"That must be him!" Ivy Greenwood dug an elbow into the muslin-draped ribs of her sister.
"Ouch!" Rosemary peered in the direction Ivy had been looking.
On the far side of Lathbury's assembly hall, she could make out only vague shapes of people. Both necessary economy and a stubborn crumb of vanity prevented Rosemary Greenwood from wearing spectacles. Just because she was 24 and still unwed didn't mean she'd surrender tamely to old-maidenhood.
"Don't stare! He's looking this way!" Ivy fluttered her fan protectively in front of their faces.
"Who is he?" Rosemary raised her own fan. "And why shouldn't we look at him if he may look at us?"
"He's coming this way!"
Rosemary checked her impatience with her sister's high spirits. There'd been little in their lives of late to excite any emotion but worry.
"Since you refuse to identify the gentleman, I suppose I must wait for an introduction."
"It's the new master of Heartsease, of course." Ivy tossed her red-gold curls. "I hear he's widowed, and he must have an enormous fortune to afford such a grand estate."
Rosemary cast a sidelong smile at her sister. "So you've set your cap for him, sight unseen?"
"You must admit it would solve all our problems."
"And spawn a host of new ones," muttered Rosemary. To her, the words wealthy widower did not conjure up an attractive picture.
She glanced over the top of her fan to see the new master of Heartsease bowed before them. A tall fellow, many years younger than she'd expected, his broad shoulders filling out a well-tailored coat.
"Ladies, forgive my impertinence in speaking to you without a proper introduction."
The deep musical timbre of his voice set a swarm of bees buzzing inside Rosemary. Though she'd tried to forget, she never heard a man's voice without comparing it unfavorably to this one.
"You probably don't remember me." He glanced up, catching Rosemary in a silver-gray gaze at once hard as tempered steel and soft as a summer mist. "I assure you we're acquainted. Merritt Temple is my name."
Not remember? Rosemary might have laughed out loud, except a lump the size of a toasted crumpet had risen in her throat.
Not that Merritt Temple looked exactly as she remembered him. Seven years ago, he'd been an awkward, ardent boy. Now he was very much a man. Crisp brown hair was swept back from a high brow
As he faced the woman who'd broken his heart when it was still fragile enough to break, Merritt Temple strove to address Rosemary Greenwood and her sister with casual courtesy. Even as his pulse thundered in his ears like a volley of artillery.
"I was at school with your brother, Thorn. He kindly invited me to holiday at Barnhill on several occasions. I have many pleasant memories of those visits."
Merritt failed to mention they were among the few pleasant memories in his life. Three brief summers with the Greenwoods had been his only experience of belonging to a family. Perhaps that was what had drawn him back to Lathbury to raise his son.
As he stared at Rosemary Greenwood, whose girlish charm had ripened into willowy golden beauty, Merritt knew it was the vain hope of seeing her again that had lured him.
"Mr. Temple!" Ivy Greenwood cried. "Thorn will be delighted to hear you're the new master of Heartsease. Isn't this a marvelous surprise, Rosemary?"
"I'm quite overcome."
Not with pleasure, apparently. If she'd been happy to see him, her delicate features might have pinkened, as they used to when he pretended to steal a kiss. Instead they paled and her luminous blue-green eyes clouded with dismay.
"Wh-what brings you to back Lathbury after all these years, Mr. Temple?"
He resisted a mad urge to blurt out the truth. "I have an infant son whose mother died shortly after he was born. His health has been a concern to me. The doctors advised wholesome country air."
"A baby!" exclaimed Ivy. "I have no patience with infants but my sister dotes on them. Don't you, Rose?"
Rosemary's graceful tawny eyebrows drew together in a look of distress that Merritt ached to comfort. "Dear Mr. Temple, we are heartily sorry for your loss. Now to be anxious over your son's health, too. You have my deepest sympathy on both accounts."
As he accepted her words of consolation, Merritt berated himself for the vilest cad. How dare he impose on Rosemary's tender sympathy when his heart held more guilt than grief?
Behind them, the musicians struck up a lively tune — one to which they'd danced on a distant summer evening. He longed to ask if she might again, for the sake of an old friendship.
But did he dare risk the blissful hazard of her touch?
Rosemary recognized the lilting melody. As if it had been yesterday, she recalled the sweet felicity of dancing with Merritt Temple. Did he remember, too? Or did she only imagine the far-off look in his eyes?
If he asked her to dance again for old times' sake, how would she answer?
She must refuse, of course, politely but firmly. Even if Mr. Temple didn't hate her, which he must, there could be nothing between them, now. For the opposite reason such a connection had been impossible seven years ago.
As Merritt started to speak, she opened her lips to decline his invitation.
"Will you do me the honor of this dance…Miss Ivy?"
Ivy?
that suggested cleverness. His lanky figure had ripened into its promise of spare, vigorous manhood, and the harsh Iberian sun had bronzed and weathered his compelling angular features.
Those were not the changes that made Rosemary's heart lurch in her breast and her bones melt like butter on that toasted crumpet. Rather it was an air Merritt Temple carried about him now. Battle-hardened and subtly dangerous, yet tempered with an edge of wistful melancholy, as if he'd been wounded by something or someone in the past and had never fully recovered.
Could she have been that someone?
"Me?" Ivy looked as bewildered by Merritt's dance invitation as Rosemary felt. "I wish I could...but...I've injured my ankle."
She pushed Rosemary forward. "My sister will be happy to take my place."
The force of that shove sent Rosemary staggering into Merritt's arms. Something else kept her from pulling away as quickly as propriety demanded — all the nights she'd fallen asleep longing for one final embrace.
"Take care, Miss Greenwood, the floor's a trifle uneven." His large capable hands closed around arms left bare by her short sleeves.
Once such a mishap would have left him touchingly flustered. Now he reacted with cool aplomb. Rosemary wanted to detest him for it. How dare he remain imperturbable while stirring her emotions to such a pitch?
"I beg your pardon, sir." She pulled away from him. "You won't wish to squire such a clumsy partner."
"On the contrary." He extended his arm. "You could roll down a hill into a brook and make it look graceful."
He gave a warm chuckle, exploding her fancied slight into shimmering fireworks. "As I recall, you once did."
Rosemary remembered how mortified she'd been and how enraged when Merritt laughed — what a silly, self-important creature she'd been!
Now she laughed, too, and took his arm. As they danced, Rosemary struggled to keep her mind on the steps.
Later they drank punch, and reminisced. Like a flower emerging from beneath the snow after a long winter, Rosemary felt herself warmed to life by the spring sun.
"I must go." Merritt sounded reluctant to part. "I grow uneasy if I'm long away from my boy. May I call on you tomorrow?"
"No!" cried Rosemary. "Thorn's away...and..." What could she tell him?
Anything but the truth.
Miss Greenwood didn't wish to renew their acquaintance. Merritt despised his weakness in caring. Clearly his heart hadn't grown as impervious as he'd hoped.
He'd been a fool to imagine she'd refused him seven years ago solely because he'd been poor. More likely she'd considered him a friend, but shrank from the prospect of him as a lover. The wealth he'd inherited from his late wife couldn't change that.
"Another time, perhaps." He willed his hurt not to show.
Rosemary shook her head to discourage even that vague possibility. "The house isn't fit for guests. We're packing for an extended stay in Bath."
"I'm sorry to hear it." Merritt tried to sound indifferent. "Will you be leaving soon?"
"Within the fortnight."
"How fortunate we should meet here and renew our acquaintance before you go. Good evening, ladies. Enjoy your stay in Bath."
When he turned to leave, Ivy called. "Wait, Mr. Temple! We aren't well disposed to entertain, but we'd welcome an invitation to Heartsease. Wouldn't we, Rosemary?"
"No, we mustn't intrude while Mr. Temple is busy getting his household in order."
Resolved not to utter a word of persuasion, Merritt heard himself say, "I'd welcome the company. I know nobody else in Lathbury and I've always been backward about striking up acquaintances."
Ivy ignored her sister's glare. "Send word when you want us and we'll come."
"I wish I'd been born an orphan!" Rosemary pulled her cloak tighter. The spring evening was chilly and the walk back to Barnhill rather long.
"I'm a better sister than you deserve." Ivy blew on her fingers. "Turning down Mr. Temple's offer of a drive on the spurious pretext that Lady Gorham would see us home."
"The walk will do your injured ankle good," snapped Rosemary. "Speaking of spurious pretexts."
"Do you know how many dance invitations that cost me?" Ivy said. "It would serve you right if I did nothing more to promote this match between you and Mr. Temple."
"I do not want you matchmaking between Merritt Temple and me!"
Ivy stopped in her tracks. "Why ever not?"
Rosemary fought to calm her overwrought emotions. "When Merritt Temple had no prospects, I heeded Father's bidding to discourage him. I make no apology for that. It was prudent. Now that our positions are reversed — he is rich and we are not — I refuse to pursue him like some contemptible fortune huntress."
"You still care for the man, but you won't have him because he's rich?" Ivy shook her head. "That's the silliest thing I ever heard."
How could she make her sister understand, Rosemary wondered, when her own heart remained unconvinced?
Merritt paced the gallery of Heartsease with his infant son in his arms. "What do you think, Harry? Will Miss Greenwood come to see you or was Papa foolish to send for her so soon?"
Oblivious to his apprehension, the child lavished a toothless smile upon Merritt and chortled.
"You're right. It's silly of me to give a damn if she comes or not. And monumentally absurd to think the fortune we inherited from your mama would impress Miss Greenwood. What was I thinking?" He pulled a face at the baby, who batted his nose.
"It makes no difference, does it, old chap? As long as we have each other, who needs the nuisance of a woman in our lives? We'll be the most exclusive gentleman's club, with only two members."
Six-month-old Henry Percy Temple crowed his approval of the scheme.
Through the gallery windows, Merritt saw his carriage drive up the lane. Surely it couldn't have returned from Barnhill so soon if the Greenwood sisters had accepted his invitation. In spite of his protestations to Harry, Merritt's stomach seethed.
"Let's go ask Tom what excuse they gave." He sighed, knowing Harry would not count it a weakness. "Perhaps they'll come another day."
Again Merritt cursed his impatience. He knew Rosemary was reluctant to renew their acquaintance on even a casual basis. Appearing overeager wouldn't endear him to her.
He had so little time, though. The Greenwoods would be leaving for Bath soon and he'd been counting on Rosemary's help to get settled at Heartsease.
"If she misses out on meeting you, handsome fellow, it's her loss entirely."
As he strode into the entry hall, Merritt stopped dead in his tracks and almost dropped the baby.
As Rosemary Greenwood stepped into the entry hall of Heartsease, she saw Merritt Temple an instant before he noticed her. In that fleeting glimpse, all her quiet, hopeless yearning of seven years multiplied a hundredfold. For she had caught him in an unguarded moment with his son.
His formidable features had relaxed, and his brooding gray eyes twinkled with intimate laughter. All his height and lean strength signified only to protect the tiny, fragile, cherished being he cuddled in his arms.
When he caught sight of them, Merritt froze, staring at her and Ivy as if they were unwelcome apparitions. Perhaps he'd only sent his carriage as a polite gesture after all, hoping they would refuse as they'd declined his offer of a drive last night. Why had she let Ivy convince her to come?
Just then the baby looked up, smiled broadly and held out his arms. And Rosemary lost her heart to a second Mr. Temple.
"Oh, Merritt!" She flew the length of the entry hall, hardly mindful that she'd called him by his given name. "You're too modest, as ever. Why didn't you tell us you had the most beautiful baby in England?"
The child proved as susceptible to flattery as older, wiser gentlemen. He wriggled in his father's arms, straining toward Rosemary. Merritt handed him to her with the air of a miser surrendering his most precious treasure.
"You mightn't have thought him handsome if you'd seen young Harry when he was born." Merritt sighed. "A tiny red scrap of a thing, not expected to live. He's proven a valiant fighter, though, my boy."
"He looks in the pink of health now," Ivy assured Merritt as Rosemary kissed and cooed, not caring that she was making a perfect idiot of herself.
Merritt shook his head, an anxious look clouding his distinguished features. "The doctors say his lungs aren't as strong as they might be. Harry's nurse claims it's my fault for not allowing him to cry himself to sleep. No doubt she's right, but..."
"The woman's an unfeeling beast!" snapped Rosemary. "To let a motherless babe cry himself to sleep — what barbarity!"
"I'd hoped to hire a replacement once we get settled," Merritt admitted. "But the woman is steady and capable. I fear I might do worse, having not the faintest idea how to engage servants. My past hasn't equipped me for my new station, I'm afraid. The staff I brought from London is hardly sufficient for this large an estate."
"Rosemary will help you engage some good people," said Ivy. "Won't you Rose? She's seen to the running of Barnhill for as long as I can remember."
Rosemary shot her sister a look that demanded she say no more. Much as she wanted to help Merritt and his little son, how could she come here day after day and taunt herself with a vision of the life she might have had?
A life that was now far beyond her reach…
Had he thought Rosemary Greenwood a beauty in their youth? Merritt couldn't deny it.
As she stood there in his home, with his child snuggled in her arms, she eclipsed even the shimmering perfection of his memories. Time had sculpted away the girlish roundness of her face, leaving features of exquisite delicacy. The gold of her hair had mellowed to the hue of dark honey. The years had seasoned her nature, too, subduing youthful arrogance while cultivating tolerance and kindness.
How easy it would be to lay his heart at her feet again, leaving her no choice but to tread on it. He must proceed with caution, to protect himself if she could not care for him and to avoid frightening her off if she was disposed to learn. But how cautious could he be with only a fortnight to win her?
Seeing Harry's eyelids droop as he nestled against Rosemary's softly rounded bosom, Merritt envied his son.
"I must teach Harry better manners than to fall asleep in the company of lovely ladies." He lifted the baby out of Rosemary's arms, savoring the brief contact between his hands and hers. "I trust you'll excuse him on account of his callow youth."
Rosemary gazed at the child with wistful eyes. "Must you put him to bed?"
"This is his usual nap time." Though he hated to deny her anything, Merritt treasured Rosemary's obvious partiality for his son. "An orderly schedule for Harry is one point on which his nurse and I agree. If you ladies would care to walk in the garden, I'll join you once I've put this young man in his cradle. Later we can have tea. My cook's a jewel, bless her heart, though she needs a reliable scullery maid."
When he ventured into the garden 10 minutes later, Merritt found Rosemary by herself, wandering under an avenue of linden trees in blossom.
"Ivy says her ankle is still bothering her," she explained, a soft blush warming her cheeks.
Did he dare offer Rosemary his arm? Much as he longed to, Merritt thought better of it. Instead he set off on his own, slowing his steps when he realized she meant to accompany him.
"This is a marvelous garden, Mr. Temple. Think what jolly times Harry will have playing among the trees and flowers."
Picturing her in a gleeful game of hide-and-seek with a five-year-old Harry left Merritt in a daze of joy…and fear. He must not torment himself longing for what might never be.
"Thank you for coming today." He seized on that tiny scrap of encouragement. "I know how busy you must be."
As they emerged from the linden arbor, an aromatic fragrance enveloped them. Reaching toward a spiky shrub just beginning to bloom, Merritt broke off a stray of delicate pale blue blossoms.
"Rosemary." He offered Miss Greenwood her namesake flower. "For remembrance."
She accepted the token, turning it over and over in her hand. "Did you hate me?" she whispered. "For treating you so badly?"
"H-hate you?" The very thought made Merritt bilious. "Never!"
Sometimes he'd wished he could. It might have been easier to live with hate than endure the delicious torment of unrequited love. "You were right to act as you did."
Rosemary fumbled the spray of flowers and almost dropped it. "I was?"
Merritt nodded. "I understand now that a marriage of unequal fortunes places an intolerable burden on both parties. I wouldn't have wished that on either of us."
He left her to draw the obvious conclusion that since they were now on a similar financial footing, the impediment between them had been removed.
The stricken look on Rosemary's face told him he'd misspoken though he could not fathom how. Clearly his want of fortune hadn't been her only reason for spurning him seven years ago.
He tried to mend what he'd marred. "What transpired between us as children is long in the past, my dear. I hope it will not prevent us from being friends now."
"Friends?" she echoed. "Of course. I will always think of you with the fondest friendship, dear Mr. Temple."
When her bewitching lips formed the words fond and dear, it took every ounce of self discipline at Merritt's command to curb the urge to take her in his arms. He longed to kiss lovely Rosemary with a man's kiss that might make her forget the gangly boy who'd once played at wooing her.
But how could he risk the fragile treasure of her friendship in his quest for even sweeter prizes?
With a chaste but affectionate touch, he tucked her delicate hand into the crook of his elbow. "Then I am a most fortunate man indeed. Shall we get back to the house before your sister succumbs to temptation and eats all our tea?"
"An admirable suggestion." Her laugh sounded a trifle forced, but greatly relieved. "Now, we must catch up on the time we have been apart. Ivy and I read the thrilling newspaper accounts of your exploits with General Wellington. Did you enjoy soldiering?"
As they walked back to the house through the green, fragrant garden, he entertained her with stories of his adventures and misadventures in the Rifle Brigade, collecting every dulcet trill of laughter, every sparkle of interest in her eyes like so many rare jewels he would hoard to cherish in the days ahead.
"What a time you've been," complained Ivy when they rejoined her, though she hardly looked displeased. "I helped myself to some cake. Wait till you taste it, Rose — it's heavenly. Will you pour? This eating has left me parched."
Rosemary cast a questioning glance at Merritt.
"Please do the honors." He held her chair. "I recall many pleasant teas at Barnhill when you played mother."
This set Ivy off on a round of remember whens while Rosemary concentrated on pouring the tea and Merritt watched her with jealous interest, indulging himself in the momentary pretense that she was mistress of his home.
As well as his heart…
"Thorn!" cried Ivy, when their brother returned from London two days after their scrumptious tea. "Guess who's come to Lathbury and bought Heartsease?"
Hawthorn Greenwood treated his sister to an indulgent smile, but Rosemary could see the fine lines of worry etched around his eyes. "Whoever it is, I wish they'd made me an offer on this place instead."
A fearful void formed where Rosemary's stomach should have been. "Is it that bad, Thorn? Will we have to give up dear Barnhill entirely?"
They'd been counting on letting the house while still drawing revenue from the estate. In the meantime, they could live cheaply in the spa town of Bath, with an unspoken hope that the girls might secure prosperous husbands there.
"Father's debts were even more considerable than I'd thought." Thorn sighed. "But come now, it's only money. We're all young and fit, handsome and clever. We'll make our way in the world, and find some means to hang on to the ancestral pile in the meantime. Tell me the name of this mystery master of Heartsease whose advent makes Ivy look like a cream-fed puss?"
Fearing she could not speak Merritt's name without betraying her feelings, Rosemary let her sister answer.
"Why your old school friend, Merritt Temple!" Ivy told Thorn how Merritt had inherited a fortune from his late wife and his reasons for coming to Lathbury.
"I must call on him soon," declared Thorn. "I'm delighted to hear of his newfound wealth, though I pity the poor fellow in the loss of his wife."
Rosemary was not so sure about the latter. She recalled what Merritt had said in the garden at Heartsease, about unequal fortunes straining a marriage. At the time she'd been too dismayed on her own account to understand what he was telling her about his past.
Thorn shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps Merritt can help me untangle the chaos of Father's affairs. He always was a clever, practical chap."
"No!" The word burst out before Rosemary could stop it. "I won't have Mr. Temple worried with our problems. He has enough on his mind already."
"Suit yourself." Thorn shrugged. "He's bound to find out sooner or later."
Perhaps. But later they'd be safely away in Bath, where she would not have to suffer Merritt's pity. She could abide almost anything but that.
"Speaking of Mr. Temple —" Ivy peered out the window "— I believe that's his carriage coming up the lane. I hope he's inviting us for another tea — I haven't eaten so many toothsome delicacies in ages."
"It's a good thing we're soon bound for Bath," Rosemary observed tartly, "before you have urgent need of a corset."
Ivy wrinkled her nose. "Since we'll be too poor to keep a carriage, I shall need all my strength for climbing the hills in Bath." She flitted off to speak to Merritt's coachman.
A moment later she returned with a note in her hand. "It's addressed to you, Rose. I wonder what Mr. Temple wants?"
Opening her letter from Merritt with trembling fingers, Rosemary scanned the once-familiar hand.
"Mr. Temple's had a falling out with Harry's nurse. He needs me to come right away and help him secure a new one."
"Mrs. Jessup might do." Ivy referred to a young widow in the village who'd recently been delivered of a stillborn baby. They had called on her that morning with a quantity of broth and jelly they could hardly spare.
Rosemary shook her head. "The poor creature's too frail and too young. Harry needs a mature, reliable nurse."
She did not say, scarcely allowed herself to think, that Mrs. Jessup was also attractive and eligible for marriage. Not to mention how she might worship Harry, having lost her own infant. Selfish as it might be, Rosemary could not abide the thought of such a woman in Merritt's household.
"Fetch my cloak," she bid Ivy. "I must go at once."
Rosemary carefully folded the letter and slipped it into her apron pocket, knowing she would sleep with it under her pillow that night.
"Rosemary! You're an angel of deliverance to come on such short notice when you must be so busy."
If he found one pretext after another to occupy her, perhaps it would delay her family's departure to Bath. Merritt tried to resist the selfish inclination.
"Harry's nurse said it's high time he was weaned anyway." He bounced the fretful baby in his arms. "I worry about spoiling his digestion, though. The poor little fellow has taken a cold. I told the woman not to keep his nursery fire so high — the place was an oven!"
"Let me take him."
Rosemary held out her arms and instantly Merritt felt his anxiety ease. She'd attend to the child far more tenderly than Harry's own mother would have. Merritt tried to stifle the bitter regret that gripped him whenever he thought of Sophia. The spoiled heiress had paid for her heedlessness with her life, after all. But he couldn't forgive her having almost killed their unborn child in the process. Nor could he excuse himself for failing to stop her.
Rosemary cuddled the baby close, unmindful of his small runny nose soiling the shoulder of her dress. "If he's feeling unwell, he may not want milk anyway. Have Cook make up some good nourishing broth and see if he'll take any of that."
While she fed and comforted Harry, they discussed Merritt's requirements for a nurse.
"I believe I know the perfect person," she said at last. "Mrs. Olney reared several healthy children, all grown now. Then she had a late baby afflicted with some disorder. Though she tended to him devotedly, the child died not long ago."
Merritt nodded. "I'll go at once and pay her a call. If she's as good as she sounds, I'll engage her services immediately even if I have to pay her a king's ransom."
He paused. "May I impose on your kindness to stay with Harry while I'm gone?"
"Impose? Nonsense!" Rosemary laughed at Merritt's absurd suggestion that it would be an imposition to mind little Harry. "I should pay you for the privilege."
If only he'd accept some currency other than money.
Merritt looked at her, gratitude shimmering in his gray eyes, as though she'd done him the most valuable service in the world. For a moment, the weight of guilt she'd carried for seven years lightened. Merritt might not hate her, but that didn't mean she hadn't hurt him.
"I feel so easy in my mind knowing Harry's in your care. I trust you'll tend him as attentively as I would, though with far more skill."
After Merritt hurried off, Rosemary spent a blissful hour indulging the bittersweet fantasy that little Harry belonged to her. She rocked him, danced with him in her arms, sang and talked to him. Flattered him shamelessly and ached at the thought of having to let him go.
Playing mother they called it when someone other than the lady of the house poured tea. Rosemary liked this kind of playing mother so much better, even if the baby was fretful and growing feverish.
"Your papa loves you so much, Harry," she crooned. "You must get well quickly so as not to worry him."
For a passing instant she thought of her late father with something less than devotion. If only Papa had managed his business affairs more prudently, she might have been free to encourage Merritt now without the taint of fortune hunting. Or if he'd had the foresight to recognize that a man of Merritt's abilities would be sure to get on in the world, no matter how modest his early prospects.
"It's not his fault. It's mine." She sighed. "I never should have listened. I should have married your papa in spite of mine."
"I believe Mrs. Olney will suit us very well." Merritt's relief at securing the services of such an able nurse evaporated when he saw Harry's flushed cheeks and sick eyes.
A clammy hand squeezed his entrails hard. Could his son be in danger? Love rendered him vulnerable to the worst kind of hurt. He hadn't made a choice to love his son, any more than he made a conscious decision to draw each breath. Even knowing the risk, he couldn't stop now.
And Rosemary? He had no choice about his feelings for her either. Should he brave the danger of declaring them?
"There's only one problem." Merritt laid a cool hand on Harry's forehead.
The child gave a strange hoarse cough.
"Problem?" said Rosemary.
"Mrs. Olney couldn't make arrangements to come until tomorrow." All the confidence with which he'd faced Napoleon's troops deserted Merritt in the face of his child's illness. "Harry won't miss the nourishment in his condition. Still, I wish I had someone to help me tend him tonight."
Swaying to quiet the whimpering baby, Rosemary peered over the top of Harry's downy head.
"Will I do?"
Despite overwhelming temptation, Merritt heard himself say, "You? Preposterous!"
"You?" Merritt looked at Rosemary as though she'd proposed some debauchery. "Here for the night? Preposterous!"
"Why? I'm good with babies — you said so yourself. And unless you keep a closetful of nursemaids, I'm the only one at hand. Besides, I want to. If I went home, I'd only toss and turn all night worrying over the poor wee thing."
She had not often seen Merritt Temple angry. Now his dark brows knit in an ominous manner and Rosemary could picture him striking fear into the hearts of his enemies and subordinates.
"Are you too innocent to understand, Rosemary?" he demanded. "An unmarried woman spending the night in the home of an unmarried man — think of your reputation."
She refused to be cowed. "What difference does it make whether I'm here in the day or the night? I don't expect to get any sleep. Besides, what dissipation could we get up to with a sick infant to tend?"
Unbidden images rose in her imagination. Images so vivid her cheeks flushed the same bright red as the baby's. Of herself in Merritt's arms. Of his lips pressed against hers. One hand pulling pins from her hair, the other...
Rosemary swallowed hard.
The other caressing her body through the light fabric of her dress. Perhaps cupped under her backside.
Could she be catching the baby's fever?
"For the last time, Rosemary — no. I will not compromise your reputation."
"For the last time, Merritt — yes! I could send for Ivy to chaperon, but she's so excitable in a crisis, it wouldn't be worth the bother. Let me worry about my reputation. You worry about your son."
The baby coughed again, a hollow bark that did not sound quite human.
"Oh dear, it's the croup." Rosemary shook her head and cast Merritt a challenging look. "It'll worsen through the night. Fortunately, I know how to deal with it. Now, unless you propose to hoist me over your shoulder and carry me back to Barnhill kicking and screaming, which I assure you would do far more damage to both our reputations, I suggest you stop this pointless arguing and instruct your cook to set several shallow pans of water on her stove and close the kitchen doors."
For a moment Merritt looked as if she'd boxed his ears. Then the daze lifted. "If you insist."
"I do." How she wished she'd been able to say those words to him in front of a vicar.
"Very well, then." His voice held a note of respect for a worthy opponent. "Thank you." He marched off toward the kitchen with a purposeful stride.
Harry coughed again, then whimpered.
"Poor darling." Rosemary nuzzled his cheek. "Let's change your linen, then take you down to the kitchen. The moist air should help you breathe."
For all her brave protestations to Merritt, a shiver of fear snaked down Rosemary's spine. Would he ever forgive her if Harry got worse instead of better?
Would she ever forgive herself?
Merritt Temple could only recall two nights in his life as long and anxious as this one. There had been the night of Harry's birth. And the night Rosemary Greenwood had told him he must try to forget her.
Who'd have thought they would be together now, fighting for the life of his son?
Rosemary had assured him over and over that croup was not uncommon in babies, nor as perilous as it sounded. Much as Merritt longed to believe her, he couldn't. Life had robbed him of too many loved ones, or those who might have loved him.
"Will you hold Harry while I try to spoon a bit more sugared water into him?" Rosemary pushed a drooping golden curl off her brow.
The steamy air of the kitchen had teased her hair into a tendriled halo. Her eyes were strained with fatigue and more than a little alarm. And she had never looked more beautiful to Merritt than at that moment.
His defenses lulled by exhaustion and occupied with worry about his son, he wanted very much to tell her so.
Before he could frame the words, another bout of coughing convulsed the baby.
"Hush now, my boy, hush. It'll be all right."
Harry whined and struggled for breath. Fear threatened to close off Merritt's windpipe, too.
"There, there, Harry." As Rosemary rubbed the child's back, she sang him a lullaby.
The sound of her voice seemed to lull Harry and relax his small body. Her nearness had the same effect on Merritt.
"Will my son get better?" He couldn't conceal his desperate need for her reassurance.
"Of course." A tired smile lit her face. "This young fellow will lead you a merry chase, one day."
"I hope you're right." His words erupted in a choked whisper. "Harry is the only joy my marriage afforded me. If I should lose him..."
He swung away from Rosemary so she wouldn't witness the unmanly tear he could not check.
As Merritt turned away from her, his wide shoulders bowed, cradling his sick child, Rosemary ached to gather them both to her bosom and heal their hurts.
"Your only joy?" Could anything more tragic be said of a marriage? "Surely you mean Harry is the greatest joy your marriage afforded you."
"Greatest...and only. He's been so singular a blessing, perhaps I was greedy to wish for more."
Before Rosemary could protest, Merritt spoke again. "I was a curiosity to Sophia. After the papers made me out to be some kind of war hero, I became a trophy for her to collect. A challenge too quickly won, too soon tired of."
If she'd married him when she should have, he would never have fallen prey to such a woman. Rosemary wondered how her heart could hurt so much and still continue to beat. If she labored the rest of her life, could she ever hope to redress Merritt Temple for the harm she'd done him?
In broken sentences and choked tones, Merritt sketched for Rosemary the misery that had been his marriage. Though she wanted to beg him to keep silent, she sensed it did him good to talk. Like piercing a tainted wound to drain the poison.
At the very least, she owed him the courtesy of listening.
"Sophia was disgusted to find herself with child. She'd been so much indulged all her life, she resented the bother it caused her and the restrictions it placed upon her. In her seventh month she took a fall while riding. Not enough to harm her if her time hadn't been so close. But it brought on early labor, nearly doing away with the child as well as herself."
As if distressed by this account of his unnatural mother, the baby began his worst bout of coughing yet. Merritt stumbled, but quickly righted himself.
"Bring him here." Rosemary sat down on the daybed in one corner of the kitchen. "We're both too tired to walk him anymore. You hold him upright while I rub his back."
Merritt looked ready to protest, but weariness got the better of him. He dropped onto the daybed with Harry in his arms. Rosemary moved closer and began to pass her hand in gentle soothing circles over the baby's back. Partly to calm the child and partly to prevent Merritt telling her more than she could bear to hear, she began to sing.
"Sing care away with sport and play, pastime is all our pleasure. If well we fare, for nought we care, in mirth consist our treasure."
"Heartsease." Merritt mused on the name of the song and his new estate. "Will this place ever live up to its name for me?"
His eyes seemed to ask her a question, or did her tired mind imagine it?
"I pray it will. If ever a man deserved happiness, you do, dear Merritt." She sang the rest of the song, started another, then a third....
Rosemary woke to find herself leaning against Merritt's shoulder. Her hand had fallen from Harry's back to rest upon his father's lean thigh. Though Merritt's eyes were shut, he still held the sleeping baby securely to his chest. Rosemary tried to shift her hand, but it refused to budge.
So she lingered there, soaking up Merritt's warmth, his scent, and his presence, thinking how sweet it might be to wake up beside him every morning.
When he finally opened his eyes, she reluctantly sat upright and withdrew her hand from his leg.
"Hear that?" she whispered.
"Eh?" He struggled awake, then froze, listening.
The kitchen was quiet save for the soft hiss of their breaths and Harry's clear, regular respiration. Merritt closed his eyes and sighed. "Thank God."
"He's going to be fine." Rosemary's smile stretched her mouth so wide it hurt.
Suddenly nothing mattered. Not fortune, or lack of it. Not pride or the past. Only life, hope, and love.
Lifting her face to Merritt's, she silently begged him to kiss her.…
From a deep pit of weariness and despair, Merritt's spirits soared to giddy heights. First his son sleeping peacefully, breathing with ease. Then Rosemary's lips presented for his kiss.
Accepting her invitation, he inclined the brief distance between them and engaged her. His arms full of sleeping baby, he could not hold Rosemary or otherwise compel her in the slightest degree. Except with the restrained power of his devotion.
Without words to confuse or obscure his meaning, he used his lips to tell Rosemary how much he'd longed for her, how hard he'd tried to forget her, and how miserably he'd failed in that commission.
She responded with such innocent passion, Merritt's desire ignited like a keg of gunpowder struck by a spark. Reaching up, she cradled his face in her hands, caressing every line as if to imprint his likeness upon her fingertips.
How had he mistaken her feelings for him? Her kiss, the likes of which Merritt had never dreamed, assured him that her love, her longing, and her bittersweet remembrance, were quite the equal of his own.
A noise sent them flying apart as the cook blundered in. "Mr. Temple, are you still tending that poor babe? What a night you'll have had. How's he faring this morning?"
"Very well." Merritt struggled to rise, conscious of his excessively tight breeches.
Of Rosemary he asked, "Is it safe to put Harry down in his cradle now?"
"By all means, Mr. Temple." She looked every bit as flustered as he, trying to pat down her hair and smooth the wrinkles from her dress all at once.
"Will you stay to breakfast?" It was not the taste of sausages or poached eggs Merritt's mouth craved.
"I must get home. In my anxiety for little Harry, I forgot to send word to Barnhill that I'd be staying the night. Thorn and Ivy will be frantic."
She cast him a proprietary look that sent his heart winging skyward again. "And you must get some sleep."
"A shave, too, I daresay. Very well, I'll dispatch you home in my carriage. You need a sound sleep after last night. Later, I'll send for you and we can…talk."
"I look forward to it."
Once Rosemary had gone, Merritt tucked Harry in his cradle, then threw himself onto the nurse's bed and slept.
He woke to find Mrs. Olney changing the baby's linen. "'Afternoon, sir. I hear this young lad gave you a turn last night. How lucky Miss Greenwood was here to help. She's a smart lass. What an awful shame, her father losing his money. No doubt she and her sister will catch rich husbands in Bath — comely creatures. I say, is something amiss, sir? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
Worse than a ghost. Merritt struggled to breathe. How could he have been so blind as to think Rosemary Greenwood truly cared for him? No wonder she'd insisted on staying the night. Now honor would compel him to wed her.
No matter how much the notion sickened him…
For the 10th time in as many minutes, Rosemary left her packing to look out the window. Still no sign of Merritt's carriage.
She'd slept with his letter and a spray of wilted rosemary under her pillow, perfuming her dreams. Waking hours later, she'd been surprised to hear no message had come from Heartsease. As the hours passed, she became increasingly anxious until finally she broke down and confided in Ivy.
"Hurrah!!" Grabbing Rosemary's hands, Ivy danced her around the room. "I knew you two were meant for each other. Now you'll be happy and have a nursery swarming with babies. And Merritt will help Thorn settle our affairs."
"No!" Rosemary pulled away. "I won't ask Merritt for a penny, not even if Thorn has to sell Barnhill. Though you might come and live with us until... What am I saying? Merritt hasn't even proposed to me."
"He's sure to."
"Then why hasn't he sent for me?"
"Perhaps the baby's taken a bad turn and he's been too — Rose! Where are you going?"
Without shawl or bonnet, Rosemary dashed from the house and ran all the way to Heartsease, fear nipping at her heels like a pack of hounds. She arrived disheveled and gasping for breath.
The footman who admitted her didn't look alarmed. All sounded quiet and orderly in the great house.
A few moments later, Merritt strode into the sitting room, unbearably handsome in crisp linen and a dark blue coat. Relief flooded Rosemary as she bolted into his arms.
Or would have if he'd opened them to her.
"Merritt, what's wrong? Is Harry worse?"
"My son is fine. His new nurse has come."
Good news on both counts. Why then did Merritt look so forbidding?
"Thank heaven." Rosemary tried to quell her alarm. Perhaps Merritt was still tired from their sleepless night. "I grew worried when you didn't send for me."
He crossed his arms. His eyes looked as though they'd been hewn from granite. "I thought it presumptuous to summon you when you have a perfectly good carriage at your disposal."
"Not anymore. I should have told you sooner but...the reasons don't matter. We've had to give up our carriage and most of our servants. That's why we were going to Bath. My father lost all our money through mismanagement and bad investments. Now Thorn may have to sell Barnhill to satisfy Papa's creditors."
Merritt listened without a word of sympathy...or surprise.
"Marriage has always been a matter of fortune to you, hasn't it, my dear? A rich widower in the neighborhood must have presented a tempting target."
The contempt in his voice lashed her pride. "Especially when you discovered the besotted fool still pined for you after all these years."
"Please, Merritt. You must believe me. I came to care for you again in spite of your fortune, not because of it."
"Indeed? Is that why you took advantage of my son's illness to place us in a compromising position that would force me to wed you?"
Merritt actually believed she would use his child's illness as a pretext for trapping him into marriage? If he had struck her hard, Rosemary could not have been more deeply shocked or hurt. Or infuriated.
"Why did you not simply ask for my help?" Merritt's indignant anger ebbed for a moment, exposing the wistful disillusionment beneath. "I'd have given it in an instant for the sake of your family's past kindness to me."
Before Rosemary could frame a reply that would make sense to herself, let alone to him, Merritt fixed her with a blistering glare.
"Congratulations. Your stratagem worked, Miss Greenwood. For the sake of my reputation I will wed you, and assist your family."
How could he be talking of marriage when he obviously hated her now, as he never had before?
"You may continue to live at Barnhill or go to Bath, whichever you please," announced Merritt, as if it made no difference to him where she went. "In any case, you will never be a wife to me in anything but name. Do you agree to those terms?"
The tumultuous events of the past few days had stripped Rosemary of her emotional balance and comforting philosophy. She had come so close to the happiness that had long eluded her, only to find it now smashed at her feet, beyond repair.
"No, Mr. Temple. I do not agree! If you could believe me capable of such dishonor, I would not wed you to save myself from starving."
With that, she turned and bolted from his house before a storm of tears completed her humiliation.
A few days later, in that same room, Merritt faced the dear friend of his school days.
"Good to see you again, Merritt." Thorn Greenwood extended his hand.
"Under other circumstances, perhaps. Have you come to call me out for sullying your sister's honor?"
"A duel?" Thorn shook his head. "We both know you'd never do anything to dishonor a lady. Rosemary may slay me for coming here, but I cannot watch you make each other miserable for the rest of your lives."
Merritt winced. His initial outrage had begun to rub thin. He couldn't bear the thought of making Rosemary miserable. Even if she'd done it to him.
"Are you saying your sister didn't try to entrap me in order to save your family's fortunes?"
"You can't believe that?"
Merritt shrugged. "Worse things happen every day among the ton. If Rosemary is innocent, why did she wait so long to tell me of your situation?"
Thorn gazed heavenward. "Nine days out of 10, my sister's the most agreeable creature in the world, but she has an iron spine that will stiffen at the most inconvenient moments. She couldn't bear your pity, and she had no intention of pursuing you because our fortunes are reversed."
"Then why…?" Merritt struggled to word his question.
If she hadn't meant to wed him for his money, why had Rosemary Greenwood come to Heartsease and taken his heart?
"Why didn't Rosemary steer clear of you?" Thorn completed Merritt's question. "That's something you must ask her. I can only tell you this. My sister had a number of chances to wed — all worthy, prosperous gentlemen. Though I know she longs for a home and children, she turned down every match, much to my father's vexation."
Merritt's rancor collapsed to rubble. He'd wed another woman, sired a child who filled part of the void in his heart. If Hawthorn Greenwood spoke true, Rosemary had been more constant to their doomed love than he.
"What can I do, Thorn? After the things I said she'd never have me now. And I couldn't bear even a crumb of suspicion that she'd wed me for my fortune."
Thorn strode to the window. "I have an idea, if you're willing to risk it?"
Thorn outlined his plan.
Merritt heaved a deep sigh. "What if she still refuses? I'm not sure I could stand to be cast aside by her a third time."
"I'll leave you to think on it. Whatever you decide will not alter our friendship."
A footman appeared at the door of Merritt's study. "Your man of affairs has arrived from London, Mr. Temple. He claims it's a matter of some urgency."
"Rose?" Ivy tapped on the bedroom door. "Mr. Temple's here to see you."
Crushing the sprig of herb in her fist, Rosemary cried, "Send him away! We're bound for Bath tomorrow and we shan't make a nuisance of ourselves in his life anymore."
With those bold words, she threw herself onto the bed and dredged up a few more tears from eyes long since spent.
The door swung softly open. Rosemary braced herself for Ivy's awkward attempts at comfort.
Her head still buried in her arms, she asked, "What did Mr. Temple say when you told him go."
It was not Ivy who answered, but a familiar masculine voice that set a swarm of bees buzzing inside her. "He insisted he'd come and speak to you, even if it caused a scandal to have a man in your bedchamber."
"What do you want?" She kept her face averted, refusing to let him see how much he'd hurt her. As much as she'd once hurt him? came the muted plea of her conscience. Very well, they were even now! pride retorted.
He drew a deep breath. "I've come to beg your forgiveness for misjudging you. I should have known better, but I've been betrayed too often by life to trust any promise of happiness. I also have too humble an opinion of myself to believe that you might love me on my own account."
How dare he try to seduce her pardon with that poignant speech?
She wasn't blameless, her conscience protested. If she'd confided in Merritt from the start, none of this would have happened. But having enjoyed his adoration in her youth, pride wouldn't allow her to admit an inferior position.
"Is that all you came to say?"
Merritt cleared his throat. "I also have some bad news.…"
"Bad news?" Rosemary started up, not caring if Merritt saw her red eyes and tearstained face. "Has Harry taken ill again?"
"Master Harry is quite well, apart from wanting more of your company." Merritt settled himself on the bed beside her. His smile reassured her that that his son was in no danger. It also thawed the last stubborn chill of her resentment.
She reached for his hand. "Whatever is wrong, you know I will do anything I can to help. To begin with, I will pardon you for thinking me a fortune huntress if you can forgive me for being too proud to confide in you."
"Done." Merritt raised her fingers to his cheek. "As for my bad news, it may turn out to be the best news of my life, depending on how you receive it."
Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he offered it to her. "My man of affairs called the other day from London. It seems your father wasn't the only one whose investments suffered in these uncertain times."
"You've lost your wife's money?" Rosemary murmured, not fully able to take it in.
Life could be so uncertain. A person could be rich one day and poor the next. Healthy, then sick. Only love remained constant in spite of life's buffeting. The way her love for Merritt had persisted all these years.
"I'm not destitute." Merritt looked curiously resigned to his fall in fortune, perhaps even relieved. "I'll have to make some economies, perhaps even sell Heartsease. If I throw my lot in with the Greenwoods, though, we might rescue Barnhill from tenancy."
Merritt back at Barnhill again, and dear little Harry, too? Rosemary could think of nothing that would make her happier. Well, one thing, perhaps.
As if he read her thoughts, Merritt added, "That would make it necessary for us to wed, of course."
"I —" Her reply drowned in a tide of fresh tears. Fresh, wonderful tears. She mopped her eyes with Merritt's handkerchief.
Perhaps he misread her reaction, for he reached out and pressed a finger to her lips. "Think on it, please. I told you life's promises of happiness had betrayed me, but I did know happiness once. Here. With you. In remembrance of that happiness I will hope until you give me reason to stop. I know it was asking a great deal that you forgive what I said the other day. On my own account, I would not. But for Harry's sake I must. He needs you as much as I do. And I know he will come to love you almost as much as I do. Please don't make my son pay for his father's folly."
He seemed to steel himself to accept her answer.
Lifting his finger from her lips he asked, "What do you say, Rosemary? Will you wed Merritt Temple even if he's poor again?"
"I love my family." Rosemary twisted the damp handkerchief in her fingers as she considered Merritt's proposal. "And I feel a duty to help them by the only means open to me."
That means could only be marriage to a rich man. Merritt took the blow, but refused to flinch. "I understand."
"No, you don't. Even for the sake of duty, I cannot stoop to dishonor."
He'd been an idiot even to entertain the notion.
"To wed a man I couldn't love would be dishonor," Rosemary continued, "and these seven years have taught me the futility of trying to love any man but you, Merritt Temple. If you'll have me, I will be the happiest woman in the world to marry you."
"If…?" He swept her into his arms and kissed her dizzy before she could recant. What fortune in the world could compare with the treasure of knowing Rosemary loved him for himself alone?
"I'll do everything in my power to make you a good, thrifty wife," she promised when they paused to catch their breath. "There's only one luxury I will ever ask of you."
"What might that be?" He'd fetch her the moon for a looking glass if she asked.
"Babies, of course." She gazed at him with a sweet brooding smile. "A houseful, so Harry will have a whole battalion of small brothers and sisters to command."
Recalling his own solitary childhood, Merritt could think of no better gift to give his son — a legacy infinitely more precious than all the gold in England.
"You may have all the babies your heart desires if you will indulge me in one thing."
"Yes?"
"That we may name our first son Hawthorn?"
From the doorway a deep cheery voice called, "An excellent idea! Hawthorn Temple, a most distinguished moniker."
Merritt and Rosemary looked up to see her brother and sister shamelessly eavesdropping.
"How long have you two been there?" Rosemary demanded.
Ivy bounded onto the bed with them. "Long enough to catch the drift of your answer. Congratulations!"
As she threw her arms around them both in a forceful embrace, Merritt held out his hand to Thorn and the two men exchanged a look that sealed them as brothers.
The wedding took place three weeks later, following the publications of banns. Rosemary refused to let Merritt spend his money on an expensive special license to speed up the proceedings. Nor would she part from Harry long enough for a quick dash to Gretna Green.
As she walked down the aisle toward him on her brother's arm, clutching a nosegay of fragrant blue rosemary flowers and white hawthorn blossoms, trailing green ivy, Merritt feared his heart would burst with happiness.
But when his thoughts turned to the wedding night ahead, his stomach dropped into the toes of his Hessians. His first wife had been revolted by the very idea of her marital obligations.
If he failed Rosemary tonight, Merritt wondered, how would he face himself in the morning?
The time had come.
Merritt entered the bedroom clad only in his dressing gown to find Rosemary sitting on his bed — their bed — in her virginal white nightgown. The firelight burnished her unbound hair to a cascade of silken gold.
Gingerly he settled himself beside her and after an awkward silence asked, "How much do you know about what must take place between us tonight — as husband and wife?"
"I admit appalling ignorance, my dear. Thorn tried his best to prepare me. I thought the poor fellow would expire of embarrassment, so I pretended I was well informed on the subject."
She spoke with such cheerful frankness, Merritt found himself laughing in spite of his apprehension. His laughter stopped abruptly when his innocent bride reached toward the neck of his dressing gown.
Her delicate fingers swiped over the thatch of dark hair on his chest. "I've always considered curiosity the best antidote for ignorance."
Though he tried to stifle it, a sound broke from Merritt's throat — a deep purr of pleasure mingled with an even deeper growl of desire. He prayed his love for Rosemary would help him scavenge the restraint he'd need to proceed with her marital initiation at a temperate, gentle pace.
If she persisted in rousing him like this, he feared passion might overpower his self-control.
Not for the world would Rosemary admit she'd been more than a trifle frightened. First Thorn's gruff bashfulness, then Merritt's tender gravity had made her wonder what horrors might await her on their wedding night. In the end, she'd trusted in Merritt's kindness and in her love for him.
He had not disappointed her.
With the touching ardor of the boy he'd once been and the infectious passion of the man he'd become, Merritt tutored her in the art of love. Patient and gentle, he whispered that she made him eager and fierce. He touched her and kissed her in ways and places she'd never imagined until the moist heat of her femininity pleaded for something she could not name.
Even the passing pain when he claimed her virginity was perfect, for it obliterated her guilt over the pain she'd once caused him. After seven long years apart, at last they were together. At last they were one.
One in desire. One in ecstasy.
When she sprawled against him, lazy and sated, their bed a white cloud suspended in a black velvet sky, he whispered, "Remember you promised to love me for richer, for poorer?"
"As long as we both shall live."
"The truth is, I never lost my fortune."
"What do you mean?"
"I wanted to know that you truly loved me. I wanted you to also be sure of yourself. For you to know that you married for love and not for fortune."
"Now I have both," she said softly. Then, with a wanton chuckle, Rosemary kissed him deeply. "Make love to me again before morning and I'll forgive your deception."
In the dying fire's glow, Merritt's smile shone bright as the crescent moon.
"Is this how babies are gotten?" she asked.
When he nodded, Rosemary rested her head on his chest with a sigh of perfect contentment. "Then I believe I fancy the means even more than I fancy the result."
The End