Wealthy real estate baron Merrick MacLachlan is the polar
opposite of his polished, ever-so-charming brother. While
Sir Alasdair is fair and handsome, Merrick is a true black
Scot, both in looks and in temperament. With his inky
hair, penetrating eyes, and badly scarred face, Merrick
has always made the ton deeply uncomfortable. Professionally, Merrick has attained a level of wealth and
power which no one could have imagined when he was a
brilliant but starving young architect. Privately, he has
no life—which is just how he likes it. But his rigid,
tightly-controlled existence is about to spin out of
control. Because once upon a time, Merrick did have a
life. And then, he made a terrible mistake. Her name was
Madeleine. And if ever he is tempted to forget her, he
has but to look at the scars she left behind . .
Excerpt The walk along the river was not a long one, and the
breeze blowing in off the Thames helped clear Merrick’s
head. The sun was unusually warm for May, and both he and
Lord Wynwood were compelled to loosen their neckcloths.
Soon they reached an area of excavation where six sweat-
stained men were assiduously digging out a cellar.
Adjacent, three masons were mortaring the stone foundation
of a second house, and beyond that, carpenters were
framing up the skeleton of yet a third. Running up the
street beyond them were another ten terraced houses, the
next nearer completion than the one before it. “Good Lord,” said Wynwood, surveying the scene. “This is
like a mill without walls—except that you are churning out
houses instead of stockings.” “Just so,” said Merrick. “And therein lies a part of the
cost savings—or perhaps I should say profit. Now, do you
wish a corner house?” “I should prefer it, yes.” “Well, the topmost house has been spoken for,” said
Merrick. “Rosenberg sent the papers last week. You will
have to wait on these two at the bottom of the hill.” Wynwood’s face fell. “Blast!” he said. “That house above
is perfect.” “But it will take the wind coming off the river,” said
Merrick with a shrug. “So will be more expensive to
heat. Besides, a widow from Yorkshire has already
contracted for it.” Wynwood winked. “Contracted—but not yet taken title, eh?”
he said. “Come, Merrick, we are old friends. The heating
means nothing to me. And you do not even know this
woman. What if I paid the costs associated with breaking
the contract?” “My word is my bond,” said Merrick coldly. “Chose
another, my friend. Or go back to Belgravia and buy one
of those white monstrosities from Tom Cubitt. It is
neither here nor there to me.” “Yes, yes, you are right, of course,” Wynwood had the
grace to look embarrassed. “I am just desperate to please
my wife. These lower houses are lovely. But they are not
even. One will sit a little higher up the hill, will it
not?” “Yes, and I shall use it to good advantage,” said
Merrick. “If they are connected by short flights of
stairs in the public rooms, it will have the feel of two
houses, but there will be a measure of privacy on the
upper floors. I can design it such that musical rooms and
Bergonzi’s parlor are on one side, and the school room and
nursery needs are confined to the other. Two dining
rooms, even, if you wish.” “That sounds perfect.” Wynwood scrubbed a hand
thoughtfully along his jaw. “Now, what will the interior
look like generally? That’s the part females concern
themselves with. I must give Vivie a full report.” “I can show you the house at the top of the hill”.
Merrick extracted a key from his coat pocket. “The
millwork, the joinery, the floors and ceilings, all that
will be similar unless you wish otherwise.” There were no workmen near the top of the hill, and the
din of construction faded into the distance as they
walked. Still, Merrick could hear a muffled banging noise
from within the topmost house as they went up the steps.
How very odd. Wynwood turned to Merrick with a quizzical look. “Someone
is inside.” “They damned well oughtn’t be,” said Merrick. “The first
coat of paint went on yesterday, and has scarce had time
to dry.” The banging did not relent. Merrick twisted the key, and
went in. Sun glared through the large, undraped windows,
leaving the air stifling hot, and rendering the smell of
paint almost intolerable. At once, he and Wynwood started
toward the racket—a side parlor which opened halfway along
the central corridor. A tall, slender woman with cornsilk
colored hair stood with her back to them, banging at one
of the window-frames with the heels of her hands. Merrick looked at Wynwood. “Excuse me,” he said
tightly. “The buyer, I presume.” “I shall just wander upstairs,” said Wynwood, starting up
the staircase. “I wish to size up the bedchambers.” “Oh, bloody damned hell!” said the woman in the parlor. Merrick strode into the room. “Good God, stop banging on
the windows!” The woman shrieked, and spun halfway around. “Oh!” She
pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh, God! You nearly
gave me heart failure!” “It would be a less painful end than bleeding to death, I
daresay.” “I beg your pardon?” She turned to face him, and
inexplicably, his breath hitched. Her cool blue eyes
searched his face. “The paint sticks the windows shut,” he managed to
explain. “They must be razored open, ma’am. And if you
persist in pounding at the sash, you’re apt to get a
gashed wrist for your trouble.” “Indeed?” Her eyebrows went up a little haughtily as she
studied him. For a moment, he could not get his lungs to
work. Dear God in heaven. No. No, it could not be. Merrick’s thoughts went skittering like marbles. There
must be some mistake. That damned wedding yesterday—that
trip to the church—it had disordered his mind. “Well, I shall keep your brilliant advice in mind,” she
finally went on. “Now, this room was to be hung with
yellow silk, not painted. Dare I hope that you are
someone who can get that fixed?” “Perhaps.” Merrick stepped fully into the room to better
see her. “I am the owner of this house.” The brows inched higher. “Oh, I think not,” she said, her
voice low and certain. “I contracted for its purchase on
Wednesday last.” “Yes, from my solicitors, perhaps,” said Merrick. Good
God, surely . . . surely he was wrong. For the first time
in a decade, he felt truly unnerved. “I—er, I employ Mr.
Rosenberg’s firm to handle such transactions,” he managed
to continue. “Pray look closely at your contract. You
will see that the seller is MacGregor & Company.” But her look of haughty disdain had melted into one of
grave misgiving. “And—and you would be Mr. MacGregor,
then?” There was more than a question in her words.
There was a pleading; a wish to avoid the unavoidable.
Her dark green eyes slid down the scar which curved the
length of his face. She was not sure. But he was. Dear
God, he was. “You look somewhat familiar,” she went on. “I am . . . I
am Lady Bessett. Tell me, have—have we met?” Dear God! Had they met? A sort of nausea was roiling in
his stomach now. He could feel the perspiration breaking
on his brow. He opened his mouth with no notion of what
he was to say. Just then, Wynwood came thundering down
the stairs. “Eight bedchambers, old chap!” The earl’s shouting echoed
through the empty house. “So a double would have sixteen,
am I right?” He strode into the room, then stopped
abruptly. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said, his eyes
running over the woman. “My new neighbor, I collect?
Pray introduce me.” Merrick felt as if all his limbs had gone numb. “Yes.
Yes, of course.” He lifted one hand by way of
introduction. “May I present to you, ma’am, the Earl of
Wynwood. Wynwood, this is . . . this is . . . ” The
hand fell in resignation. “This is Madeleine, Quin. This
is . . . my wife.” The woman’s face had drained of all color. She made a
strange little choking sound, and in a blind, desperate
gesture, her hand lashed out as if to steady herself. She
grasped at nothing but air. Then her knees gave, and she
crumpled to the floor in a pool of dark green silk. “Christ Jesus!” said Wynwood. He knelt, and began to pat
at her cheek. “Ma’am, are you all right? Ma’am?” “No, she is not all right,” said Merrick tightly. “She
can’t get her breath. This air—the paint—it must be
stifling her. Quick, get back. We must get her air.” As if she were weightless, Merrick slid an arm under
Madeleine’s knees, then scooped her into his arms. A few
short strides, and they were outside in the dazzling
daylight. “Put her in the grass,” Wynwood advised. “Good God,
Merrick! Your wife? I thought—thought she was dead! Or—
or gone off to India! Or some damned thing!” “Athens, I believe,” said Merrick. “Apparently, she has
come back.” Gently, he settled Madeleine in the small patch of newly-
sprouted grass. She was coming round now. His heart was
in his throat, his mind racing with questions. Wynwood
held one of her hands, and was patting at it vigorously.
On his knees in the grass, Merrick set one hand on his
thigh, and dropped his head as if to pray. But there was little to pray for now. He had prayed never to see Madeleine again. God had
obviously denied him that one small mercy. He pinched his
nose between two fingers, as if the pain might force away
the memories. Madeleine had managed to struggle up onto her elbows. “I say, ma’am.” Wynwood was babbling now. “So sorry.
Didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you perfectly all
right? Haven’t seen old Merrick in a while, I collect? A
shock, I’m sure. Yes, yes, a shock.” “Shut up, Quin,” said Merrick. “Yes, yes, of course,” he agreed. “I shan’t say a word.
Daresay you two have lots to catch up on. I—I should go,
perhaps? Or stay? Or—no, I have it! Perhaps Mrs.
MacLachlan would like me to fetch some brandy?” On this, the lady gave a withering cry, and pressed the
back of her hand to her forehead. “Do shut up, Quin,” said Merrick again. His eyes widened. “Yes, yes, I meant to do.” Madeleine was struggling to her feet now. Her heavy
blonde hair was tumbling from its arrangement. “Let me
up,” she insisted. “Stand aside, for God’s sake!” “Oh, I shouldn’t get up,” Wynwood warned. “Your head is
apt to be swimming still.” But Madeleine had eyes only for Merrick—and they were
blazing with hot green rage. “I do not know,” she
hissed, “what manner of ill-thought joke this is, sir.
But you—you are not my husband.” “Now is hardly the time to discuss it, Madeleine,” Merrick
growled. “Let me summon my carriage and see you safely to
your lodgings.” But Madeleine was already backing away, her face a mask of
horror. “No,” she choked. “Absolutely not. You—you are
quite mad. And cruel, too. Very cruel. You always
were. I came to see it, you know. I did. Now stay away
from me! Stay away! Do you hear?” It was the closest she came to acknowledging she even knew
him. And then she turned, and hastened up the hill on
legs which were obviously unsteady. A gentleman would have followed her at a distance, just to
be sure she really was capable of walking. Merrick no
longer felt like a gentleman. He felt . . . eviscerated.
Gutted like a fish, and left to rot in the heat of his
wife’s hatred. Lord Wynwood watched her go, his hand shielding his eyes
as they squinted into the sun. “You know, I don’t think
she much cares for you, old chap,” he said when
Madeleine’s skirts had swished round the corner and out of
sight. “Aye, that would explain her thirteen-year absence, would
it not?” said Merrick sourly. “More or less,” his friend agreed. “I hope you were not
looking forward to a reconciliation?” “Just shut up, Quin,” said Merrick again. Wynwood seemed to take no offense, but nor did he
listen. “Tell me, Merrick,” he said. “Have you any of
that fine Finlaggan whisky in your desk?” “Bloody well right I do. A full bottle.” Wynwood let his hand fall. “Well, it’s a start,” he said,
turning and heading down the hill.
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