Seducing the Viscount (24 page)

Unfortunately, the pounding refused to end, echoing painfully in his head, still tender from an overabundance of whiskey.

Struggling to his feet, Ian weaved a path to yank open the door and glare at the intruder.

His mood went from dismal to foul as he caught sight of Raoul Charlebois standing on the cramped landing. Not only had the devil intruded into his private hell, but he was impeccably attired in a mulberry jacket and silver waistcoat with a perfectly starched cravat that reminded Ian that he had nothing more on than a wrinkled linen shirt that hung open at the neck and a pair of equally wrinkled breeches. Even worse, he could not recall the last occasion his hair had been brushed or his cheeks shaven.

The brilliant blue gaze ran a slow path over Ian's disreputable appearance, pausing at his unpolished boots before lifting to linger on the unmistakable shadows beneath Ian's eyes and the pallor of his face.

“I thought I might find you here,” the older man drawled. “Although I underestimated in just how bad a condition I would find you.”

“Charlebois. What a stunningly unpleasant surprise. Should you not be dazzling the world with your—what did the critics say?—stunning, evocative, breathtakingly powerful portrayal of Macbeth?”

The golden brows arched. “The play's run ended last eve, as you well know. You were in the audience, after all.”

“Was I?” Ian offered a negligent shrug. “No doubt I was foxed to the gills and one of my enemies hauled my inebriated carcass to the theatre as a lark.”

“No doubt.” Raoul's smile revealed he was well aware that his friend never missed one of his performances when he was in London, no matter how wretched his existence. “May I enter?”

Ian barred the opening with his arm. “Perhaps I am not alone,
mon ami
.”

“Nothing would please me more than to discover you have brought an end to your morbid bout of self-pity and have decided to rejoin the world. Unfortunately, it is obvious you are still sulking alone in your gloomy chambers.”

Ian stiffened. Christ, Raoul made him sound like a petulant five-year-old.

The fact that he had a niggling suspicion that was precisely how he had been behaving did nothing to ease his flare of temper.

“How can you be so certain?” he growled.

The brows inched higher. “No woman, no matter how many shillings you shoved into her purse, would consent to join you in your current state of...
dishabille
. Where the hell is Reaver?”

“The whereabouts of my personal servant are hardly your concern.”

“They are when he has disappeared and allowed his master to wallow in the depths of the netherworld without so much as a decent cravat.” The blue eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”

Despite his best efforts, Ian could not halt the heat from crawling beneath his skin.

“Go away, Charlebois, I am in no mood for company.”

Raoul easily shoved his way past Ian's unsteady form, muttering a curse as he bent to pluck the racing forms from the floor and toss them into the fire. The scattered newspapers were offered the same treatment while the bottles were ruthlessly swept into the bin.

Only then did he turn to regard Ian with a basilisk gaze. “If you want to be rid of me, then tell me what you've done with Reaver.”

Ian slammed the door shut and leaned against the wooden panes. His head was throbbing and his knees so weak he could barely remain upright.

“I sliced open his throat and dumped him in the Thames for pestering me,” he growled. “You are quite likely to join him if you do not leave me in peace.”

Raoul snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “In your condition I dare say I will be able to beat the truth from you before you could find a razor among the rubbish. Shall we lay odds?”

“Damn you, you interfering prig.”

“Tell me.”

Ian rubbed the aching muscles of his neck. It might have been amusing to watch the fastidious Raoul cleaning his rooms like a common charwoman if he hadn't been so wretchedly sober.

“I sent Reaver to Surrey.”

“To spy upon Miss Simpson?”

The heat returned to Ian's face. The last thing he desired was to admit that he had sent his valet to keep watch on Mercy because he was worried sick that something might befall her while he was not near to protect her.

It would make him appear like nothing more than a lovesick nodcock, which, of course, was precisely what he was.

“Not to spy, merely to ensure that her journey home is without incident,” he said, his voice stiff. “He will keep watch from afar and only interfere if necessary.”

A slow, mocking smile curved Raoul's lips. “I see.”

Ian frowned, his hands curling into fists. If he could stand straight, he would have slugged his friend's perfect nose.

“The roads are not entirely without danger, and she will be distracted by her loathsome parents,” he snapped. “She will be a pigeon ripe for the plucking for any highwayman, footpad, or swindler who might catch sight of her.”

Indifferent to the danger in the air, Raoul shrugged. “If you were so concerned for your delicate blossom, why did you not return to Surrey yourself?”

“Because . . .”

“Yes?”

Ian closed his eyes, realizing that he would have to confess all if he were ever to be rid of his annoying companion.

“I asked her to be my wife.”

For once, he actually managed to startle the unflappable Raoul.

“Mon Dieu.”

“Of course, she was far too wise to accept.”

Raoul blinked, then blinked again. “She refused your offer?”

Ian's smile held a trace of bitterness. “She did not precisely say no, but then again she did not say yes.”

“Then what, pray tell,
did
she say?”

“A lot of nonsense about needing time for us to become better acquainted and settling her parents with a suitable companion before she could consider such an offer.”

There was a long silence before Raoul gave a shake of his head.

“That does not sound like nonsense, Ian. Quite the opposite, in fact,” he said, his tone considering. “I would say Miss Simpson possesses a great deal of good sense and loyalty for those she loves. The exact qualities any gentleman would desire in his wife.”

Ian's heart tightened with a brutal pain. Since he had fled Rosehill, he had deliberately avoided the memory of Mercy's stark refusal to accompany him. Just as he had avoided all thoughts of his treacherous mother.

Instead, he had closeted himself in these rooms and clouded his mind with whiskey.

Not a particularly beneficial means of spending his time, but better than sorting through emotions too raw to be disturbed.

“They were merely excuses,” he groused. “The truth of the matter is she does not trust me. No more than my beloved mother trusted me.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

Raoul stepped forward, his public façade stripped away to reveal the genuine man beneath. A man who made no effort to disguise his concern.

“It is obvious even to a gentleman of the meanest intelligence that you have managed to tarnish poor Miss Simpson with your anger and disappointment toward your mother,” he said softly.

Ian pushed himself away from the door, pacing toward the sideboard in a futile search for whiskey. Damn Raoul to the netherworld. Did the bastard have to charge into his privacy, stirring up feelings that he had worked so hard to bury?

And did that niggling voice have to whisper in the back of his mind that his friend was not entirely wrong?

“How the devil am I supposed to have tarnished the aggravating woman?” he forced himself to mutter. “I asked her to come away with me and she refused. End of story.”

“I presume that you must feel something for the woman or you would never have asked her to be your wife.”

His fist hit the wall with enough force to knock the pictures off the paneling.

“Of course I bloody well feel something. She is—”

“Worth fighting for?”

Spinning about, he pinned his companion with a lethal glare. “And how would you suggest I fight? Her parents have not only raised her with the belief it is her duty to be at their constant beck and call, but they have soured her on the mere notion of marriage. Hell, who could blame her for being skittish after witnessing the two of them wage war the past twenty-odd years?”

“And yet, she did not say no to your proposal,” Raoul relentlessly pointed out. “If she were truly averse to the notion, she would not have offered you hope.”

Ian absently pressed his fist to his chest, unaware of the blood staining his knuckles as he rubbed the aching hole in the center of his heart.

Hope.

No, it was the one thing that he refused to allow himself.

Hope was what had led him to stupidly leap at Norrington's offer of forming a business alliance, believing that he had at long last earned his
father's
respect. Hope was what had led him to presume he could put his painful past behind him and seek to become a proper gentleman worthy of a wife and children.

And what had come of it?

Betrayal, that was what.

“Who can say what is in a woman's mind?” That annoying voice was still niggling in the back of his mind as he forced the words past his stiff lips. “She claims to love you and then refuses to offer more than a small part of herself.”

Raoul clicked his tongue. “If you desire your future bride to trust you,
mon ami,
then you must earn it.”

“And how the devil am I to do that?”

“Consider the matter from her point of view. You have asked her to become your wife, but while it might be an earth-shattering notion for you to commit to one woman, she is the one expected to leave her family and home and the only security she has ever known to place herself in your care. No woman would take such a step lightly.”

Despite his best attempts, Ian could not entirely shut out his friend's sage words.

In his cloud of fury, he hadn't allowed himself to consider how he had thrust Mercy into an untenable position. In his mind he had decided that they should wed immediately, and even the least hesitation on her part had simply confirmed his belief that every woman was set out to betray him.

Now he grimaced at the unpleasant suspicion that he had behaved no better than Mercy's peevish parents, making impossible demands and then sulking when she did not fall in with them without complaint.

Christ, what had he done?

“Ian?”

Wrenched from his mortified thoughts, Ian shoved his fingers through his tangled hair.

“What would you have me do?”

“Prove to her that you are capable of understanding her fears and are willing to give her the time she needs to accept the fact that you are prepared to place her happiness above your own.” Raoul stepped forward to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Is that so much to ask?”

“No.” Feeling as if he were emerging from the fog, Ian gave a sharp shake of his head. Raoul was perfectly right. He had been wallowing in his own self-pity, nursing his injuries and making himself miserable while allowing the woman he loved to slip from his grasp. He should be horsewhipped. “No, of course it is not.”

“Then why are you sitting in these dark rooms drinking yourself into oblivion?”

“Because I am an idiot,” Ian muttered, striding across the room to enter his bedchamber. Pouring water into the basin, he washed and shaved before he tugged his valise from beneath the armoire. Tossing it onto the bed, he began shoving his clothes in without care to Reaver's outrage when he would discover they were creased beyond all hope.

“I will agree that you are an idiot,” Raoul said from the door. “Where the devil are you going?”

“If I leave for Surrey within the hour—” Ian's words were cut off as there was yet another knock on his door. He turned to stab his friend with a suspicious glare. “Who the blazes can that be?”

Raoul held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I haven't the least notion.”

For a moment, Ian considered ignoring the faint taps. He had wasted so damnable much time in his stupidity, even another second's delay was intolerable.

It was only the knowledge that Mrs. Elliot, his infernal landlady, was bound to come snooping if he did not answer the knock that made him curse beneath his breath and return to the front chamber.

Expecting one of his endless parade of drunken friends, Ian pulled open the door with a scathing demand to quit the place at once, only to freeze in profound shock.

Standing on the dimly lit landing was a sweet, delicate wood sprite with golden curls covered by a black bonnet, her slender body nearly hidden beneath a heavy black cloak.

Ian's breath was squeezed from his lungs, his heart forgetting to beat. The first time he had ever seen Mercy Simpson in that field of daisies, he had been mesmerized by her beauty, but in this moment he understood it was more than just her lovely features and expressive dark eyes.

It was . . . her very essence. The innocence of her soul. The kindness in her heart.

What sinner could possibly resist such temptation?

“Mercy,” he husked, hesitating to reach out and touch her in fear she might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

She nervously wetted her lips, shifting beneath his fierce gaze. “I know it is not proper for me to be here, but—”

“To hell with propriety,” he growled, tossing aside his fears to wrap her tightly in his arms. Tears filled his eyes as her warmth thawed the chill that had held him captive for the past three weeks. “God, tell me this is not just another dream.”

Tilting back her head, she regarded him with a searching gaze. “Did you dream of me, Ian?”

He gently cupped her face, his hands trembling. “I have been haunted by you night and day, sweet Mercy. I could find no peace, no matter how I tried.”