Seducing the Viscount (17 page)

Each complaint and command had been met with the kind yet unyielding force of Ella's personality, and at last Mercy had herded them up to their chambers. She had endured another lecture from her father on upsetting his peaceful existence and her mother's petulant refusal to be seen at dinner in her threadbare gown before she was at last allowed to escape.

The ache in her head had been well earned, she decided with a sigh, and no doubt would linger so long as her parents remained.

Returning to the parlor, Mercy discovered Ella seated near the window, calmly sipping her tea. At Mercy's entrance she set aside the cup and regarded the younger woman with an expectant smile.

“Ah, Mercy, have you made your parents comfortable?”

Mercy grimaced as she crossed the room to lean against the window frame. The warmth of the slanting sun helped to ease a portion of her rigid tension.

“They are settled and already demanding that dinner be delivered to their rooms since they have nothing appropriate to wear.” She slanted Ella an apologetic gaze. “I fear they will prove to be decidedly demanding houseguests.”

Ella waved a dismissive hand. “So long as you are allowed to remain, they may be as demanding as they desire.”

Mercy rolled her eyes at the older woman's naïveté. She had never been exposed to Arthur and Lydia Simpson's grating personalities. There was a reason that the local villagers avoided the small cottage.

“You have no notion of how difficult my parents can be. You are bound to regret your generosity.”

“Nonsense.” Ella set aside her china cup, a stubborn expression settling on her face. “They can not be any more difficult than my cousin Miranda and her vast brood. Do you know that last Christmas she arrived without warning and then proceeded to invite nearly two dozen of her acquaintances to join her here? Poor Norry was at last driven to London to find a measure of peace at his club.”

Mercy shuddered at the mere thought of Lord Norrington encountering her father.

“His lordship might very well decide to bolt once he endures a few of my father's lectures. They are not only long-winded, but they tend to condemn most of mankind as evil, especially those with the poor taste to possess a bit of wealth.” Mercy shook her head in regret. “A pity, really. I always suspected that his sermons might have been better attended if they had been somewhat more . . . tolerant.”

“Do not worry about Norry, my dear.” Rising to her feet, Ella reached out to pat Mercy's hand. “He is very good at keeping others at a distance. Sometimes too good, I fear.”

Taking the older woman's hand in her own, Mercy gave the plump fingers a soft squeeze. She had never had anyone treat her with such an uncomplicated affection. There were no demands, no expectations. Just a simple pleasure in her companionship.

It was . . . refreshing.

“You are very kind to me, Ella,” she said with a sigh. “I do not know how to thank you.”

“For what?”

“If not for your timely arrival, I should be packing my bags to leave.”

“Ah.” A mysterious smile curved Ella's lips. “Actually, you must thank Ian for my fortunate return.”

Mercy dropped the woman's hand in surprise. “What?”

“Ian arrived at the vicarage to claim that your parents had descended upon Rosehill and that unless I acted swiftly, you were about to be carted off.”

Mercy's breath was suddenly elusive as she was struck by the image of Ian thundering toward the vicarage, wise enough to realize that only Ella could halt the tidal wave of doom.

Why had he gone to such an effort?

Was it only to keep his aunt from losing her companion? Or had he possessed more selfish reasons for desiring Mercy to remain near?

Somehow the answer seemed vitally important.

“Oh,” she breathed softly.

“He was very insistent that I not delay a moment,” Ella pressed, a hint of speculation in her light brown eyes.

“I am certain that Mr. Breckford was merely concerned that you would be distressed by my departure.”

“You are certain, eh?” Ella murmured.

“Of course.”

Ella studied her deliberately guarded expression before giving a vague shrug. “Whatever the cause, I must admit that I was pleased he came to me so swiftly.”

“As am I.” Strolling into the room, Ian met Mercy's startled gaze with a smoldering intensity. “It would have been a shocking injustice to have Miss Simpson stolen away when she is needed at Rosehill.”

 

 

Ian had intended to devote the next hour to searching his father's private parlor. He had witnessed the older man leaving in his carriage when he had returned from his mad gallop to the vicarage. It was the perfect opportunity to investigate his father's chambers.

Unfortunately, he had been unable to concentrate on the mysteries of the past when his future was being threatened by a pair of selfish country bumpkins who would hold their own daughter captive to ensure their comfort.

As he paced the room, he had told himself that the flare of panic that had driven him to the vicarage had been frustrated desire. Not only had Mercy's parents interrupted his determined seduction in the attic, but they threatened to steal her away before he could ease the ache that wracked him with a raw, merciless pain.

His thoughts, however, had not been centered upon his needs, but instead on the haunting memory of Mercy's stricken expression as he had spurred himself into action. In that precise moment he would have done whatever necessary to ease her distress.

At last he had been driven from his search to the small parlor. He had to be sure that Mercy remained at Rosehill. He had to catch the scent of sweet vanilla and hear that soft, erotic voice brush over his skin.

Not halting until he stood at Mercy's side, he allowed himself to drink in her delicate beauty.

“Mr. Breckford,” she breathed softly, her formality at utter odds with the awareness that flared through her spectacular eyes. “Ella informs me that I have you to thank for her return from the vicarage.”

Ian silently cursed his aunt's presence. If Mercy desired to thank him, then he preferred it to be somewhat more . . . tangible.

Like throwing her arms around him and offering those sweet lips for his consumption.

Instead he was forced to offer a small dip of his head, his hands curling into fists to keep from reaching out and tugging her close.

“I presumed that you might need reinforcements.” He briefly glanced about the room before returning his attention to Mercy. “Have your parents left so soon?”

“I fear not.” Her expression hardened. “They intend to remain until I am prepared to return to Surrey.”

He bit back a curse. Of course they had not left. From all that he had discovered, the elderly Simpsons were rather like barnacles that had attached themselves to their only child.

Nothing short of physical force would detach them.

“Ah,” he muttered, obviously revealing his annoyance, as Ella gave a loud click of her tongue.

“And we shall treat them as welcome guests, will we not, Ian?”

Ian summoned a ready smile even as he inwardly rebelled at the capitulation. Everything within him demanded that he battle anything that would endanger Mercy's happiness. Including her overly demanding parents.

A pity that she had made it clear she would never accept a position in his life that would allow him the authority to rid her of such pests.

At least not overtly.

“If you insist, my dear.”

“I do.” Ella's eyes widened. “Oh, I must warn Cook that we will be needing trays. Excuse me.”

The older woman scurried from the room, the stiff set of her spine warning that she was determined to be a proper hostess. Even if it killed her.

Alone with Mercy, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and tugged her face upward.

“You are pale.” His brows drew together. “Did your parents upset you?”

She bit her bottom lip as if embarrassed by his question. And perhaps she was. Her love for her parents would make it difficult for her to admit she might be less than pleased by their arrival.

“I will not deny that I was disturbed by their insistence that I return home,” she at last confessed. “I . . . I am not yet finished with my research. And of course I wish to assist Ella with the luncheon.”

It was more her slight hesitation than her actual words that softened Ian's grim expression.

Even without having been present, Ian knew it had been a difficult task for Mercy to stand up to her parents' demands. She had been an obedient daughter for too long to easily stand her ground. It had to be a compelling motivation that allowed her to break a lifetime of compliance.

“Of course.” He stroked the soft temptation of her cheek. “And there is no other reason you might wish to linger at Rosehill?”

Her eyes darkened in reaction to the rough edge of his voice. “Should there be?”

“I can think of one.”

Despite her innocence, there was the age-old call of the siren in her coy expression.

“And what is that?”

His fingers slid down the length of her jaw, his thumb brushing the edge of her mouth.

“We have unfinished business, sweet Mercy.”

Her breath was suddenly unsteady, her eyes wide with shimmering anticipation. Christ, she was so beautiful. So exquisitely enticing.

Not even a saint could be expected to resist such temptation.

And Ian was no damn saint.

“Is that why you went in search of Ella?” she demanded.

He hesitated. “In part.”

Mercy stilled, regarding him with a questioning gaze. “And the other part?”

His lips twisted with a rueful humor. “I am attempting not to consider my motives too deeply. They would no doubt send me fleeing back to London.”

“Ian?”

His chest tightened with a dangerous emotion. Something perilously close to longing.

“Never mind.” He dropped his hand as if he had been singed, and in truth, it felt as if he had. He might not fully understand the sensations that blasted through him whenever this woman was near, but he knew they were the sort of thing a wise man avoided. Taking a step back, he cleared the odd lump that was stuck in his throat. “Will your parents prove to be a bother during their stay?”

She grimaced, readily allowing herself to be distracted.

“That is a certainty. My parents would not know how to exist unless they were being a bother to someone. I can only shudder at what your father will think of them.”

Ian gave a short burst of laughter. “My father is very good at ignoring whatever displeases him. Trust me, I have ample evidence.”

The edge in his voice was unmistakable, and Mercy slowly narrowed her gaze.

“Do you know, Ian, you have never fully explained your reasons for visiting Rosehill.”

“And you, my wood sprite, never confessed why you truly desire to linger at Rosehill. I would say that we are even,” he countered, flicking a finger over her cheek before forcing his feet toward the door. He had assured himself that Mercy was still safely settled at Rosehill. It was time to return his attention to searching his father's chambers before it was too late. “Until dinner, sweet Mercy.”

Although Ian's secretive search of his father's chambers managed to go undetected, his efforts had turned up nothing.

Which, in itself, seemed odd.

Who the devil did not have a few secrets tucked away?

Illicit love letters, smuggled brandy, bills from the local brothel . . .

He had not discovered so much as a hidden lock of hair.

It seemed more than a bit peculiar, but then he could not be certain that it was not his determination to discover some clue, no matter how vague, that made him leap to the conclusion there was something suspicious in the absolute lack of sinful evidence.

With a sigh, he returned to his chambers and changed for dinner. He had never assumed it would be easy to discover the truth of his father's secret sin. And he did have both Raoul and Reaver hunting down information.

For the moment he was at a stalemate.

Not nearly as disappointed in the realization he was more or less stuck at Rosehill as he should be, Ian entered the library in search of Mercy. Even knowing being close to the bewitching minx would set his senses aflame and harden him to the point of pain, he could not resist the temptation to be in her company. She was rather like drinking too much champagne. A dizzying pleasure followed by hours of throbbing discomfort.

Ian adored champagne.

Entering the library, Ian paused at the door, his gaze sweeping over the elegant furnishings. He growled in frustration when he realized Mercy was not there. Instead, he found his father standing near the window with a pensive expression upon his countenance.

Norrington turned at his entrance, easily moving to pour Ian a shot of whiskey from the crystal decanter.

“Ian,” he murmured, pressing the glass into his hand.

Ian sipped the amber spirit, relishing the smooth heat that slid down his throat.

“Good evening, Father.”

Stepping back, Norrington linked his hands behind his back and regarded Ian with a wry expression.

“I have discovered we are to have houseguests.”

“Unfortunately.” Ian did not disguise his flare of annoyance. “Miss Simpson's parents have arrived and refuse to be dismissed. At least not without their daughter in tow.”

Norrington lifted his brows in curiosity. “And this disturbs you?”

“It disturbs Ella, so, yes, it disturbs me,” Ian smoothly countered. “My aunt takes great comfort in Miss Simpson's presence.”

The viscount studied him a long moment, then, seemingly satisfied, shrugged. “Yes, she does. Of course, it would be difficult for anyone not to be pleased with her companionship. She is surprisingly peaceful for a young lady.”

“Peaceful?” Ian was struck by his father's description. It was true that Mercy stirred a violent mixture of emotions within him, but underneath them all there was a strange sense of ease in her company. As if she could soothe the restless discontent that had plagued him for most of his life.

“Yes, peaceful,” his father firmly retorted. “Unlike most females, she is not forever chattering or insisting that she be indulged in one social event or another. She seems quite content to spend her time in here with her studies or with your aunt planning her luncheon. Quite rare, if you ask me.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Simpson is definitely a rare woman.”

Norrington frowned, his suspicions once again aroused by Ian's soft agreement.

“Ian . . .”

Ian met Norrington's frown with a challenging gaze. “Yes, Father?”

The older man briefly struggled to choke back his words of warning. It was obvious he realized that chiding his bastard son from seducing a young lady was the height of hypocrisy, yet at the same time he wished to protect Mercy.

At last he heaved a resigned sigh. “I suppose you will do what you wish. You are rather too old to be taking advice.”

“To be honest, I have never been good at taking advice, much to Dunnington's annoyance. A pity, really. My life should no doubt have been a good deal easier if I had heeded his words of warning.”

Expecting his father to swiftly agree, Ian was startled when the older gentleman merely shrugged as he moved toward the heavy walnut desk.

“We all must discover our own mistakes.” Perching on the edge of the desk, Norrington folded his arms over his chest. “Have you considered your future, Ian?”

Ian drained his whiskey as he warily regarded the man across the room. What the devil was this? A father and son chat?

Had hell frozen over?

“My future?”

“Do you have plans?”

“You must be jesting.” Ian laughed at the mere notion. Unlike his friend Fredrick, he had no use for lists and schedules and daily routines. “I rarely plan from one minute to the next, let alone for some elusive future that I may or may not live to see.”

“Then you should,” his father retorted, his voice crisp but without the usual edge of censure. “Despite your obvious success at the tables, you will eventually weary of such an unpredictable occupation.” He held up a slender hand as Ian parted his lips. “I know it is difficult to accept when you are young, but we all must age, and I can assure you that old men prefer the comfort of hearth and home to smoky gambling hells.”

Actually, it was not difficult at all. Ian's return to Surrey had not been entirely inspired by his desire to discover his father's past. More than a small part of his flight from London had been his increasing boredom with his life.

Still, he was not yet prepared to admit, even to himself, that his life had lost any true enjoyment.

Such thoughts were dangerous.

With measured steps, he crossed to pour himself another whiskey.

“Surely you cannot expect me to become a respectable barrister or man of business at this late stage?” he demanded as he turned to meet his father's steady gaze. “Not only would I rather toss myself into the Thames, but there is not a person in all of London who would patronize my business.” He tossed down his drink. “Christ, I would have them hauled away as a loon if they did. Who would ever trust a hardened gamester?”

Undisturbed by Ian's mocking words, Norrington reached to pull a stack of papers off his desk.

“There are other careers that you could consider.”

Ian's laughter echoed through the vast room. “Ah, yes, the church would no doubt be eager to have me reform my evil ways, or perhaps I could buy a pretty uniform and march around Brighton with the other soldiers.”

“I was actually thinking of something rather more suited to your particular skills.”

His father thought he possessed skills? Well, hell. Who knew?

“And what skills would those be?”

“Your ability to calculate odds and confront risk with a level head.” The older man shrugged. “There is also a measure of luck involved.”

Ian narrowed his gaze, not entirely trusting his father's unexpected interest in his life.

“You do not intend for me to steal the Crown Jewels, do you?”

“The thought had not entered my mind, no,” Norrington retorted dryly.

“I can imagine no professions other than those in the criminal world that would need such skills.”

“There is one.” His father held out the stack of papers, waiting with a stoic patience for Ian to grudgingly cross the floor to take them from him.

“What are these?”

“Information on my various investments.”

Ian impatiently shifted through the various papers. “A shipment of tobacco from the Americas . . . a brick factory in Liverpool . . . a vineyard in France.” He lifted his head to stab his father with an impatient frown. “I do not understand.”

“It is quite simple. Although the bulk of my fortune comes from the land rents and timber, I have discovered that there is a great deal of money to be made if a gentleman is willing to gamble upon certain investments.”

Against his will, Ian's attention was firmly captured. “Gamble?”

Norrington was wise enough to reveal nothing more than a cool acceptance of Ian's interest.

“There is always the risk of failure or even outright deception.” His thin countenance hardened. “There is no lack of unscrupulous individuals who are willing to lighten the pockets of the gullible or greedy. It takes an enormous amount of research to ensure that a project is legitimate, not to mention worthy of my funds. I must calculate the rewards of my investment against the risk and judge if it will turn more of a profit than any number of other ventures I am offered. In other words, I will bet upon what I believe to be my trump card.”

Ian could not deny a flare of excitement. He had, of course, known that many gentlemen discretely dabbled in various investments. Hell, Fredrick had made a tidy fortune in his numerous inventions and patents.

Until this moment, however, it had always seemed a dull affair, fit more for accountants than gamblers.

Now he realized that there was something rather . . . enticing at the thought of placing his money upon a speculation that might end in failure or make him rich beyond all imagining.

“I'll be damned,” he breathed.

His father pointed toward the papers. “As you can see, I have only a handful of investments at the moment. It is a time-consuming business that I can only indulge in when my responsibilities to my estates allow me.” A faint smile curved his lips. “And to be perfectly honest, I do not possess the proper temperament to be truly successful.”

It took less than a heartbeat for Ian to calculate the amount his father had invested and the current worth of the ventures. Such swift calculations, after all, were how he made his living.

“These appear successful enough.”

Norrington shrugged. “They reap only small rewards because they are secure projects that have only a minimal amount of risk involved. To truly make a fortune, one must possess the nerve to lose it all. A gentleman who has the heart of a gambler and the soul of a mathematician.” His dark gaze was pointed. “A gentleman like you, Ian.”

Ian's odd sense of anticipation was abruptly shattered by the ugly reminder.

“A gentleman like me?” He tossed the papers back onto the polished desk. “You seem to forget, Father, I am no gentleman. I am a bastard.”

Norrington regarded him with a cool, relentless expression. “I have not forgotten.”

“Then you should realize that none of your prancing, blue-blooded friends would be overly anxious to have me as an investor.”

“The world is changing, Ian, and those who are wise understand that money, not bloodlines, is the currency of the future.” There was a strangely awkward pause before his father cleared his throat. “Besides, I had thought we might consider a . . . partnership.”

Ian regarded his father as if he had never seen him before. And indeed that was precisely how he felt.

The gentleman conversing with him as if they were two equals most certainly could not be the same man who had treated him with barely concealed contempt for the past twenty-nine years.

Folding his arms over his chest, Ian studied Norrington with unguarded suspicion.

“Perhaps I have been mistaken all these years, Father, but I possessed the distinct impression that you would not trust me to drop a quid in the offering box.”

An indefinable emotion rippled over the nobleman's handsome countenance. “I cannot deny that I have allowed my distaste for your . . .”

Ian's lips twisted at his father's delicate struggle for the appropriate word.

“Gambling? Debauchery?” he helpfully supplied. “Straight path to hell?”

Typically, the man refused to rise to Ian's bait. “For your profligate lifestyle to influence my decisions regarding your support,” he continued smoothly. “I always presumed that any allowance I might offer would be tossed away at the tables and whorehouses.”

Ian shrugged. “A very wise presumption. That is precisely what I should do with it.”

“No, Ian, I am discovering that your gambling is not the sickness that infects so many gentlemen of London.” The older man offered a small smile. “It is merely a means to pass your days, is it not?”

“It also allows me to pay my rent. At least on occasion.”

Norrington grimaced at Ian's pointed reminder. Unlike a legitimate son who could have expected a life of luxury as heir to the title, Ian had been forced to make his own way in the world.

“Over the years I told myself that you would eventually sow your wild oats and that once you were respectably settled in a career, I would see to a settlement that would ensure your future.”

Ian snorted. “You mean once I became the dutiful son you always desired?”

“I realize now that I was no better than my father, Ian,” his father said, genuine regret in his voice. “I wanted you to live the life that I thought best for you, not the one you preferred.”

Ian tensed, his breath lodging in his lungs. Christ, what the devil was happening? His father was supposed to be the aloof, frigid stranger who had made him miserable as a child. A man with dark secrets that Ian was determined to uncover.

He was not supposed to become some repentant man who offered a future to Ian filled with possibilities.

Aware that Norrington was waiting for his reply, Ian was forced to clear his tight throat.

“I never expected anything from you, Father.”

“But you had every right to. I claimed you as my son and then abandoned you when you had most need of me. For that I am sorry.”

Spinning on his heel, Ian struggled against the painful emotions that flared through him.

He did not know how to react. How to bloody well feel.

He was quite simply stunned.

“If you are offering me money . . .”

“Actually, I am offering both of us the opportunity to make a great sum of money,” Norrington overrode his stiff refusal. “If you will agree to my partnership.”

For a long moment Ian regarded the tips to his boots, his mind as much in turmoil as his emotions. The cool logic of his brain warned him to tell his father to go to hell and be done with it. He had been disappointed too many times to easily trust. The less logical part of his brain, however, could not completely deny a pathetic need to prove he could be every bit as worthy of his father's respect as a legitimate son.