Chapter 4
For once Ian Breckford found himself at a loss. Oh, he understood his shock at her stark confession of never having been kissed. How the devil did any woman reach her age without having stolen into a dark garden with at least one eager gentleman? He even understood his continued erection despite the fact they stood a near acre apart. That soft, husky voice would make him randy if she were halfway across the world.
What he did not understand was the unnerving disappointment that clenched his heart.
Could it be that he still possessed enough of his tattered morals to resist despoiling such lovely innocence?
The devil take it, the chit was the most beautiful creature he had ever encountered. As exquisite as a Renaissance angel. And the mere thought of having her naked beneath him was enough to make his cock twitch with savage excitement. To actually think about forgoing the pleasure she could offer was a sin against nature.
Unfortunately, he could not shake a measure of queasiness at the idea of tarnishing such pure virtue.
When he had made his promise to his aunt not to force Miss Simpson into an affair, it had been with the full belief that it would be an easy matter to seduce her into offering what he desired. A belief that had been confirmed during the brief moments he had leaned against her trembling body. Her desire had been potent enough to perfume the air.
The woman was ripe and longing to be plucked.
But by the gods, Miss Mercy Simpson was not just another female. She was intelligent and kind and prepared to sacrifice her entire life for those who depended upon her. She deserved more than a meaningless tumble by a jaded wreck of a man.
It would be like leading a lamb to slaughter.
Unaware of his tangled thoughts, Mercy shifted uneasily beneath his brooding gaze, her expression one of unwitting challenge.
“I do not need your pity, Mr.—” Her eyes flashed as he held up a warning hand. “Ian.”
Strolling forward, Ian offered a short, mirthless laugh. “If I was pitying anyone, it is myself.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because it is not often that I do not simply take what I desire and damn the consequences.” He ran a longing gaze over her delicate form, excruciatingly aware of how the firelight outlined her soft curves beneath the thin muslin gown. If he did not get to his chambers so he could relieve his throbbing erection, he was going to burst. “In truth, I cannot remember the last occasion I have not done so.”
A smile that could have launched those damnable ships curved her lips. Devil take her, for all her innocence she was clearly a born siren.
“And what is it that you desire?”
His breath hissed between his teeth as he made a determined path toward the door.
“You are not that naïve,” he muttered.
“Are you leaving?”
“I am wise enough not to tempt fate, or my less-than-dependable sense of fair play.” He wrenched open the door and paused without turning. One glance at that sweet, vulnerable face and he would be on her like a . . . he groaned in genuine agony. “Good night, sweet Mercy.”
The night had been a restless one for Ian. Not an unusual event. Lately most of his nights had been plagued by nightmares.
Of course, until he had arrived at Rosehill his nightmares had not included elusive wood sprites who enticed him with their magical beauty and then danced out of reach when he attempted to grasp them.
It did not improve matters to awaken so hard and aching he was forced to relieve the pressure once again.
The sun had barely crested the horizon when he was out of bed and allowing one of the numerous male servants to assist him with his bath and shave. He expected his own valet to arrive later in the day, thank God. Reaver was accustomed to dashing about London and the surrounding countryside in a perpetual effort to keep pace with his restless employer.
Once attired in his black jacket and silver-striped waistcoat, Ian made his way through the hushed grandeur of the house to the back breakfast room.
As expected he discovered his aunt seated at a small table partaking of her morning meal. In some ways Ella was as predictable as her brother.
“Good morning, Aunt Ella.”
“Ian?” The older woman regarded his entrance with genuine shock. “My gracious, either the accommodations at Rosehill have become shabby beyond repair or the earth is coming to an end. You never rise before noon.”
Crossing the black-and-white tiled floor, Ian grasped his aunt’s plump fingers and raised them to his lips.
“Only the pleasure of your companionship could possibly have lured me from the comforts of my bed at such an ungodly hour.”
Ella clicked her tongue, but there was no mistaking the blush of pleasure that bloomed on her cheeks.
“Very pretty, but I am not quite so gullible as to believe such nonsense.”
Straightening, Ian pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me, my dearest.”
“Rapscallion.” Ella smiled fondly. “Will you join me?”
“But of course.” Politely, Ian turned to the sideboard and studied the generous array of eggs, toast, kidneys, bacon, and his aunt’s favorite scones. A smile touched his lips as he recalled the lean years he could barely afford a bowl of porridge while his father wasted enough to feed an entire village. It was a thought he was swift to banish. Nothing could be served by wounding his aunt’s feelings. “Ah, nothing less than a feast,” he murmured.
“If you do not recognize any of the dishes, please feel free to inquire,” Ella teased.
Ian filled a plate and returned to take his place at the table. “It has not been that long since I enjoyed breakfast.”
The older woman snorted. “I will eat my favorite bonnet if you have seen the sunrise in the past decade.”
“Very well, your bonnet is no doubt saved from horrid mastication,” he conceded with a grin.
There was silence as they both enjoyed the expertly prepared food, Ian draining two cups of coffee in the hopes it would rid him of the clinging lethargy.
At last Ella patted her lips with a linen napkin and regarded Ian with a curious gaze.
“Why are you here, Ian?”
Ian did not miss a beat as he carefully returned his cup to the Wedgwood saucer. “Have you not always insisted that this is my home?”
“It is, but you have determinedly refused to see it as such.” Her head tilted. “Indeed, you have gone to great efforts to avoid Surrey. So you cannot blame me for being curious as to why you should suddenly arrive on our doorstep.”
“Honestly, I am not entirely certain.” That, in part, was true. If he possessed any sense at all, he would call for his horse and be back in London by this evening. “I only know that after Dunnington died, I . . .”
Ella’s brown eyes softened in swift sympathy. “What?”
With an effort, Ian pressed back the raw pain, his hand unconsciously rubbing his chest above his aching heart. The devil take it, would there ever be a day when he could think of his old friend without the savage sense of loss?
“I felt a need to know more of my past.”
Surprisingly, Ella’s cheerful countenance was darkened by a hint of wariness.
“Your past?”
Ian stilled. Was it possible that his aunt knew of Lord Norrington’s dark sin?
“That surely is not so strange.” He leaned back in his chair, the very image of nonchalance. “I know nothing of my mother beyond the fact my father met her on his travels through the Continent and that she died during my childbirth.”
Ella’s gaze abruptly dropped to her empty plate. “Yes, well, I do not believe that Norry knew her for any length of time.”
“He must have known her for at least nine months if he was at her side to bring me back to England with him.”
“Actually, I believe he had traveled on to Venice when he heard of her death in Rome and returned to collect you from the orphanage.”
It was certainly plausible, but for some reason Ian felt as if his aunt was hedging. What the devil could she possibly be hiding?
“So she had no family?”
“None that she claimed.”
“Was she a common woman or a lady of society?”
“I . . .” Ella was forced to halt and clear her throat. “I believe she might have been a maid in the villa where he was staying. I am sorry I cannot tell you more.”
Ian gave an unconscious shake of his head. It was not an uncommon story. Many gentlemen made a sport of seducing the local maids. Hell, he’d enjoyed his own share. Ella’s discomfort was no doubt a mere reaction at the thought her perfect paragon of a brother sharing his seed with a common servant.
“It seems strange that my father would go to the effort to retrieve me and bring me to his home,” he mused. “It surely would have been more in character to simply have offered a sum for my upbringing.”
Ella lifted her head to regard him with a sad smile. “He is not as heartless as you would choose to believe, Ian. He is a good man.”
“I must take your word for that.”
“Ian—”
He interrupted the words he did not want to hear. “Are there any other bastards?”
“No.” Ella’s plump hands fluttered at the question. “No, of course not.”
Ian shrugged. It had occurred to him that his father’s sin might be foisting a brat upon some unsuspecting aristocrat. It was, after all, impossible for a gentleman to know for certain if a child was actually his own, and if his father had been conducting a discrete affair with some society tart, then he might be willing to pay Dunnington to hide the knowledge that he had left a cuckoo in the nest.
“I do not know why you would be shocked. It is not that uncommon for a gentleman to produce more than one by-blow.” His lips twisted. “I merely wondered if I possessed any brother or sisters and why they were not brought to Rosehill.”
“You are your father’s only child,” Ella said with a soft certainty.
Ian was struck by a sudden thought. “Yes. Odd, that.”
“What is odd?”
“The old man is getting on in years. Surely he should be fretting over the need to pass his title to a legitimate heir.”
Ella sucked in a sharp breath. “Really, Ian, this is hardly a proper conversation for the breakfast table.”
“I would think it a conversation often shared around the breakfast tables of the aristocracy,” he drawled. “That is the duty of a nobleman, is it not? To produce a herd of progeny?”
“I . . . I suppose it is.”
“Then why has my father been so reluctant to fetch himself a bride and litter the house with screaming brats?” he demanded. “Could it be that he has yet to discover a woman who can live up to his expectations of perfection?”
“Ian, as much as I love you, I cannot bear for you to speak so scathingly of your father.” Without warning, Ella was on her feet and moving toward the nearby door. “If you will excuse me, I believe Mercy will be awaiting me in the parlor.”
Ian watched her departure with a frown. It was rare for his aunt to lose her temper, and certainly he had never seen her actually storm from a room.
It was enough to make him wonder if she was truly angered by his less-than-flattering comments concerning his father or if there was something else.
Something she was hiding.
Mercy managed to ignore the pressing urgency to go in search of Ian Breckford until Ella had retired to her rooms to prepare for dinner.
It had been frighteningly difficult. More than once, she had discovered her thoughts turning to the wicked, fascinating gentleman when she was supposed to be addressing the invitations for Ella’s charity luncheon. And even when she had been allowed her usual hours in the library to work on her studies, her gaze had annoyingly drifted toward the bank of windows, as if she feared she might miss the sight of Ian strolling through the gardens.
It was thoroughly aggravating.
And thoroughly unshakable.
At last she could resist the urge no longer, and, muttering beneath her breath, she left the sanctuary of the library. Moving down the corridor, she had reached the staircase when she noticed the tall, decidedly male form silently slip into the passageway that led to the conservatory.
For a heartbeat she paused. She might be innocent, but she knew quite well it was not proper to chase after a gentleman like a hound on the scent. Especially not a gentleman who was known throughout England as a prolific rake.
But then again, as Ella’s companion, it was surely her duty to remind Ian Breckford that his poor aunt had been noticeably disappointed when he had failed to make an appearance for luncheon.
Not giving herself time to consider, she hurried down the steps and through the passageway.
It was the first time she had actually entered the massive iron and glass structure, and she was startled by the long bank of shelves that held pot after pot of fragrant flowers. Heavens. There had to be hundreds of plants stacked within the humid heat of the long room, and all of them putting out enough fragrance to choke an elephant. Mercy wrinkled her nose as she followed the paving stones toward the back of the building.
Rounding an elegant marble statue of Poseidon, complete with trident, Mercy’s steps faltered as she caught sight of her prey standing next to the battered desk that was shoved near the workbench.
Even with his back turned to her it was obvious that he was rifling through the drawers, occasionally pausing to pull out a stack of papers before continuing with his search. Mercy frowned, but before she could speak, Ian was stiffening as if he sensed her presence.
She thought he slipped something beneath his jacket before turning to flash her a smile that did not reach his whiskey gold eyes.
“Ah, a wood sprite has appeared among the flowers,” he murmured. “You should wear bells, my sweet, if you intend to sneak about.”
She ignored his taunt. “Are you searching for something?”
“I thought I might make off with the family jewels.” He leaned against the desk, deliberately casual. “That is, if you do not mind?”
“Not especially.” She drifted closer to the energy that shimmered about his elegant body, like an unwitting moth to a flame. “I believe Ella would be saddened more from your departure than the loss of any jewels.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “A killing blow. Not surprising. Intelligent women are always the most dangerous.”
Mercy narrowed her gaze. “It does not take a great deal of intelligence to know that you are attempting to divert me.”
His soft chuckle brushed over her in a tangible caress. “Sweet Mercy, you would not still be wearing that charming gown if I truly wished to distract you.”
“Good heavens, do you flirt in your sleep?”
“I am not entirely certain.” His gaze dipped to take in the simple lace that hid her bodice. “Perhaps you could research the matter tonight and inform me in the morning?”
Her heart fluttered with a dangerous excitement. What was it about this man that managed to stir sensations that she had never dreamed she possessed?
“I thought you were determined not to tempt fate?” she softly reminded him.
The aquiline nose flared, and his expression was suddenly wary, as if he sensed some approaching danger. Which was ridiculous. She was an awkward, pathetically innocent spinster.
Hardly a danger to any man.
“You make it all too easy to forget.”
“Me?” She took another step closer, savoring the potent heat that was spreading through her body. “But I have done nothing.”
“You have followed me here, have you not?” His eyes narrowed. “Or do you mean to convince me that your presence in the conservatory is a mere coincidence?”
“No, I followed you.”
He appeared startled by her blunt honesty. “Why?”
“I am not entirely certain.” She wrinkled her nose. “I told myself that I wished to chide you for ignoring your aunt when she is so desperate for your companionship. But I fear that may have been an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“I suppose I . . .” She squared her shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I wished to be in your company.”
His breath hissed through his teeth in a small explosion of sound. “Mercy?”
“You are rather like an exotic, perhaps even dangerous, creature for a staid, aging spinster, you know,” she admitted ruefully. “I have never encountered anyone quite like you.”
“Christ.” With a sharp movement he had pushed away from the desk and paced toward the statue, as if he might throw himself on the waiting trident. “Should I be offended or terrified?”
“I doubt anything or anyone could terrify you.”
“You would be wrong,” he muttered.
She frowned, not at all certain why his voice sounded so harsh. Was he angered that she had followed him? Or angered that she had interrupted his furtive search through his father’s desk?
For a moment she considered the very sensible notion of turning on her heel and leaving the gentleman to his strange antics. It was clear he was not overly pleased to have her company.
Then she gave a shake of her head. She had less than a handful of days before being carted back to her tedious life. She intended to enjoy every moment to the fullest.
And that included spending time with this gentleman who managed to make her feel so brilliantly alive.
“Tell me about your life in London.”
He remained silent, his head bent as he studied the marble feet of Poseidon. She feared that he might simply ignore her before he heaved a deep sigh and slowly turned to face her.
“What do you wish to know?”
Everything.
She wisely kept the too-revealing word to herself.
“How do you spend your days?” she instead demanded.
His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “I am a rake, my sweet. My days are spent abed recovering from a night of debauchery.”
“Ah. And what does your . . . debauchery include?”
“Such things are hardly fit for virginal ears.”
“Now you sound like my father.”
“No doubt a wise man.”
She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him with a challenging tilt of her chin.
“Perhaps, but if I am never to experience the wicked pleasures of London, then I should at least be allowed to know what I am missing. It is not really so much to ask, is it?”
His lips twitched, although he was careful to keep his expression bland.
“Very well, although I feel compelled to warn you that you will no doubt be disappointed.”
“I think I should be allowed to decide for myself.”
“As you wish.” He shrugged. “My night of debauchery usually begins with a simple dinner with friends.”
“At your club?”
“God, no.” His crack of laughter echoed through the humid thickness of the air. “Bastards, no matter how wealthy, are not invited to join Gentlemen’s Clubs.”
Her cheeks flooded with color. It was difficult to recall this man was a bastard. Not when he marched through the world as if he were lord and master.
“Oh.”
His expression softened, as if he regretted causing her sharp distress.
“No matter.” His charming smile returned. “There are any number of pubs and coffee shops that serve a decent meal, most of them a great deal tastier than the boiled beefsteak to be found in the clubs.”
Mercy returned his smile although she was not fooled for a moment. He was not entirely indifferent to the knowledge he was unwelcome among the exclusive clubs.
“Then what?”
“Then I make the difficult decision of which gambling establishment I shall honor with my rather illustrious presence.”
“You gamble every night?”
“Most nights.” He caught and held her gaze, as if attempting to convince her of the blackness staining his soul. “It is, after all, how I make my living. We are not all blessed with large allowances that allow us to flutter through society without concern. There are some of us who must earn our keep by whatever means necessary, even if that means fleecing the gullible.”
She refused to be shocked. “I cannot imagine you ever fluttering. However, your aunt has spoken of several society events that you have attended, so you cannot spend all of your time at the tables.”
He dismissed his rabid popularity among the London socialites with a wave of his slender hand.
“There have been a few hostesses who have been kind enough to send me invitations.”
“More than a few, I think.” She absently reached to brush her fingers over the petals of a creamy orchid. “Do you enjoy such parties?”
“They offer their share of entertainment.”
“Dancing?”
“Seducing.”
“Oh.”
He regarded her from beneath hooded lids. “You did wish to know.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” She licked her lips, hoping that Ian presumed the heat staining her cheeks was one of shock rather than arousal. Gads, but it was easy to imagine him prowling through the crowded ballrooms, his golden eyes smoldering with a predatory fire as he searched for the woman who could soothe his restless hunger. “What sort of ladies do you prefer?”
“Good God.” His eyes widened, and a startled laugh was wrenched from his throat. “I fear I must draw the line at actually discussing my peccadilloes.”
“Because I am a virgin?”
“Because I possess at least enough gentlemanly traits never to bandy about my trysts with a lady. Such matters are private.”
“How very noble of you.”
“Not bloody likely,” he muttered. “I can assure you that I do not have the remotest trace of nobility, despite my father’s blue blood.”
“I think in some ways you are a fraud, Ian Breckford,” she said softly.
His expression abruptly hardened, as if she had touched an unwitting nerve. “I am a fraud in many ways, Mercy Simpson. Now, turnabout is fair play.”
She blinked as he took an unexpected step forward, bringing him close enough that she could catch the tantalizing scent of sandalwood.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you spend your days in your quiet village?”
Her fingers tightened on the orchid, plucking one of the petals before she could halt the revealing reaction.
“You cannot be interested.”
A raven brow flicked upward. “As you informed me earlier, I believe I should be allowed to decide.”
Mercy grudgingly accepted that he did have a point. She had demanded that he ease her curiosity, and although it was far from sated, it was only right that she return the favor.
Still, she found her stomach twisting with dread. Speaking of her dull, tedious life in the village was a reminder that this time at Rosehill was no more than a brief dream that would all too soon come to an end.
“I awaken at dawn to feed the chickens and stir the fires. Then I return to the cottage to assist my parents in rising from their beds and preparing for the day.” She kept her voice determinedly calm. “After that I cook breakfast and then spend the morning tending to the garden.”
His brows snapped together. “You have no servants?”
“We have a maid that comes daily from the village to assist in the heavy cleaning and an old gardener who will occasionally stop by to help with odd jobs.”
Expecting him to peer down his very handsome nose at her humble existence, Mercy was caught off guard when genuine fury darkened his eyes.
“So you are expected to take care of the cooking and gardening as well as tending to your parents?”
“I was born quite late in their lives, and they are now too old to assist in the chores. As their daughter, it is my duty to see to their welfare.”
“You have no money to pay for servants?”
“My father has a stipend, and I was fortunate enough to receive a small legacy from my grandmother.”
“Then why do you not have a proper staff?”
She shrugged. “My father is set in his ways and dislikes having others in the cottage. He claims they disturb his digestion.”
“His digestion?”
“Yes.”
“And he is more concerned with his digestion than the fact he treats his own daughter as a slave?”
Mercy stiffened. Her father was demanding and perhaps more obstinate than she would like, but he had always loved her. It was more than many daughters could claim.
“Hardly a slave.”
“I would say precisely as a slave.” He took another step forward, the heat of his body brushing her skin and making her shiver. “You said yourself that you are never allowed to enjoy the usual pursuits of young ladies and rarely even travel to the village.”
“Yes, but—”
“Not to mention the fact that you have been denied the pleasures of friends and flirtations and the simple enjoyments all maidens deserve. The devil take it, you have been denied your very life. And all because your father is too selfish to think of anyone but himself.”
She flinched at his harsh words, not at all certain why he was reacting with such vehemence. She was nothing more than a passing acquaintance, was she not? One that he seemed determined to keep at a distance.
“That is not true,” she insisted. “My father loves me.”
“Perhaps too much,” he growled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you considered that a portion of his determination to keep you secluded and overworked is because he fears you might someday discover there is a world beyond your isolated cottage, and that on that day you will leave him?”
Mercy took a sharp step backward, her heart clenching with a sudden fear. It was more than an unease at having a near stranger insult the man who had loved and cared for her for the past four and twenty years. It was the niggling horror that he might actually be right.
“Please.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Stop.”
“Mercy . . .”
She gave a desperate shake of her head. “No, it is bad enough that I must soon return home, without having you make it even worse.”