Engaging the Enemy (6 page)

Randall stood, chair scraping across the floor in his hurry. A raw, desperate tingle rushed up her arms as he moved to stand behind her. Mercy rubbed her hands across her bare skin to dispel the sensation.

“I’m not yet thirty.” Randall’s voice skittered across her nerves and when she glanced over her shoulder, his gaze inspected her from head to toe. Mercy quaked at the intense pleasure she found in knowing she’d caught him in an unguarded moment. He set his hands to his hips. “And may I be bold in return and ask yours, Your Grace?”

“Of course. I’ve reached the grand old age of six and twenty.” As Mr. Randall nodded, his lips compressed tightly, and then his gaze slid down her gown. Mercy’s heartbeat romped out of control. “I assume you’ve a sweetheart waiting for you when you leave Romsey.”

It was probably good that her sister had declined to join them. Blythe would be shocked to the tips of her dainty slippers by this brazen interrogation. But the need to know his secrets had loosened her tongue.

Mr. Randall offered a half smile. “Perhaps.”

“Ah, a gentleman of discretion. Commendable.”

And a great pity. If Randall’s affections had clearly been uninvolved, he’d have made a pleasing companion. She enjoyed his conversation so far, and hoped to hear more of his exciting travels. But if there was a sweetheart waiting for him elsewhere, Mercy couldn’t detain him here for long. She hoped he would stay a little longer though. The sound of his voice, the drift of his gaze over her skin, reminded her that she was an unattached woman with normal needs.

Her reaction to him shocked her. She should not be thinking of him on such intimate terms. With luck, Mr. Randall could turn out to be a much needed advisor, at worst, an ambitious danger to her son. But she really didn’t think him a danger.

Randall moved to stand at her side, although his position kept him a respectful pace behind. “Have I satisfied your curiosity enough for one day, Your Grace?”

Mercy turned, almost believing that Randall was teasing her. But his serious gaze showed no hint of amusement. “You have been more than candid for one day. Someone should have warned you that I tend to be a trifle blunt in conversation, an appalling habit that has survived my elevation in rank.”

Randall’s face softened. “As ever, I am your servant.”

Mercy held his gaze, aware of the urge to move forward and lay her hands upon his chest but determined to ignore it. She took a step back. “The duke is waiting.”

She skirted around Randall, trying to understand her desire to feel his hands upon her skin. She’d never had that urge before, and there had been dozens of men vying for an invitation to share her bed, during and after her marriage. Most men failed to hide their less than subtle intentions now that her husband had passed away. Perhaps that was what troubled her most. She sensed no such intentions from Randall. Although he looked at her a great deal, he seemed to have no interest in touching her at all.

Without waiting to see if he followed, Mercy pushed through the doors connecting the dining room to a long corridor which led to the room where Edwin waited. Behind her, Randall’s heavier footsteps followed, sending her nerves skittering once more. She couldn’t understand why Leopold Randall left her breathless when he offered her no encouragement. Her reaction to him was unprecedented, but she would make herself behave as a duchess should.

She forced a grateful smile for Edwin’s footmen as they opened the doors. A childish squeal filled the air and she rushed forward to wrap Edwin up in her arms. He squeezed her tight about the neck. “Mama, Mama.”

Mercy buried her face in his neck. “Hello, my darling boy, have you missed me?”

His little chin rose and she rained kisses on his cheeks until he wriggled. “Where have you been, Mama? Come and play.”

Mercy chuckled. “Not yet, there is someone important you must meet first.” She turned and set her son on his feet. “Edwin, this is your cousin, Mr. Leopold Randall. Mr. Randall this is my son Edwin Randall, the sixth Duke of Romsey.”

Although her father-in-law had insisted that introductions involving her son be handled with a certain level of pomp and circumstance, Mercy had seriously disagreed, preferring informality around Edwin. But in this instance, she wondered whether having a few attendants present wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Leopold Randall staggered back a step, his skin leaching of color, so much so she feared he might faint.

But gentlemen did not faint, not under any circumstances but the direst. Randall recovered quickly and bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Your Grace,” Edwin mimicked, then copied Randall’s bow.

Mercy couldn’t help but laugh. She knelt beside her son. “No, Edwin, you must use his name. Say
Randall
and then nod.”

Edwin tried again and did the greeting perfectly. Mercy beamed. “Well done, Your Grace.”

Edwin giggled and threw himself into her arms, but peered around her shoulder to see what Leopold Randall was doing. He’d had so little to do with gentlemen, other than servants, that he appeared as fascinated as Mercy by the tall, dark man before him. Randall’s large size and dark suiting did overwhelm the room. However, true to his young nature, Edwin’s curiosity didn’t last very long. A toy caught his attention and he rushed off to play.

As Mercy began to rise, Randall caught her elbow to steady her ascent. The rush of heat across her bare skin overwhelmed her and she looked up into his face. So close to him, she noticed just how dark a brown his eyes were. The long sweep of his lashes against his skin, as delightful a surprise as his dimples. But what she particularly noted was how quickly his gaze dropped from hers. With his gaze lowered, Mercy couldn’t tell what he thought. That missing knowledge disturbed her.

“He is smaller than I imagined.” His breath whispered across her cheek, sending a thrill along her spine despite the criticism in his words.

“Come now, he is only four years of age. He will grow into the title.” Perhaps she responded a trifle defensively. Blythe always seemed to offer suggestions for Edwin’s upbringing that were not quite sympathetic to Mercy’s ideals. But she would not hear disapproval of her son from Leopold Randall.

“I thought he was older than four,” he said. “When exactly was the duke born?”

She looked up into Mr. Randall’s face and smiled. “May seventh, eighteen hundred and ten.”

“Eighteen ten.” Randall’s eyes widened. His fingers fell away from her arm as he glanced at Edwin again. He shook his head as if surprised, but then smiled apologetically. “It’s been so long since I’ve been around a small child. I’d quite confused how big he’d be.”

Mercy glanced to where her son played happily with his toys and let her tension slip away. He hadn’t meant to criticize. He’d obviously heard some wrong information regarding her son’s age and she could forgive him easily enough for his confusion. But he had let slip another small insight into his life that Mercy was curious about. “When were you near a young child last?”

Randall’s harsh exhalation sent her pulse racing again. She glanced up at him, his expression weary.

“My younger brother, Tobias,” he said softly.

“Are you close?”

“We were once.” A flicker of a dimple appeared on Randall’s cheek as his gaze sharpened on Edwin. “I was the eldest. He was my responsibility. I spoiled him.”

Mercy laughed. “Then you are a better brother than most. Mine was quite joyful to be rid of me when I married.”

“I imagine having one’s sister become a duchess is cause for celebration.”

“That wasn’t what he celebrated,” Mercy grumbled. “He celebrated getting me out from under his feet so he might return to his debauchery without facing my disapproval over breakfast.”

There, finally, a dimple.

“Ah, I believe most men would experience a similar feeling.” Randall’s dimple deepened.

Mercy set her hands to her hips. “What is it about men and wenching? Can you not do without?”

When he didn’t respond, Mercy decided her blunt question had flummoxed him. She waved her hands. “Ignore my question.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said hastily.

Randall’s speedy response didn’t surprise her. Since she’d become a duchess, people rarely contradicted her, except for Blythe. But she’d hoped Randall would be different. Disappointed to be faced with another person prepared to let her gaffs pass unchallenged, Mercy moved to sit by the window, closer to her son.

Her companion cleared his throat. “Most men are influenced by their peers. To be seen as an accomplished seducer is to be accepted without question by your fellow man. But from all I’ve seen, ladies attempting to satisfy those same desires are not treated so kindly.”

Mercy met his gaze. “You must rank quite high among your acquaintances. The stories you could tell of your travels, and companions, boggles the mind. The ladies must swoon at the sight of you.” Instantly, she regretted her observation. She sounded peevish even to her own ears. She should not be thinking of him in those terms, and she certainly shouldn’t be letting him know that she thought him irresistible. Men tended to think too well of themselves when flattered.

Randall’s face darkened. “Most men chase the ladies, Your Grace. Not all.”

He left her abruptly and moved to the other side of the chamber, passing her son with the barest of glances. What was it about him that made her want to question him, to dig beneath that polite façade and discover his real opinions? Perhaps she’d been too long alone. Her late husband might not have been a perfect man, but they’d rubbed along together well enough, she supposed. However, she’d never needed to see into his soul like this. She’d never wanted to know what her husband had done when they had been apart.

“He has your eyes,” Randall noted, returning to sit across from her.

“But not my temper,” Mercy added with a laugh. “He is a vastly agreeable child.”

Mercy let out a relieved breath at the return to a much safer topic of conversation. She could talk of Edwin for hours and never be discontent. Speaking of her son might even banish her foolish thoughts about the man sitting opposite, and that could only be a good thing.

But then Leopold Randall’s gaze fixed upon hers and she couldn’t look away. He’d not done that before, she realized. He’d not offered more than the briefest of glances. Whatever emotion she’d stirred within him by her talk of his paramours had been conquered and hidden again. Randall puzzled her immensely. Did he not like women? A wild surge of rebellion stirred within her. She wanted to find out exactly what he
did
like, and damn the consequences of that discovery.

His dark eyed stare provoked an irrational longing to move closer. Hot color stole up her face, and Mercy was the first to break. She looked to her son again. “I am truly lucky to have him.”

“Were there complications?” he asked suddenly.

The blunt question into matters most men wouldn’t think to enquire after pleased her.

“I carried him easily. The birth was arduous, but quicker than I was led to believe. I was blessed. Some women have a much harder time.”

Randall’s breath hissed out, and she had to wonder why he’d held it in the first place. “I believe my mother’s labors grew shorter each time. My youngest brother, Tobias—her fourth child—arrived before she’d made it to the birthing chamber.”

Mercy snorted a laugh and then quickly covered her mouth to pretend the unladylike sound hadn’t escaped her control. “Oh dear, I am glad Edwin took a little longer than that. How positively embarrassed your dear mama must have been.”

“Mother always hinted her children needed more patience.” Randall grew silent again, his gaze fixed on his fingers.

Mercy leaned forward. “You miss her?”

“Every day.” His glance pinned her in place. “My mother was an angel. Spontaneous. Always smiling. Happiest when her family rumbled under her feet. My father was devoted to keeping her happy, despite the difficulties of living here.”

“I’m told they died in a carriage accident? I’m so sorry.” At his arched brow, Mercy rushed to explain. “Wilcox has been advising me on family matters I was previously unaware of. You must have been devastated to lose them both on the same day.”

Randall kept silent, lips pressed tight together. His expression unreadable. After a long moment, his jaw unclenched. “He
claimed
it was an accident.”

“He?”

“The old duke wrote a short note to the school so they might inform my brother and me of our orphaned state.”

Mercy blinked. “Oh, that was kind of him.” And utterly impersonal.

Randall scowled and turned his face away. Judging by the high color in his cheeks, he was angry, possibly furious. Before she could question him, Edwin hurried over and pushed a small wooden horse into Randall’s hands.

He appeared startled, but then his fist closed over it. The small carved piece disappeared from view and when he opened his hand again, Edwin smiled in encouragement. Clearly her son had decided he liked his older second cousin. When Randall began to play, prancing the horse for her son’s amusement, Mercy leaned back and watched them.

Edwin accepted strangers so easily. Perhaps too easily, yet she couldn’t be sorry that he and his cousin had become acquainted. The boy would need male guidance later in life. Who better to show him the way than an elder relation?