Chapter 2
As was her habit, Mercy arrived in the front drawing room well before Lord Norrington and Ella descended from their chambers. She loved being alone in the blue and gold room with its rare Van Dyck paintings and delicate French furnishings. There was something very tranquil and ageless about the room. As if it had stood there unscathed for centuries and would remain for centuries more.
Not at all like her father’s crumbling cottage, which was decaying a bit more with each passing year, she acknowledged ruefully. Soon they would be living among rubble and praying the roof did not tumble onto their heads.
Stepping into the room, Mercy had nearly crossed to the long bank of windows that overlooked the formal hedge maze when she realized that she was not alone. There was no actual sound or even movement; it was the prickling along her skin that warned that another was near.
No, not another, she silently corrected.
Ian.
She knew it in the very marrow of her bones.
The knowledge that she was so potently aware of a near stranger was more than a little unnerving, and it was only with an effort that she managed to slowly turn and regard his hard, fiercely male form in a distant corner.
Her breath caught in her throat as she was struck anew by his dark beauty. Good heavens, he looked like a figure from a Renaissance painting. A masterpiece.
A tiny shiver of excitement raced through her body as she studied the finely chiseled profile. She sensed that he was aware of her presence as intensely as she was aware of his, but he continued to study the large vase of roses as if she were invisible.
“They are lovely, are they not?” she said, smiling faintly at his deliberate ploy. He no doubt presumed that his pretense at ignoring her would pique her interest. Foolish when her interest was already dangerously captivated. “I believe Lord Norrington had them shipped from China.”
He slowly straightened, his dark gaze running an intimate survey over her blue muslin gown that was modestly cut to reveal the barest hint of her small bosom. Only when Mercy was certain he had managed to memorize every line of her body did he lift his gaze to offer her that wicked, potent smile.
“I prefer the wild daisies that grow in the south meadow. They have a charming habit of luring wood sprites into their midst.”
She gave a rueful shake of her head. “Good heavens, do you never halt?”
“Not until I am in my grave.” He waved a slender hand toward the heavy sideboard. “Can I offer you a sherry?”
With an effort, she kept her own gaze from straying toward his hard, elegant body that was encased in a smooth champagne jacket and ivory satin waistcoat.
“Thank you, no.”
“I assure you that I did not slip down here early so that I could poison my father’s spirits.” His smile twisted. “And even if I did, it would not be the sherry.”
He did not need to say that it would have been his father’s brandy. It was written in his mocking expression.
“I do not partake of any spirits.”
“Of course.” Folding his arms over his chest, Ian leaned against the satin-paneled wall. “I forgot you were the dutiful daughter of a vicar.”
“I do not drink spirits because I do not care for the taste,” she corrected.
The humor in his eyes deepened at the reprimand in her voice. “Ah. And do you also dislike the taste of tea?”
“I like tea very well.”
“Then why, I wonder, did you so assiduously avoid sharing a pot with my aunt this afternoon?”
She smoothed her hands down her skirts, not about to reveal she had needed time to gather her thoughts. The man was smug enough without realizing he had managed to captivate yet another poor maiden with nothing more than a smile.
“I realized that Ella would be anxious to speak with you in private,” she said calmly. “She adores you.”
“I am fairly fond of her myself.”
“Are you?” Mercy gave a lift of her brows. “You disguise it well.”
There was a sharp pause before Ian tilted back his head to give a short laugh.
“The devil take you.”
“What?”
He reached out to grasp her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gazing deep into her suddenly wide eyes.
“You have an uncanny ability to insult a poor bloke with the voice of an angel. I do not know whether to be annoyed or bewitched.”
Her breath threatened to lodge in her throat as the heat of his touch speared directly to the pit of her stomach. He was so close. Close enough she could catch the scent of sandlewood warming on his skin. It wrapped about her with seductive force.
With a deliberate motion she took a step back. No woman could possibly think clearly when her heart was fluttering like a caged bird.
“I have come to care a great deal for Ella,” she managed to retort, her voice surprisingly steady.
“And that gives you the right to chastise her beloved nephew?”
She shrugged. “Of course not. I am merely a guest in your home.”
“But I notice that does not halt you.”
Absently she reached out to stroke her finger over one of the vibrant rose blooms.
“I believe someone should inform you how your aunt longs to be a part of your life.”
“She has just assured me that she has an entire legion of spies to keep her apprised of my every movement.”
“That is not the same as having your company.”
He muttered a low curse as his brows drew together in an annoyed frown. “Not that I need explain myself to you, Miss Simpson, but I do not like Rosehill.”
She smiled wryly. “Yes, I had gathered as much.”
“Then you should also gather that my father desires me here even less than I desire to be here.”
There was no mistaking the edge in his voice. She was blatantly thrusting herself where she did not belong, but Mercy refused to back away. For all her tingling reaction to Ian Breckford, she had come to care too deeply for Ella not to at least attempt to make him realize just how selfishly he was behaving.
“I do not believe that.”
“You should.” With a jerky motion he pulled a small flask from beneath his jacket and took a deep drink. “It is the God’s honest truth. I will even swear to it on the family Bible if you insist. A family Bible I might add that does not include my name.”
His expression was hard as granite, but Mercy did not miss the flare of bitter pain in his eyes. Her heart threatened to melt at the realization that he truly suffered from the rift between he and his father.
Her expression softened as she reached out to lightly touch his arm. His muscles were rigid beneath her fingers, but he did not pull away.
“Fathers rarely find it comfortable to show affection toward their children,” she said gently. “I believe it is because they always feel they need to be strong for their family. That does not mean, however, they do not love us.”
His sardonic laugh rasped through the air. “You truly are naïve, are you not?”
She stiffened. “Now who is being insulting?”
Returning the flask to his jacket, Ian smoothly slid an arm about her waist, his expression shifting with a wicked intent.
“There is no insult in innocence,” he murmured, his arm drawing her steadily toward his body. “Indeed, I find it quite enticing.”
Mercy did not fight against his hold, not even when she discovered herself pressed against the hard angles and planes of his male form. She had never been so close to a man, and the sensations streaking through her body were too potent to easily deny.
“I am beginning to suspect you find everything enticing.”
The stunning gold eyes darkened, his large hand splayed at the curve of her back.
“Just beginning to suspect?”
She tilted back her head, not nearly as frightened as common sense told her she should be. Not even when she felt the surge of heat rush through her blood.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
He gave a choked sound. “Good Lord.”
“What is the matter?”
“You are the most unpredictable female I have ever encountered.” His gaze studied her upturned countenance as if she were some baffling mystery. “I never know what you might say next.”
She breathed in deeply of sandlewood and pure male as he cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb lightly stroking her heated cheek.
“I merely say what is upon my mind.”
“Astonishing.”
“I do not know why,” she managed to mutter. “It has always seemed ridiculous to me that a maiden is expected to say one thing while she is feeling another.”
“The rules of society are not supposed to make sense, sweetness.”
“Please do not call me that,” she abruptly demanded.
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me wonder if you can actually recall my name.”
His eyes briefly widened before a predatory smile curved his lips.
“Mercy. Sweet Mercy. As exquisite as a wood sprite,” he husked, his head slowly beginning to lower. “I shall never forget your name.”
She did not truly believe him, but it no longer mattered as his lips brushed over her own with a startling tenderness. She had expected the warmth of his lips and even the expertise as he stroked and teased at her mouth. But nothing could have warned her of the sharp pleasure that clenched her body.
She felt as if her every nerve was suddenly tingling with a newfound awareness. As if something dormant within her, something that had been waiting all these years for Ian’s touch, had been stirred to life.
Yes. This was what the poets spoke of. This was the magic that made perfectly intelligent women toss aside all sense for passion.
Instinctively she arched closer to the hard muscles of his body. He was so warm, so strong, so . . . male.
His fingers shifted to cup the back of her neck, keeping her head in place as he deepened his kiss. Mercy’s head spun with pleasure, vibrantly aware of the stirring hardness of his groin as it pressed against her lower stomach.
It was the feel of his tongue parting her lips that at last shocked her back to reality. A reality that included the fact they were standing in the formal drawing room with the threat of Lord Norrington or Ella walking in at any moment.
Lifting her hands, she pressed against the broad width of his chest.
“Mr. Breckford.”
His head shifted so that he could boldly nuzzle the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat.
“My name is Ian.”
She swallowed a low groan before giving his chest another push. As much as she was enjoying (and she was enjoying) his delicious kisses, she was not so lost to reason as to risk being caught in such a compromising position.
Not only would her reputation be in tatters, but she might very well be sent back to her parents. And that she could not bear.
Not yet, at least.
“I did not give you leave to kiss me,” she chided, well aware that her words were a tad ridiculous when her lips must be swollen and her cheeks flushed with lingering pleasure.
He chuckled softly. “I wished you to know that I can be as unpredictable as you.”
Mercy lifted her brows. His words were even more ridiculous than hers.
“Actually, I would say that having you kiss me was very predictable.”
His gaze slowly roamed down her body. “Because you are so irresistible?”
“Because, Ian Breckford, you are a rake, and for the moment, you are trapped in the country with only me to try to seduce.”
For Ian, the dinner that followed was a mixture of fury and fascination.
Fury that his cold jackass of a father had not bothered even to acknowledge his presence as he had taken his seat at the impossibly long dinner table, and fascination with the tiny wood sprite seated across from him.
The fury he expected. When had there been an occasion that Lord Norrington had condescended to actually pretend he was anything but indifferent to his only child?
Against his will, Ian’s gaze turned toward the man seated at the head of the table.
With his black hair perfectly crimped and styled to frame his thin face, Lord Norrington looked far younger than his fifty years. His body was lean beneath the tailored gray coat and black waistcoat while his face remained unlined. He could easily have passed for a gentleman half his age if it were not for the jaded glitter in his dark brown eyes. Those eyes revealed a man who had lived a life of disillusionment.
Which was ridiculous considering he had been handed every luxury in the world on a silver platter.
The fascination, however, was rather unexpected.
Readily he switched his attention toward the lovely Mercy Simpson.
He was accustomed to lusting after any pretty woman who entered a room. He was a man, for God’s sake. And the fact that their kiss had shattered his staunch defenses to the point he had ached to back her against the wall and take her right there in the formal dining room was obviously because she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.
His fascination had to be the knowledge that his entire body hummed with anticipation each time she opened those pretty lips that caught him off guard. There was something about that low, beguiling voice and the realization that he had no notion what words might come out of her mouth that held him almost spellbound.
She was completely unique.
A woman like no other.
He found his gaze lingering throughout the long dinner, barely aware of Ella’s bright chatter or his father’s occasional response. Instead he silently absorbed the sight and scent of Mercy as she delicately tasted the dishes set before her.
It was not until dinner came to an end and his father made a hurried retreat to his conservatory that Ian returned to his senses. Devil take him. He was not here to moon over some innocent chit.
A pity, but there it was.
There was only one person who knew the secret that Lord Norrington harbored. And that was Lord Norrington.
Escorting his aunt and Mercy to a small parlor, he kissed their hands and forced himself to make his way through the marble hallways until he at last reached the connecting passageway that led to the conservatory.
Reaching the glass doors, he found himself pausing.
As a child this room had been forbidden territory. His father had claimed that he was concerned that a young Ian might cause devastation among his precious blooms, but Ian knew even then that it was merely an excuse to escape his unwelcome presence.
So, of course, once his father had retreated to his bedchamber, he had nightly slipped from his bed to sneak into the sacred space.
Not only because he was just stubborn enough to prove (if only to himself) that there was no place he could not enter, but because he had some ridiculous notion that he might discover some key to his father’s heart amidst the fragrant beauty.
Ridiculous, indeed.
Muttering a curse beneath his breath, Ian reached out and thrust the door open. The scent of rich, black earth and flowers in bloom hit him as he stepped inside and carefully made his way down the path. It was a scent that he detested, he acknowledged as he continued to the back of the glass-lined room, at last discovering his father carefully repotting a strange orange plant.
At his approach, the older man turned, his expression far from pleased.
Welcome home, Ian Breckford, he thought wryly.
“This is quite a collection,” he murmured, well aware that his father would never speak first. He pointed toward the orange flower. “Very exotic.”
With an awkward motion, Lord Norrington returned his attention to his plant.
“Lord Walford traveled to Africa last year and was kind enough to acquire several rare species for me. I am attempting to make them a sturdier plant to endure our English climate.”
Ian hid his start of surprise. His father had not only spoken, but, wonder of wonders, it was not in a voice of dismissal.
Could the old man at last feel some guilt for treating his son as an unwanted bit of rubbish?
Whatever the cause, Ian knew that he could not waste the opportunity.
“Can you do that?” he demanded. “Actually alter them?”
“Perhaps someday.”
Careful not to stray too close to Norrington, Ian moved to lean against the heavy wooden table, watching as his father deftly handled the fragile plant.
“How did you become interested in flowers?” he asked, hoping if he could just get his father into a conversation, he might reveal something. Anything.
There was a long, awkward silence before Norrington at last cleared his throat.
“My mother. She loved to spend her days in the garden, and she taught me everything she knew.” His profile tightened as he reached for a rag to roughly wipe his fingers. “My father disapproved, of course.”
“Disapproved?” Ian studied the older man in confusion. “Why?”
“He thought his heir should be more interested in hunting and drinking with the other fribbles who lived in the neighborhood. It did not matter that my skills were increasing our crop yield and returning a profit he could never hope to achieve on his own.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I was a disappointment, to say the least.”
Ian felt a familiar sharp pang in the region of his heart. He knew all about being a disappointment. There was not a day of his childhood that he was not aware he was lacking what his father desired in a son.
Astonishingly, however, he realized there was something else in that pang. Something that might have been pity.
“Perhaps he resented your superiority as a farmer. Tending to your land is, after all, the most important part of being a nobleman, is it not?”
Norrington shrugged, using the rag in his hand to wipe the stray dirt off the table. The silence stretched. And just kept stretching.
For once, Ian resisted the urge to walk away in hurt disdain or fill the air with mindless chatter. He just leaned casually against the table and waited for whatever might come.