Seducing the Viscount (13 page)

Or was he simply so terrified of any genuine feelings that he was determined to reduce their fragile relationship to a tawdry business deal?

Angling her chin to a militant angle, she gathered her dignity about her like a coat of armor.

“Because I do not trade my body for money, Mr. Breckford.”

His brows snapped together, genuine outrage flashing through his eyes. “I asked you to become my mistress, not my whore.”

“And precisely what is the difference, pray tell?” she snapped. “You implied you intended to pay my bills while sharing my bed. What is that but exchanging my body for money?”

His nose flared as he studied her with a rising annoyance. “So you would share my bed but not accept my protection?”

She was saved from a response as the echo of a distant bell filled the house. Spinning on her heel, she headed for the door, her body so tense that she feared she might shatter at the slightest touch.

Reaching for the knob, she was halted by Ian's soft, dangerous voice.

“Mercy . . . This conversation is not done.”

She did not bother to turn. “Ian, if you have even the least regard for me, you will never, ever bring up this conversation again.”

Well, he managed to make a stunning ass of himself, Ian acknowledged as he sat across the table from a silently furious Mercy. What the devil had happened to the renowned Casanova, a gentleman toasted throughout London as having a magical ability to seduce even the most elusive of women?

Anyone could be excused for thinking he possessed all the skills of an overanxious greenhorn.

Of course, it was not entirely his fault. The wench managed to befuddle him in a manner that went against all reason. One moment she was a wide-eyed ingénue making him feel like a conquering hero as she sighed over the dusty books he had offered, and the next she was as wise as a sage as she touched his deepest vulnerabilities.

It was little wonder he had mucked up his offer of protection when his head had been spinning and his chest so tight he could barely breathe.

No, not just mucked it up, he silently corrected.

He had made a complete shambles of the entire affair.

Christ, he could not have offended the woman more deeply if he had tossed a handful of coins in her face and told her to spread her legs.

Studying her grim features as she toyed with her lobster in butter sauce, Ian felt a stab of rueful regret.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind warned he should just cut his losses and move on. After all, he had not come to Rosehill in search of a mistress. Why should he? London was littered with females who were vastly more talented in pleasing a gentleman than a virginal spinster with a vicar for a father. Nothing good could come of panting after her like a dog in heat.

Unfortunately, it was a voice that Ian found all too easy to ignore.

Instead he allowed his aunt's bright chatter and his father's occasional grunts to wash over him as he brooded upon the best means of repairing the damage he had unwittingly caused.

A thing easier said than done.

Throughout the interminable dinner she refused to so much as glance in his direction. Ironic considering that only the previous evening he had done his best to ignore her.

Of course in his case it was sheer defense against her potent enchantment during his brief struggle with nobility, while she was in a full-fledged snit. A snit that was in no way diminished by the beef in burgundy sauce or exquisite raspberry tart.

At last Ella rose to her feet, motioning for Mercy to follow her from the room. Ian watched their retreat with a self-derisive flare of amusement.

He was a master in the game of seduction. His heated glance could gain the key to a seasoned widow's bedchamber, and a mere kiss on the fingers could cause a debutante to swoon. Hell, women had come to blows over who would be seated next to him at dinner.

Now he was being given the cut direct by a tiny slip of a woman who had never had so much as a
beau
. And instead of being outraged, he was . . .

The devil take it all, he was bewitched.

And more determined than ever to return her to his arms.

Rising to his feet, Ian watched Mercy's retreat, his gaze riveted to the soft sway of her hips. The mere sight was enough to make him as hard as granite.

On the point of following in the wake of the tempting minx, Ian was halted as his father cleared his throat and waved toward the hovering footman.

“A moment, Ian. I thought we would share a port before joining the ladies.”

Ian blinked, barely capable of hiding his shock. His father had never requested they linger after dinner. Hell, the man was usually bolting for the nearest door before the last serving could cool on his plate.

Just for a moment he was gripped with a stark frustration. He needed to speak with Mercy. Now. The longer she allowed her resentment to smolder, the more difficult it would be to convince her that he had intended no insult.

It was the unwelcome voice of reason that halted his impetuous flight. Dammit. He had come to Surrey to discover the truth behind his legacy, not chase after Miss Mercy Simpson.

This was an opportunity he would be a fool to squander.

“Of course,” he at last forced himself to mutter, taking his seat as the footman poured two glasses of the spirit.

There was a strained silence before his father cleared his throat. “Cigar?”

“No, I thank you.” Ian sipped the port as he covertly studied his father's tense profile. Whatever the older man's reason for requesting Ian to linger, it was obvious he was now at a loss as to how to actually converse with his son. Ian would have to take command of the awkward situation. “I traveled to Guildford today,” he said, taking the bull firmly by the horns.

“Did you?” Norrington managed a stiff smile. “A rather tedious journey for you, I should think. There is not much there to tempt a young gentleman.”

“It cannot compare to London, of course, but I did manage to find a few shops of interest, and surprisingly I ran across an old friend.”

“Really? That actor friend of yours?”

Ian gave a startled bark of laughter. “Thank God, no. Raoul Charlebois nearly created a riot when he attended Fredrick's wedding. I shudder to think what his appearance would do in a simple, bucolic town like Guildford. Certainly Surrey would never be the same.”

The Viscount could not hide his displeasure. He was a gentleman who lived a life of strict propriety and possessed an abiding distaste for those who preferred a more flamboyant existence. Including his son.

As if sensing Ian's flare of weary pain, Norrington smoothed his expression to one of bland curiosity.

“Then who was your friend?”

Ian drained his port and forced his thoughts back to the matters at hand.

“Tolson.”

“Tolson?” There was nothing but pleased surprise to be seen on his father's countenance. Certainly it did not appear that he feared the old servant would reveal any nefarious secret. “My gracious, I have not seen him since he went to live with his sister. How is he?”

“The same as ever.” Ian smiled wryly. “I must admit that it was good to see him despite his insistence on reminding me of my various childhood mishaps. You would think that age would have dimmed at least a few of those memories.”

A genuine smile curved Norrington's lips. “Tolson's talent with roses was only superceded by his talent for knowing when a young lad is up to some sort of mischief. Thankfully he rarely felt the need to share the knowledge of that mischief with anyone else.”

“Thankfully, indeed,” Ian agreed dryly. “I should not like to think of Aunt Ella's disappointment should she learn that I was not quite the angelic lad she has always supposed me to be.”

Norrington arched a dark brow. “I believe, Ian, that your aunt was far more aware of your . . . mishaps than you realize. Including your habit of pinching her handkerchiefs to use as sails for your toy boats and the secret tunnel you dug beneath the kitchen gardens to the gazebo.”

“Good God, I took such pride in that tunnel,” Ian muttered, disgruntled to realize he was not nearly as clever as he had believed. “I was quite convinced that it was not only the finest tunnel in all of Surrey, but that it was so cleverly hidden that not even the most nefarious smuggler could stumble across it. Now I learn that it was never secret at all. I am uncertain that I shall ever recover.”

Expecting the familiar lecture on his disregard for the rules, Ian was caught off guard when his father merely shrugged.

“Which is no doubt why Ella never told you that she knew of your underground lair.”

“No doubt.”

Norrington toyed with his port glass. “Although I must admit that I am not entirely clear on why a smuggler would be searching for a tunnel in our kitchen garden.”

“It is where I hid my treasure.”

“Treasure?”

“I believe my chest held a dead frog, a sea shell, a handful of dirty coins, and a fossil of some plant. For all I know it is still buried beneath the turnips.”

“Thank God I have never cared for turnips.” His father lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Please resist any urges that might come upon you to bury dead frogs beneath the carrots.”

Ian choked in surprise. Was his father actually . . . teasing him? Christ, it made him seem almost human.

Which was a danger in itself.

Already he possessed an unwelcome sympathy for what his father had endured as a child, and even a grudging understanding of why the man found it so difficult to lower his guard, even to those who should be closest to him.

The very last thing he desired was to find him charming as well.

“I shall do my best.” With a fierce determination, he steered the conversation back in the direction he desired. “Did you never have a secret tunnel?”

There was a pause before the older man grimaced. “Actually, I preferred to do my hiding in the hedge maze.”

“Ah yes, Tolson mentioned your habit of sneaking into the maze. He said that you often enjoyed playing there with another lad. What was the name . . . ?” He pretended to consider a long moment. “Ah yes, Summerville.”

Carefully monitoring his father's expression, he still nearly missed the brief shock that rippled over his countenance before it was smoothed away.

“Summerville?”

“He claimed the two of you were inseparable.”

“Did he? How odd.” Norrington took a rigidly controlled sip of his port. “I remember inviting a friend or two from school, but I cannot recall a Summerville. Of course, it was all a very long time ago.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

Without warning, his father surged to his feet, his smile strained as he offered Ian a small dip of his head.

“Forgive me. I must return to the conservatory. I received a shipment of orchids that must be transplanted without delay.”

Ian watched his father's retreat with an odd lack of satisfaction. Dammit, he should be delighted. There was no doubt that the name Summerville had rattled his father. And his adamant refusal to even acknowledge a friendship only confirmed his suspicions.

It was not satisfaction he felt, however, as his father stiffly exited the room. Instead it was something perilously close to disappointment.

Almost as if he regretted disturbing the fleeting sense of companionship that had so briefly hovered between them.

 

 

The night air remained warm enough to leave open the French doors of the long parlor, allowing the welcome scent of spring flowers to waft through the room. Mercy discovered herself lingering near the door, her gaze trained on the dark garden beyond.

Lost in her thoughts she failed to notice when the notes of the pianoforte fell silent. Not until Ella loudly cleared her throat in an obvious attempt to wrench Mercy out of her deep broodings.

“You seem very quiet this evening, my dear.”

Turning from the door, Mercy grimaced at the realization that she had allowed her annoyance with Ian Breckford to make her such a poor companion. Ella deserved better.

“Forgive me, Ella. I fear my mind is elsewhere.”

Ella rose from the pianoforte to cross the room. She halted next to Mercy with a swish of heavy satin and tangible concern.

“Some fascinating new discovery in your studies?”

Mercy struggled against the threatening blush. “No, just woolgathering.”

“Hmmm. You look pale. Are you certain that nothing is the matter?”

Sensing there was more to Ella's concern, Mercy frowned.

“What could possibly be the matter?”

“I did note that the post brought you yet another missive from your parents.” There was a deliberate pause. “They must have a great deal to report to write so often.”

“No, they live very quietly and there is very little to report,” Mercy denied. “At least nothing beyond the usual complaints of the house being wretchedly dusty and my father's dinners not at all to his taste. There is also a vague hint that the nurse I hired might be pilfering strawberry jam from the pantry.”

Ella blinked. “Why ever would she steal strawberry jam?”

“That is not fully explained, although I suppose it is to give me a distrust of the woman.”

Ella pursed her lips. “Really, my dear, they are behaving rather like children.”

“They miss me.”

“Well, of course they do, but that is no excuse not to be pleased that you are being given the opportunity to enjoy your studies.” Ella frowned. “I do hope you will not give in to their bullying.”

“Hardly bullying,” Mercy instinctively protested. “More of a . . . gentle persuasion.”

“A gentle persuasion that is specifically designed to wrack you with guilt.”

Mercy's heart clenched as she recalled Ian making the precise same argument. Then she cursed herself roundly for allowing the aggravating wretch back into her thoughts.

Not that she actually hoped to put him far from her mind. Not so long as she remained at Rosehill. How could she? There would not be a moment when she was not vividly aware that he could stroll into the room, his beautiful, whiskey gold eyes flashing with wicked temptation and his sandalwood scent teasing her senses.

Even now a part of her was tingling with tension, waiting for Ian to make his appearance in the parlor.

Which begged the question of whether it was time to consider returning home.

As depressing as her father's cottage might be, it at least did not possess an agonizingly handsome devil that could drive a sane woman to Bedlam.

“They have every right to expect their only child to assist in their care as they grow older,” she said, her voice low to disguise her sinking sense of disappointment. “And in truth, it is time that I consider returning home.”

Ella's eyes widened with sudden distress. “Oh, my dear, I do hope you will not abandon me before the charity luncheon. I would be lost without your assistance.”

Mercy forced a weak smile. “Nonsense, you will do quite well without me, and since my parents are obviously unhappy with my absence, it does seem that my duty—”