A Convenient Wedding. Lucy Gordon
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her annoyance she felt herself reddening. ‘I mean no such thing!’ she said crossly.
‘You have proposed to him. Did he accept?’
‘I’m not going to discuss this with you.’
‘No, it would be better to discuss it with him, wouldn’t it? After all, he might turn you down.’
‘He can’t afford to,’ Meryl said before she could stop herself, and regretted the words instantly.
‘Really? Then you’re probably right not to let him know you’re coming. Why bother with courtesy if you don’t have to?’
‘Now look—!’
‘We’d better leave this for the moment.’
His assumption of authority irked her but she was shivering too much to make a point of it. To her relief they had nearly arrived, and she could just make out the huge bulk of the castle rearing over them. The car was laboriously climbing a steep road that ended in front of a large wooden door. It opened, and an elderly woman came out.
‘Hannah!’ the man called. ‘Will you look after this lady before she freezes to death?’
Meryl got stiffly out of the vehicle and went gladly to where the light and warmth welcomed her.
‘Come you in,’ Hannah called, standing back to let her pass, and shutting the front door behind her.
To Meryl’s dismay the warmth turned out to be largely illusory. The castle was just about warmer inside than out, and that was all that could be said.
‘You need a fire,’ Hannah said, understanding. ‘And you must get out of those wet clothes.’
She showed Meryl into a room lined with old books, where a log fire burned in an old-fashioned grate. Shivering, she hurried into its blessed circle, and stood with her hands held out to the flames until Hannah reappeared with a bathrobe and some towels.
‘Quick, before you get pneumonia,’ she urged.
Thankfully Meryl threw off her drenched clothes and vigorously scrubbed herself dry while Hannah held the bathrobe up to the fire. Hannah took a hand towel and began to rub her hair, clucking sympathetically.
‘What on earth were you thinking to come here in a storm at this hour?’ she murmured.
‘I was thinking of marrying Lord Larne,’ Meryl said through chattering teeth.
‘What was that?’ Hannah sounded startled. ‘He’s never told any of us he was getting married.’
‘Perhaps he just thought it was private.’
‘Not for him,’ Hannah said at once. ‘There are too many people depending on him. If he could find a pot of gold, we’d all rejoice.’ She darted Meryl a sharp look. ‘Would you be a pot of gold, by any chance?’
Meryl chuckled, liking the old woman’s frankness. ‘I might be,’ she said. ‘But don’t count on the marriage. It’s starting to look like one of my crazier ideas.’ She gave a rueful sigh. ‘I’m afraid I have a lot of those.’
Hannah didn’t answer. She was examining the discarded clothes, noting their luxurious quality. ‘I’ll take these to dry,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You stay by the fire until your room is ready.’
She hurried out and Meryl huddled before the flames, feeling herself thaw out blissfully. The bathrobe was made for someone much larger and could almost have wrapped twice around her slim figure. She tightened the belt, but still had to clutch the edges together at the front.
The room seemed to be a library. Everywhere she saw signs of one-time grandeur declined to shabbiness. The carpet was threadbare, but no more so than the heavy curtains, battling with small success, to shield the rattling windows.
‘He really needs me,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe we can do business. If only I hadn’t arrived like this! Me! A damsel in distress, for Pete’s sake! Rescued from peril like some Victorian heroine. I’ll never live it down.’
She looked up quickly as the door opened. It was her rescuer, wearing fresh clothes and with his hair rubbed until it was almost dry. She saw now that it was dark brown, shaggy and needed a cut. With him were the two dogs, who made straight for Meryl.
‘Good evening,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, fending off Alsatians with one hand and holding the robe with the other. ‘You know who I am, but—’
‘I’m Jarvis Larne,’ he said.
Her head whirled. ‘You? Lord Larne? You can’t be!’
It was more wishful thinking than conviction, and Meryl could have bitten off her tongue the moment the words were out. But it was too late now. The man’s sardonic face showed that he could follow her thoughts.
‘Why can’t I be? Because I don’t stand to attention for you? Just who did you think you were talking to back there? The bailiff?’
This was too close for comfort. ‘Certainly not,’ she said with dignity. ‘I never dreamed you could be Lord Larne because you’re so different to your letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘The one you wrote in answer to my advertisement.’
‘Advertisement?’
‘Oh, look! That ad was foolish, I admit, but don’t deny that you answered it. Now I’ve seen this place I can understand why.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, peering at her more closely. ‘Are you the woman who was looking for a fortune-hunter?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted defensively. ‘It might have been better put, but—’
‘And you think I’m the answer to your prayers?’
‘No,’ she said with spirit, ‘just the answer to my ad. My prayers are for something quite different.’
‘Then why bother with me?’
‘You wrote to me.’
‘I never wrote to you.’
She pounced on her purse, thankful that this, at least, she’d managed to save from the waves. Pulling out the letter, she thrust it at him. Watching his face as he read the contents, she saw disbelief change to outrage.
‘I’ll kill him,’ he said at last. ‘I will personally wring his stupid neck, and then I’ll boot his rear from here to kingdom come.’
‘Who?’
‘Ferdy Ashton. I recognise his writing and his turn of phrase.’
A cold hand was beginning to clutch Meryl’s stomach. There was something horribly convincing about his exasperation. She’d come all this way—
‘Are you telling me someone else wrote this in your name?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t believe it. Nobody would do such a stupid thing.’
‘Then you don’t know Ferdy,’ Jarvis Larne said bitterly. ‘There’s nothing that idiot wouldn’t get up to. I told him I wanted nothing to do with it—or with you.’
‘For a man who needs money as badly as you do, you’re very high-handed.’
‘My need for money is my business and certainly none of yours. I don’t believe a word of this nonsense. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Well, you’ll not get a story out of me. I don’t like you. I don’t want you here, and the sooner you’re gone the better I’ll be pleased.’
‘A journalist? Me?’ He was briefly taken aback by the fierceness of her outrage, but his face remained unyielding. ‘My name,’ she said emphatically, ‘is Meryl Winters.’
‘So?’
‘My father was Craddock Winters.’
He