Chapter 9
Much to her shock, Meredith Trent found, in all actuality, she didn’t hate John Forthryte at all. Not any longer. Oh, he was a dubious human being who clearly believed in doing anything to invoke his will.
But he was also a man in a great deal of pain.
The pain was old and deep. It appeared to have taken root as a small boy, if she had to guess. And it stemmed from his mother. She, too, understood the loss of a mother.
Her own mother was dead. Her father, too. As an orphan, she understood the particular unpleasantness of being adrift with no anchor and no port.
The only relatives she truly had were not as close as most would wish. It might be argued that there was no one alive that loved her.
Actually, one didn’t really have to argue. Who was there to love her as a parent did? No one. The unconditional love that came from a mother’s kiss or soft voice was gone from her life now. But at least, she’d known love for many years before having it taken away.
It seemed he’d known it, too. But it had clearly been seized from him very early and then he’d made his way in a dark, dangerous world on his own. Entirely alone.
It had shaped him. Warped, was a better word, no doubt. What would John Forthryte be like if had been raised in the sunlight rather than the darkest night? Of course, they would never know.
Good lord. The conflicting emotions in her breast were disconcerting.
The shock of the evening was still shaking through her as was the realization of John’s past. A brutal past.
She’d known he was a bastard. Everyone knew. It was public knowledge. Most knew his mother had been a professional mistress. But when one thought of a professional mistress one thought of luxury, power, and jewels. Not the agony she’d seen in his eyes.
She held up her glass. “Another if you please? This has proved to be a most trying night.”
He stared at her then burst out laughing. “I admire your pithy nature.”
She smiled in turn, her heart breaking in sympathy for him. “What else does one have?”
Admiration darkened his eyes. “Most don’t have it, Merry.”
“Well, I do,” she replied easily, forcing herself to shake with her own discomfort. Life was too short to be downtrodden by something as simple as a righteous uncle. “I’m not about to abandon it now.”
“Good.”
He took her glass in his beautifully big hand and walked back to the brandy.
The way his strong body moved. . . It was like a dream. A pleasurable one. She could barely give credence to the power and grace of his muscled limbs. He should have been awkward in his largeness. Instead, he was almost stealthy as he moved. Graceful, even. Certainly, it was compelling.
The sound of liquid pouring broke the silence, dancing with the crackle of the fire.
She brushed her hands down her still damp gown.
The dratted skirts were sticking ever so slightly to her legs. Sighing, she stood, headed back to the fire and lingered before it in hopes that it would dry her. She had no other clothes with her and she wasn’t going to bed naked.
He glanced back over his shoulder and then. . . Oh so slowly, he dragged his eyes along the length of her body.
A blush stung her cheeks as she recognized desire in his gaze and it thrilled her. Despite the strangeness of this night, one thing was inarguable. John was fascinating.
Why? Oh dear, why? She shouldn’t be thrilled or fascinated at all. Was he so correct that hate and pleasure did, indeed, go hand in hand? But as she had realized, she no longer hated him. How could she?
He lashed out over the years, driven by his mother’s end and the hatred of those who had abandoned them. It was hard to hate someone for that.
“You may borrow one of my shirts to sleep in,” he said abruptly as if he too had been contemplating her sleeping naked. Which was perhaps why his eyes now sparked with heat. “I doubt your undergarments will dry thoroughly and I won’t have you catching your death after having so gallantly come to your rescue earlier.”
Despite the very idea of wearing his clothing next to her bared skin shocked her to her toes, she laughed nervously. “Why thank you. It would, indeed, be a decided shame.”
With the sort of confidence she could only dream of, he crossed to her and handed her the brandy.
How did one attain such liquid movement? Such ease in the company of others? “I’m glad you’ve decided to educate me.”
He arched a brow at her then snorted.
Frowning, she straightened her spine. “And what was that for may I ask?”
“I’m not truly sure you need educating,” he stated. “Shaping perhaps.”
She blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“You’ve got a razor sharp mind, a temper, and the words to go with them,” he said with what sounded like enjoyment rather than annoyance. “You simply must learn to not be afraid to use those things.”
“Afraid?” she echoed, stunned by his description of her. Was that how he saw her?
“Most women are. They’re too busy trying to please men.” His lip curled slightly as if the idea appalled him. “It’s what they’re raised to do. Truly, they should be getting the men to please them. . . But that’s not what usually transpires.”
“I see.” Another wave of amazement crashed over her. Was this what he truly thought? He had a much higher opinion of women than she’d assumed he would.
“In any case,” he continued quickly, “you’ll have the power in your marriage. At first. With a good dowry and connections, you’ll have a good array of choices. That’s where the power is with a woman. Before marriage”
The hint of anger in his voice bespoke something else. “But then?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You must be concerned about how your potential husband will act once he has you. For have you he will. He’ll own you. From the curls on your head, to the tips of your toes, to the money my brother gives you. A wife has no rights.”
She sighed. “You make a good case for not marrying.”
“There are downsides to that as well,” he countered swiftly before drinking deeply.
The soft regret in his voice implied that the downsides were not idle but tragic.
He pinned her with a sudden and intense gaze. “I will educate you but I have a condition now.”
“Do you, indeed?” she asked, straightening.
“Yes,” he rumbled.
She cocked her head to the side, unable to hide her curiosity. “Go on.”
“You must let me guide you in your choice of husband.”
The words so surprised her she could scarcely think to ask, “What?”
“You’ll let me assess him,” he explained, patiently determined. “Find out about him. I’ll discover if he is worthy of you and if he will prove to be a good husband to you.”
How had this happened? How were they standing alone in a room together having such a conversation? The world had spun wildly and she felt completely off balance. . . Yet, it also felt right. “It would be mad of me to argue with you.”
He gaped, clearly having believed he would need further persuasion. After a moment, he nodded. “I’m glad you agree.”
She put her glass down and folded her arms under her breasts. “But John?”
“Yes?” he asked, his voice a rasp.
“How do I trust your judgement?”
A slow smile turned his lips into a wolf’s grin.
In that moment, she knew she couldn’t. Not entirely. Despite the way he’d helped her this night, she never could and, yet, the devil’s guidance would be better than no guidance at all.