Seducing the Viscount (23 page)

That did not, however, excuse her endless lies.

How many years had she stood silent and witnessed his pathetic, desperate attempts to earn the respect of the man he thought was his father? How often had she traveled to London to visit him with some blithe excuse of why the viscount could not bother to spend a damned hour with him?

“Christ, I have to get out of here,” he muttered, heading for the door.

Ella hurried in his wake. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Ian . . .” Waiting until Ian grudgingly turned, Ella held out a pleading hand. “Please do not do anything foolish.”

“If your concern is for whether or not I intend to reveal your secrets, you need not worry. I have no more desire for the nasty scandal than you.”

Ella swallowed a soft sob, her expression unbearably sad. “That is not it at all. I am concerned for you. I wish you would not leave while you are so upset. If you would just allow me to explain. . . .”

“I think there have been enough explanations.” Ian's voice sliced through the beseeching words. “I was the sacrifice needed to wash away your sins. What else is there to say?”

Astonishingly, Norrington moved to place a tender arm around his sister's shoulders. “Let him go, Ella. He is not yet willing to discuss this in a reasonable manner.”

Ian narrowed his gaze. “I do have one last question.”

The viscount met his condemning gaze with a tilt of his chin. “What is that?”

“How did Dunnington discover your secret?”

“I should have thought that obvious.”

“Indulge me.”

A wry smile curved the older man's lips. “He was once a member of the Adonis Club.”

Despite the late hour, Mercy made no effort to climb beneath the sheets that had already been turned down for the night.

All in all, it had been an eventful day. Eventful enough that the mere thought of sleep was absurd. Instead, she returned to the restless pacing that her mother had interrupted.

Not that her circular path from the window to the cherry-wood armoire assisted in clearing her tangled thoughts, she wryly acknowledged.

She was no closer to comprehending Ian's stunning proposal. Whether it was a bit of temporary madness or a genuine desire to spend the rest of his life with her.

Or even her own feelings.

Was she prepared to take the leap of faith to become Ian's wife? Could she overcome her fear of binding herself irrevocably to another? Or would she be forever condemned to hide from the promise of love?

She was still wrestling with her uncooperative thoughts when there was a sharp rap on the door.

With a jerk at the unexpected interruption, Mercy moved to discover Ian standing in the hallway. Her eyes narrowed. Not in shock at his brash intrusion—Ian Breckford had no concern for those pesky rules that prevented most gentlemen from intruding into a proper maiden's bedchamber—but instead at the sight of his disheveled appearance.

Good Lord, his hair stood on end, his cravat was untied and hanging down his unbuttoned jacket, and even in the fading firelight she could determine that he was shockingly pale. He looked like a man who had just walked through a battlefield and was still not certain if he had made it safely to the other side.

“Ian.”

He regarded her with haunted eyes that made her heart stutter to a halt.

“Forgive me. I know it is late.”

“That does not matter.” Grasping his arm, she pulled him into the room and shut the door. In this moment she did not give a fig for propriety. “What is wrong?”

Leaning against the polished panels of the door, Ian twisted his lips in a wry smile.

“Am I so easy to read?”

“In this moment, yes. Tell me what has happened.”

There was a long pause, as if Ian were lost in his dark broodings. Then he gave a sharp shake of his head.

“What has happened, my sweet Mercy, is that I have just discovered my entire life is a lie.”

Mercy had braced herself to discover that Ian's friend had brought some tragic news from London. Perhaps the injury of a friend, or the theft of his belongings. Now she struggled to make sense of his ominous announcement.

“What do you mean?”

His bark of laughter was edged with raw, aching pain.

“My father at last confessed that he is not my father at all.”

“I . . . do not understand.”

“Lord Norrington might have claimed me as his son, but it was Ella who gave birth to me.”

“Oh.” Blank astonishment momentarily seized Mercy, making it impossible to think clearly. Then, ever so slowly, a dozen small hints and clues coalesced into a blinding flash of awareness. “Oh.”

Ian stiffened as he watched the various emotions flit over her face.

“You do not seem nearly as astonished as you should be.”

“Actually, it explains a great deal.”

Anger flashed in the whiskey eyes. “You suspected?”

“No, no. Of course not.” She reached out to touch his arm. “I have only wondered why Ella was so terribly protective of you. And why she treasured each tiny bit gossip that she could find of you in the paper. It always seemed somewhat excessive for a mere aunt. Now it all makes sense.”

Ian pushed from the wall, stalking to glare into the smoldering embers of the fire.

“I am happy it makes sense to one of us.”

Mercy studied his tense body and the stark lines of his profile. His fury was palpable, filling the air with a prickling heat, but it was the deep, biting betrayal in his eyes that squeezed her heart and lodged her breath in her throat.

No matter how he might stomp and storm about, he was fiercely wounded by Ella's lies.

Mercy stepped forward, seized by the need to ease his pain, to somehow soften the shocking blow he had suffered. As ridiculous as it might be, she wanted her arrogant, swaggering, insufferable rake returned.

“I know this must be difficult, but you have to know that Ella loves you beyond measure,” she said softly. “There is nothing she would not sacrifice for you.”

His hands gripped the mantel until Mercy feared the marble might crumble to dust.

“Except the truth,” he rasped.

“I am certain she must have had her reasons.”

“It does not matter.” Without warning, he glanced over his shoulder to pin her with a fierce gaze. “I am leaving Rosehill.”

“Leaving?” Mercy's heart came to a suffocating halt. “When?”

“Now.”

She pressed her hand to her chest, which had become unbearably tight.

“Where are you going?”

“That depends upon you.”

Startled out of the dark tide of disappointment, Mercy blinked in confusion.

“Me?”

Ian turned, folding his arms over his chest as he regarded her with a guarded expression.

“I could return to my cold, lonely rooms in London, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or we could leave together and travel to Scotland.”

“Why ever would you wish to visit Scotland?”

His grim features eased at her genuine confusion. “You know, Mercy, there are times when I forget just how innocent you are.” He lowered his arms, taking a step closer. “I desire for the both of us to visit Gretna Green. We could be wed in a matter of days.”

Mercy's mouth fell open, snapped shut, then fell open again as she reeled beneath an avalanche of sensations. Shock, giddy excitement, and sheer terror.

Gads, how was she supposed to think clearly when Ian kept blindsiding her with one astonishing pronouncement after another?

“Wed?”

His eyes narrowed. “In the event you have forgotten, I did offer a proposal earlier this evening.”

“Of course I have not forgotten. But . . .” She shook her head. No. She could not make such a decision while her mind was trapped in a fog of bewilderment. No matter how her heart might urge her to leap blindly and damn the consequences. “You expect me to slip away in the midst of the night to elope with you?”

He shrugged. “Most elopements take place in the midst of the night. I believe that is supposed to be a part of the romance.”

“I would hardly consider a hasty wedding over the anvil as romantic.”

“Fine.” With two long strides he was standing before her, grasping her hands in a near-painful grip. “Then we can travel to London and have a proper marriage. I doubt Westminster Abbey would throw open its doors to me, but there must be some church that would allow a bastard across their threshold. I do not care how we are wed, sweet Mercy, whether it is in Scotland or in London with trumpets blaring, just as long as you are my wife.”

She trembled, her mouth dry and her heart refusing to beat. In this moment, Ian truly desired her as his wife. It was etched in the lines of his sinfully handsome face and smoldered in the depths of his whiskey eyes. If only she could be certain that his desire would not whither into the bitter regret of her parents.

“Ian, wait.” She touched his cheek, willing him to understand her hesitation. “I cannot leave with you.”

His fingers tightened, as if he were absorbing a painful blow. Then, with a twisted smile, he dropped her hands as if they were tainted.

“Of course you cannot.” He hid his disappointment behind a mocking smile. “Is it because I am a bastard or a sinner?”

“Do not say such things, not even in jest.”

His smile faded at her vehement tone. “Then why will you not be my wife? I know that you care for me.”

“Yes, I care for you,” she admitted softly. “I love you.”

“God . . .” Ian seemed briefly lost for words. Stupid man. He could surely not be surprised he had stolen her heart? He had, after all, made a career of stealing hearts since he'd left the cradle. “Mercy.”

She held up a warning hand as he looked prepared to toss her over his shoulder and head for the nearest vicar.

“But that does not mean I am yet prepared to be married. We are still near strangers in many ways.”

A wicked smile curved his lips as he rapidly regained his composure. “Hardly strangers, my sweet. Shall I tell you the precise sound you make when I—”

“Ian.”

The smile remained, but Mercy did not miss the frustration that flashed through his eyes.

“If you love me, then what else matters? We have years to discover whether you snore or are impossibly grumpy in the mornings or intend to fill our home with endless stacks of dusty books as you write your soon-to-be published articles.”

“I am being serious, Ian.”

“So am I, Mercy.” He trailed his fingers down her cheek. “I may not know your favorite food or the name of your favorite doll when you were five or even if your toes are ticklish, but I do know that you have a warm and generous heart, that you are loyal to a fault, and that just having you near makes my world a more wonderful place to be.”

Mercy barely made it to the nearest chair as her knees melted and she collapsed onto the padded cushion.

“Oh,” she whispered, her thoughts stolen along with her breath. It was the nicest, most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her. “Oh.”

Kneeling before her, Ian gripped the arms of the chair, regarding her with fierce need.

“Say you will be my wife. Come with me, Mercy, and I promise I will take care of you for the rest of your life.”

Take care of you . . .

Did he know just how seductive those words were to a woman who had spent her entire life tending to the needs of others? Just how often she had dreamed of having someone in her life she could lean on, depend upon?

God above, she wanted to say yes. The word trembled on the edge of her lips as her volatile emotions churned through her body and threatened to overcome her common sense.

A pity that her ingrained sense of duty would not allow her to toss caution to the wind and simply follow her heart.

“I cannot just abandon my duties, Ian,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely force out the words. “Even if I do become your wife, I must ensure that my parents are settled back in their cottage with at least a housekeeper to assist them.”

“And once you are back in your cottage, do you truly believe that they will ever allow you to leave?”

“It will be my choice.”

Ian surged to his feet, his jaw knotted with disappointment. “Christ, they have hounded, bullied, and manipulated you for years. Why would you suddenly be capable of defying them?”

Mercy pushed herself upright, reaching out to lay a hand on his forearm.

“Because I now understand I cannot forever avoid my life,” she admitted with a sad smile. “I have realized that I hide behind my responsibilities as if they are a suit of armor. I am a coward.”

Caught off guard by her soft confession, Ian frowned. “What do you fear?”

“Discovering that all marriages are like my parents'. As I am certain you have noticed, they do not have a particularly amicable relationship. Indeed, they have been squabbling and generally making one another, and everyone who crosses their paths, miserable since I can recall. My life at the cottage may be dull and isolated, but it is not a slow, ghastly torture.”

She felt the muscles of his arm bunch beneath her fingertips.

“And that is what you fear I will offer you? A slow, ghastly torture?”

“No. No, of course not.” She stepped closer, breathing deeply of his delicious male scent. It was like a balm to her frayed nerves, soothing her fear and stirring her blood with a warmth that helped ward off the gathering chill. “For the first time in my life, I understand how a woman could find happiness as a wife.”

“Then—”

“But I still do not intend to rush into a hasty marriage because you are upset at learning the truth of your mother, nor will I abandon my parents until I am certain they are being properly tended.”

Shaking off her hand, Ian regarded her with a hard gaze, his features set in stark lines.

“Then we are at an impasse, my love, because I will not remain beneath this roof another moment.”

With long strides he was headed out the door, not even pausing when she called out for him to wait.

Left alone in the center of the room, Mercy pressed a hand to her quivering stomach, too dazed by his abrupt departure to give in to her instincts that screamed in need to follow his retreating form.

 

 

Ian's lodgings in Duke Street were admirably situated with a large drawing room furnished with leather-upholstered wing chairs, a low sofa, and several pier tables scattered over the floral carpet. There was a separate bedchamber with a small private parlor attached and a connecting door that led to a room for Reaver.

Under normal circumstances, the rooms were comfortable, if not particularly luxurious, and perfectly suited to a gentleman who rarely spent his time at home.

These were not normal circumstances, however, and after nearly three weeks of being closeted in his lodgings without the benefit of Reaver and only grudging visits by his wary housekeeper, the place was frankly a mess.

Empty whiskey bottles lined the scrolled chestnut sideboard, trays of food that had gone uneaten were precariously piled near the door, and discarded racing forms that had been impatiently crumpled littered the floor.

All in all, it was the sort of place that could have been a great deal improved by a match and some kindling.

Ian, however, was indifferent to the chaos as he lounged in one of the chairs and absently stirred the coals of the fire with the tip of his scuffed boot. In truth, the shadowed disorder suited his mood to perfection.

Or at least it did until the infernal pounding echoed through the silent chambers. At first he tried to ignore the damnable noise. The last thing he desired was a caller. Not when his heart was mangled and his thoughts as bleak as the pits of hell.