Sins and Scandals Collection. Nicola Cornick
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sense the fragile pact between them slipping away when it was barely begun. How could it not, with Stephen Fenner’s death always lying between them? And yet suddenly, fiercely, he was not prepared to accept that. He and Merryn had to survive this disaster together and he would fight for that against all the odds.
“Unfortunately Ethan is the only one who does not hate me,” he said conversationally, trying to distract her. “The others refuse to speak to me.”
“Oh …” Merryn almost laughed. Garrick could feel the huge effort she was making not to allow Stephen Fenner’s memory to come between them. It was the only thing that she could do, trapped alone with him in the dark. She needed comfort and reassurance, someone to talk to, and he was the only one there with her.
“Why should they hate you?” Her voice was almost normal. “You are the eldest. Did they not look up to you?”
“They took their cue from my father,” Garrick said.
She digested that. “I never met him,” she said. “But I heard about him. He sounded …” there was a shiver in her voice “… rather unpleasant.”
“That was one word for him,” Garrick agreed. His father had been the most malevolent man he had known, eaten up by raging ambition and eventually by disappointed hopes. “I am afraid that I was a great source of discontent to him,” he said.
“Because you were a rake?” Merryn said. “I have heard something of your reputation.” She sounded like a disapproving maiden aunt and the censure in her tone made Garrick grin. It also made him want to kiss her. That, he knew, would be as dangerous as allowing Stephen Fenner to divide them. In a moment, though, he would be sitting on his hands to prevent himself from touching her.
“That was a part of the problem,” he said. “My father disapproved of my rakish ways, which was somewhat hypocritical of him since he was the greatest rake in the kingdom himself.” He sighed. “More than that he disapproved of my scholarly ambitions. Those, he said, were quite beneath the dignity of a gentleman.”
This time Merryn did laugh. “Yet he sent you to Oxford.”
“Only because it was the done thing,” Garrick said. “He did not expect me to study. That, he felt, was quite wrong and inappropriate to the station of a Duke.”
“How extraordinary.” Merryn sounded astonished—and resentful. “I would have given so much to be accorded the educational privileges that you and Stephen—” She stopped.
Stephen again. This time the silence was more difficult to overcome.
“You were at Eton and Oxford with Stephen,” Merryn said. She sounded tentative as though she, as well as Garrick, did not quite know where this might lead.
“Yes, I was,” Garrick said. Suddenly this was dangerous ground. He did not want Merryn to pursue this and yet he did not want to cut her off when this tenuous thread was all there was holding them together.
“Stephen was a very poor scholar,” Merryn said hesitantly.
“Yes, he was,” Garrick agreed.
“You do not try to comfort me by pretending otherwise.” Merryn sounded as though she might be half smiling.
“What would be the point?” Garrick said. “You knew Stephen as well as I did. You know he had no academic pretensions.”
“He was your friend.” This time Merryn did not say it with any hint of accusation in her tone. Instead she sounded sad. Garrick winced to hear the pain in her voice.
“Yes,” he said. “Stephen was my greatest friend.” He took a breath. Was it pointless to try to explain to her? Would it be too little, too late? Would she even want to hear? “My life was bounded by duty,” he said. “Stephen’s friendship helped me to escape that sometimes. With him I could forget the burden of responsibility, my father’s expectations, the obligations that had been weighing on me from the moment I was born.” He stopped. “I was trained to be a Duke from the cradle,” he said. “It was good to forget that sometimes.”
“Stephen was a master at that,” Merryn said. “At escaping obligations.” He heard her sigh. “My father deplored his behavior. We did not have the money for him to gamble and drink away. He was a wastrel and a gamester and we could not afford him.”
It was the first time that Garrick had ever heard her utter any kind of criticism of her brother. “I thought,” he said, “that you idolized Stephen?”
“I loved Stephen.” She corrected him. “That’s different. It means that I can still see his faults. But he was kind to me and generous and the most loving brother I could have asked for.” Her voice cracked. “Sometimes …” She spoke so quietly Garrick had to strain to hear her. “Sometimes I am so afraid that I will forget him,” she said. “I have nothing left of his, no possessions, no paintings, nothing real to remind me … Sometimes I cannot even see his face clearly anymore. Even my memories change and fade.” Her tone hardened. “I know Stephen was weak,” she said. “I know he did wrong. But still he did not deserve to die.”
Her words hung in the air between them, an accusation and an unspoken question, the question they could never escape.
Why did you kill my brother?
Garrick said nothing. He could feel Merryn looking at him through the dark, could feel her gaze on him like a physical touch, puzzled, frustrated, that edge of anger back now because he would never discuss Stephen’s death, never bend, never tell her what happened. He ached to do so but he knew he could not. He had given his word, a solemn promise borne out of protection and penance and until he was absolved of that he had to keep silent. Each day, though, the torment seemed to grow. He had written, the previous night, after his discussion with Purchase. Perhaps when they were out of here an answer would come and then he would be free to follow his instinct. The urge to trust Merryn was even stronger now, here in the intimate dark. Only that fundamental promise held him back because he was not a man to give his word and then break it. He could not. Duty was the only thing that had redeemed him.
Merryn shifted. “Tell me about your wife,” she said. “Tell me about Kitty.” She sounded angry now because he had not answered her. Her words ran hot with it.
Garrick sighed. “Why do you ask?” he said. Talking about Kitty was always torture. His memories of her were so poignant, filled with regret. He had not been the husband Kitty had wanted. He had failed in that and failed her in so much else, too. He had failed to protect her when most it had mattered. The ache in his head pounded suddenly. He had forgotten about it for a short while; now it hurt.
“Did you love her?” Merryn said. Her words dropped into the dark like stones. The air was hot and still, burning with emotion now. How had they moved so swiftly from a cautious truce to this painful ground? Garrick felt as though he had taken a false step somewhere in the dark. The knowledge angered and dismayed him.
“I cared for her,” he admitted. It would have been impossible not to care, he thought, nursing Kitty through her final days, seeing the misery that had torn her apart after Stephen had died.
“So you did not love her.” There was satisfaction in Merryn’s voice. “Did it pain you,” she continued, “that your wife preferred my brother to you?”
Garrick winced. This was getting excruciating. He understood the devils that spurred Merryn on. He understood her need to do this. She had lived with nothing but doubts and questions for years. But raking up the past would be as unbearable for her as it would be for him.
“Of course it hurt me,” he said.
“She loved him.”
“She did,” Garrick agreed. That at least had been true. Kitty had adored Stephen Fenner, unworthy cad that he was.
“You killed Stephen for that,” Merryn said. “Because you were jealous.”
“No.” Garrick wanted to shout