The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (22 page)

“Well, if you ever do come to Town, Mr. Hartley, you must call upon us there.”

Rafe smiled.

“I know Isabella will be pleased to see a fresh face,” she added.

Her sister flushed prettily, and Mercy’s annoyance with Mrs. Kenton increased several notches. If there was any matchmaking to be done, it was her province.

“I extend the same invitation to you, Lady Mercy,” the eager woman continued, switching her attention abruptly. “My brother is equally in want of sensible company. We did not meet with more than half a dozen young ladies of tolerable wit last Season, did we, William? There were evenings when I said to myself, where are all the interesting ladies? They do not have to be beauties, but at least let them have something to say for themselves. I’ve always considered beauty to be overrated,” she added with a condescending nod of her head at Mercy, “and superior intelligence to be much more useful. After all, beauty is never lasting, but one seldom outgrows stupidity. I much prefer ten minutes of conversation with a lady of quick wit, like yourself, Lady Mercy, to half an hour in company with a great beauty.”

Although guessing she was meant to be flattered, Mercy was far less amused by Mrs. Kenton’s faux pas now than she was at the beginning of the evening. She was no longer so certain they were unconsciously done. It didn’t seem possible that one boring woman could make so many in a row.

“Lady Mercy is engaged,” said Rafe suddenly. “Has she not told you? Be sure to invite her fiancé too.” He refused to meet her eye above the candelabra, and his lips formed the slight curve of a semisneer before he put them to his soupspoon.

“Oh.” Mrs. Kenton adjusted her expression hastily. “To whom are you engaged?”

“Viscount Grey.” Silently, she prayed there would be no further questions about him. She’d had her fill of inquiry from Mrs. Hartley and her daughters. To endure even less subtle prying and poking from Mrs. Kenton—and in front of Rafe—would be unbearable.

Mercy need not have worried. Mrs. Kenton’s eyes fogged over, but she pasted on a vague smile, congratulated Mercy, and returned the subject to Rafe. But he was not done with the topic he’d begun, and after curtly answering a few more of the lady’s questions, he said, “I am surprised the viscount did not come with you into the country. He has important business elsewhere?”

“He is in Italy.”

“And he left you to your own devices?” Rafe chuckled softly, and the tall, elegant candle flames flickered between them. “I would not be so careless as the viscount. I would not let you out of my sight.”

Mercy decided it was folly to join him in any further debate, for he was evidently in a teasing mood.

“He is not afraid you might change your mind in his absence?” Rafe pressed again. “Find another sweetheart? Some ladies are of a changeable nature.”

“As are some gentlemen.” Oh dear. There went her determination not to play his game.

Distantly, she heard Mrs. Hartley asking Isabella Milford how she liked her soup. The lady claimed only a very little appetite and finished no more than a few mouthfuls before setting down her spoon. But she quietly assured her hostess that there was nothing amiss with the taste or temperature of her portion.

“I suppose you think of the young lady who jilted you.” Mrs. Kenton tossed a pitying glance at Rafe. “But not all our gender are so untrustworthy, Mr. Hartley. You must not let that incident taint your view of us. Or of romance.” She beamed around him at her sister.

Isabella, her face very pale, delicately lowered her lashes and smiled apologetically. He would like that, of course, Mercy thought crossly; he would enjoy Isabella’s humility, her quivering meekness, and feminine frailty.

She was suddenly feeling quite ill. For a woman with a strong constitution, it was most unusual. Perhaps there
was
something amiss with the soup.

***

Rafe began to enjoy himself about halfway through dinner, when he spoke at length on the heartlessness of some women, while observing the little signs of his ex-wife’s mounting irritation across the dining table.

“I suppose my runaway bride must serve as a lesson taken,” he remarked to Mrs. Kenton. “Although the loss caused me great pain, the sun still rises every morning and sets every evening. Life goes on, as must I.”

“How brave you are, sir,” the lady exclaimed. “And how strong, to pick yourself up and strive onward, even with a broken heart.” She looked around him again at her sister, who picked listlessly at her turbot.

Rafe sighed, one hand to his heart. “It is my lot in life to carry the burden of a sensitive soul.”

Across the table, Mercy covered her lips with a napkin. She was perhaps a hair’s breadth from rolling her eyes, but kept them hidden behind her bronze-tipped lashes. Rafe knew she was dying to look up at him and snap out some sharp remark. If not for the guests, she would have.

“Good things, so I was recently assured, come to those who wait,” he said softly, reaching for his wineglass. “The woman I lost might yet return to me.”

Mercy’s lashes lifted only slightly, and he couldn’t tell whether she looked at him. She, too, reached for her wine, and as her lips met the rim of her glass, Rafe sipped from his own. It was the closest he could get to kissing her at that moment, so it must suffice.

Suddenly her gaze swept up, and she caught him in the brilliant twinkle of gold-and-emerald dust. He felt like a crab finding its claws trapped in a fisherman’s net. She spoke. “I thought you were quite certain she will not return, Mr. Hartley. Were you not prepared to struggle valiantly onward with your broken heart? Even find another love to mend it?” Of course she assumed he spoke of Molly when he mentioned his runaway bride.

“I make the most of the hand I am dealt,” he replied. “I am a man of action. There is little point daydreaming of what might have been.”

“Quite true. Nothing good can be gained by drowning in one’s sorrows. Or the ale barrel.”

“And yet”—he paused and set down his wineglass—“if she returned, I would hold no grudge.” He stared at her lips. Darkened by the wine, they seemed fuller, even more kissable than usual, and he forgot about every other person around that table. “My feelings never changed. If she comes back to me, we can find common ground—a way to meet both our needs.”

“Sometimes the disparity is too great,” she said, her eyes avoiding him again.

Stubborn wench. He wanted her to look at him. Really look at him. “Our differences make life interesting.”

“Perhaps she does not see it that way.”

“I know our differences scare her. While uncertainty and unpredictability cause her anxiety, they are the very things that keep me alive.”

Now, when her sharpened gaze finally sought his through the dancing candle flames, he knew she realized he spoke of them. Deep in her emerald irises, sparks flared into flame.

“Some people speak of regrets,” he added. “I have none. No game is ever lost until a man throws down his cards. But I daresay you’re not a gambler, my lady?”

“Certainly not. I don’t believe in games of chance.”

“You would never place a bet for the thrill? Never take a risk for something you wanted?” The urge to reach across that table and take her by the arms was almost enough to lift him from his chair. Tonight, a dam broke inside Rafe. He had to make her understand that she needed him. She was headed for a life of duty and despair, too afraid to step outside that plan.

When she threw him a warning glance, he knew she’d felt the tremor of his passion. As usual, she blocked it, put up her shields. “Thrills of that nature are vastly overrated.”

“How would you know, my lady, if you’ve never had any?”

“One doesn’t need to have the experience to understand it.”

Like love, he mused. She thought she knew it all without ever having felt it herself. She thought she knew all about everything.

Soft amber candlelight played over her features, accentuated her graceful neck, and gilded her high bosom. Every unsettled breath she took drew his gaze to those fine bubbies and—may his father forgive him—they almost made him forget he was a gentleman’s son.

“I wonder if you ever had any thrills, my lady,” he muttered.

Her reply was smug. “I am thrilled every day when I wake to see the sun, or hear birdsong through my window.” She smiled sweetly at the other guests around the dining table. By Christ, he wanted to kiss that mouth. To possess it. Make it cry out his name.

“No offense to Mother Nature, but apparently you mistake
thrill
for an everyday occurrence,” he replied drily.

“No offense to rebels, revolutionaries, and reckless rogues, but I prefer my kind of thrill to yours.”

We’ll see
, he thought.

His father intervened, bringing their debate to an abrupt end. “Miss Robbins is merely a nervous young lady. I have no doubt she will soon realize her error and come back to my son.”

“Let us speak of something more cheerful,” his stepmother exclaimed. “Mrs. Kenton, I know you will be most excited to hear of Lady Mercy’s idea to resurrect the local assembly room balls, and I am certain she will invite you to join her planning committee.”

Thus the subject changed, focusing on more of The Danforthe Brat’s meddling ways. It seemed she found plenty to keep her busy while she remained in the country.

Rafe planned on doing his part to make certain she wouldn’t become bored.

***

After the maid helped her dress for bed, Mercy sat up for quite a while composing a letter to her brother. Her temper was decidedly more forgiving now than it had been earlier regarding his interference in this affair. The wedding he prevented—if indeed he had a hand in it—would have been a farce, it seemed, just as he suggested.

Rafe had not outgrown his wild streak, and he was more intent on flirting with her than he should be if he truly suffered a damaged heart. As for Molly, since she hadn’t bothered to contact Rafe with even a short letter…

But there was still much here to be fixed, much more to be put straight than she’d ever imagined—and Carver should not expect her home until all was resolved. Fate sent her here for a reason. As Lady Mercy Danforthe, she had a duty to those whose lives were less orderly, less well regulated. Her brother would understand why she stayed.

She blotted her letter, folded and sealed it. There. That had bought her another week at least.

Blowing out all but one of her candles, she turned to the bed and pulled back the tapestry curtain that was drawn around it.

There lay Rafe Hartley, on his back, ankles crossed, arms behind his head. His boots, she noted, were not removed, but his tailcoat was. She almost dropped her candle, and the flame sputtered wildly, caught in the startled whirlwind of her breath.

“Never realized it took a wench so long to ready for bed,” he said.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

“I had a wine stain on my coat,” he replied as he sat up partway, rested on his elbows, and grinned drowsily. “Grieves, my father’s valet, offered to take care of it for me, so I needed somewhere to wait.”

Her candle shook. “You cannot stay here. Get out at once. What if someone saw you enter my chamber?”

“Well, that’s the thing, you see. I was actually looking for my sisters’ room. I meant to poke my head in and say good night to the little minxes before I left, but I found myself in here by mistake. Then I heard people in the hall, and I was forced to hide. Couldn’t risk leaving again and being seen, could I? It was like Vauxhall Gardens out there—folk milling about constantly.”

She didn’t believe a word of it. “I’m sure you’ve never been to Vauxhall Gardens.”

“True, but I’m not completely ignorant of all the places gentlemen take their ladies for an illicit fumble in London.”

Naturally, he would be most interested in those sorts of places, rather than art galleries and museums, places of cultural entertainment.

He yawned and dropped back again, his head on her pillow. “Now
this
is a comfortable bed. I almost fell fast asleep.”

He must have been there for an hour at least, since the Milfords left, and she thought he had too. In that time, he’d lain there, making up this ridiculous story. In all likelihood, he’d watched her through the bed drapes while the maid undressed her. To her distress, a prickle of wicked excitement blossomed in goose bumps over her skin. He could have been caught there at any moment before she came to bed. The maid might have pulled back the drapes and found the man lying there. That idea did not make the prickle go away. If anything, it grew worse.

She remembered what he’d said at dinner about taking risks—basically, that he took them to be sure he lived.

Mercy shoved Rafe’s boots off the bed and straightened the counterpane with brisk slaps and sharp tugs.

“You may take all the risks and enjoy all the thrills you desire,” she said breathlessly as she pummeled the pillows with unladylike violence. “But I don’t appreciate your dragging me into it, sharing the risk with me.”

He said nothing, but looked up at her, openly admiring. Mercy felt her taut nipples rubbing on the lace bodice of her nightgown. Her breasts were heavy, and the heat had begun again, lower down, causing her thighs to squeeze together, her breath to break in her throat.

“Where is Grieves with your coat?”

“Below stairs, I expect. Working on the stain. He’s a good fellow. Most obliging.”

“You should have taken your stain home with you.” She eyed his dirty boot heels now endangering the carpet.

“Grieves insisted he knew the very thing to get it out, and that it should be immediately attacked.”

Somewhere in the house a door closed with a low thud.

“Soon, everyone will be abed,” he added, eyes twinkling.

“Grieves,” she pointed out crisply, “knows you are still in the house.”

“But he doesn’t know where.”

“You think he won’t look for you, Rafe Hartley? I very much doubt he would leave you to wander about while he goes to his own bed, unconcerned.”

All he said was, “I like to see your hair down. Makes you look like a milkmaid.”