Merryn rubbed one hand across her streaming eyes and looked around for Garrick’s mistress, the woman with the husky voice, imaginative ideas and overpowering perfume. But it seemed that they were alone.
“Oh!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “She has gone!”
Garrick raised one dark brow. “Did you not hear me throw her out?”
“I had my fingers in my ears,” Merryn said. “I did not want to hear anything, thank you. Being squashed by the bouncing of the bed was quite bad enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Garrick said politely. “Had I known that you were there I would, of course, have ejected her all the sooner.” His gaze swept over her, lingering on the cobwebs.
“It is very dirty under your bed,” Merryn said defensively.
He bowed ironically. “Again, I apologize. Next time you plan to take refuge there I shall ensure the room is swept clean.”
“That would be appreciated,” Merryn said.
Why are we having this conversation? she thought. This was quite wrong. This was not how she had imagined an encounter with the Duke of Farne would be.
She looked at him. Actually she had not imagined any encounter, at least not here and now, which was why she was so frightfully unprepared. She had thought Garrick would be safely out of the way in Ireland for at least a further week. He had buried his father less than seven days ago, after all. It was perfectly reasonable to assume that the house would remain empty.
Garrick was standing between her and the door. He looked enormous. In part that was because she was quite small. It was also because he was over six foot and he had a powerful physique—she could see that quite clearly since he was half naked. His chest was broad and bare, and his trousers were molded to muscular thighs.
At least he had his trousers on. Thank God.
Merryn felt quite faint with relief as she realized it. Light-headed, she closed her eyes for a second. After the scene with his mistress she had expected him to be completely naked …
“Are you quite well?” His voice cut through her mental image of what a naked Garrick Farne might look like and her gaze flew up to meet his own sardonic one.
“Perfectly, I thank you,” she said.
He had dark brown eyes under straight black brows, high cheekbones and a very hard line to his jaw. It was an austere face, Merryn thought, cold and remote, enough to make one shiver. The rest of him was russet and gold—smooth golden skin, tousled auburn hair, an intriguing scattering of more wiry dark red hair across his chest, and down toward the band at the top of his trousers. Merryn found she was staring. She had never seen a man in a state of undress before. It was fascinating. She felt the urge to touch so strongly that she was already reaching out a hand toward him before she realized it. She turned scarlet and hoped the dust on her face would conceal her embarrassment. In the same instant she remembered that she hated him.
A shudder racked her.
“Well? I await the explanation of your presence here.” Farne’s voice was as sharp as a lash and Merryn jumped. She really had to get out of here before matters got any worse. Because of course she could not tell him her purpose in searching his house. She could hardly say, “I discovered three weeks ago that you lied to everyone about my brother’s death. It was bad enough that you killed him … I hated you for that. But now I know you covered up the truth as well and I want justice. I want you to hang …”
No, indeed. It would not do to alert Garrick Farne to her purpose.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I did not realize that you required an explanation. You had not said.”
Garrick’s mouth curled up at the corner into a beguiling smile. Chill ripples ran across her skin. Revulsion, she thought. That is the effect he has on me now. Hatred. Disgust …
“My good woman, any right-thinking person would demand to know your business.” He paused. “Or should I call you a girl rather than a woman? You do not look very old—” Before she had chance to escape him, he had raised a hand and brushed the cobwebby dust from her cheeks. His touch was gentle. She shivered again, stepping back.
“I am five and twenty,” she said with dignity. Why am I offering this information? Why am I even speaking to him? “I am not a girl.”
“Woman, then.” That disquieting smile in his eyes deepened. So did the curl of heat in her stomach, the one that she wanted to attribute to hatred.
Concentrate. You have to get out of here.
“I suppose,” she said hastily, “you think it odd in me to be in your room.”
“I do.” He had not taken his eyes from her face once during their encounter. “I am fascinated to hear your explanation.”
“Well, I …” No useful lie sprang to mind. Merryn was not very good at dissembling. She never normally needed to bother. No one ever noticed her because she took pains to appear small, plain and insignificant. No one ever really saw her.
“I thought the house was empty,” she said. “I needed somewhere to sleep.”
It was partially true. She had been sleeping in Farne House for several nights while she made a leisurely search of the premises, hunting for something, anything, which might throw fresh light on the circumstances of her brother’s death. At first it had happened by accident. She had been exhausted and had dropped off to sleep in an armchair in the library, waking hours later both amazed and amused that she had not been discovered. She had known that a skeleton staff of servants lived in the house but they had not troubled her. No one had even realized that she was there. Farne House was huge and had been neglected for months, ever since the late Duke had been taken ill on his Irish estates back at the start of the year. And so the idea had come to her that she could stay at Farne House while she hunted for the evidence to incriminate Garrick Farne. In an odd way sleeping in Garrick’s house had made her feel closer to him. It had fed her hatred and hardened her determination to find out the truth.
Farne’s brows had snapped down at her words. “You broke in here because you are destitute?” He rapped out. “Homeless?”
“Yes.” Merryn thought that she might get away with the story. London was full of tumbled down and abandoned houses. It was common knowledge on the streets that if you had no roof over your head you would be able to find shelter under the cover of the Fleet Market or in the abandoned workhouse in Dyot Street. But there were those beggars who were more daring and who squatted in the houses of the nobility. Plenty of these mansions were barely used, closed when the family was out of London, neglected and empty.
It seemed, however, that Garrick was not convinced. He took a step closer to her. His hand was on her shoulder. She flinched, but he was only fingering the fine wool of her gown, testing it. Unfortunately the dust was insufficiently thick to conceal its quality.
“A good try.” He sounded grimly amused. “But this is not the attire of someone who is down on their luck.”
Devil take it, he was sharp.
“I stole it.” Now she had started with the deception it seemed she had a more vivid imagination than even she had thought. “From a washing line.”
He was nodding thoughtfully. “What a fine liar you are. Most imaginative.”
Damnation. He had not been taken in even for a second. But he had at least moved away from the door.
“Who are you?” he said. “Why are you here?”
“I cannot tell you that,” Merryn said, reverting to her true character after her brief and unsuccessful foray into deception.