a moment’s silence. “Split right in half, just like the innkeeper said.”

Still Barnaby didn’t move. The dread was expanding in his belly, and growing apace with it was a bone-deep certainty that he shouldn’t be here. So what if the invitation had been in Marcus’s handwriting? You shouldn’t have come, the voice in his head said.

Barnaby glanced over his shoulder. The road was empty. And there was plenty of space to turn the curricle.

Catton would think him a coward, but what did he care what the groom thought? What did he care what anyone thought anymore?

“Sir Barnaby Ware?” a female voice said.

Barnaby’s head snapped around. He searched the shadows and found a young girl in a dark-colored redingote, up on the nearest bank, in the deep green gloom of the trees.

“Er . . . hello?” he said.

The girl descended the bank nimbly. She wore sturdy kid leather boots and a straw bonnet tied under her chin with a bow. How old was she? Twelve? Fourteen?

“Sir Barnaby Ware?” she asked again, stepping up to the curricle and tilting her head back to look at him.

Sunlight fell on her face, showing him sky-blue eyes and flaxen ringlets.

Barnaby blinked. Not a girl; a woman in her twenties, trim and petite. “Yes.”

Was this Marcus’s new wife? Surely not. The gossip was that the new Lady Cosgrove was a plain woman, and this woman was definitely not plain.

“I’m Anne Merryweather,” the woman said, with a friendly smile. “Lady Cosgrove’s cousin. May I possibly beg a ride to the abbey?”

“Of course,” Barnaby said automatically, and then his brain caught up with his mouth. He cursed silently, and gave a stiff smile. “It would be my pleasure, Miss, er, Mrs.—?”

“Miss Merryweather,” she said cheerfully. “But most people call me Merry. It’s less of a mouthful!”

Half a minute later, Miss Merryweather was seated alongside him and Catton was perched behind in the tiger’s seat. Barnaby reluctantly lifted the reins. It appeared he was going to face Marcus after all.

His stomach clenched as they entered the shady lane.

“I saw you once at Vauxhall,” Miss Merryweather said. “Several years ago.”

Barnaby wrenched his thoughts back to his companion. “Er . . . you did?”

“At one of the ridottos.”

Barnaby looked more closely at her—the heart-shaped face, the dimples, the full, sweet mouth. Did she expect him to recognize her? “I’m afraid I don’t recall meeting you,” he said apologetically.

“Oh, we weren’t introduced. I was there with my fiancé, and you were with Lord Cosgrove and his fiancée.”

“Oh.” His face stiffened. The familiar emotions surged through him: guilt, shame, remorse.

Barnaby looked away, and gripped the reins tightly. God, to be able to go back to the person he’d been then. To be able to relive his life and not make the same dreadful mistake.

“I noticed you most particularly. You were the best dancer there.”

It took a few seconds for the words to penetrate the fog of shame and regret. When they did, Barnaby blinked. “Me?”

“Marcus dances fairly well,” Miss Merryweather said. “He’s a natural athlete, but he’s a pugilist. He’s trained his body for strength, not grace. You, I’d hazard a guess, are a better fencer and horseman than Marcus.”

“Not by much,” Barnaby said, staring at her. What an unusual female.

“It takes a number of qualities to make a truly excellent dancer. Not merely precision and grace and stamina, but a musical ear as well, and of course one must enjoy dancing. You have all of those qualities, Sir Barnaby. You’re one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen.”

Barnaby felt himself blush. “Thank you.” He refrained from glancing back at Catton. The groom was doubtless smirking.

“Marcus’s neighbors are holding a ball tomorrow night. I know it’s terribly forward of me, but I hope we can dance at least one set together?”

“Of course.” And then he remembered Marcus. The blush drained from Barnaby’s face. Dread congealed in his belly. “If I’m still here.”

Miss Merryweather’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’re staying for two weeks, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps not.” Perhaps not even one night. It depended on Marcus. Depended on whether Marcus could bear to be in the same room as him. Could bear to even look at him.

Barnaby’s stomach twisted in on itself. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come. Some errors could never be atoned for. His hands tightened on the reins. The horses obediently slowed.

“Marcus expects you to stay for a fortnight, you know. He’s been looking forward to your visit.”

Barnaby felt even sicker. He glanced at Miss Merryweather. Her gaze was astonishingly astute. God, how much did she know?

He halted the curricle. “Miss Merryweather, I—”

She laid her gloved hand on his arm, cutting off his words. “Don’t make any decisions now, Sir Barnaby. Wait until you’ve talked with Marcus.”

Barnaby stared at her, and realized that she knew he was about to turn around and run.

Miss Merryweather removed her hand and gave him a warm, sympathetic smile. “He says you’re his best friend.”

To Barnaby’s horror, the words brought a rush of moisture to his eyes. He turned his head away and blinked fiercely, flicked the reins, urged the horses into a brisk trot. He concentrated on the shade-dappled lane, on the horses, on the reins, on his breathing—anything but Miss Merryweather’s words.

The lane swung right, the grassy banks lowered, and a view opened out: woodland, meadow, a sweeping drive leading to a large stone building that must be Woodhuish Abbey. The abbey was a sprawling, whimsical structure, with gracefully arched windows and a crenellated roof parapet. Ivy climbed the stone walls.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Miss Merryweather said.

Barnaby’s brain was frozen in a state between dismay and panic. It took him several seconds to find a response. “Very gothic.”

The curricle swung into the driveway. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels. Dread climbed his throat like bile. Oh, God, he couldn’t face Marcus again. The last time had almost crucified him. But it was too late to turn back now. Far too late. They were within sight of the windows. Another minute and they’d be in front of the great, arched doorway.

Barnaby sat in numb horror while the horses trotted down the driveway.

“It was a monastery for more than three hundred years—Augustinian—they built the most marvelous walled gardens—but it’s been in private hands since Henry the Eighth. Marcus says the previous owner remodeled it in the Strawberry Hill style. Are you familiar with Strawberry Hill, Sir Barnaby?”

Barnaby managed to unstick his tongue. “Walpole’s place. Gothic.”

He brought the curricle to a halt at the foot of the steps. Catton leapt down and ran to the horses’ heads.

“Thank you for the ride, Sir Barnaby,” Miss Merryweather said.

Barnaby’s throat was too dry for a response. He managed a stiff nod. His fingers didn’t want to release the reins.

The door swung open. A butler emerged into the sunlight. Behind him was another man, taller, younger, darker. Marcus.

Barnaby’s stomach folded in on itself. Oh, God, the voice in his head whispered.