The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (26 page)

“Are you intent on scandal?”

“If there’s to be rumor in any case, may as well make it worth our while.”

“Rafe Hartley, that is the wickedest thing you’ve ever said.” It was also not far removed from what she’d thought the morning after their escapade, when seated at her mirror and still suffering the fluttering ache of want.

“So you just used me when you had a fancy for a bit o’ rumpy-pumpy that night, my lady.” His voice was getting louder.

“I must ask you to stop compromising me at every opportunity. I am not here to be your plaything.” Mercy climbed down from the cart. “I can walk the rest of the way. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Good day.” Lifting her petticoats out of the mud, she marched onward, heading for the farmhouse gates. It was suddenly very difficult to catch her breath, but she would not stop and look back at him. She could not.

By the time she reached the gate, his horses were following her.

She lifted the rusty latch, and the gate squealed open. Finally she felt composed enough to face him again. “Was I not clear enough?”

His expression was faintly amused. “Clear as crystal.”

“Then I would thank you not to trail after me.”

“I come to visit my aunt and uncle, ma’am, not to trail after you.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Very well.” She could hardly stop him from paying a visit to his family, could she? “As long as you don’t get any more of your silly ideas,” she added as she held the gate open to let him through.

He rode by at a brisk clip and laughed down at her. “Best make haste and find me a bride, woman, or I might take matters into my own hands, eh? Get her for myself.”

It was increasingly difficult to catch her breath and focus her mind. She kept seeing a looming hedge full of thorny brambles directly in her path as fast hooves carried her toward it. A loud rushing sound filled her ears, as though the wind tore at her. Why didn’t her mother take the gate?

Rafe was still talking, chattering away. “Might decide to take the wife I want by any means, whatever she has to say about it.” He leapt down from his cart.

Mercy gathered a breath at last, and forced the vision away. “Then I suggest you invest in a stout pair of manacles and a scold’s bridle if you hope to keep her.” Quarreling with Rafe was safe territory, familiar. It kept her from dwelling on those dark, unhappy thoughts. Strangely, she always felt better after a good fight with Rafe.

“I was thinking that very thing. Should have had them for my first wife,” he said.

“Be still my heart. That medieval view of romance certainly aligns with your thickheaded male chest-thumping.”

“Romance? I’ve no time for that.”

“Evidently.”

He scratched his head. “I need a woman to feed me, clothe me—”

“Why don’t you appeal for a housekeeper?”

“—and provide comfort on long, cold winter nights.”

“I would advise a woolen nightshift and a bed warmer.”

He grinned. “A bed warmer. Just what I had in mind.”

Rolling her eyes, she skirted him quickly to walk on into the house. “Do excuse me. I must get away from your irritating presence. I have surely put up with it long enough today.” And she felt the danger of it all too deeply. His mischievous company had certain addictive qualities.

Suddenly he caught her fingers. “Let’s call a truce.”

“A truce?”

“If you don’t plan to be here long, let’s not be at war the whole time.”

Wary, she studied his countenance, and for once she could not immediately read his intentions. “I’ve played enough games of chess with my brother to know that men give up only when they know they can’t win. Calling a draw is one way to save face.”

“But who’d want to save this one?” He laughed easily, pretending he didn’t know how handsome he was. “I promise not to try kissing you again. I’ll be sensible from now on. Friends?”

Mercy looked at his hand and thought of it on her waist earlier, gently guiding her up into his cart, rescuing her from Mrs. Flick.

“Very well then,” she muttered. “A truce.” No doubt she’d discover, soon enough, what he was up to.

“Now we are friends, we needn’t die alone and miserable,” he chirped. “I’ll visit you and make you laugh. We’ll have tea and scones together.”

Amused by the picture, she chuckled softly. “If we have teeth left with which to eat scones.”

He considered it, head on one side. “I’ll make you some wooden ones.”

“Lovely. And I’ll knit you some hair, because I daresay you will have lost all yours.”

“Splendid. See, we
can
be friends.” He gave her his arm, and after a brief hesitation, she took it. They walked into the house together.

He found Tom Ridge, in his leather apron, standing outside the forge, taking a midday break.

“I’ll thank you not to go spreading tales about Lady Mercy Danforthe,” Rafe said as he strode up to the big fellow.

“What’s this, Hartley? No pleasant good morn? No gentlemanly greeting?”

“I do not care to hear her name on your lips ever again.”

“I spread no tales. I just tell what I see.” The man was smug, his sweaty face lined with dirt. “If other folk make their own conclusions, I can do naught about that.”

Rafe’s anger quickened, but he tamed it as best he could. He didn’t want trouble here, and had hoped to leave all that behind. “Then from now on, I suggest you keep what you see, in regards to that lady, entirely to yourself.”

There, he thought, that was polite, surely?

Tom croaked with laughter. “Lady, eh? In name only.”

“Watch your tongue, Ridge!” In Mercy’s presence, he’d shrugged off the gossip for her sake, not wanting her to see how it affected him.

“We all know what you were up to with her in that cottage. I don’t know why you try to deny it when ’tis a feather in your cap. There’s hope for us poor fellows after all, eh?”

Well, he’d tried. With no further warning, he swung his fist into the man’s belly, and as Tom doubled over, falling forward with the air gushing out of him, Rafe brought his second punch up under that broad, square jaw. Tom stumbled, weaving to and fro, and clutched at his bloodied mouth where he’d bit his own tongue.

“You young bugger. You’ll pay for that!”

“I warned you, Ridge.”

“That was a sneaky, underhand punch,” the man growled, humiliated because his father emerged from the shelter of the forge and laughed at him.

Rafe straightened up. “Next time, you’d best be prepared then. I hear one more word of gossip about Lady Mercy, and we’ll do this properly.”

Tom eyed his fists and spat upon the ground. For all his bluster, there was no way the man would chance his luck against Rafe.

The blacksmith looked at his son. “What’s all this? You’ll not speak badly of that lady. If I hear of it again, you’ll answer to me too.”

“Why?” Tom wiped blood from his lip. “She’s just a haughty madam. What do you care? Does she pay double to get her horses shod?”

“I care, lad, because when your ma died, Lady Mercy Danforthe brought us cooked food and clothes for the little ones. She consoled me with kind words and memories of your ma, when I didn’t even think she knew us by name. She attended the funeral and paid for a stone on your ma’s grave, because I couldn’t afford it. And why did she do all that? Just out of the goodness in her heart. She knows every family, every face in this village. If she were asked, I daresay she’d know every name too. Ours is not the only family to benefit from her kindness in hard times. Now you wash those insults and that filthy gossip out of your mouth. That lady deserves respect, and I won’t hear a word against her.”

Throughout this impassioned speech, Tom stared dumbfounded at his father, in whose stern eyes a fine mist of tears now formed. Rafe was equally surprised. He had no idea that Mercy ever did those things.

He’d been so caught up finding fault with her bossiness, he’d never acknowledged the good side of that “take-charge” nature.

Back at his cottage, he thought more about Mercy Danforthe—the facets of her life that he seldom considered. Duty was very important to her, and she would, no doubt, think it part of her obligations to take an interest in the lives of people like the Ridges, but perhaps she did so with genuine concern too. Rafe knew she was capable of throwing herself wholeheartedly into an idea when it came to her, and not only did she like things in neat order, but he sensed that she also wanted folk to be happy. That was often her driving force.

When the blacksmith spoke of her with such warmth and admiration, it made Rafe feel proud that he knew her, counted her as a friend. He also knew that whatever her thoughts on the matter, she would always be more than a friend to him. The regard in which he held her grew higher every day, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

***

Tiresome as Mrs. Kenton’s chatter could be, Mercy was soon reluctantly obliged to admit gratitude for the lady’s help. She certainly threw herself, wholeheartedly, into the renovation of the dusty, old assembly room, donating several yards of material for new window drapes and a box full of beeswax candles. Unfortunately, Mrs. Kenton’s opinions on paint color clashed with Mercy’s. She was also very adamant on the best way to polish a floor, the most flattering way to place lighting, and how many instruments ought to be hired to play for a public dance. It seemed she was an expert in everything.

“I do realize,” Mercy huffed in Mrs. Hartley’s ear one afternoon, “that being a lady nearing forty, Mrs. Augusta Kenton is entitled to her opinions and should be treated with respect, but I confess myself extremely weary of her vast compendium of knowledge.”

Her companion laughed. “Mrs. Kenton means well.”

Mercy arched an eyebrow. “I always think that when a person’s actions need to be explained as
meaning
well
, they have obviously failed in their intentions.”

“It is just her way.”

“Yes, that’s another comment along the same lines.”

How on earth could Rafe suggest she was just like that woman? There was no resemblance whatsoever, as far as she was concerned. Unfortunately, Mrs. Kenton’s company had been forced upon her more times than she cared to count since her arrival in the country and Mercy’s stay kept being extended. Now that work on the assembly room had begun, she felt it necessary to see the project through to completion. She could hardly leave things under Mrs. Kenton’s management and let her take the credit, could she?

Fortunately, Isabella Milford had amiable qualities that compensated for her sister’s tendency to offend, making her presence as welcomed as Augusta’s was dreaded. Apparently keeping no strong opinions on anything, she agreed with Mercy on every point. At least, she did so when Augusta was not close enough to hear the betrayal, and when Mercy was able to pin her down. Isabella often seemed more fearful of Mercy’s friendship than she was eager for it. The lady was as nervous as a cat in a thunderstorm.

Another welcome addition to her Planning Committee was the enthusiastic and cheerful Mrs. Hodson, who offered her assistance and brought any odds and ends that could be spared from her husband’s shop. Eager to keep Lady Mercy’s valuable custom, she could be counted upon to raise her flag squarely on Mercy’s side in any debate. Often without even knowing what it was about.

Pestered by his stepmother, Rafe brought his bag of tools to mend a few floorboards and a hole in the musician’s podium. The moment he entered the ballroom, Mercy felt the atmosphere change. He was instantly the center of all attention, and naturally he basked in it, teasing the ladies and good-naturedly taking more of Mrs. Kenton’s ever-ready advice. This annoyed Mercy more than anything—that he could submit to that woman’s advice and yet never heed hers. He was quick to take Mrs. Kenton’s side whenever she appealed to his judgment. As if he knew anything about decorating a ballroom.

“He merely appeases the lady,” Mrs. Hartley assured her in a whisper.

“I’m glad he feels it necessary to appease
her
.”

“I’m surprised that you would want merely to be appeased by Rafe. I always rather thought you enjoyed the argument.”

When Mercy turned to look at her, Mrs. Hartley was already walking away at a smart pace, eager to check on Isabella’s progress with the covering of some chairs.

Rafe stood beside Mrs. Kenton, listening with rapt attention to the old busybody, who attempted to secure his promise of attending the first ball. “I hear, Mr. Hartley, that women far outnumber gentlemen here in Morecroft and the surrounding villages. You simply must come! We can’t have ladies standing up together. That would be a shocking waste of all our hard work.”

“I doubt it will be wasted. I always thought ladies needed something to keep busy.” He glanced over at Mercy. “Keep them out of trouble.”

If she was a woman of less self-control, she would have stuck out her tongue, but then she remembered their truce and held her temper.

“Oh, Mr. Hartley, you cheeky young fellow,” Mrs. Kenton simpered. “Now tell me, sir, do you prefer a stately but dull minuet to open a ball, as is the old-time tradition, or would you favor something unusual and lively to begin? A Scottish reel, for example? Something to get the blood up?”

Mercy ground her teeth. This had been a subject of debate earlier that day between herself and Mrs. Kenton, but she doubted Rafe even knew the difference between the two dances.

“I prefer a plain country jig, Mrs. Kenton. I like it even better if I am not expected to take part. I can look foolish enough without exposing myself to ridicule deliberately.”

“Now, now, sir! You tease! You must not turn shy on us. I shall not allow it. So you do prefer something less traditional.”

“Madam, I am always in favor of the untraditional. I am not a great one for rules of any kind. Especially since I am never applied to in their making, they are generally never to my advantage, and I am always forced”—he winked at the lady—“to break them.”

Mrs. Kenton tittered stupidly. “Oh, Mr. Hartley, the things you do say!”