Chapter 9
Leaving the bookstore, Ian stashed his treasure in his saddlebag and urged his horse down High Street. It was not a difficult task to catch sight of the crumbling ruin of a castle on the hill south of him. Although it had once been a royal residence for Henry III, it was now little more than a shell that spoke of grander days.
Angling toward the river, he ignored the assessing stares from the local merchants and the ragged boys who followed him from the shadows of the narrow alleys. They would soon discover he was no addlepated dandy should any of them be foolish enough to attempt to cull him. He was as comfortable in the gutter as he was in the finest drawing rooms of Mayfair.
At last discovering the whitewashed pub tucked between a butcher shop and blacksmith, Ian rode through the stone arch that led to the inner courtyard and allowed one of the numerous young urchins to take the reins. Vaulting from the saddle, Ian paused long enough to whisper a word of warning into the lad’s ear before striding across the cobblestones to the door of the pub.
He had no fear that his mount might mysteriously disappear during his brief stay. Not when the boy was quite convinced that Ian would hunt him to the pits of hell if the animal were not treated as royalty.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Ian was prepared for the rank scent of stale ale and smoke. He didn’t even flinch at the oppressive noise of the dozen roughly dressed men who filled the tables. It was all a great deal more familiar than his elegant, cold chambers at Rosehill.
With a firm step and hard gaze that warned he was not to be trifled with, he headed toward the windows that overlooked the road. His gaze scanned the tables until he caught sight of the silver-haired man with a pronounced stoop and weathered countenance.
Although it had been years since he had last seen Tolson, there was no mistaking the faded blue eyes that twinkled with kind amusement or the ears that stuck out like bat wings.
He had worked in the gardens of Rosehill for nearly forty years, first as an under-gardener and then head gardener before retiring to live with his oldest daughter in Guildford. If anyone were to know of his father’s hidden sins, it was this man.
The question, of course, was whether or not he was willing to share those sins.
Tolson was one of the few people in the entire world that Viscount Norrington truly respected. The two had spent hours together as his father’s vision for his extensive gardens was slowly realized. The old servant’s loyalty was unquestionable.
Ian could only hope that the man could be lured into revealing some hint of past scandals.
Reaching the table, Ian took his seat and smiled as the older man inspected him with a fond gaze.
“Why, if it ain’t little Ian, as I live and breathe,” Tolson murmured, shoving aside his tankard of ale.
Ian gave a soft chuckle. “Not so little anymore, Tolson.”
“Ach, well, I will always think of you as that scrawny brat who was up to some mischief or another.”
Ian’s smile widened. Unlike his father, this man had always encouraged Ian’s reckless adventures, even going so far as to assist in hiding the evidence of his mishaps when necessary. Ian would never forget his kindness.
“I fear that I may have grown in stature, but my habit of finding trouble has not changed. I seem to manage it with remarkable ease.”
Tolson waved a hand gnarled by years of hard work. “Only natural for a young man of high spirits. Never trusted those pious souls who are always spouting the evil of others.” The man turned his head to spit on the floor. “More often than not they have done deeds that would turn your hair white.”
“Somehow I doubt that my father would agree with you, old friend.” Ian smoothly directed the conversation in the desired direction. “He would have far preferred a son with more piety and less of the devil in his soul.”
The blue eyes softened with a ready sympathy. “Never you mind, son. Lord Norrington is a good man, but there are some that have no liking for children. ’Tis not their nature to be comfortable around young uns.”
Ian struggled against his surge of frustration. Why the devil did everyone always rush to acquit his father of blame, as if he had no control over treating his only child like an unwelcome intruder into his home?
“Then it begs the question of why he would have brought me to Rosehill at all,” he said, his voice bitter. “I am just a bastard. He could easily have dumped me in an orphanage, or, if he was squeamish of having Norrington blood mixed among the filth, he could have handed me over to one of his endless tenants. With the promise of a few quid, any of them would have been pleased to take me in.”
The old gardener heaved a rueful sigh. “The master has always been very particular in his notion of duty. Especially when it comes to his family.”
Duty. A word he was beginning to hate.
“Yes, that is true enough.” With an effort, Ian gathered his composure. The devil take him. He was no longer a five-year-old to pout when his father forgot his birthday. “You knew him as a youth, did you not?”
“Oh aye.” A reminiscent smile curved Tolson’s lips. “He was no more than eight or nine when I became an under-gardener at Rosehill. Even then he knew the name of every flower that was planted and how they should be cared for.” He chuckled at an ancient memory. “More than once I thought MacFinney, the old head gardener, would throttle the lad. He didn’t like to have the boy know more of his job than he did.”
Ian could just imagine. His father was as stubborn as a mule when it came to his flowers, and he never suffered fools gladly. Poor old MacFinney had no doubt felt besieged by a toddler.
“But you did not mind his companionship?” he teased, earning a wistful smile from the older man.
“Nay.” Tolson scrubbed his fingers through his short gray hair. “He was a quiet and rather shy lad. And to be blunt, I felt sorry for him. He was terrified of his father, the previous viscount, poor little bloke. I can’t say how often I found him hiding in the hedge maze to avoid being noticed. I didn’t mind keeping me lips closed when there was a search made for the boy.” He pointed a finger toward Ian. “Just as I kept me lips closed when you tossed a rock through the parlor window.”
Ian gave a shout of laughter as he recalled the gardener’s steadfast refusal to confess who had shattered the window.
“I will have you know that I did not toss that rock. I hit it with my cricket bat,” he corrected with a pretense of wounded pride.
Tolson snorted. “Mayhaps, but the window was shattered just the same.” Tilting his head to the side, the old man regarded Ian with a knowing gaze. “Why did you wish to meet with me, son? It can’t be to recall long-gone days.”
Ian arched a brow, caught off guard by the man’s perception. Obviously age had not dimmed his shrewd mind.
“Could it not be that I wished to visit with one of the few people who made my life in Surrey bearable?” he demanded.
“Could be, but ’tis not.” Folding his arms on the warped wooden table, Tolson leaned forward. “Tell me what you would have of me, Ian.”
Ian gestured for the barkeep, ordering ale to give himself the opportunity to consider his answer. Awaiting the tankard, Ian at last drew in a deep breath.
“I recently lost a very dear friend, and I suppose it has made me reminiscent,” he said slowly, his words not a precise lie. “I felt the need to return to Rosehill and heal some of the wounds of the past. Unfortunately, time has not eased the strain between myself and my father. I hoped if I knew more of what made him so . . . distant, I might be capable of bridging the gap between us.”
Tolson clicked his tongue and reached to pat Ian’s arm. His gentle soul could not abide the thought of anyone being unhappy. It was a weakness that Ian felt a surprising pang of guilt in exploiting.
“’Tis not your fault. As I said, his lordship was never intended for children.”
“Because of his own father?” he demanded, refusing to waver despite his odd unease.
“In part, although he never expressed a desire to wed or produce offspring even as he grew into a man.”
Ian shrugged. “Perhaps some maiden broke his heart and he still pines for her.”
Tolson pondered the question a long moment. “If that is so, he kept the maiden a secret. It did not matter how many ladies the old viscount would invite to Rosehill, your father refused to dance attendance upon any of them.” The old man grimaced. “Not that I entirely blame him. Can’t be pleasant to be paraded before a crowd of mares like a stallion on the block.”
“Or perhaps he simply preferred the sort of woman he could tumble and leave behind,” Ian pointed out as he thought of his own mother. “He no doubt cut a swathe of destruction among the female servants.”
“Nay.” Tolson appeared genuinely shocked. “He was never like many nobs who thought any woman forced to become a servant was easy prey. The maids were always happy to serve at Rosehill.”
“My mother is proof that he had interest, if only transitory, in at least some maids.”
The blue eyes held something perilously close to pity. “It could be he cared for her, Ian,” he said softly. “The heart can be a fickle thing.”
Ian was suddenly struck by the memory of his father’s tender expression as he confessed his love for Ian’s mother. He had seemed so . . . sincere.
Christ. Could it be that the man had never wed because he was still in love with the woman who had given birth to Ian?
With an unwitting shake of his head, Ian accepted that there was nothing more to be discovered with his current questioning. If his father’s secret had something to do with a woman, it was so well-concealed not even his most loyal servant knew of it.
Obviously it was time to change tactics.
“As you say,” he murmured. “What of his acquaintances? I assume that he must have possessed some friends as a youth?”
“Not many.” Turning his head, Tolson regarded the pedestrians that cluttered the narrow street. For the moment, an inviting sunshine spilled over the town, encouraging the citizens to be about their business before the inevitable rain returned. “As I said, he was a solitary sort, preferring the gardens to the local gatherings. But there was one . . . Ach, what was his name?” Tolson wrinkled his brow as he struggled to shift through his memories. At last he gave a snap of his fingers and turned back to Ian. “Summerville, that was it.”
The name meant nothing to Ian. “Is he a neighbor?”
“Nay, an old school chum who used to spend his school vacations at Rosehill.” The old man chuckled. “Two peas in a pod, they were. Nigh on inseparable for years.”
Ian choked back a disbelieving laugh. The mere thought of his father being a young boy with a devoted friend dashing about the frozen marble of Rosehill was as absurd as him picking up a shovel to make an honest living.
“I have never heard my father mention this Summerville,” he murmured.
“Ah, well, your grandfather took a dislike to him. Never understood it myself. Seemed like a decent enough young man, always polite and well-behaved, but the old man did take queer starts. One day he simply had the boy’s bags packed and ordered him from Rosehill.” Tolson shook his head, a sadness rippling over his weathered features. “Of all the disappointments your father suffered, I believe that affected him the most deeply.”
Well, this was a bit more promising. Did the two lads hock the family silver to pay their gambling debts? Had they used the picture gallery for target practice? Did they murder old MacFinney and bury his body in the rose garden?
Ian leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.
“And you have no notion of why he was banned? Did he lure my father into some mischief?”
“Not that was spoken of.” The old man paused as the barkeep returned to slap two tankards of ale on the table. “So far as I know, his lordship simply took a dislike to the boy and ordered him from the estate.”
Ian lifted the tankard, grimacing at the bitter drink that slid down his throat.
“My grandfather sounds like a rotter.”
Toslon grimaced before he could disguise his reaction to the previous viscount.
“He did have a nasty temper and a habit of bullying those who sought to stand against him.” He shuddered. “Not an easy man.”
Ian battled that unwelcome sympathy for his father. Damn, he did not want to imagine Norrington as a frightened boy cowering in the garden to escape his father’s wrath. He was here for a purpose. A purpose that was growing increasingly difficult to recall.
“Do you know where this Summerville lived?” he forced himself to demand.
Tolson took a swig from his tankard, obviously immune to the bitter dregs that soured Ian’s stomach.
“From London, I believe.” He wiped the foam from his lips with his threadbare sleeve. “His family had no lands, although I believe they were wealthy enough.”
Ian frowned. “Were they Cits?”
“The word was not used in my hearing, but . . .”
“But it might have been something my grandfather discovered and held against this Summerville?”
“Aye.” The gardener shrugged. “He was proud enough to be offended by those who smelled of the shop. It was all a very long time ago.”
Ian heaved a sigh. It was becoming obvious that Tolson either had no notion of the scandal that had caused his father to pay Dunnington to keep silent or was refusing to confess the truth.
Either way, there was little point in beating a dead carcass.
“Yes, it was,” he grudgingly conceded. “Let us turn our attention to the present. Tell me how you go on.”
It was near an hour later before Ian could politely excuse himself and leave the pub.
Stupidly he found himself anxious to return to Rosehill as he gathered his horse and urged the restless mount into a steady trot. It was a sensation that was as astonishing as it was unexpected. Certainly he had never experienced it before.
Then again, Rosehill had never before been graced with a beautiful, magical wood sprite, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He cursed his treacherous thoughts as his body instantly stiffened with need. The journey was bound to be long enough without adding in the discomfort of being fully erect as he bounced over the rutted paths.
Despite her best attempts, Mercy could not entirely shake her sense of lethargy throughout the long day.
It was absurd. Beyond ridiculous. And utterly annoying.
Why should the absence of a gentleman she had just met make the day seem a bit duller and her studies a bit less intriguing?
Good heavens, this time at Rosehill was a dream come true. It was her one and only opportunity to exploit her love for learning and perhaps, if she were very fortunate, even have her work published by a London journal.
Until Ian Breckford’s arrival, her stay had been a source of endless pleasure. There had not been a moment she had not savored.
Now...
Damn. Now she wanted more.
Aggravated more by her treacherous emotions than by Ian’s absence, Mercy forced herself to choose a gown in bright yellow muslin. It was plainly made with only a bit of lace about the hem and a satin ribbon threaded through the bodice, but it always managed to make her feel less drab.
She was just finishing tugging her hair into a simple bun atop her head when she heard the door to her room open and close. With a frown at the unexpected intrusion, she rose from the dressing table and turned to regard the tall, achingly handsome gentleman.
Her heart came to a complete, perfect halt as she caught sight of Ian’s stunning beauty enhanced by the black jacket and silver waistcoat. Good . . . Lord. It should be a sin for a man to exude such wicked temptation. A poor maid simply had no chance.
She barely noticed the large package he dropped onto the bed as he prowled forward, his lithe body moving with a fluid ease. All she could think was that he had returned. He had not abandoned her after all.
Well, that was not all she could think of.
There was a most disturbing image of rushing forward to rip the clothes off that hard male body and running her hands over his smooth chest.
“Ian.” She battled against the jolt of lust that nearly sent her to her knees. “I thought . . .”
He arched a dark brow as he halted directly before her. “Yes?”
She unwittingly licked her dry lips, her breath catching as his brooding gaze watched the telltale movement with a smoldering intensity.
“I thought perhaps you had decided to leave Rosehill.”
“I did leave for a few hours.” A sudden comprehension brought a faint frown to his brow. “You thought I might not return?”
Mercy attempted to steady her breath. Just having this man near was enough to set her every nerve on fire. It was . . . unsettling, to say the least.
“Ella did mention that you do on occasion slip away without warning.”
For some reason her words seemed to annoy her companion. “And you thought that I would leave you without even saying a word.”
She blinked at his flat, accusing tone. “It is not as if you owe me—”
Without warning, Mercy was hauled roughly against Ian’s hard body, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss of sheer possession.
Mercy’s lashes floated downward as his tongue gently parted her lips to dip inside and stir her willing desire. He tasted of fresh air and heat and sheer male ambrosia. Melting pleasure pulsed through her blood, her body arching in silent encouragement as his hands stroked down her back to grasp her hips.
For timeless moments they remained lost in the wonder of the passionate kiss. Then, with obvious reluctance, Ian pulled back to regard her with a glittering gaze.
“Miss Mercy Simpson, I may be all kinds of a scoundrel, but I do not seduce innocents and then sneak away like a thief in the night,” he said huskily.
A combination of joy and aggravation surged through her at his low confession. Joy that he would not leave her without at least a proper good-bye, and aggravation that he would not accept that she was a grown woman who was perfectly capable of taking responsibility for her own choices.
“You did not seduce me,” she protested.
His lips curled in a wicked smile. “Very well. Then I do not sneak away after being thoroughly and wondrously compromised. Especially not when there might be the faintest chance that I might be compromised again. For that I would wait a very . . .” His head lowered to touch his lips to the pulse just below her ear. “Very . . .” His mouth nibbled a line down the curve of her throat. “Long time.”
Mercy was forced to grasp his arms as her legs threatened to give way. She was vividly aware of the hard press of his body and the rising evidence of his arousal. Just as she was aware of the tempting bed only a few feet away.
She wanted him to throw her onto that mattress and cover her with his lean form. She wanted to drown in the feel of his hands stroking over her body. She wanted him to fill that empty ache that was blooming between her legs.
Ian groaned, his fingers digging into her hips as if he could actually sense her explosive reaction.
And perhaps he could, she fuzzily acknowledged. She felt as if she were going up in flames. It was a wonder the entire room was not scorched.
It was only when his mouth had stroked a searing path down her bodice to linger upon the slight swell of her breast that she realized they were rushing toward a perilous point of no return.
A thought that might send a tremor of exquisite excitement down her spine but was hardly feasible when dinner would be served within the quarter hour.
Forcing herself to press her hands against his chest, Mercy arched back to dislodge his distracting mouth.
“Ian, we are expected downstairs,” she protested, her voice so thick she barely recognized it.
His lids were half lowered as he swept a slumberous gaze over her modest neckline.
“Do you suppose they would miss us?”
Her stomach clenched with a biting need. Now was not the time, but perhaps later . . .
Please, please let there be a later.
“Not me, but you would be conspicuously absent,” she murmured. “There might even be a search launched.”
“Highly doubtful. Still, I suppose I must be patient. Not one of my finer talents, I fear.” With a deep sigh, Ian allowed his hands to drop and strolled toward the bed. Perching on the edge of the mattress next to the small package, he leaned back on his arms and regarded her with a gleaming gaze. “Are you not the least curious about what I have brought to you?”
Mercy blinked in genuine surprise. “It is for me?”
“Of course.”
“What is it?”
“A gift.”
She gave a slow shake of her head, bafflement warring with pleasure. “But why?”
The dark eyes narrowed in confusion. “Does there have to be a reason? Can it not simply be because I desired to please you?”
Realizing that her response was swiftly stealing Ian’s pleasure, Mercy ruefully smiled and moved to stand beside the bed.
“I am sorry. It is just that I have never had anyone but my parents give me a gift.”
His expression lightened. “Then perhaps you are unaware that when someone gives you a gift, you are supposed to open it,” he teased.
With unsteady hands she reached out to tug off the string and pull the wrapper open. She was not certain what she expected. Some pretty trinket perhaps. What she discovered instead had her abruptly sitting on the edge of the bed as her hand reached out with reverent care.
“Oh . . .” She lifted one of the leather-bound books to discover it was a history of the wars of Justinian. The second concentrated upon the building of Constantinople, and the last . . . a personal account of Empress Theodora. “Oh.”
“Take care, they are dusty,” Ian warned.
They could have been covered in feathers and tar and not taken away the smallest iota of Mercy’s pleasure. Never in her entire life had she received such a priceless treasure.
“These are for me?” she breathed in wonderment. “To keep as my own?”
“For your very own.” Ian brushed a tender finger over her cheek, his features oddly softened as he studied her flushed countenance. “The beginnings of any great library must start somewhere.”
She gave a slow shake of her head, her heart squeezing with a near-painful emotion.
“I do not know what to say. They are perfect.”
He smiled into her wide eyes. “Are you not going to examine them and assure yourself they are not the work of a worthless hack?”
“Oh, no. I want to save them for when I return home. I cannot tell you how much pleasure they will give to me.” She paused as she realized he was regarding her with a strangely arrested expression. “What?”
“There are moments when your beauty astonishes me,” he whispered.
Her breath caught and lodged in her throat. “I am not beautiful.”
“You are without a doubt one of the loveliest women I have ever gazed upon,” he countered, his eyes holding a hint of bemusement, as if he were as caught off guard by his peculiar mood as she was. “But I speak of a beauty beyond the physical. Your purity is . . . intoxicating to my black soul.”
“Your soul is not black.” On impulse she reached up to touch a raven curl that had fallen onto his brow, her senses savoring the thick, silky texture. “I think you could be a good man, Ian Breckford, if only you were not so determined to be bad.”
His lips twisted. “Ah, but being bad is so much more fun, is it not, sweet Mercy?”
“Only when we do not hurt others,” she said, a blush staining her cheeks.
“And that is where we are different, I fear.”
“Not so different as you wish to believe,” she persisted, holding his gaze as her fingers skimmed over his brow. “Perhaps someday you will discover the truth for yourself.”
“Not bloody likely, my sweet, but if you wish to believe the best in me, then who am I to disabuse your fantasy?”
She clicked her tongue, knowing that beneath the hard surface this was a man of honor and compassion. A man who would understand that a stack of musty books would be a treasure beyond the finest diamond to a lonely spinster.
“You are too hard on yourself.”
His sharp crack of laughter echoed through the room. “Good God, you are the first to ever make such an absurd claim. If you were to travel to London, I can assure you that the citizens would tell you that I am a wicked, self-indulgent bastard who cares only for my own pleasure.”
“Because that is all you allow them to see.”
There was a pause before his chest expanded as he sucked in a deep breath.
“And what of you, sweet Mercy? What do you see?”
The words seemed torn from his lips, and Mercy smiled gently, knowing that her answer mattered more than he would ever admit.
“A gentleman who pretends to care about nothing because he cares too deeply about everything,” she said with soft honesty.
Abrubtly, he surged off the bed to stride toward the window. It was almost as if she had scraped a nerve too raw to bear.
“Well, that is truly the most convoluted sentence it has ever been my privilege to hear,” he drawled in mocking tones.
Mercy refused to be put off by his defensive response. This man had been wounded on too many occasions to easily allow another close. Not even a woman who was no more than a passing diversion that would be forgotten the moment he returned to London.
“I may not possess the proper words, but I do possess the proper understanding,” she said, rising to her feet to study the tense line of his shoulders. “I know what it is like to try and hide your feelings behind a mask. There are times when it is so smothering you just want to open the window and scream.”
For a moment she thought she had pressed him too far. The lines of his profile were harsh, his hands gripping the frame of the window until his knuckles turned white. Then, without warning, the stiffness seemed to leave his lithe body, as if he had been pleasantly distracted by a new thought.
“Why do you remain?” he abruptly demanded.
Mercy frowned in confusion at the abrupt shift in conversation.
“I have told you why.”
“What if there was another choice?” Slowly he turned to stab her with a glittering gaze. “What if your future was not set in stone?”
“What do you mean?”
“There is a world beyond Surrey, you know. You could come to London.”
She stiffened in shock. “You must be jesting.”
With a shrug, he moved forward, his gaze never wavering from her baffled expression.
“Why should I jest?”
“I do not have the funds or the means to travel to London, even if I were willing to leave my parents on their own, which I most certainly am not.”
Halting directly before her, Ian gently outlined her lips with the tip of his finger.
“You would have nothing to fret about, sweet Mercy,” he crooned. “I would see to whatever needs you might possess, including the hire of servants to care for your parents.”
“You—” She broke off her words as a sharp, incredulous realization slammed into her. “Dear God, are you asking me to become your mistress?”
“You have revealed that you do not find my advances utterly repulsive, and we seem to enjoy one another’s companionship outside the bed.” He smiled, oblivious to the fury that was beginning to flow through her blood with a dangerous force. “It seems a logical decision.”
Slapping away his hand, Mercy took a deliberate step backward.
“Logical?”
At last wariness touched his obscenely beautiful face. “Yes.”
“Perhaps for you, but certainly not for me.”
“Why ever not?”
His genuine puzzlement only fueled her temper.
Could he be so insufferably stupid that he would presume her a woman without morals just because she was willing to enjoy his touch? That she was willing to sell her virtue because she had found joy in sharing their passion?
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.”