Chapter 12
Mercy was nearly consumed by the potent emotions that trembled through her body. Excitement, exasperation, and a small thread of unease.
It was not that she worried Ian would harm her. It was simply not in his nature. Unfortunately, the threat she sensed had nothing to do with such mundane danger.
Instead it had everything to do with the predatory male that branded her with his lightest touch.
When she had made the decision to remain at Rosehill, she had known it would be difficult. She might be infuriated with Ian, but it did nothing to lessen the fierce awareness that shimmered between them.
Foolishly, she had thought she could manage to avoid being alone with the man. So long as Ella was near, there was no concern that Mercy would give in to temptation. Not even Ian would attempt to seduce a woman beneath his aunt’s nose.
Now she had to wonder if she had deliberately deceived herself.
Perhaps her aching need to remain at Rosehill was not entirely a reluctance to return home, or even guilt at abandoning Ella after the woman had been so kind to her. Perhaps she had secretly . . .
No, she would not allow herself to consider the disturbing notion.
Not when it was bound to reveal she had no option but to pack her bags and leave.
For once in her life, she wanted to turn a blind eye and simply hope for the best.
Stupid, of course, but soon enough she would be back to her dull, sensible self. All she asked was a few more days of freedom.
Meeting Ian’s smoldering gaze, Mercy unconsciously squared her shoulders.
“It has nothing to do with fear of losing the bet,” she lied without compunction. Hot pokers could not induce her to confess her absolute confidence he could satisfy her every fantasy. “I simply find the thought distasteful.”
He brushed a hand up the bare curve of her neck. “For a woman who was so intent upon seducing me, sweet Mercy, you have a great number of conditions of how that seduction is to proceed. Are you always so demanding?”
Mercy quivered. Dear heavens, she was drowning in the scent and heat of his body. She pressed her hands flat against the armoire. It was that or throw her arms about his neck and beg for his kiss.
“I have demanded nothing of you.”
“No, I would prefer that you had.” His eyes darkened with a yearning he made no effort to disguise. “Instead, you have stirred my desire to a fever pitch and then refused to satisfy the need you have created. There are few things more cruel.” His lips twisted. “Or more likely to send me stark, raving mad.”
Mercy felt a small pang of guilt. There was no denying the fact she had done all in her power to lure this man into her bed.
Who knew a simple affair could become so bloody complicated?
“That was not my intent.”
“Then what was your intent?”
She attempted to inch toward the side, her hand reaching for the small wooden knob on the armoire to offer her leverage. It was impossible to think clearly when her entire body was throbbing with frustrated desire.
“I do not wish to discuss this, Ian.”
“But I do.” His fingers lingered on the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, his head lowering to gently nibble at her bottom lip. “I am, after all, the one suffering.”
Mercy could not hold back her low moan. His tongue lightly outlined her mouth, and her entire body tightened with anticipation. This man had tutored her in the delights of the flesh, and she was desperate to once again feel that glorious explosion of pleasure.
“Sweet Mercy,” he muttered, abruptly kissing her with a fierce hunger that was echoed within her.
For a wondrous moment she savored the stark demand of his lips. There was nothing practiced or skillful about this kiss. This was not the famous Casanova seducing a woman.
It was a sheer, raw need that was far more thrilling than any amount of expertise.
At last it was the feel of his fingers gently cupping the aching weight of her breast that jerked her out of the blissful fog.
Her body had no confusion. It wanted Ian. It wanted to melt onto the floor and allow him to fill the ache that tortured her.
Her mind, however, was not yet prepared to lower her guard.
She told herself that it was the memory of his offensive offer to make her his mistress. After all, no woman desired to be made to feel like a tart.
A tiny voice, however, whispered that she was not being entirely honest with herself.
“Ian . . .”
Her hand tightened on the knob of the armoire, causing the door to jerk open. A sudden avalanche of papers tumbled out of the dark depths, startling Ian enough to make him pull back in alarm. Mercy was swift to take advantage of his distraction, swiftly bending downward to begin gathering the scattered papers.
“Leave them,” Ian growled as he knelt beside her, his expression tight with frustration.
She ignored his command, her eyes widening as she glanced at the thick parchment in her hands.
“Good heavens, how beautiful,” she breathed.
Muttering a low curse, Ian snatched up one of the papers, his brows drawing together as he studied the charcoal sketching.
“The Coliseum . . .” He plucked another from the floor. “The Pantheon . . . These were done in Rome.”
“Yes,” Mercy agreed, holding up the sketch in her hand. “This one is of the Trevi Fountain.”
He shrugged, his eyes still dark with suppressed desire. “My father must have sketched these during his Grand Tour.”
“They may have been done during your father’s Grand Tour, but they were sketched by your aunt.”
Unexpectedly Ian stilled, as if disturbed by her offhand correction.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“They are signed and dated on the back.” She held up her sketch to point out Ella’s scrawled signature at the bottom corner. “See?”
“Impossible.” Surging to his feet, Ian tossed aside the papers and paced toward the small window that offered the only light amid the gloom.
With a frown, Mercy slowly straightened. “Is something the matter?”
“Ella never mentioned that she had traveled the Continent with my father.”
She studied the hard lines of his profile. “Does it matter?”
“It does if the dates are correct.”
“Why?”
“She would have been with my father when he was in the process of seducing my mother.” He slowly turned to meet her uncertain gaze. “Those sketches were completed just a few months before my birth.”
“Oh.” Mercy was still confused. She sensed Ian’s coiled tension, but she was not certain of the cause. “And she never told you?”
Ian glared toward the scattered sketches. “Not only did she not tell me, but she more than implied that she knew nothing of my mother or my father’s relationship with her.”
“Perhaps your father kept it a secret,” Mercy hesitantly suggested, uncertain of his strange mood. “After all, I doubt many gentlemen would be anxious to share the details of their intimate connections with their sister.”
“Maybe not, but it could hardly remain a secret once the poor woman died and left me in the care of my father.” He gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Not even Lord Norrington would have been capable of hiding a newborn babe as he traveled across the Continent.”
“No, I am certain that he must have revealed the truth once he claimed you as his child.” She slowly shook her head as his gaze remained trained upon the sketches. “Ian?”
“Hmmm?”
“What is troubling you?”
He turned his head to meet her worried frown. Something flashed deep in his eyes before he was effectively hiding his emotions behind a smooth, unreadable expression.
“I am weary of my family’s habit of shrouding even the simplest of occurrences in a cloak of mystery. Anyone would think they possessed something to hide.”
She easily sensed that he was not telling her the full truth.
“You seem more angered than weary,” she accused, unconsciously closing the space between them. “Could it be that your family is not the only ones with secrets?”
“I do not like the knowledge I have been lied to.”
“Your aunt not revealing that she had traveled with your father is not precisely a lie. It is more a . . .” Mercy considered the appropriate word. “More an omission of facts.”
He arched a dark brow. “A rather fine distinction for a vicar’s daughter.”
“It is very possible Ella merely presumed you would have no interest in her youthful travels.” Mercy paused, her thoughts traveling back to Ella’s lecture upon the dangers of rakes. There had been a haunting bitterness about the woman. “Or perhaps they are simply too painful for her to recall.”
“Painful?”
“I have a distinct impression that your aunt suffered from a tragic disappointment in her life. It is quite possible she tumbled into love during her travels and after suffering through a broken heart packed away the memory of those days along with these mementoes.” Mercy gave a lift of her hands. “They would only cause her pain to have them out again.”
Ian stilled, his gaze suddenly shimmering with a heat that warned he was no longer consumed with the sketches or his aunt’s travels to the Continent.
Before she could react, he had framed her face with his hands. “Good God, you are a romantic.”
“What?”
“There can be no other explanation for such a ridiculous flight of fancy.”
“And you are a cynic to immediately presume some nefarious plot against you,” she swiftly countered.
“Obviously we are perfectly suited.”
“Perfectly . . .” She shook her head in disbelief. “That is the most ridiculous notion I have ever heard. We have just established that we are utter opposites.”
His thumbs toyed at the corners of her mouth. “Which makes for the most intriguing combination.”
“You would think any combination that includes a female intriguing,” she muttered.
“Well, it is certainly preferable to one that includes a male. Still, I am not without standards.” He dipped his head, brushing her lips with a tender kiss. “Extraordinarily high standards.”
Mercy shivered, her hands clutching at his arms as her knees went weak.
“Ian, we are supposed to be searching for the tablecloths.”
He nipped at her bottom lip before trailing a path of blazing kisses down the length of her jaw.
“They will eventually be discovered.”
“Not unless we search for them.”
“We have plenty of time.”
She splayed her hands across his chest, as always caught off guard by the ripple of muscle beneath her fingers. Ian was so slender it was easy to forget the strength in his lean body.
She could just imagine all that hard maleness covering her and . . . no, no, no. She forced her hands to press against his chest.
“Ian, stop this.”
Ignoring her futile efforts, Ian buried his face in the curve of her neck.
“Christ, your scent is driving me mad.”
He was being driven mad? Good Lord, his hands were creating a trail of destruction as they skimmed down her back and gripped her hips. With one yank, she was pressed intimately against his body.
She sucked in a sharp breath at the feel of his hard arousal pressed against her hip.
“No, Ian, I am still furious with you,” she forced herself to mutter.
“Why?” Lifting his head, he stabbed her with his glittering gaze. “I am not asking you to become my mistress.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She had a point. Of course she had a point. It was just so damnably difficult to think when her heart was thundering and her lower body clenched with aching need.
“That you would presume I was the sort of female to agree to your proposal,” she hastily accused as his head lowered to continue with his all-too-persuasive seduction.
His eyes narrowed, as if sensing there was more to her bout of nerves than mere outrage. Oddly, however, he did not press.
“I presumed nothing, my sweet Mercy,” he denied. “My only thought when I requested you to become my mistress was that I desired you more than I have desired any other woman and that I wanted to ensure that I had you in my bed for longer than a handful of nights. That might very well prove that I am a selfish bastard, but it has no judgment on your character.” He peered deep into her wide eyes. “I wanted you, and that’s all I considered.”
The indignation that she had nurtured began to falter beneath his simple words. He had been selfish, but not deliberately cruel. Much like any other man, no doubt.
Mercy, however, was more shaken by his precise words than by the overall content.
“Ian, do not say such things.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are so obviously untrue,” she said, her expression wounded.
His brows snapped together. “What the hell do you mean?”
She again shoved at his chest. With the same result. She would have more luck attempting to move the Great Wall of China.
“You do not desire me more than any other woman. It is absurd.”
His scowl only deepened. “You presume to know what I feel?”
“I am a plain country miss who knows nothing of gentlemen. Hardly the sort to inspire passion in any man, let alone the renowned Casanova.”
“Plain?” He gave a disbelieving shake of his head, his gaze searing over her pale face. “Christ, do you never glance into a mirror? You are . . . exquisite.”
A blush stained her cheeks. “Hardly exquisite, but I spoke of my lack of worldly polish.”
“Worldly polish?” He gave a snort of disgust. “Have you ever considered the notion that any gentleman would weary of the jaded sophistication to be found in London? I never realized just how intoxicating it could be to discover a woman who is capable of speaking what is on her mind.” His hands tightened on her hips, the tiny pain sending a small thrill down her spine. “A woman who does not use artifice to attract the attention of a gentleman.”
Her breath was squeezed from her lungs at his low, husky words. She was being ridiculous, of course. A seasoned rake always knew the perfect words to make a woman feel special. How else could they so easily lure her to his bed?
Still, she was an aging spinster who had never been courted or flattered or admired. She had never felt beautiful or desired by anyone.
How could she not feel at least some pleasure in his pretense of unwavering fascination?
“Ian . . .”
She was not entirely certain what she intended to say, but in the end it did not matter. His name had barely tumbled from her lips when there was the sound of approaching footsteps that halted at the bottom of the attic stairs.
“Miss Simpson.” The maid’s voice echoed eerily through the dusty gloom. “Miss Simpson, are ye up there?”
Mercy froze, her heart lodged in her throat. She had devoted a great deal of thought to being seduced by Ian Breckford, more thought than she cared to admit. But those daydreams had never included being caught in a dusty attic in his arms. She had no wish to become the latest fodder for gossip among the servants.
“Ian, you must release me,” she hissed.
He lowered his head to whisper next to her ear, his sandalwood scent clouding her mind and making her knees weak.
“Ignore her,” he whispered. “Eventually she will go away.”
“More likely she will come up and discover us together,” she warned. “You must let me go.”
As if to make her point, the maid loudly cleared her throat. “Miss Simpson?”
With a glare at the man who refused to loosen his grip, Mercy concentrated on keeping her voice steady.
“Yes, Maggie, I am here. What do you need?”
“Ye have visitors.”
“Visitors?” Mercy met Ian’s narrowed gaze with a flare of confusion. “There must be some mistake.”
“Nay, Miss.” The maid sounded almost apologetic. “’Tis the Vicar and Mrs. Simpson.”
“No . . .” Mercy grasped Ian’s shoulders as a black tide of dismay swept through her. “Oh no.”