Chapter 13
Half an hour later, Mercy was seated in a small back parlor as she poured tea for her elderly parents.
The two seated on the striped satin settee could not have been more different. Arthur Simpson had once been a tall, strapping man who had filled his small church with his booming voice. Age had stooped his shoulders and turned his muscle into a growing pouch around his waist, while his once-black hair was now a thin strand of silver over his balding head. Still, he managed to nearly overwhelm his tiny wisp of a wife, who perched in obvious discomfort at his side.
Lydia Simpson had once been a beauty with her fragile features and pale green eyes. Unfortunately her meek personality had never suited the role of a vicar’s wife. She detested the endless rounds of visiting the poor and infirm. She had no talent for arranging charity festivals and was nothing less than terrified of the local gentry. She had long ago discovered her only means of peace was to hide behind the pretense of a delicate constitution.
They did have one thing in common, however. It was the matching expression of peevish dissatisfaction with life.
Her father for his inability to claim success beyond a small church in the midst of Surrey, and her mother for being forced to forgo the large house and handsome allowance she had presumed would be hers by marrying a vicar.
For all their bitterness, however, they had loved her and provided her a comfortable home. It was far more than many young girls were given.
She attempted to keep that thought forefront in her mind as her father regarded her with a chiding frown.
“You appear flushed,” he accused in his deep, rumbling voice. “Lydia, do you not think that Mercy is flushed?”
As always, Mercy’s mother fell into ready agreement with her forceful partner.
“Oh, yes, quite flushed. Perhaps—”
“I hope you have not taken a nasty chill,” Arthur Simpson continued, overriding his wife without compunction. “Not that it would be a surprise. A great drafty house such as this must be impossible to keep warm.”
Mercy forced herself to continue pouring tea and arranging plates with the various cakes and sandwiches that the cook had prepared.
It was not as if she could argue. She was flushed. She could feel the heat that lingered in her cheeks. But when a woman was interrupted in midseduction by her parents, she was bound to be somewhat unnerved.
At the moment, however, she had more important matters to concentrate upon.
The most important of which was the reason for her parents’ unexpected arrival. The journey was less than three hours, but the elderly Simpsons never traveled beyond their small village. Not for any reason.
“I have always found Rosehill to be quite comfortable, father,” she murmured, handing him a cup of tea.
Arthur grunted, his gaze condemning as it flicked over the exquisite furnishings.
“Comfortable, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you flushed?”
“If I am flushed, I suppose it is due to the fact that I was in the attics when you arrived and I had to hurry to change before greeting you.” It was not entirely a lie, she silently reassured herself. She had rushed to change her gown. Of course, her detour had been more a need for a few moments to regain her composure than out of fear her dusty hem would offend her parents. Heaven knew she spent most of her days with dusty hems.
Predictably, her father’s scowl only deepened. “Miss Breckford had you cleaning the attics? There, Lydia, I warned you that woman would invite our poor daughter to her home and then expect her to become some sort of unpaid servant. These rich people are all alike. Expect us to scrape and bow for a few crumbs from their table.”
Mercy shoved a plate of cake into her father’s hand. “Do not say such things, Father,” she snapped, genuinely angered by his rude implications. “Miss Breckford has treated me as an honored guest. Indeed, she could not be more kind.”
“Then why were you in the attics, might I ask?”
“Because I wished to help with the charity luncheon for wounded soldiers.” She met his belligerent glare with a tilt of her chin. “Surely you would expect your daughter to lend a hand for such a worthy cause.”
He appeared momentarily flummoxed by her unexpected defense of Ella Breckford. Not surprising. As a rule, Mercy found it much easier to simply ignore the older man’s vigorous opinions. There never seemed much purpose in arguing when her father would as soon have his arm chopped off as admit that he might be mistaken.
On this occasion, however, she would not allow him to criticize a woman who had treated her as if she were her own daughter.
Impervious to the sudden tension in the air, Mercy’s mother heaved a sudden sigh. Turning her head, Mercy watched as Lydia cast an envious gaze over the delicate satinwood furnishings and French Sevres china.
“This is a very grand home.” There was another wistful sigh. “I suppose the viscount possesses a number of servants?”
“To be honest, I have long ago halted any attempt to keep track of them all,” she admitted.
“Bah. A ridiculous waste of good money.” Arthur gave a shake of his head. “Whatever could two people need with so many to wait upon them?”
“A good number of the servants are hired to keep the house in good order,” Mercy pointed out, her voice thankfully calm. “This is more than just a home—it is a work of art with priceless treasures that need constant attention.”
“You begin to sound like the nobility with all your fancy talk.”
“Would you have these servants unemployed or working in the coal mines? At least here they are treated well and allowed to make a decent wage to support their families.” Mercy forced herself to count to ten before handing a cup of tea to her mother. “Seed cake?”
As expected, Lydia remained lost in her covetous bemusement, absently nibbling at her cake.
“Yes, well, Miss Breckford obviously has a great deal of comfort in her fading years. Such a lovely home and servants to tend to her.” Her lips thinned with sour regret. “We should all be so fortunate.”
“She is indeed fortunate, but she is quite generous with both her wealth and her time.” A fond smile curved Mercy’s lips. “She devotes a vast amount of her days visiting the tenants and caring for others.”
“Does she?” Lydia shuddered in horror. “If I were her, I would never leave this splendid house.”
Arthur snorted. “Not every woman is a timid mouse like you, Lydia.”
The older woman seemed to shrink beneath the disdainful tone. “Really, Arthur, you know my constitution is not at all strong.”
“’Tis strong enough when you wish to visit the local dressmaker or circulating library.”
“You have never understood what I suffer.”
Mercy once again counted to ten, the beginnings of a headache beginning to form behind her eyes.
“You have yet to tell me why you are here.”
Setting aside his empty cup and plate, Arthur regarded her with a stern expression.
“I should think that obvious enough.” He narrowed his gaze. “We have come to take you home.”
It was, of course, precisely what she had feared. There could be no other reason for her parents to put themselves to such an effort to travel to Rosehill. Still, to hear the words spoken with such blunt finality sent a jagged flare of panic through her heart.
Abruptly rising to her feet, Mercy pressed a hand to her heaving stomach. No, please no. She was not prepared to return to the isolated cottage.
Or the reality of her life there.
Not yet.
“Surely you received my letter telling you that I would be delayed until after the charity luncheon?” she demanded, restlessly pacing toward the window that offered a stunning view of the sunken garden. “I have promised Miss Breckford my assistance. After all her kindness, it would be extremely rude to leave her in the lurch.”
Mercy did not need to turn to sense her father’s annoyance. “She has a dozen servants to assist her.”
She sucked in a deep breath, struggling to think clearly through her fog of desperation.
“None who are capable of writing out invitations or seeing to the unexpected troubles that are forever cropping up,” she said, futilely hoping that reason could earn her a brief respite. “She has need of a secretary, not a maid.”
“And what of our needs?” her father demanded. “Our house is in complete shambles without you. By God, I have not had a decent meal since you left.”
“I am very sorry that my absence has been bothersome—”
“A great deal more than bothersome.” The older man’s voice boomed through the room. “I have not had a day of peace since you left, and your poor mother has taken to her bed to avoid the incessant chatter of that absurd woman you hired. We can endure no more.”
Mercy briefly rested her forehead against the windowpane.
It would be so easy to concede defeat. To simply give in to the inevitable. After all, her parents would never have made such a long journey without the explicit intention of hauling her home.
In the end it was the memory of Ian’s warning that her father would readily use love to keep her trapped in the small cottage that allowed her to grimly thrust aside her wave of despair.
“Mrs. Green came highly recommended,” she said, forcing herself to turn and meet her parents’ reproachful gaze.
Arthur leaned forward, his face ruddy. “No doubt from an employer who was anxious to be rid of her annoying companionship. Your mother is convinced that she is stealing from the pantry.”
“If you wish to replace Mrs. Green with another nurse from the village, I am certain it can be arranged.” She managed a stiff smile. “I know there are several very trustworthy widows who are always in need of additional income.”
Her father pounded his fist on his knee. He was unaccustomed to having anyone stand against him. Certainly not his daughter, who had devoted a lifetime to giving sway.
“There is no need for a nurse. Not when we have a daughter who is perfectly capable of tending to our care.”
Mercy wet her dry lips, trying to ignore the biting stab of guilt that clutched at her heart.
Perhaps her parents did use her emotions to manipulate her, but that did not lessen the knowledge that she had a duty to care for them. Or even her desire to do so. Her parents were the only family she possessed. She would never willingly turn her back on them.
Still, she had endless years lying ahead of her to devote to their care.
This time at Rosehill would be no more than a fleeting taste of freedom that would soon be gone.
She squared her shoulders. “I have told you that I cannot leave yet.”
“Miss Breckford can very well do without you,” her father growled.
“Perhaps she could, but I have not yet finished my research. There are still several books in Lord Norrington’s library that I wish to study.”
The older man’s jaw tightened as he realized he could not bully Mercy into compliance. Slowly he leaned back against the satin settee, a sullen frown marring his brow.
“Well, I never thought to raise such a selfish daughter, did you, Lydia?”
“Oh, Arthur, I am certain that Mercy does not mean to be selfish,” Lydia protested in fading tones. “It is just that she is enjoying her time among such unfamiliar luxury and has not had the opportunity to consider our own discomfort. Is that not so, my dear?”
The sweetly uttered reprimand was more cutting than any of Arthur’s gruff scoldings.
Just as it was intended to be.
“It is not that I am unaware of your discomfort. You have, after all, reminded me of it in several letters. But you must know that I shall never again have access to such a vast library.” A hint of pleading entered Mercy’s voice. “Surely it is not asking so much to remain just a few more days.”
“No.” Arthur rose to his feet, his expression set in grim lines. “You have been gone long enough, Mercy. It is time for you to return home where you belong.”
“But, Father—”
“I will have no arguments, young lady. You will pack your bags and prepare to leave within the hour.”
“Actually, I fear that will be impossible, Mr. Simpson.” A clear, resolute female voice came from the doorway. “I simply cannot do without Mercy.”
The throbbing in Mercy’s temple had bloomed into a raging headache over the next hour.
Granted she was deeply relieved by Ella’s abrupt arrival. The older woman had taken swift command as she had swept into the parlor, a charming smile on her lips as she had ruthlessly overridden her parents’ every protest.
If Mr. and Mrs. Simpson could not do without their daughter, then they would simply remain at Rosehill until Ella was prepared to allow her to leave.
That was the final word on the subject.
Of course, her father did not concede to the decree without a great deal of fuss. Anyone could be forgiven for believing he was making some terrible sacrifice to put aside his return to the damp cottage to remain among such luxury. Her mother, on the other hand, was swift to take full advantage of Viscount Norrington’s generosity. With a fading voice, she had demanded a fire be lit in her chambers and a maid be on hand to assist with her bath, as well as her favorite tea be delivered to her chambers to ease her tender stomach.
Each complaint and command had been met with the kind yet unyielding force of Ella’s personality, and at last Mercy had herded them up to their chambers. She had endured another lecture from her father on upsetting his peaceful existence and her mother’s petulant refusal to be seen at dinner in her threadbare gown before she was at last allowed to escape.
The ache in her head had been well earned, she decided with a sigh, and no doubt would linger so long as her parents remained.
Returning to the parlor, Mercy discovered Ella seated near the window, calmly sipping her tea. At Mercy’s entrance she set aside the cup and regarded the younger woman with an expectant smile.
“Ah, Mercy, have you made your parents comfortable?”
Mercy grimaced as she crossed the room to lean against the window frame. The warmth of the slanting sun helped to ease a portion of her rigid tension.
“They are settled and already demanding that dinner be delivered to their rooms since they have nothing appropriate to wear.” She slanted Ella an apologetic gaze. “I fear they will prove to be decidedly demanding houseguests.”
Ella waved a dismissive hand. “So long as you are allowed to remain, they may be as demanding as they desire.”
Mercy rolled her eyes at the older woman’s naïveté. She had never been exposed to Arthur and Lydia Simpson’s grating personalities. There was a reason that the local villagers avoided the small cottage.
“You have no notion of how difficult my parents can be. You are bound to regret your generosity.”
“Nonsense.” Ella set aside her china cup, a stubborn expression settling on her face. “They can not be any more difficult than my cousin Miranda and her vast brood. Do you know that last Christmas she arrived without warning and then proceeded to invite nearly two dozen of her acquaintances to join her here? Poor Norry was at last driven to London to find a measure of peace at his club.”
Mercy shuddered at the mere thought of Lord Norrington encountering her father.
“His lordship might very well decide to bolt once he endures a few of my father’s lectures. They are not only long-winded, but they tend to condemn most of mankind as evil, especially those with the poor taste to possess a bit of wealth.” Mercy shook her head in regret. “A pity, really. I always suspected that his sermons might have been better attended if they had been somewhat more . . . tolerant.”
“Do not worry about Norry, my dear.” Rising to her feet, Ella reached out to pat Mercy’s hand. “He is very good at keeping others at a distance. Sometimes too good, I fear.”
Taking the older woman’s hand in her own, Mercy gave the plump fingers a soft squeeze. She had never had anyone treat her with such an uncomplicated affection. There were no demands, no expectations. Just a simple pleasure in her companionship.
It was . . . refreshing.
“You are very kind to me, Ella,” she said with a sigh. “I do not know how to thank you.”
“For what?”
“If not for your timely arrival, I should be packing my bags to leave.”
“Ah.” A mysterious smile curved Ella’s lips. “Actually, you must thank Ian for my fortunate return.”
Mercy dropped the woman’s hand in surprise. “What?”
“Ian arrived at the vicarage to claim that your parents had descended upon Rosehill and that unless I acted swiftly, you were about to be carted off.”
Mercy’s breath was suddenly elusive as she was struck by the image of Ian thundering toward the vicarage, wise enough to realize that only Ella could halt the tidal wave of doom.
Why had he gone to such an effort?
Was it only to keep his aunt from losing her companion? Or had he possessed more selfish reasons for desiring Mercy to remain near?
Somehow the answer seemed vitally important.
“Oh,” she breathed softly.
“He was very insistent that I not delay a moment,” Ella pressed, a hint of speculation in her light brown eyes.
“I am certain that Mr. Breckford was merely concerned that you would be distressed by my departure.”
“You are certain, eh?” Ella murmured.
“Of course.”
Ella studied her deliberately guarded expression before giving a vague shrug. “Whatever the cause, I must admit that I was pleased he came to me so swiftly.”
“As am I.” Strolling into the room, Ian met Mercy’s startled gaze with a smoldering intensity. “It would have been a shocking injustice to have Miss Simpson stolen away when she is needed at Rosehill.”
Ian had intended to devote the next hour to searching his father’s private parlor. He had witnessed the older man leaving in his carriage when he had returned from his mad gallop to the vicarage. It was the perfect opportunity to investigate his father’s chambers.
Unfortunately, he had been unable to concentrate on the mysteries of the past when his future was being threatened by a pair of selfish country bumpkins who would hold their own daughter captive to ensure their comfort.
As he paced the room, he had told himself that the flare of panic that had driven him to the vicarage had been frustrated desire. Not only had Mercy’s parents interrupted his determined seduction in the attic, but they threatened to steal her away before he could ease the ache that wracked him with a raw, merciless pain.
His thoughts, however, had not been centered upon his needs, but instead on the haunting memory of Mercy’s stricken expression as he had spurred himself into action. In that precise moment he would have done whatever necessary to ease her distress.
At last he had been driven from his search to the small parlor. He had to be sure that Mercy remained at Rosehill. He had to catch the scent of sweet vanilla and hear that soft, erotic voice brush over his skin.
Not halting until he stood at Mercy’s side, he allowed himself to drink in her delicate beauty.
“Mr. Breckford,” she breathed softly, her formality at utter odds with the awareness that flared through her spectacular eyes. “Ella informs me that I have you to thank for her return from the vicarage.”
Ian silently cursed his aunt’s presence. If Mercy desired to thank him, then he preferred it to be somewhat more . . . tangible.
Like throwing her arms around him and offering those sweet lips for his consumption.
Instead he was forced to offer a small dip of his head, his hands curling into fists to keep from reaching out and tugging her close.
“I presumed that you might need reinforcements.” He briefly glanced about the room before returning his attention to Mercy. “Have your parents left so soon?”
“I fear not.” Her expression hardened. “They intend to remain until I am prepared to return to Surrey.”
He bit back a curse. Of course they had not left. From all that he had discovered, the elderly Simpsons were rather like barnacles that had attached themselves to their only child.
Nothing short of physical force would detach them.
“Ah,” he muttered, obviously revealing his annoyance, as Ella gave a loud click of her tongue.
“And we shall treat them as welcome guests, will we not, Ian?”
Ian summoned a ready smile even as he inwardly rebelled at the capitulation. Everything within him demanded that he battle anything that would endanger Mercy’s happiness. Including her overly demanding parents.
A pity that she had made it clear she would never accept a position in his life that would allow him the authority to rid her of such pests.
At least not overtly.
“If you insist, my dear.”
“I do.” Ella’s eyes widened. “Oh, I must warn Cook that we will be needing trays. Excuse me.”
The older woman scurried from the room, the stiff set of her spine warning that she was determined to be a proper hostess. Even if it killed her.
Alone with Mercy, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and tugged her face upward.
“You are pale.” His brows drew together. “Did your parents upset you?”
She bit her bottom lip as if embarrassed by his question. And perhaps she was. Her love for her parents would make it difficult for her to admit she might be less than pleased by their arrival.
“I will not deny that I was disturbed by their insistence that I return home,” she at last confessed. “I . . . I am not yet finished with my research. And of course I wish to assist Ella with the luncheon.”
It was more her slight hesitation than her actual words that softened Ian’s grim expression.
Even without having been present, Ian knew it had been a difficult task for Mercy to stand up to her parents’ demands. She had been an obedient daughter for too long to easily stand her ground. It had to be a compelling motivation that allowed her to break a lifetime of compliance.
“Of course.” He stroked the soft temptation of her cheek. “And there is no other reason you might wish to linger at Rosehill?”
Her eyes darkened in reaction to the rough edge of his voice. “Should there be?”
“I can think of one.”
Despite her innocence, there was the age-old call of the siren in her coy expression.
“And what is that?”
His fingers slid down the length of her jaw, his thumb brushing the edge of her mouth.
“We have unfinished business, sweet Mercy.”
Her breath was suddenly unsteady, her eyes wide with shimmering anticipation. Christ, she was so beautiful. So exquisitely enticing.
Not even a saint could be expected to resist such temptation.
And Ian was no damn saint.
“Is that why you went in search of Ella?” she demanded.
He hesitated. “In part.”
Mercy stilled, regarding him with a questioning gaze. “And the other part?”
His lips twisted with a rueful humor. “I am attempting not to consider my motives too deeply. They would no doubt send me fleeing back to London.”
“Ian?”
His chest tightened with a dangerous emotion. Something perilously close to longing.
“Never mind.” He dropped his hand as if he had been singed, and in truth, it felt as if he had. He might not fully understand the sensations that blasted through him whenever this woman was near, but he knew they were the sort of thing a wise man avoided. Taking a step back, he cleared the odd lump that was stuck in his throat. “Will your parents prove to be a bother during their stay?”
She grimaced, readily allowing herself to be distracted.
“That is a certainty. My parents would not know how to exist unless they were being a bother to someone. I can only shudder at what your father will think of them.”
Ian gave a short burst of laughter. “My father is very good at ignoring whatever displeases him. Trust me, I have ample evidence.”
The edge in his voice was unmistakable, and Mercy slowly narrowed her gaze.
“Do you know, Ian, you have never fully explained your reasons for visiting Rosehill.”
“And you, my wood sprite, never confessed why you truly desire to linger at Rosehill. I would say that we are even,” he countered, flicking a finger over her cheek before forcing his feet toward the door. He had assured himself that Mercy was still safely settled at Rosehill. It was time to return his attention to searching his father’s chambers before it was too late. “Until dinner, sweet Mercy.”