Chapter 16
Ian had never been a patient man. For the most part, he allowed instinct and raw impulse to guide him. An advantageous trait for a gambler, but decidedly uncomfortable for a stymied lover.
Pacing the balcony that offered a perfect view of the gardens below, Ian gnashed his teeth and glared at Mercy as she scurried from the house with a heavy tray that she set before her parents, who were settled beneath an ornamental tree.
During the past hour she had arranged and then rearranged her parents’ chairs until they were satisfied that no stray sunlight might disturb them. She had fetched half a dozen cushions, her mother’s needlepoint, her father’s book, shawls, glasses, and endless handkerchiefs. Now she poured her father a large glass of the lemonade she had just brought from the kitchens.
The devil take it. He wanted to rush down there and shake some sense into the aggravating minx. Or better yet, to toss her childish, petulant, demanding parents into the nearest carriage and have them hauled back to their distant cottage.
Over the past two days he had not been allowed so much as a moment alone with Mercy. If she were not being pestered to death by her parents, then she was running some errand or another for his aunt. And while he had made a point of spending his nights in the gazebo with the hope that Mercy would eventually join him, it had proven to be a futile waste of time.
Was it any wonder that he was a tad grumpy to have been offered a taste of paradise only to have it snatched away?
A part of him, however, understood it was not just frustrated desire that was making his teeth clench and his chest so tight that he could barely breathe.
Oh no. The violent fury pounding through his blood was a direct result of watching the beautiful young maiden being treated with such selfish disregard.
By God, she should be drenched in luxury, not grubbing after her parents like an unwanted orphan. She should be surrounded by her beloved books and waited upon by a dozen servants. She should spend her night in the arms of a lover who would treat her with exquisite care....
“Ian. Good heavens, I did not expect to find you here.”
Ian muttered a low curse at the sound of Ella’s voice floating from the French doors behind him. As much as he adored his aunt, he did not want to be interrupted in this moment. Not when he was busily convincing himself to charge into the garden and toss Mercy over his shoulder.
A beautiful fantasy that Ella was certain to nip in the bud.
Slowly turning, Ian watched as the older woman stepped onto the balcony.
“Where did you expect to find me?” He forced a stiff smile to his lips as he leaned against the stone balustrade.
“Norry mentioned at luncheon that you intended to spend the afternoon in the village,” Ella murmured, moving forward.
“I have changed my mind.”
“So I see.” With a deliberate motion, Ella leaned over the railing to regard Mercy as she fussed over her father’s cushions. “You appeared disturbed when I first arrived. Is there something wrong?”
Realizing that there was no means to hide the fact he had been spying upon Mercy like a loose screw, Ian allowed his smoldering anger to harden his expression.
“Yes, there bloody well is something wrong,” he growled, jerking his head toward the small group below. “Why do you allow those intruders to treat Miss Simpson as a servant? She has been waiting upon them hand and foot for the past two days.”
“It is a pity, but those intruders are her parents, Ian, and I have no right to interfere.” Ella turned back to meet his accusing glare with a grimace. “As much as I might wish.”
“They are not parents, they are a menace,” he muttered.
“Perhaps, but what can I do?”
“You are the hostess of Rosehill. Send them packing.”
“I could, but Mercy would no doubt feel obliged to leave with them.” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “I do not believe that either of us is willing to lose her companionship yet, are we?”
Ian was not stupid. Well, not as a rule. He understood that Ella’s seemingly simple question held a quagmire of implications that a wise man would avoid like the plague.
He was just too damned angry to care.
“No.” His gaze narrowed. “I have no intention of losing Miss Simpson’s companionship.”
Ella wrinkled her nose as Mr. Simpson’s voice boomed through the garden, sending his daughter scurrying to refill his glass.
“What Mercy truly needs is a champion,” she said with a sigh.
“A what?”
“A knight in shining armor who will whisk her away from her personal dragons,” the older woman clarified.
For a moment Ian was infuriated by the mere suggestion that some heroic, chivalrous knight might come charging to Mercy’s rescue. He’d slay the bastard on the spot.
Then, realizing his aunt was regarding him with an expectant expression, Ian gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Christ, Ella, you cannot possibly believe that I could ever pose as St. George?”
“Why not?” She gave a wave of her plump hand. “I know you have come to care for Mercy.”
“Whatever my feelings for Miss Simpson, I am no knight in shining armor.” His lips twisted at the unwelcome knowledge of his sordid past. “An innocent would be better served to remain in the hands of her dragons than to be rescued by a man like me.”
“Nonsense. You are not nearly so wicked as you would have others believe, Ian.”
Ian rolled his eyes at his aunt’s stout defense. The woman would claim the Marquis de Sade was merely misunderstood.
“You only say that because you want to see the best in everyone, my dear,” he said dryly. “There are any number of people who would share with you the tales of my evil existence.”
Something flickered over Ella’s plump countenance before she was sternly giving a shake of her head.
“No, I have known truly wicked men, and you are not one of them,” she said with utter confidence. “You have a good and generous heart, Ian.”
Ian was briefly reminded of Mercy’s suspicion that Ella had endured a disappointment in her youth. Perhaps it was not simply a matter of unrequited love. Perhaps it was something more sinister.
Certainly the gentlemen in his aunt’s past must have been appalling if she considered Ian a worthy knight in shining armor.
“I am a hardened gamester and a debauched seducer who long ago traded my soul to the devil, Aunt Ella. Precisely the sort of gentleman most women are wise enough to avoid.”
“You have no further need to gamble. Norry has told me you possess an uncanny talent for business. I have not seen him so excited about anything in years.” She offered a sweet smile. “And, of course, every woman knows that a reformed rake makes the best husband.”
“Husband?” Ian jerked as if he had been kicked in the stomach. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Why not?”
There were a dozen reasons why not. A hundred. The fact that he could not seem to recall any one them as he gazed down at the delicate woman with her hair shimmering like the finest gold in the sunlight and her every movement as elegant as a wood sprite’s meant nothing.
“I . . .”
“Well, Ian?” Ella prompted, a sly smile tugging at her lips.
His jaw clenched as a raw pain jolted through his heart. Dammit, what was the matter with his aunt? Not even her love for him could make her blind to his numerous faults.
“Not only would a woman have to be demented to desire me as a husband, but the last thing in the world I want is to be tied down to one woman.” He hunched his shoulders. “I would be bored within a week.”
“Not if she were the right woman,” the older woman murmured softly.
“Enough, Ella.” His voice was harsh with warning. “I will not discuss such foolishness.”
“Then you will lose her, my dear. In a few days at most she will be forced to return to her home and beyond your reach.” Ella reached up to lightly pat his cheek. “Consider that before it is too late.”
Ella gave his cheek another pat before turning to leave the balcony. Ian watched her retreat with a deepening scowl.
Lose Mercy?
That was ridiculous.
To lose something you first had to claim it. And he would never be idiotic enough to think the woman could ever be more than just a passing fancy.
Would he?
That unexpected pain once again ravaged through his chest, making Ian grasp the stone railing. Damn. As much as he might want to deny the truth, there was a very large part of him that realized the inevitable.
He could not bear the thought of allowing Mercy to simply disappear. Not from Rosehill, and most certainly not from his life.
Not yet.
Not until he understood the strange compulsion that held him in its grip. A compulsion that would drive him mad if she were to slip away.
Sucking in a deep breath, Ian was abruptly distracted from his disturbing thoughts by the sight of a lone rider entering the stable yard.
Reaver.
There could be no mistaking his massive size or the reaction of the servants who scurried out of his relentless path.
The question was what the devil he was doing back so soon.
Ignoring the fierce need to remain on the balcony and keep a watch upon Mercy, Ian forced his reluctant feet to carry him back into the parlor and toward the hallway. He was the one who had sent Reaver to London. It was not the servant’s fault that his mind was too consumed with thoughts of Miss Mercy Simpson to recall his reason for coming to Rosehill.
Reaching his private chambers at the same moment as Reaver, Ian clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“I did not expect you back so swiftly.”
The large man ran a weary hand through his hair. “I have the information you desire.”
“Come, we will be more comfortable in my chambers.”
“Aye.” Reaver readily followed Ian into the elegant sitting room, dropping his large body onto a settee with a deep sigh. “I could use a drink.”
Ian poured them both a large shot of his private whiskey, crossing the room to press one of the glasses into Reaver’s hand.
“Here.”
“Ah.” Sipping the fine spirit, Reaver heaved a sigh of appreciation. “You shall be forced to pay for the hideous swill I was forced to endure on the road.”
Ian chuckled. “I am under no illusion that it is my fine whiskey that holds your loyalty, Reaver, not my exceptional character.”
“A man must have standards.”
“Indeed.” Leaning against the sideboard, Ian attempted to concentrate upon his companion. A task that would be a great deal easier if his bloody mind wasn’t consumed with thoughts of Mercy. “So tell me, how did you manage to so swiftly track down your prey?”
“It wasn’t particularly difficult.” Reaver polished off his whiskey with a grimace. “This prey left a trail that even a lobcock could follow.”
“He was in London?”
“Nay. From all I could gather, he left England near a decade ago and has never returned.”
Ian folded his arms across his chest, only vaguely disappointed. Suddenly the past was not nearly so intriguing as the present.
Or the future.
“Do you know where he went?” he demanded, absently.
A slow smile curved the man’s lips. “No, but I do know why he went.”
Ian stiffened. “Scandal?”
“A rather nasty one.”
Barely aware he was moving, Ian turned to replenish his glass, draining the whiskey with one long swallow.
Just a few days ago the news of a nasty scandal would have been precisely the information he desired. He was here, after all, to discover the reason his father had handed twenty thousand pounds to Mr. Dunnington. Now he could not deny a vague reluctance to pry into matters that were long forgotten.
“If he felt compelled to flee England, then I can only presume he was caught cheating at cards, or his debt was so great he could no longer avoid his creditors,” he at last managed to mutter.
Reaver’s smile widened. “Actually, it was an affair that was his undoing.”
Ian did not have to feign his puzzlement. “You must be jesting. What gentleman has not indulged in an affair? Even if the woman were wed—”
“Man.”
Ian blinked at the succinct word. “I beg your pardon?”
“The affair Summerville indulged in was with Lord Hinton,” Reaver smoothly explained. “They were caught together by Lady Hinton, who was furious enough to reveal her husband’s naughty little secret to anyone who would listen.”
“Good God.” Ian gave a slow nod of his head, considering the various implications of Reaver’s information. It was common knowledge that many gentlemen of the ton possessed sexual fetishes. Some more exotic than others. It was expected, however, that those gentlemen would keep such fetishes discretely hidden behind closed doors. “I suppose that would cause a scandal.”
“Precisely.”
Ian paced the room, attempting to envision a young Summerville visiting Rosehill. It was not impossible he had given some hint to his unusual preferences.
“And it would certainly be a reason for my grandfather to forbid his presence at Rosehill if he somehow discovered Summerville’s secret.”
“Aye.” Reaver rose to his feet with a shrug. “Such men will always be treated as lepers.”
A faint smile curved Ian’s lips at the man’s stoic indifference. “You do not seem particularly shocked, Reaver.”
The servant snorted. “Where I come from, there are few things I haven’t seen. Some things no man should see.”
Ian did not doubt that for a moment. A sexual preference for men could not compare with the evils to be discovered in the stews of London.
“Thank you for your efforts, my friend.”
Heading toward the door, Reaver paused to glance over his shoulder. “Is that the information you desired?”
“I really have no notion,” he confessed with blunt honesty. It might be a titillating scandal, but it had nothing to do with Viscount Norrington. Ian heaved an exasperated sigh. “In truth, I am not entirely certain what I am doing here. If I had the least amount of sense, I would pack my bags and return to London.”
Reaver flashed a mocking smile. “Which, of course, means you intend to stay.”
“Ah, you know me so well.”
“Aye.” Reaver deliberately narrowed his gaze. “Well enough to know you’re courting trouble.”
“When am I not?”
“There is trouble and then there is trouble.”
Ian shrugged, well aware that his companion was referring to his uncharacteristic fascination with Mercy Simpson. Christ. He had conducted affairs with women beneath the noses of their fathers, their brothers, and even their husbands. Obviously, however, his skills at Casanova did not include concealing his bumbling attempts at seduction with a country miss.
“Very profound.”
Reaver chuckled with undisguised enjoyment. “It’s your neck in the noose, not mine.”
The clock was striking nine bells when Mercy hurried into the upstairs salon that her parents had appropriated for their evening tea. After two days of endless waiting upon her parents, Mercy’s feet were aching and her temper strained, but she forced herself to maintain her stiff smile as she stepped into the pretty pale green and ivory room with its delicate ornamentation and Satinwood classic furnishings.
Her smile was growing stiffer by the moment. Dear Lord, she would give anything to be in the peaceful solitude of Rosehill’s beautiful library. Or better yet, in the shadowed gazebo with Ian’s strong arms wrapped about her.
The past two nights had been nothing less than torment as she had lain alone in the dark. It was one thing to imagine the delights that could be found in the arms of an experienced rake and quite another to truly understand just what she was missing in her cold, spinster bed.
Unfortunately, she knew her parents too well.
They were annoyed by her refusal to simply return to their cottage and determined to punish her for her stubbornness.
If she were not close at hand to bear the brunt of their displeasure, then they would quite readily turn it upon anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.
The servants . . . Ella . . . even Lord Norrington.
Mercy shuddered at the mere thought.
“Here is your tea, Father,” she murmured, halting at the door to study her parents, who had chosen to settle on a settee near the fire they had insisted be lit.
The older man closed his book with a snap. “’Tis late.”
At his side, Mercy’s mother heaved a small sigh as she patted his arm.
“Not so late, Arthur. I am certain that Mercy is doing her best.”
“Hmmm.” Arthur peered at the tray in Mercy’s hand. “Where are my lemon tarts?”
Mercy grimly held onto her smile. “I believe that Cook has made a lovely plum cake.”
“I told you quite plainly I wished lemon tarts with my tea.”
“Perhaps tomorrow . . .”
“Really, Mercy, it is hardly an excessive request, is it?” Arthur complained, his cheeks reddening with his rising temper.
“No, of course not,” Mercy murmured, anxious to divert her father before he could work himself into a full-blown tantrum. “I will bake a few tarts tomorrow—”
Her words were interrupted as a large male body brushed through the doorway, plucking the tea tray from her hands and roughly setting it onto a nearby table.
“Actually, you will do no such thing,” Ian Breckford announced, turning to meet Mercy’s startled gaze. “We possess an entire kitchen staff to tend to our cooking.”
Mercy blinked, dumbfounded by Ian’s unexpected appearance. For the past two days she had barely caught a glimpse of the wickedly handsome gentleman. Not that it mattered. Despite her efforts to keep a distance between them, he managed to haunt her every thought. There was not a moment of her day she did not recall the scent of his warm skin, the feel of his slender hands, the husky rasp of his voice.
Still, he had seemed content enough to remain at a discreet distance.
Perhaps even relieved.
Now she struggled to gather her rattled thoughts. “Good heavens, Ian, you nearly gave me heart failure. Whatever are you doing?”
In the firelight, his beautiful features were set in grim lines, his eyes smoldering with gold fire and his hair tousled as if he had run his fingers through the dark curls more than once.
Mercy shivered, feeling as if a caged panther had just been released into the room. The very air prickled with danger.
Stepping so that they were nose to nose, Ian glared into her baffled eyes.
“By some ludicrous twist of fate, it has fallen upon my shoulders to rescue you from your aggravating, pestilent, ill-mannered dragons,” he growled, his voice oddly rough.
Dragons? Was the man tipsy?
“What?”
“You have carried your last tray and fetched your last shawl, my sweet. I will endure no more.” Without waiting for Mercy to react to his abrupt attack, Ian turned to point an accusing finger at her father. “Since it has obviously escaped your notice, sir, I will warn you that your daughter is not a servant at Rosehill.”
Arthur instinctively flinched as Ian’s lethal power filled the room. Then, jutting his heavy jaw forward, he met Ian’s glittering gaze with a stubborn expression.
Arthur Simpson did not admit he was wrong to any man, let alone a mere bastard.
“Of course Mercy is no servant. My daughter is a lady.”
“Then treat her as one,” Ian snapped. “If you desire fresh tea or lemon tarts or yet another damnable shawl, then you will ring for one of the maids. They are paid to see to your comfort.”
Her father’s countenance flushed with a dangerous color as he struggled to rise to his feet.
“Now you see here, Breckford, Mercy is quite happy to devote herself to her parents’ needs.” He waved a gnarled hand about the elegant room. “Perhaps among society it is accepted for children to consider only their own pleasures, but in most homes it is the Christian duty of the young to tend to their elderly.”
Ian’s laugh was deliberately grating. “I hardly believe it is the Christian duty of a beautiful maiden to be denied an opportunity for her own home and family so she can be at the constant beck and call of her parents.”
Arthur scowled, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Ian’s charge. “You know nothing of our family.”
“I know that since you have arrived, Miss Simpson has not had a moment to enjoy her studies or to assist my aunt with her charity luncheon.” Ian stepped forward and plucked the small bell from the table near her father. “Hell, she has not even been allowed to sit down and eat a proper dinner without having it interrupted by this infernal bell.”
“No, Ian.” Mercy gave a strangled gasp as Ian turned and tossed the bell directly into the fire.
Arthur sputtered in outrage. “How dare you?”
Ian growled as he took a threatening step toward the older gentleman. “Someone must halt your incessant bullying, and since Mercy is too tenderhearted to put her foot down, then I shall do it for her.”
“By what right?” Arthur demanded.
“Ian . . .” Mercy rushed forward, sensing that the confrontation between the two men was more than a spat about a ridiculous bell.
“By the right of a gentleman who happens to care about your daughter’s happiness.” Without allowing his warning gaze to waver from Arthur Simpson’s heavy countenance, Ian easily captured Mercy with one arm and hauled her close to his side. “Something you obviously have forgotten in your selfish desire to keep her your prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” Arthur gave a blustering laugh. “That is absurd.”
“Is it?” Ian trailed his fingers down her arm, his tender touch leaving a path of fire in its wake. “When was the last occasion that your daughter attended a local society event? Or enjoyed an afternoon of shopping with her friends? Or even spent a few moments flirting with a handsome young gentleman?”
Mercy’s mouth went dry, her words of protest forgotten as an aching wave of need slammed into her.
Oh . . . heavens. This was a mistake. She could not possibly concentrate when she was drowning in the heat and scent of this man.
Unfortunately, her father had no such troubles. With a loud sniff, Arthur glared at Mercy, clearly expecting her to deny any wish for a life of her own.
“She has no interest in such things,” he at last muttered when Mercy remained silent.
“Every young maiden has interest in such things,” Ian countered, his voice thick with an aversion he did not attempt to hide. “You have simply denied Mercy the opportunity to indulge in harmless pleasures.”
Pressing a hand to her heart, Lydia rose to her feet and regarded Ian with a wounded expression.
“We love our daughter, Mr. Breckford.”
Ian was blatantly unmoved by her mother’s gentle reprimand. Indeed, his expression only hardened.
“If you loved Mercy, Mrs. Simpson, you would devote your attention to her needs rather than your own selfish comforts. You speak of duty, but you have utterly and completely failed your daughter.”
Lydia sucked in a shocked breath. “Mercy, what is the meaning of this?”
Well, that was a bloody good question.
Although Mercy had suspected Ian would find her parents a source of irritation, she had presumed he would do as most people did and simply avoid them. She had never dreamed he would actually feel the need to confront them in this manner.
“Mr. Breckford has a rather unpredictable sense of humor.” Threading her arm through his, Mercy sent him a warning glare. “If you will excuse us for a moment?”