Page 27 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

Seek not temptation then, which to avoide Were better.

— Milton, Paradise Lost, ix.364 (1667)

“That’s right, Harry,” Jane said with a nod of approval. “You learned that so quickly I daresay we should give you a longer passage.”

“I agree,” came a voice from the doorway. “Well done, Harry, and well done, Mrs. Merritt and Cassie.”

Jane was grateful she was bent over Harry’s slate, that she might have a moment to compose herself. What was he doing here? He had never come to their classroom after that first time.

Reading a different reason in her hesitation, Harry peeked up at her and hissed, “It’s all right, miss. I put it back. The little book. Long ago. I put it back.”

And then Mr. Egerton crossed the room in two long strides, pausing to feign interest in Anna’s misshapen letters and Jimmy’s open primer. The two Cramthorpes shrank from this unwonted attention, but Harry nonchalantly slid his slate closer to his schoolmates and was rewarded with a “Is this your hand, Harry? Your writing comes along rapidly.”

“What brings you here in state, Philip?” asked Cassie, tapping Jimmy and Anna’s shoulders to make them sit up straight.

“Just seeing how our program fares,” he answered. “Please, proceed.”

Of course his presence ruined everything. Anna could not be brought to speak above a whisper. Jimmy forgot every third word and required Cassie to prompt him. And Harry was determined to show off, shouting, rather than reciting, and bouncing in his seat. When Jane finally gave a tiny frown and murmured admonishment, he exclaimed, “What, miss? Is my ’havior ‘ill advised’? Don’t I deserve charity?”

Wishing she could sink into the floorboards, to have Harry Barbary parrot Mr. Egerton’s note about her in the man’s hearing , Jane clapped her hands. “That will do for today. You are dismissed. Practice your pieces, and, unless the recital takes place before Monday, we will see you then.”

The children scrambled away, but instead of going himself, Mr. Egerton lingered. No—that was not the word for it. “Lingering” implied aimless lounging, as if he merely leaned against the wall and looked out the window. But though he neither paced nor drummed his fingers, Jane was aware as she had always been of the pent-up energy of the man.

Glancing uncertainly from one to the other, Cassie said at last, “I was going to speak with Winching about refreshments for the recital…if you will excuse me.”

“Yes,” replied Jane, “I was just going, myself. Good-bye, Cassie, Mr. Egerton.”

But when she was in the passage she heard rapid steps behind her and turned, her heart speeding, to find him behind her.

“Er—Mrs. Merritt, if I might have a word…?” He gestured back the way they had come.

This is about his notebook! That dratted Harry had to taunt him by quoting from it, and now I must answer for it.

With an outwardly placid nod, Jane returned to the schoolroom, the skin on the back of her neck prickling with awareness of him behind her.

After shutting the door and leaning against it, he ran a hand through his hair. It being December now, he no longer had any sun-lightened streaks, and Jane thought it made him appear serious, more clerical.

He cleared his throat. “Won’t you sit down? You probably stood for the entire lesson.”

Drawing out Harry’s chair she complied. That boy! What if he had not returned the notebook? She would not lie for him, but then the question would come, why had she not told Mr. Egerton of the theft?

“Mrs. Merritt.” Leaving the door, he strode toward where she was seated, only to veer off at the last second as if he had struck an invisible barrier. This ricochet sent him off toward the window, where he knocked twice on the panes and picked at something stuck to them before whipping around on his heels to stare at her, jaw clenched.

This was all too much for Jane’s guilty conscience. Her lips parted in spite of herself to admit the Episode of the Stolen Notebook, only to have the impulse checked when Mr. Egerton suddenly lunged at her!

“Mrs. Merritt,” he blurted, dropping to his knee. “I—you—I—would—” Breaking off, he swallowed. Shut his eyes briefly and then opened them again, his chest rising and falling quickly. “That is, Mrs. Merritt—will you marry me?”

She could not have heard him right. Her incipient confession utterly forgotten, Jane stared with all her eyes, and those instruments would have popped from her head, had they not been attached anatomically to the rest of her.

“Will I— what? ”

He had gone crimson, and he wobbled, having to clutch the corner of the table to steady himself. “I said, would you m-marry me,” he repeated.

“But—but—sir—what can you possibly mean?”

Swallowing, he took a slow breath before saying, “I—meant what the words usually mean. Though I apologize for the abruptness of them. The clumsiness. That is, I meant, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Sagging against the back of the chair, conflicting thoughts tore at her, chief among them confusion and disbelief. Marry her? Why should he want to marry her? He wanted to marry someone else, or so she had been told. Was his offer real? Was it made from disappointment or—again—his cursed charity?

Hauling himself back up, Mr. Egerton simply stood there, either unable or unwilling to say more. Instead he watched the parade of emotions alternately shadowing and lighting her features.

Jane licked her lips. Could he possibly expect her to answer so bald and sudden a question? What if he was not even serious? Or had gone mad, which she was not confident enough to rule out. One thing she knew—she could not continue to sit if he was going to loom over her. She needed to meet him on her feet, as an equal.

Scraping back the chair, she rose, her chin lifting. But the rapid hammering of her heart made her head light, so that she was forced to grasp the chair back like an encouraging hand.

“But—what about Miss Hynde?” she managed.

He looked as bewildered as if he had never heard of such a person.

“Miss Hynde ?” he repeated.

“Yes. Miss Hynde. Your uncle’s ward.” As if he could have forgotten. “I—had thought you were going to marry her—remember?”

There was a long pause. So long that Jane wondered if she had said the words or only imagined them. He seemed to weigh and dismiss various replies, and in the end all that emerged was, “It’s very likely she will marry my uncle, her guardian, Geoffrey Cottrell.”

Jane had not foreseen this! Why on earth would the girl marry her guardian, after having been so taken with Mr. Beck? Even if she had given up on that rogue, wouldn’t her attentions be more likely to fall upon someone nearer her own age, her admirer Mr. Egerton? Unless she still blamed the latter for separating her from the former.

There was no more time to wonder over the workings of Miss Hynde’s mind, however, for Mr. Egerton waited and watched, now apparently thinking he had sufficiently explained himself. But he had not, for Jane had a thousand more questions.

He advanced a step, and her grip on the chair tightened. “Ah. I see. I did not know that. Are you—terribly heartbroken by—her decision?”

“If I were terribly heartbroken, would I be offering for you now?” he asked, coming still closer. Jane could swear heat radiated from him, a summer sun.

“I don’t know,” she answered with determined honesty. “I don’t know you well enough to say. Therefore, you see, I did not expect this, sir.”

To her surprise, his face cracked in a rueful, apprehensive grin. “To be honest, I didn’t either. I’m afraid I’ve been very impulsive. Not that I am often impulsive, but I am—am—”

“A man of action,” Jane finished for him. “That much I did guess. And I suppose that characteristic sometimes manifests itself as impulsiveness. Do you…wish to retract your words, then?”

“Retract? No!”

“But—apart from Miss Hynde marrying somebody else—can’t you at least give me one other reason why you should wish to marry me? This is all so sudden I cannot comprehend it.”

His grin widened, and he hung his head like a naughty schoolboy. “Aren’t I wretched at this? I am. Of course. Of course any fool would know this is not the way to go about it. You are right to question my motives, if not my sanity, Mrs. Merritt. But I declare, if I hadn’t already made up my mind to ask you at some point, I would have held my tongue. But I had decided I would try, in the vague, indeterminate future, so that when I saw you here today—in the moment—I couldn’t help myself.”

That was evidently not the only thing he couldn’t help, for even as Jane shook her head, still waiting for him to give his reasons , he caught at her free hand and pressed it between his own. Neither wore gloves, and the swiftness of his deed, combined with the sensation of bare skin meeting bare skin, robbed her of words.

She should have been outraged—she had been when Mr. Beck tried this sort of thing, after all. When he did it she had wished he might be blown up by a cannonball, she was so furious. But to her horror and fascination, Jane discovered Mr. Egerton’s assault was nothing like Mr. Beck’s. For on this occasion, not one spark of outrage kindled in her.

Not one. No—on this occasion, she felt something altogether different.

A humming.

A melting.

A…shivering.

“Jane.” His voice was hoarse. His grasp tightened, and she felt the pad of his thumb stroke the inside of her wrist. Once. Twice. Her eyelids shut of their own accord.

Oh, heavens . Where would this lead?

It was not a question which would be answered that day, however, because one thing, and one thing alone, saved Jane from being carried away: Experience. The fact that, one fateful time before, she had allowed herself to be transported by a man’s magnetism, whirled away in giddiness and passion, to end with her life dashed upon the rocks.

Therefore.

Therefore, drawing upon a hard-won strength even she had not known she possessed, she snatched her hand from his grasp and withdrew to the far side of the table, choking out, “Better not.”

“Forgive me,” he said at once, his hands dropping back to his sides. “I don’t want to be—didn’t mean to be—Beck—to you.”

“It wasn’t that. But I—I demand that you answer my question,” she insisted, breathless. “After all, I am hardly the sort of person curates dream of marrying. If anything, I would have expected you thought of me as…a case for your charity. Like—like a Cramthorpe or a Mrs. Barbary.” Would he deny it?

He held up his palms. “Jane—Mrs. Merritt, rather. It would be a falsehood if I said, even to flatter you, that I did not consider you in the light of charity when we first met. Not the charity owed a Cramthorpe or a Barbary, say—that is, not requiring hams and jams and such—but in need of…kindness and…encouragement. That you might live a more—shall I say—a more blameless life than you yet had.”

Defensiveness reared its head inside her, and Jane wished with everything she had that she might throw his “more blameless life” back in his teeth, but alas.

“Thank you for your honesty,” she said through tightened lips. It did not make her feel any better that she knew she would indeed feel grateful for it later, when she calmed down and had time to reflect. Because he had made a clean breast of it. He had not tried to deny or disclaim what she knew to be written in black and white in his little notebook. In fact, it was she who had been somewhat underhand by concealing that knowledge.

“You thank me for my honesty, but you don’t like me any better for it,” he observed, now crossing his arms over his chest. “I do not say such things to wound you but because you asked, and I respect you enough to tell you the truth.”

“Mm.”

Uncrossing his arms, he laid his palms on the table and leaned toward her. “And it would be fair of you to acknowledge that my ‘charitable’ attitude toward you differs markedly from the one I hold toward the Cramthorpes and Barbarys.”

Apart from another little sound in her throat, Jane made no response.

“To be specific,” he pursued, “I am not, for example, asking for the hand of either of the Mesdames Cramthorpe, nor of Mrs. Barbary. You ask my reason for proposing to you. It is—” he paused at this last barrier, having never before spoken such words to any living being. “It is that you have…made away with my heart. I cannot even say how or when, whether you stole it at first sight or carried off portions bit by bit, but the deed is done. Has been done, though I was too dull-witted to realize it until—”

He broke off, but Jane had unconsciously drifted closer around the edge of the table, as if following the thread of his words. “Until—?” she murmured.

“Until—yesterday. When I learned Miss Hynde might marry my uncle. Instead of anguish, I felt only relief and could not account for it. And then, when I saw you in the church yard, I understood.” Somehow he was beside her again, his breath brushing her skin. “Jane. Beautiful, marvelous Jane. Say you’ll be mine, darling. Quickly.”

Her hands were once more in his—both of them—her pulse leaping, and she thought, as her head fell back and her eyes closed, Surely this is not wrong, to give way to this! He will be my husband.

Then his arms were around her, his head bending to hers and their lips meeting. Oh! Meeting and pressing—urgent, hungry.

“Say it, then,” he commanded against her mouth. “Say you’ll marry me.”

“Yes,” whispered Jane, her arms winding around his neck. “Yes, I will marry you.”

What paradise, to love and be loved by so good and respected a man! How could heaven so smile upon her, to overlook her transgressions and send her another, worthier person to love?

It was her tears which finally returned them to earth, tears which had no element of grief but which were all joy and gratitude. But even such tears are made of water and salt, and Egerton at last pulled back, laughing and dabbing his tongue at his lips. “Have we been caught in a rain shower? What is this?”

“I’m sorry! It’s that I’m so happy,” she joined his laugh, even as more tears spilled, and she tried to push him away an inch, that she might retrieve her handkerchief.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, clutching her closer and kissing her again. “I’m not letting you go yet.”

“But—Philip! We’re both wet! We will be a sight to see.”

“I’ll kiss the dry bits, then.” Which he proceeded to do, his mouth traveling from her ear to her brow to her hair. “What about your neck? Do you suppose it’s very wet?” he murmured. “I had better see for myself. My dear Jane, your throat has the most enchanting hollow…”

Then Jane was good for nothing again, which was why it took some time for the words spiraling dreamily into her awareness to penetrate.

“…Our little secret for now.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Feeling her stiffen abruptly, Egerton raised his head. “What is it? Did you hear something?”

“What did you say, Philip? Just now. About a secret?” She had gone strangely pale.

“Don’t look like that, my dearest! Do you feel unwell? Poor thing—I’ve kissed all the breath out of you.”

But Jane twisted from his grasp. “What did you say?” she asked again.

He blinked. “I said—until I have secured my next position, it would be better for our engagement to be our little secret.” He reached for her again, but she retreated. “Come, Jane. What is it? Can you possibly think I will not keep my promise?” When she didn’t immediately reply, he gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Even Roger Merritt kept his promise to you. Would you not grant me the same trust?”

“It was—you used Roger’s very words,” she uttered faintly. “It startled me.” Pulling out Anna Cramthorpe’s chair, she sank into it. “Of course I trust you, Philip. Only—why do you want it to be a secret?”

He drew out Jimmy’s chair, that he might sit beside her and take her hands again. “Listen to me, Jane. I do not suggest secrecy from any impure motive, but rather from a practical one. You know the Terrys will return in the spring, and when they do I will have no income to offer you. Even my paltry fellowship will end when we marry. Therefore I will need employment. My uncle once promised me the living of St. Lawrence Church in Cottrell, but not only does the incumbent cling most sensibly to life, but, with the whole marrying-Miss-Hynde business, I cannot depend on my uncle’s continued generosity. He might resent my having once thought of her, for instance, or she may object to such a gift falling to me. You understand. But you need not fear—I have other connections, to which I intend to apply, and something will surely present itself, though it may be a little while.”

“I do understand your situation and the need for delay,” Jane assured him, “and thank you for explaining it. But, again, why must our engagement be secret?”

His color rose, and for the first time that morning, his eyes avoided hers.

And then she knew.

Without him saying a word, she guessed it all. Guessed it all, and wished she might crawl under the earth.

“Dearest Jane,” he said, “you know how people are. Think of ones like Mrs. Markham Dere. Think of how I was, before I knew you better. If I were to suggest myself as a candidate for various positions, it might be best—more prudent, as it were—if some of the more…doubtful elements of your past were not…subject to scrutiny. Not only might the sharing of your story arouse prejudice, but it would doubtless cause you pain.”

“And you pain,” she said in a low voice.

“I?”

“My past causes you pain.”

Sputtering, he released her hands to clutch at a hank of his hair. “Jane—of course your past causes me pain. Because it caused you pain.”

“It’s more than that,” she insisted, half hating herself for wanting to force admissions from him. “You would wish none of it had ever happened. Roger. My elopement. Debt. Disgrace. The Fleet.”

“Don’t you wish it never happened?” he returned. “Don’t you wish, Jane, you might wake to find that part of your life a dream? Wait—don’t cry. You have caught me off guard, and I have spoken foolishly. Listen to me: I say, not only as your friend and would-be husband, but also as your priest, that nothing in the past is to be regretted if it is learned from. And certainly nothing is to be regretted if it has shaped you into the kind, compassionate, dear creature that you are. I only mean that, if we are ever to have the means to marry, the less said about all that the better. Do you understand me?”

She nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

After blowing her nose in her handkerchief, Jane tried to repair her appearance, and though Egerton would gladly have rumpled her again with his caresses, her pensiveness held him in check.

“I must go,” she said. “Everyone will wonder what became of me.”

He caught her by the sleeve. “One last kiss. To seal our secret.”

With a look he could not read, she darted at him, putting light fingers to his jaw and the most fleeting of kisses to his cheek.

And then she was gone.