Page 18 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

—Grandmamma, what great teeth you have got!

— That is to eat thee up .

And saying these words, the wicked Wolf fell upon Little Red Riding-Hood and eat her all up.

— Robert Samber, trans., Histories, or tales of passed times. With morals. Written in French by M. Perrault (1741)

Jane blamed Mr. Hardy for wasting her efforts when their dance ended. She had succeeded marvelously, sailing through the patterns without once letting Mr. Egerton creep beyond the periphery of her vision and forgetting all about Mr. Beck. She had even succeeded in enjoying herself, for, despite his failings, Mr. Hardy danced creditably and spoke just enough to banish awkwardness.

But, alas, when the dance ended and he straightened from his bow, he took Jane’s hand and said, “Let me deliver you to Beck, who tells me he has claimed the two next.”

Objecting to being handed over like a parcel of goods, Jane resisted. “Thank you, but I would like to return to my mother’s side.”

“Your mother’s side? Pooh! You’re no fifteen-year-old girl, Mrs. Merritt. Come.”

He tugged; she stood firm. The other dancers leaving the floor flowed around them, except for Mr. Egerton and Miss Hynde.

“Good evening again, Mrs. Merritt,” said Mr. Egerton, adding with a nod, “Hardy.”

Jane made the mistake of looking straight at him because how could she help it, if he popped up before her? She hadn’t had time to prevent it, and her heart gave a little electric jump. The buff of his silk waistcoat brought out the gold streaks in his brown hair, and in the folds of his neckcloth a peridot studded his tie-pin, the stone gleaming like a third hazel eye.

“Would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next dance, Mrs. Merritt?”

“Oh, I like that, Mr. Egerton,” said Miss Hynde tartly. “Would you rather I find my own way back to Cassie?”

“Felicity, of course I would see you back first—”

“She can’t dance with you next,” blurted Hardy. “Already got a partner.”

“Mr. Hardy, I also have a tongue and am perfectly able to answer the questions put to me.”

“The third dance, then?”

“She’s got a partner for both, Egerton.”

“Mr. Hardy, for heaven’s sake—”

“The same partner, matter of fact—here he comes.”

Seeing Beck shouldering his way toward them, Mrs. Dere on his arm, Jane stuffed down a groan of frustration. And she should not have been sorry when Mr. Egerton muttered, “Another time, perhaps,” and moved off with Miss Hynde, but she was. And she should not have let Mrs. Dere’s look, half-approving and half-remember-what-I-said-to-you-ing, vex her, but she did. Therefore the smile she turned on her new partner was forced and did not reach her cheeks, much less her eyes.

Some gentlemen would have hesitated, to see their fair partner regard them thus, but Beck considered it all part of the game, and he grinned at her enough for two people. “Shall we, Mrs. Merritt?”

And before Mrs. Dere could complain of ill-usage as Miss Hynde had, the faithful Hardy sprang into the breach, crying, “Mrs. Dere, I dare not believe your hand unclaimed for the next, but if I should be so fortunate…?”

She would leave all the talking to him, Jane vowed.

But this being the second dance of the evening, far more pairs were joining the set, so that the lines stretched nearly the length of the gallery. Thirty minutes, if not longer, she calculated. And she had promised him two dances! A solid hour in each other’s company.

As Mr. Beck said nothing himself, only regarding her with bright and annoying curiosity, as if to see what the wild animal he had captured might do, Jane had time to take herself in hand once more.

I must be courteous and impervious to provocation. Because he would— here she blinked at her flash of insight— because he would then find me dull! And the key to ridding herself of Mr. Beck must surely, surely lie in being dull. Had he not confessed as much, when he first called at Iffley Cottage? The man was always in search of amusement. Let Jane smother him in ennui , then! Yes, let her make the best use of the hour ahead.

“What a faithful lieutenant Mr. Hardy is,” was her humdrum opening.

“What? Oh, Hardy. Yes. Somewhat of a dull dog, but loyal as one. What he lacks in sparkle he makes up for in tenacity.” They cast outward, and when he led her back up he pressed her hand, but she ignored it utterly.

“How did you meet him?” she asked.

“School. When we were boys scarcely older than Archie.” He shrugged the topic away, now raising one eyebrow at her and twitching his lips in what she supposed he thought a tempting manner. She merely blinked at him, and then he must wipe his expression blank before he crossed with Mrs. Lane.

“Speaking of Archie, how does he like his new situation?” was her next attempt. “Do you never think of having him at Greenwood Hall with you?”

“Never. How chatty you are tonight, Mrs. Merritt. But while I daresay most people enjoy speaking of themselves, I myself am perfectly devoured by curiosity about you .”

This caused the first break in Jane’s serene exterior, and she answered a trifle too quickly, “Indeed? Well—how unlucky—because it happens that I don’t like to speak of myself either.” At least, not with the Alexander Becks of the world.

“Then we must take turns bearing the onus,” he replied. “But to demonstrate my good faith, I will confess to you that I do not prefer, in fact, to be under the same roof as my ward. It is a sign of growing wisdom, do you not think, Mrs. Merritt, always to prefer the bright, unsullied future to the errors and pitfalls of the past?”

Startled, Jane was late to cross with Dr. Lane on her diagonal and had to fly at him to keep up, causing the Oxford don’s wispy beard to bob in alarm. She flashed him an apologetic smile, but her mind was on her partner’s words. Was this finally an admission from Mr. Beck that he was, in fact, Archie Wilson’s father?

The foursome went in circle (Mr. Beck administering another hand squeeze), and then Jane and her partner progressed up the room.

“You ask me no questions,” Mr. Beck observed.

“It—is not my place to inquire into another’s past errors and pitfalls,” said Jane.

This drew another grin from him. “Never say you are losing your courage, Mrs. Merritt! While your earlier escapades no doubt brought you some notoriety, in some quarters they only rendered you more alluring.”

“So you said earlier,” she answered curtly, feeling her grasp on her temper slipping.

“And have you nothing to say in return? Mrs. Merritt, having proven yourself a woman of few compunctions, I have been not only drawn to you, as I have made clear, but my London acquaintance would marvel to witness my patience. At first I hung back, believing you a true innocent. But when I learned your story, my patience abandoned me, as did any desire to indulge you in these shows of pretended modesty. Admit it—don’t they also begin to pall for you?”

“Shows of pretended modesty”? “ Shows ”?

Like tinder at the application of a match, Jane’s self-command went up in flame, and it was all she could do to shut her eyes, lest lethal beams shoot out of them. Mr. Egerton’s penetrating gaze was child’s play in comparison, though, as a matter of fact, the progression of the dance had brought Mr. Egerton and his partner looping back down toward Jane and Mr. Beck, and the curate’s keen eyes did indeed catch the flash in Jane’s before she hid it.

“Mr. Beck,” she said in a shaking voice, opening her eyes again, “I believe I would like to sit down.”

Instead of appearing chastened, there was a gleam in his own blue eyes. “Ah. To be sure. Can you manage one more time through the figures? At the bottom of the set we may slip away with no harm done to the other couples.”

She was too overset to remark his use of “we” and merely nodded. She even felt a degree of gratitude and relief to hear him make the necessary excuses: “Pardon us—the exertion and heat of the room—I will certainly speak to the servants about opening another window—” And poor Jane was still innocent enough to think that, as he led her away through one of the doors, across the passage, into the library, he would leave her there in peace to recover.

Not so.

Scarcely had he directed her to the sofa by the fire than he took hold of her upper arms and pulled her against him, hair gleaming, teeth gleaming, eyes gleaming.

“What are you about, Mr. Beck? Release me at once!”

“Come, come, Mrs. Merritt,” he purred. “There is no audience here, to appreciate your little act.”

“It is—no—act!”

“Mm…I rather like the struggling, though.”

His grip on her was so tight that Jane’s wriggling and writhing availed her nothing, and he was too close to kick, though she managed to stamp once on his boot before he wrapped her fully in his arms, pressing her against his full length.

“I will scream, sir!”

But this only drew a chuckle. “If you think to compromise me by doing so, I warn you that I am not overcareful of my reputation. Your first adventure ended badly, but why not try again, my dear? We might have a good deal of fun, and I can at least promise you won’t end penniless in the Fleet. Ask Archie’s mother, if you doubt me.”

By this point tears of helpless rage filled Jane’s eyes. “Do me the honor of believing me, sirrah. I can do nothing to change the past or my ruined reputation, but I would never, never, never accept your disgraceful offer, not if it were the only thing between me and eternity in the Fleet! Never, never, ne—”

But Mr. Beck, blinded by his past success with other women and determined to possess this lovely creature despite her tiresome protestations, could stand no more. With a groan of desire and conquest, he smashed his lips to hers, swallowing up her never-ending “nevers.”

“Mm…mm…ah…mm…Aaah!” The man’s noisy enjoyment quite drowned Jane’s squeals, even while he held her locked, and his mouth pressed so hard she feared he would knock her teeth into her throat. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, if kissing it could be called. Roger had certainly never assaulted her like this, even at the last, when in despair and in his cups.

Mercy—when would it end? Did he not need to breathe? She herself thought she would faint shortly. Well, perhaps that would be for the better. She was so little a participant in this activity that he might not even notice her absence.

Only a sound of near thunderous loudness could recall Mr. Beck to his senses, but the sound did, at long last, come.

“What—is—the—meaning—of—this?” bellowed the too-familiar voice of Mrs. Markham Dere. And Jane prayed it wasn’t a sign of growing shamelessness that, when her unlikely savior broke the spell, between feelings of horror and relief, relief was uppermost.

Mr. Beck lifted his head, releasing what remained of Jane’s poor lips but not loosening his hold on her person. And after his onslaught, Jane did not think she could straighten her neck to save her life, but she managed to turn her head a little, both to see Mrs. Dere and to deal with the horror portion all in a lump.

But the lump proved greater than imagined. For Mrs. Dere was not alone. She was accompanied by Sarah Barstow (not a problem), Lord Dere (also not a problem), Mrs. Rowland (probably not a problem because Mr. Beck’s ways would not surprise her), Miss Hynde (this might be where problems would begin), and Mr. Egerton (a problem from top to bottom).

“What has happened?” asked Mr. Beck, not at all dismayed. “Has the music stopped? The house caught fire? What brings you all here, when there is a perfectly good ball in progress in the other room?”

When no one had a ready answer to this lazy impudence, he nodded toward Mrs. Dere. “But that was discourteous of me, Mrs. Dere. You asked a question. I know you have been widowed several years, but what you just interrupted was, in fact, lovemaking.”

“It was not!” protested Jane, but through her bruised and numb lips this emerged as “Iff waff wah!”

Then several things happened at once: Mrs. Rowland thoughtfully shut the library doors; Miss Hynde burst into tears, covering her face; Mr. Egerton stepped forward, jaw set and hands balled in fists; and Lord Dere quietly moved in front of the curate, raising a hand.

“Mr. Beck, unless we have interrupted a proposal of marriage—and an acceptance—I demand an explanation,” the baron said in his quiet, steady way.

Then her assailant did loose Jane, leaving her to collapse onto the red velvet sofa when her knees failed to support her, and he turned to address Lord Dere. Beck might be a reprobate, but rank was rank and the questions of a baron not to be waved away.

“Lord Dere, I recognize Mrs. Merritt is a cousin of yours, of sorts. But she is also, like many of your dependents, a widow and fully of age. Therefore, whatever…amours…she pursues are now her own concern.”

“I am not pursuing any amours! (Uhm nuh puhsuh unnamuss!)” protested Jane, beating on the back of the sofa. Mr. Beck’s hold had cut off the blood flow to her extremities, and her arms felt like felled trees. Still—her sentiment was obvious to those who knew her, even if she could not attack her attacker or enunciate her denunciations. Seeing this, Sarah Barstow slipped around the baron to take Jane gently in a protective arm.

“My dear uncle, Mrs. Merritt is under your protection, and that man must be made to offer for her,” insisted Mrs. Dere to the baron. “Whether she be of age or not, she cannot be discovered in such a—a state without an accounting! To fail to do so would be an insult to the name of Dere. As if we have not endured enough opprobrium from certain quarters, as you well know. To heap yet more disgrace upon this family would be intolerable! Not to be borne!”

With his palms held up ruefully, Mr. Beck sighed. “But I make no offer, my lord. I have not; nor do I intend to.”

If mortification were a crevasse, Jane was certain she would never be able to climb out of this one. Which was worse? To be found in a compromising situation with the wretched Mr. Beck, or to hear him refuse utterly to be compromised?

As slowly and intelligibly as she could, Jane said, “I will not marry him,” emphasizing her words by cutting the air with her hand, which was now prickling with pins and needles.

“She won’t marry him,” interpreted Sarah.

“There,” said Mr. Beck with an ironic little bow in Mrs. Dere’s direction. “What can be done? Even if I were not so incorrigible a devil, the horse cannot be made to drink.”

However much Jane might resent being compared to the proverbial horse, she and Mr. Beck were in perfect agreement on the matter. She crossed her blockish arms in front of her and shook her head decisively. It might cost her her tenuous rapprochement with Mrs. Dere, but better that than being forced upon a man who did not want her and whom she positively despised.

Sputtering and I-never!-ing, Mrs. Dere hardly knew where to direct her outrage.

“Come, Mrs. Dere,” coaxed Mrs. Rowland. “You see there is nothing to be done. Why don’t we all return to the ball before our absence is noticed, and this little imbroglio becomes more widely known?”

“I am going nowhere unless Mrs. Merritt returns as well,” she declared. “She must be kept under my eye, or we must leave at once!”

“But you cannot go,” Mrs. Rowland wheedled, “not when your departure with Lord Dere would signal an end to the ball. Imagine a ball ending after just the first two dances! It would be a catastrophe and would lead to such talk that everyone would demand an explanation.”

Though Jane wanted nothing more in the world than to climb back into the Dere coach and go home, even she saw the logic in Mrs. Rowland’s argument.

“I will come with you, Mrs. Dere,” she said carefully, rising. “I have nothing further to say to…this person.”

“You will come with me, Jane,” the kindly baron pronounced, extending his arm to her. “You might give me that dance you promised me.”

She took it, blinking back tears and grateful that no one but he could feel her tremble. Outrage had fueled her through the dreadful scene, but as it began to leak away, despair took its place.

“Sir,” she murmured, “surely you will believe me when I say I did not invite Mr. Beck’s attentions.”

The baron tilted his head toward her, and Jane feared he could not understand her through her bruised lips. Must she say it again, and more loudly?

“I did not want to kiss him,” she tried again, glancing back to see how closely Mrs. Dere followed. “You must believe me! I told him I wanted to sit down, but I did not think he would stay with me, much less—come at me—like that.”

“I believe you.”

“Oh!” Her relief at having one ally made the lump in her throat swell.

“But you must tell me what to do, Jane,” he said. “If that man has insulted you, I must take measures to address it.”

Instantly Jane was shaking her head, picturing the silver-haired baron challenging young, virile Mr. Beck to a duel and being senselessly injured—or worse, slaughtered! If she had already wronged her family and this good man by running off with Roger Merritt, she would not now add to her tally of misfortune.

“No. No, please, sir,” she urged, her voice husky. “Let it be forgotten, as much as it can be forgotten. The only person in that room who might tell of it would be Mrs. Rowland, but she would only tell her husband or Mr. Hardy. There would be no purpose in telling any new Iffley acquaintances. Please—let it be buried in oblivion.”

Her companion heaved a sigh. “Such conduct only continues because it is allowed to continue. Against my better judgment, I will obey you in this, Jane. But if he insults you again, I cannot overlook it.”

In answer, she merely lifted his hand to her cheek in gratitude. There would never be another insult, for she had no intention of ever being alone with Alexander Beck again.

With this vow in mind, she raised eager eyes to his. “Sir, perhaps there is one way we might assist in this all blowing over…”