Seducing the Viscount (21 page)

The question was what he did now.

Although Mercy had been eager and willing to share her delightful body, she had never indicated she desired more than a brief affair. Quite the contrary. She had been one of the few females who had asked nothing of him.

There had been no pleas for his undivided attention, no demands for pretty baubles, no subtle hints of a more lasting connection.

Dammit. He was supposed to be an expert when it came to women, so why the hell did he suddenly feel like a bumbling novice?

Stirring at his side, Mercy heaved a faint sigh. “As much as I wish to remain here, I suppose we should return to the house.”

His arms instinctively tightened, his lips nuzzling the soft skin of her temple.

“Not yet.”

“Ian?”

“Mmm?”

“Is something the matter?”

“I just want to hold you in my arms.”

Her fingers lightly brushed over his chest. “This is nice.”

He shuddered beneath her touch, his body instantly hardening.

“A great deal more than nice. You fit perfectly against me,” he husked. “As if you were made to be here.”

“A good thing, considering this bench is rather narrow.” Tilting back her head, Mercy offered a teasing smile. “I do not believe your ancestors intended it to be used for such a purpose.”

Ian's heart came to a complete, perfect halt at the sight of her beautiful eyes dancing with amusement. Dear God, he would walk through the pits of hell for that smile.

“I would not be so certain.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Unlike my father, most of my ancestors were a lusty bunch. I should not be at all surprised to discover this gazebo had been built for the precise purpose of providing privacy for romantic trysts.”

“Have you often used it for . . . trysts?”

Her tone was casual, but Ian felt a fierce flare of satisfaction. Mercy did not like the thought of him being with another woman.

“I cannot deny my past. Nor will I pretend that I did not find pleasure in the women I have known. They were each lovely and fascinating in their own way.”

She stiffened at his blunt honesty. “I would rather not hear of your endless conquests, Ian.”

“Allow me to finish, my love.” Shifting onto his elbow, Ian caught and held her gaze. “As much as I enjoyed the brief liaisons, they never meant more than a delightful means to devote a few hours. And as much as I was attracted to my lovers, they did not truly stir my emotions. But you . . .”

Mercy's eyes widened, her hands lifting to press her fingers against his lips.

“No, Ian. Do not.”

With a gentle insistence, Ian grasped her wrists and pulled her fingers from his mouth.

“I must. I do not know how or why, but you have become a necessary part of my life, Mercy. I cannot allow you to slip away.”

Battling her way from his arms, Mercy stumbled off the bench and began tugging on her rumpled clothes.

“We have already discussed this, Ian. I will not be your mistress.”

“Fine. Then be my wife.”

A stunned silence filled the gazebo. For a long moment, Mercy stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.

And perhaps he had, Ian wryly acknowledged. Unfortunately, he did not give a tinker's damn at the moment.

At last Mercy sucked in a sharp breath and tugged her gown over her loosely knotted corset.

“That is not amusing.”

Rising to his feet, Ian crossed to stand directly in front of her, gently knocking aside her trembling fingers to tie the ribbons on her bodice.

“It was not intended to be.”

“You . . . you want to marry me?”

“That is the usual means of acquiring a wife.”

She gave a slow shake of her head. “This is madness.”

“Perhaps, but it is the most delightful sort of madness,” he murmured, lowering his head to steal a gentle kiss.

Her hands fluttered against his chest before she was abruptly pushing him away, her eyes wide with a bewildered fear that tugged at his heart.

“Why?”

“I have just told you. I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”

“No, I mean why me?”

His lips twisted. That was a question more suited to poets and philosophers, not hardened rakes.

“I could tell you that it is your unwavering loyalty or your generous heart or your inquisitive mind, but the truth of the matter is that I have no reasonable explanation for my belief you are the woman destined to be at my side.” He brushed a finger down her pale cheek. “I only know that I have never been so certain of anything in my entire life.”

“Ian.”

Stepping closer, he grasped her shoulders in a tight grip. “Can you tell me that you do not feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The power of the attraction that burns between us.” Ian frowned, his lips thinning with a hint of frustration. “For God's sake, the very air nearly catches fire when we are in the same room.”

“Of course I am attracted to you. You are . . .”

“What?”

She licked her lips. “A very desirable gentleman, as you very well know.”

Ian's frustration became outright fury at her hesitant words. The devil take the woman. How dare she pretend she felt nothing for him? Even an untried schoolboy could have sensed her emotions in every soft caress, in every sweet response to his touch.

“And that is all?” he growled.

The pulse at the base of her throat beat at a frantic pace, revealing she was not nearly as composed as she would have him believe.

“There was never meant to be anything more. This was just supposed to be a harmless affair.”

“A harmless affair.”

Mercy flinched at his flat tone, clearly sensing the danger that prickled in the air.

“I only wanted to experience the passion that others take for granted,” she said, her tone softly pleading. “I wanted to feel like a woman, not an aging spinster, if only for a little while.”

“I see.” His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “So I was just a convenient body to satisfy your curiosity.”

“I—”

“Tell me, Mercy, would any man willing to climb between your legs have done?”

With a gasp, she wrenched from his biting hold, stepping back to regard him with a wounded expression.

“That is a horrid thing to say.”

“Then do not try and tarnish what occurred between us,” he snapped, pausing to gather his raw emotions. Damn. He had not intended to lose his temper. It was hardly the best means of convincing a jittering young maiden he was a gentleman she could trust with her heart and soul. Still, he would not tolerate having the exquisite bond between them dismissed as mere lust. “You would never have given your innocence to me if you did not possess feelings for me.”

The emotions she tried so desperately to hide briefly flickered in the dark beauty of her eyes. Then, with an obvious effort, she was giving a sharp shake of her head.

“Do you presume that every woman who shares your bed must be in love with you?”

This time Ian refused to be provoked. “You are not other women, Miss Mercy Simpson,” he said with gentle insistence. “You might have convinced yourself that it was no more than desire that led you into my arms, but your heart has always recognized the truth.”

“Ian—”

The sound of a horse clattering into the nearby stable yard abruptly intruded into the gazebo, making them both stiffen in surprise.

Pressing a warning finger to her lips, Ian slipped toward the nearby window and peered into the darkness. From his vantage he could easily view the grooms scurrying from the stables and the tall, lean form of the gentleman who vaulted from the large stallion, the torchlight gleaming off the white gold curls peeking beneath his tall, beaver hat.

“What the devil is he doing here?”

Mercy moved to stand at his side, her vanilla scent filling his senses with that wondrous peace.

“Who is it?”

“Charlebois.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

Ian's lips twisted. “Not in this moment.” Giving a reluctant shake of his head, Ian turned to meet her troubled gaze. As much as he longed to remain and force Mercy to admit that they were destined to be together, he knew better than most that the peace of Rosehill was about to be shattered. Raoul Charlebois' presence created a greater havoc than most royalty. There was not a person in all of England who did not recognize the actor and desire to have the privilege of claiming they had caught a glimpse of his famous beauty. “Forgive me, Mercy, but Charlebois is bound to be asking for me. You must return to the house before you are missed.”

“Of course.”

Clearly relieved by the timely interruption, Mercy turned and hastily made her way toward the door, her hands fumbling as she reached for the latch.

“Mercy.”

She paused, but refused to turn and face him.

“What?”

“This is no more than a temporary reprieve,” he warned, his tone grim with determination. “We will finish this discussion, and in the end, you will be my wife.”

Later Mercy would have no memory of her flight from the gazebo to her private chambers. Thank heaven some inner sense of self-possession urged her to choose the back entrance to slip through silent passages rather than dashing headlong into the path of Ella, or worse, her parents.

Once in her bedchamber, she used the familiar task of changing into her night rail and brushing her hair into a simple braid to try and sort out her stunned thoughts.

Not that it did a great deal of good, she wryly acknowledged, pacing the beautiful Persian carpet with a restless step.

Marriage.

To Ian Breckford.

It was . . .

She choked back a laugh as she realized she had no words to describe the disbelief that held her captive. She would have expected the earth to open up and swallow her before she would ever have expected the renowned Casanova to propose.

Beneath her astonishment, however, there was another emotion.

A dangerous, bittersweet longing that refused to be dismissed, even after she told herself that Ian would come to his senses and realize that the very last thing he desired was a drab spinster as his wife.

She was still in the midst of her pacing when the door to her chamber was thrust open. Mercy's heart fluttered with renegade excitement before plunging in resignation as her mother stepped over the threshold.

Attired in a brocade robe that seemed far too heavy for her fragile frame, the older woman regarded her daughter with a fretful expression that always boded ill. In her own way, Lydia Simpson could be as ruthless as her husband.

“Mercy, am I intruding?”

Mercy bit back her instinctive words. Her mother's arrival
was
an intrusion. She had too much upon her mind to attend to the lecture that was no doubt in the offing.

Unfortunately, her sense of duty was too deeply ingrained to be easily dismissed. As much as she might long to demand a few moments of blessed peace, she could not force the words past her lips.

“I thought you would be in bed,” she instead murmured.

The older woman sniffed, her expression wounded. “You could not possibly expect me to sleep after being attacked by that horrid man. I am not at all certain I shall ever be capable of closing my eyes so long as we are beneath this roof. Who knows what such a dangerous creature is capable of?”

Mercy's already raw emotions flared at the whining edge in her mother's voice.

“Oh, for goodness' sakes, you cannot possibly suppose that Ian . . . Mr. Breckford would actually harm you.”

“Did you not see how angry he was?”

“That is only because he desires to protect me.”

“Protect you from your own parents?” There was another sniff. “Absurd.”

Mercy's heart twisted with an indefinable emotion. Ian's protective instincts did not seem absurd. They seemed . . . strangely wonderful.

No one had ever thought she needed to be defended.

“He believes that you and Father take advantage of my willingness to be of service to you,” she said softly.

“I see.”

Mercy was instantly wary at her mother's narrowed gaze. There was something calculating in her expression.

“If that is all—”

“You know, your father warned that allowing you to travel to this place would ruin your sweet nature, but I never dreamed that you would devote yourself to complaining of your family to complete strangers,” her mother overrode the polite dismissal.

Mercy swallowed a sigh. “That is not true, Mother. I would never complain of you to anyone, certainly not Mr. Breckford.”

“Then why did he presume to chastise us as if we are children?”

“He has become a friend.”

“More than a friend, I think.” Lydia's lips thinned, her expression hard with disapproval. “I am not blind, Mercy. I have seen how Mr. Breckford stares at you. He possesses dishonorable intentions toward you, and he knows that so long as you are under the care of your parents he cannot have his evil way with you. He is attempting to lure you away from those who truly care for you, my dear. Do not be fooled by his deceit.”

Mercy choked back a near-hysterical laugh. What would her mother say if she knew that poor Ian was the victim and Mercy had been the one to have her evil way? Not that it had felt evil. In truth, it had been the most wondrous experience of her life.

Realizing that her mother was studying the sudden color that flooded her cheeks, Mercy cleared the lump from her throat.

“You are mistaken, Mother. Mr. Breckford's intentions are not dishonorable in the least. Quite the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“He asked me to marry him.”

“Marry?” Lydia abruptly sank onto the edge of a silk striped chair. “I do not believe it.”

“You can be no more astonished than I.”

“But this must be some sort of trick.” Lydia slowly shook her head. “I have heard of those gentlemen who would pretend to wed an innocent maid only to steal her virtue.”

Mercy stiffened. “Nonsense.”

“Really, Mercy, you are being a fool.” Lydia folded her hands in her lap, her expression one of profound pity. “Mr. Breckford might be a bastard, but he is publicly claimed by the Viscount Norrington as his son and welcomed among the highest of society. Why would he choose a penniless daughter of a vicar as his wife?”

Mercy forced herself to count to ten, uncertain if she should be more insulted by the implication that such a gentleman could possibly desire her as a wife, or the assumption that Ian was such a cad he would fake a wedding to steal a woman's virtue.

“Did you ever consider the notion that he might love me, Mother?”

The mere notion was dismissed with a wave of Lydia's hand. “Mark my words, my dear, this is some devious trap.”

“That is enough.” Mercy planted her hands on her hips. “Ian would never stoop to such treachery. He would never
need
to stoop to treachery. He has only to walk into a room for every woman to be tossing themselves at his feet. Besides, Ella would never allow him to deceive me in such a fashion.”

Grudgingly accepting that Mercy was not to be convinced that Ian was luring her to her doom, Lydia licked her lips.

“Are you . . .”

“What?”

“Are you considering his proposal?”

Mercy abruptly turned to pace toward the bay window. When Ian had blurted out his astonishing desire to have her as his wife, she had been too stunned to think clearly. In truth, she had been terrified that he would realize just what he had said and instantly regret his impulsive proposal.

After all, her mother had not been entirely wrong. Mercy was a country mouse with no claim to wealth or connections. Ian could do a great deal better in choosing a wife.

There was a part of her, however, that longed to believe that he was sincere. To believe he truly loved her.

“I am not entirely certain,” she at last whispered.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.” The word came without hesitation. She turned to face her mother. “Yes, I love him.”

With a rustle of brocade, Lydia was on her feet, her eyes stricken.

“Oh, my dear, I have tried so hard to protect you from this.”

“Protect me? From what?”

“Disappointment.”

“I do not understand.”

Moving forward, Lydia gripped Mercy's hand. “My dear, I know that you are not entirely satisfied with our quiet life, which is why I convinced your father to allow you to visit Rosehill. But I assure you that whatever your discontent, it would be nothing compared to placing your future in the hands of a gentleman who will have the authority to treat you in any manner he desires.”

There was no mistaking the harsh sincerity in her mother's voice. Lydia Simpson truly believed that Mercy was in some mysterious danger.

“I do not believe for a moment that Ian would ever be cruel to me. He would never harm any woman.”

Lydia shuddered. “A man need not beat you to be cruel. In truth, there are times when a blow would be preferable to . . .”

“Mother?”

Dropping Mercy's hand, Lydia took a step back. “You are not blind, Mercy. You comprehend that marriage is not what the poets describe. Indeed, I deeply regret not listening to my own mother, who warned me against accepting your father's proposal.”

Mercy's stomach twisted with sick dread. “It could not always have been an unhappy union. You must have loved one another in the beginning.”

“Oh, I had my head filled with a lot of foolish romance, but it did not take long for me to realize my mistake.” Lydia moved to the door, halting to cast Mercy a warning glance. “Just as you will eventually realize that this man will only bring you heartbreak and disappointment. I only hope you do so before it is too late.”

Having delivered her poisonous warning, Lydia swept from the room, leaving behind a troubled Mercy. Although not troubled in the way that Lydia had desired.

Mercy had, of course, known her parents' marriage was not a happy one. They hardly made a secret of the fact. Actually, they did their best to ensure that everyone around them shared in that misery.

But in the moment her mother had been warning her against the fatal mistake of marriage, Mercy had been struck by a revelation.

She at last understood the reason she had remained trapped in her parents' small cottage. It was not just her sense of duty. Or even the obligation as an only child.

Those were certainly handy excuses to hide from the world, but beneath her pretense of self-sacrifice, she was nothing more than a shameful coward.

A part of her, a deep, hidden part of her, had been terrified of marriage. She had assumed that every marriage ended in spiteful bitterness. Why would she not? Living such an isolated life meant that she had only her parents' marriage to judge the institution. Perhaps it was not so surprising she would have unconsciously taken steps to ensure she was never in the position to endure such disappointment.

It was only with Ian that she had lowered her guard, and then merely because she had been certain that he was as opposed to marriage as she was.

Mercy pressed her fingers to her lips as a hysterical urge to laugh threatened. How vastly ironic that a virgin searching for a fleeting affair should encounter the one rake in all of England who was prepared to offer her marriage.

 

 

Cutting through the garden, Ian managed to join Raoul Charlebois as he entered Rosehill. Unfortunately, it was not in time to prevent the rumors of the famous actor's arrival to spread like wildfire through the household, and as Ian joined his friend in the marble foyer, there were near half a dozen maids peering over the banister.

A wry smile curved his lips. Despite his blistering need to return to Mercy and his growing discomfort at the thought of spying upon his own father, Ian could not help but appreciate the collective sigh as Raoul shed his coat to reveal his tightly tailored attire and tossed aside his tall beaver hat to better display the white gold hair and cobalt eyes.

Waving away the approaching butler, Ian halted directly before his friend.

“This is an unexpected surprise, Raoul.”

“Ah, Ian.” A pale brow arched as Raoul caught sight of Ian's tousled appearance. A man could not tumble his future wife in the gazebo without a few rumples and creases. “Did I disturb you from your bed?”

“Rosehill does tend to keep country hours.”

“Hmmm. So I see.”

“I am relieved that one of us does,” Ian said dryly, his gaze flicking toward the wild-eyed maids. “Perhaps we should speak in my chambers. I should hate for the family treasures to be destroyed in the impending riot.”

With a shrug, Raoul fell into step beside Ian as he climbed the staircase. “I hardly ever cause a riot these days, old friend.”

“Perhaps you should inform my father's maids,” Ian muttered, wincing at the shrill giggles that followed in their wake. “Good God.”

Indifferent as always to feminine admiration, Raoul allowed his steps to slow as Ian led him down the mistral's gallery, his gaze lingering on the vaulted ceiling painted with playful cupids darting among the clouds and the delicate stained-glass windows that lined the long corridor.

“Exquisite.” Raoul paused at a gilt table that held a rare porcelain vase. “Your father is a fortunate man.”

Ian grimaced. “Actually, my father is a very lonely man. It is something that I never realized until now.”

Raoul sliced a questioning gaze in his direction. “Then your stay here at Rosehill has not been the trial that you dreaded?”

“Not entirely, no.” Ian continued down the corridor, not yet prepared to reveal his father's business proposition.

“Are you having second thoughts, Ian?” Raoul fell into step beside him. “It is not too late to put the past behind you.”

A chill inched down Ian's spine. “Did you manage to discover the source of the playbill?”

“Yes.”

“I am beginning to suspect that you discovered more than just a theatre.”

“As I said, Ian, it is not too late. We can have a drink, you can tell me of your latest conquest, and I will return to London.”

The chill hit his stomach. There was something in Raoul's rough voice that warned he was not going to like what he had discovered.

Perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing to leave well enough alone. For the moment, he and his father shared a temporary truce that he would never have dreamed possible. And then there was Mercy. Did he really want to muck through the past when the future beckoned with such amazing promise?

“I will not deny it is a tempting notion.”

“Then let it be. You will be happier for it.”

Halting at the door to his chambers, Ian heaved a sigh. When in his damnable life had he ever been capable of leaving well enough alone?

“And do you intend to let it be, my friend?” he demanded. “Will you allow the truth to remain buried in the past?”