Chapter 20
Despite the late hour, Mercy made no effort to climb beneath the sheets that had already been turned down for the night.
All in all, it had been an eventful day. Eventful enough that the mere thought of sleep was absurd. Instead, she returned to the restless pacing that her mother had interrupted.
Not that her circular path from the window to the cherry-wood armoire assisted in clearing her tangled thoughts, she wryly acknowledged.
She was no closer to comprehending Ian’s stunning proposal. Whether it was a bit of temporary madness or a genuine desire to spend the rest of his life with her.
Or even her own feelings.
Was she prepared to take the leap of faith to become Ian’s wife? Could she overcome her fear of binding herself irrevocably to another? Or would she be forever condemned to hide from the promise of love?
She was still wrestling with her uncooperative thoughts when there was a sharp rap on the door.
With a jerk at the unexpected interruption, Mercy moved to discover Ian standing in the hallway. Her eyes narrowed. Not in shock at his brash intrusion—Ian Breckford had no concern for those pesky rules that prevented most gentlemen from intruding into a proper maiden’s bedchamber—but instead at the sight of his disheveled appearance.
Good Lord, his hair stood on end, his cravat was untied and hanging down his unbuttoned jacket, and even in the fading firelight she could determine that he was shockingly pale. He looked like a man who had just walked through a battlefield and was still not certain if he had made it safely to the other side.
“Ian.”
He regarded her with haunted eyes that made her heart stutter to a halt.
“Forgive me. I know it is late.”
“That does not matter.” Grasping his arm, she pulled him into the room and shut the door. In this moment she did not give a fig for propriety. “What is wrong?”
Leaning against the polished panels of the door, Ian twisted his lips in a wry smile.
“Am I so easy to read?”
“In this moment, yes. Tell me what has happened.”
There was a long pause, as if Ian were lost in his dark broodings. Then he gave a sharp shake of his head.
“What has happened, my sweet Mercy, is that I have just discovered my entire life is a lie.”
Mercy had braced herself to discover that Ian’s friend had brought some tragic news from London. Perhaps the injury of a friend, or the theft of his belongings. Now she struggled to make sense of his ominous announcement.
“What do you mean?”
His bark of laughter was edged with raw, aching pain.
“My father at last confessed that he is not my father at all.”
“I . . . do not understand.”
“Lord Norrington might have claimed me as his son, but it was Ella who gave birth to me.”
“Oh.” Blank astonishment momentarily seized Mercy, making it impossible to think clearly. Then, ever so slowly, a dozen small hints and clues coalesced into a blinding flash of awareness. “Oh.”
Ian stiffened as he watched the various emotions flit over her face.
“You do not seem nearly as astonished as you should be.”
“Actually, it explains a great deal.”
Anger flashed in the whiskey eyes. “You suspected?”
“No, no. Of course not.” She reached out to touch his arm. “I have only wondered why Ella was so terribly protective of you. And why she treasured each tiny bit gossip that she could find of you in the paper. It always seemed somewhat excessive for a mere aunt. Now it all makes sense.”
Ian pushed from the wall, stalking to glare into the smoldering embers of the fire.
“I am happy it makes sense to one of us.”
Mercy studied his tense body and the stark lines of his profile. His fury was palpable, filling the air with a prickling heat, but it was the deep, biting betrayal in his eyes that squeezed her heart and lodged her breath in her throat.
No matter how he might stomp and storm about, he was fiercely wounded by Ella’s lies.
Mercy stepped forward, seized by the need to ease his pain, to somehow soften the shocking blow he had suffered. As ridiculous as it might be, she wanted her arrogant, swaggering, insufferable rake returned.
“I know this must be difficult, but you have to know that Ella loves you beyond measure,” she said softly. “There is nothing she would not sacrifice for you.”
His hands gripped the mantel until Mercy feared the marble might crumble to dust.
“Except the truth,” he rasped.
“I am certain she must have had her reasons.”
“It does not matter.” Without warning, he glanced over his shoulder to pin her with a fierce gaze. “I am leaving Rosehill.”
“Leaving?” Mercy’s heart came to a suffocating halt. “When?”
“Now.”
She pressed her hand to her chest, which had become unbearably tight.
“Where are you going?”
“That depends upon you.”
Startled out of the dark tide of disappointment, Mercy blinked in confusion.
“Me?”
Ian turned, folding his arms over his chest as he regarded her with a guarded expression.
“I could return to my cold, lonely rooms in London, or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or we could leave together and travel to Scotland.”
“Why ever would you wish to visit Scotland?”
His grim features eased at her genuine confusion. “You know, Mercy, there are times when I forget just how innocent you are.” He lowered his arms, taking a step closer. “I desire for the both of us to visit Gretna Green. We could be wed in a matter of days.”
Mercy’s mouth fell open, snapped shut, then fell open again as she reeled beneath an avalanche of sensations. Shock, giddy excitement, and sheer terror.
Gads, how was she supposed to think clearly when Ian kept blindsiding her with one astonishing pronouncement after another?
“Wed?”
His eyes narrowed. “In the event you have forgotten, I did offer a proposal earlier this evening.”
“Of course I have not forgotten. But . . .” She shook her head. No. She could not make such a decision while her mind was trapped in a fog of bewilderment. No matter how her heart might urge her to leap blindly and damn the consequences. “You expect me to slip away in the midst of the night to elope with you?”
He shrugged. “Most elopements take place in the midst of the night. I believe that is supposed to be a part of the romance.”
“I would hardly consider a hasty wedding over the anvil as romantic.”
“Fine.” With two long strides he was standing before her, grasping her hands in a near-painful grip. “Then we can travel to London and have a proper marriage. I doubt Westminster Abbey would throw open its doors to me, but there must be some church that would allow a bastard across their threshold. I do not care how we are wed, sweet Mercy, whether it is in Scotland or in London with trumpets blaring, just as long as you are my wife.”
She trembled, her mouth dry and her heart refusing to beat. In this moment, Ian truly desired her as his wife. It was etched in the lines of his sinfully handsome face and smoldered in the depths of his whiskey eyes. If only she could be certain that his desire would not whither into the bitter regret of her parents.
“Ian, wait.” She touched his cheek, willing him to understand her hesitation. “I cannot leave with you.”
His fingers tightened, as if he were absorbing a painful blow. Then, with a twisted smile, he dropped her hands as if they were tainted.
“Of course you cannot.” He hid his disappointment behind a mocking smile. “Is it because I am a bastard or a sinner?”
“Do not say such things, not even in jest.”
His smile faded at her vehement tone. “Then why will you not be my wife? I know that you care for me.”
“Yes, I care for you,” she admitted softly. “I love you.”
“God . . .” Ian seemed briefly lost for words. Stupid man. He could surely not be surprised he had stolen her heart? He had, after all, made a career of stealing hearts since he’d left the cradle. “Mercy.”
She held up a warning hand as he looked prepared to toss her over his shoulder and head for the nearest vicar.
“But that does not mean I am yet prepared to be married. We are still near strangers in many ways.”
A wicked smile curved his lips as he rapidly regained his composure. “Hardly strangers, my sweet. Shall I tell you the precise sound you make when I—”
“Ian.”
The smile remained, but Mercy did not miss the frustration that flashed through his eyes.
“If you love me, then what else matters? We have years to discover whether you snore or are impossibly grumpy in the mornings or intend to fill our home with endless stacks of dusty books as you write your soon-to-be published articles.”
“I am being serious, Ian.”
“So am I, Mercy.” He trailed his fingers down her cheek. “I may not know your favorite food or the name of your favorite doll when you were five or even if your toes are ticklish, but I do know that you have a warm and generous heart, that you are loyal to a fault, and that just having you near makes my world a more wonderful place to be.”
Mercy barely made it to the nearest chair as her knees melted and she collapsed onto the padded cushion.
“Oh,” she whispered, her thoughts stolen along with her breath. It was the nicest, most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her. “Oh.”
Kneeling before her, Ian gripped the arms of the chair, regarding her with fierce need.
“Say you will be my wife. Come with me, Mercy, and I promise I will take care of you for the rest of your life.”
Take care of you . . .
Did he know just how seductive those words were to a woman who had spent her entire life tending to the needs of others? Just how often she had dreamed of having someone in her life she could lean on, depend upon?
God above, she wanted to say yes. The word trembled on the edge of her lips as her volatile emotions churned through her body and threatened to overcome her common sense.
A pity that her ingrained sense of duty would not allow her to toss caution to the wind and simply follow her heart.
“I cannot just abandon my duties, Ian,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely force out the words. “Even if I do become your wife, I must ensure that my parents are settled back in their cottage with at least a housekeeper to assist them.”
“And once you are back in your cottage, do you truly believe that they will ever allow you to leave?”
“It will be my choice.”
Ian surged to his feet, his jaw knotted with disappointment. “Christ, they have hounded, bullied, and manipulated you for years. Why would you suddenly be capable of defying them?”
Mercy pushed herself upright, reaching out to lay a hand on his forearm.
“Because I now understand I cannot forever avoid my life,” she admitted with a sad smile. “I have realized that I hide behind my responsibilities as if they are a suit of armor. I am a coward.”
Caught off guard by her soft confession, Ian frowned. “What do you fear?”
“Discovering that all marriages are like my parents’. As I am certain you have noticed, they do not have a particularly amicable relationship. Indeed, they have been squabbling and generally making one another, and everyone who crosses their paths, miserable since I can recall. My life at the cottage may be dull and isolated, but it is not a slow, ghastly torture.”
She felt the muscles of his arm bunch beneath her fingertips.
“And that is what you fear I will offer you? A slow, ghastly torture?”
“No. No, of course not.” She stepped closer, breathing deeply of his delicious male scent. It was like a balm to her frayed nerves, soothing her fear and stirring her blood with a warmth that helped ward off the gathering chill. “For the first time in my life, I understand how a woman could find happiness as a wife.”
“Then—”
“But I still do not intend to rush into a hasty marriage because you are upset at learning the truth of your mother, nor will I abandon my parents until I am certain they are being properly tended.”
Shaking off her hand, Ian regarded her with a hard gaze, his features set in stark lines.
“Then we are at an impasse, my love, because I will not remain beneath this roof another moment.”
With long strides he was headed out the door, not even pausing when she called out for him to wait.
Left alone in the center of the room, Mercy pressed a hand to her quivering stomach, too dazed by his abrupt departure to give in to her instincts that screamed in need to follow his retreating form.
Ian’s lodgings in Duke Street were admirably situated with a large drawing room furnished with leather-upholstered wing chairs, a low sofa, and several pier tables scattered over the floral carpet. There was a separate bedchamber with a small private parlor attached and a connecting door that led to a room for Reaver.
Under normal circumstances, the rooms were comfortable, if not particularly luxurious, and perfectly suited to a gentleman who rarely spent his time at home.
These were not normal circumstances, however, and after nearly three weeks of being closeted in his lodgings without the benefit of Reaver and only grudging visits by his wary housekeeper, the place was frankly a mess.
Empty whiskey bottles lined the scrolled chestnut sideboard, trays of food that had gone uneaten were precariously piled near the door, and discarded racing forms that had been impatiently crumpled littered the floor.
All in all, it was the sort of place that could have been a great deal improved by a match and some kindling.
Ian, however, was indifferent to the chaos as he lounged in one of the chairs and absently stirred the coals of the fire with the tip of his scuffed boot. In truth, the shadowed disorder suited his mood to perfection.
Or at least it did until the infernal pounding echoed through the silent chambers. At first he tried to ignore the damnable noise. The last thing he desired was a caller. Not when his heart was mangled and his thoughts as bleak as the pits of hell.
Unfortunately, the pounding refused to end, echoing painfully in his head, still tender from an overabundance of whiskey.
Struggling to his feet, Ian weaved a path to yank open the door and glare at the intruder.
His mood went from dismal to foul as he caught sight of Raoul Charlebois standing on the cramped landing. Not only had the devil intruded into his private hell, but he was impeccably attired in a mulberry jacket and silver waistcoat with a perfectly starched cravat that reminded Ian that he had nothing more on than a wrinkled linen shirt that hung open at the neck and a pair of equally wrinkled breeches. Even worse, he could not recall the last occasion his hair had been brushed or his cheeks shaven.
The brilliant blue gaze ran a slow path over Ian’s disreputable appearance, pausing at his unpolished boots before lifting to linger on the unmistakable shadows beneath Ian’s eyes and the pallor of his face.
“I thought I might find you here,” the older man drawled. “Although I underestimated in just how bad a condition I would find you.”
“Charlebois. What a stunningly unpleasant surprise. Should you not be dazzling the world with your—what did the critics say?—stunning, evocative, breathtakingly powerful portrayal of Macbeth?”
The golden brows arched. “The play’s run ended last eve, as you well know. You were in the audience, after all.”
“Was I?” Ian offered a negligent shrug. “No doubt I was foxed to the gills and one of my enemies hauled my inebriated carcass to the theatre as a lark.”
“No doubt.” Raoul’s smile revealed he was well aware that his friend never missed one of his performances when he was in London, no matter how wretched his existence. “May I enter?”
Ian barred the opening with his arm. “Perhaps I am not alone, mon ami.”
“Nothing would please me more than to discover you have brought an end to your morbid bout of self-pity and have decided to rejoin the world. Unfortunately, it is obvious you are still sulking alone in your gloomy chambers.”
Ian stiffened. Christ, Raoul made him sound like a petulant five-year-old.
The fact that he had a niggling suspicion that was precisely how he had been behaving did nothing to ease his flare of temper.
“How can you be so certain?” he growled.
The brows inched higher. “No woman, no matter how many shillings you shoved into her purse, would consent to join you in your current state of... dishabille. Where the hell is Reaver?”
“The whereabouts of my personal servant are hardly your concern.”
“They are when he has disappeared and allowed his master to wallow in the depths of the netherworld without so much as a decent cravat.” The blue eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”
Despite his best efforts, Ian could not halt the heat from crawling beneath his skin.
“Go away, Charlebois, I am in no mood for company.”
Raoul easily shoved his way past Ian’s unsteady form, muttering a curse as he bent to pluck the racing forms from the floor and toss them into the fire. The scattered newspapers were offered the same treatment while the bottles were ruthlessly swept into the bin.
Only then did he turn to regard Ian with a basilisk gaze. “If you want to be rid of me, then tell me what you’ve done with Reaver.”
Ian slammed the door shut and leaned against the wooden panes. His head was throbbing and his knees so weak he could barely remain upright.
“I sliced open his throat and dumped him in the Thames for pestering me,” he growled. “You are quite likely to join him if you do not leave me in peace.”
Raoul snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “In your condition I dare say I will be able to beat the truth from you before you could find a razor among the rubbish. Shall we lay odds?”
“Damn you, you interfering prig.”
“Tell me.”
Ian rubbed the aching muscles of his neck. It might have been amusing to watch the fastidious Raoul cleaning his rooms like a common charwoman if he hadn’t been so wretchedly sober.
“I sent Reaver to Surrey.”
“To spy upon Miss Simpson?”
The heat returned to Ian’s face. The last thing he desired was to admit that he had sent his valet to keep watch on Mercy because he was worried sick that something might befall her while he was not near to protect her.
It would make him appear like nothing more than a lovesick nodcock, which, of course, was precisely what he was.
“Not to spy, merely to ensure that her journey home is without incident,” he said, his voice stiff. “He will keep watch from afar and only interfere if necessary.”
A slow, mocking smile curved Raoul’s lips. “I see.”
Ian frowned, his hands curling into fists. If he could stand straight, he would have slugged his friend’s perfect nose.
“The roads are not entirely without danger, and she will be distracted by her loathsome parents,” he snapped. “She will be a pigeon ripe for the plucking for any highwayman, footpad, or swindler who might catch sight of her.”
Indifferent to the danger in the air, Raoul shrugged. “If you were so concerned for your delicate blossom, why did you not return to Surrey yourself?”
“Because . . .”
“Yes?”
Ian closed his eyes, realizing that he would have to confess all if he were ever to be rid of his annoying companion.
“I asked her to be my wife.”
For once, he actually managed to startle the unflappable Raoul.
“Mon Dieu.”
“Of course, she was far too wise to accept.”
Raoul blinked, then blinked again. “She refused your offer?”
Ian’s smile held a trace of bitterness. “She did not precisely say no, but then again she did not say yes.”
“Then what, pray tell, did she say?”
“A lot of nonsense about needing time for us to become better acquainted and settling her parents with a suitable companion before she could consider such an offer.”
There was a long silence before Raoul gave a shake of his head.
“That does not sound like nonsense, Ian. Quite the opposite, in fact,” he said, his tone considering. “I would say Miss Simpson possesses a great deal of good sense and loyalty for those she loves. The exact qualities any gentleman would desire in his wife.”
Ian’s heart tightened with a brutal pain. Since he had fled Rosehill, he had deliberately avoided the memory of Mercy’s stark refusal to accompany him. Just as he had avoided all thoughts of his treacherous mother.
Instead, he had closeted himself in these rooms and clouded his mind with whiskey.
Not a particularly beneficial means of spending his time, but better than sorting through emotions too raw to be disturbed.
“They were merely excuses,” he groused. “The truth of the matter is she does not trust me. No more than my beloved mother trusted me.”
“Ah.”
“What?”
Raoul stepped forward, his public façade stripped away to reveal the genuine man beneath. A man who made no effort to disguise his concern.
“It is obvious even to a gentleman of the meanest intelligence that you have managed to tarnish poor Miss Simpson with your anger and disappointment toward your mother,” he said softly.
Ian pushed himself away from the door, pacing toward the sideboard in a futile search for whiskey. Damn Raoul to the netherworld. Did the bastard have to charge into his privacy, stirring up feelings that he had worked so hard to bury?
And did that niggling voice have to whisper in the back of his mind that his friend was not entirely wrong?
“How the devil am I supposed to have tarnished the aggravating woman?” he forced himself to mutter. “I asked her to come away with me and she refused. End of story.”
“I presume that you must feel something for the woman or you would never have asked her to be your wife.”
His fist hit the wall with enough force to knock the pictures off the paneling.
“Of course I bloody well feel something. She is—”
“Worth fighting for?”
Spinning about, he pinned his companion with a lethal glare. “And how would you suggest I fight? Her parents have not only raised her with the belief it is her duty to be at their constant beck and call, but they have soured her on the mere notion of marriage. Hell, who could blame her for being skittish after witnessing the two of them wage war the past twenty-odd years?”
“And yet, she did not say no to your proposal,” Raoul relentlessly pointed out. “If she were truly averse to the notion, she would not have offered you hope.”
Ian absently pressed his fist to his chest, unaware of the blood staining his knuckles as he rubbed the aching hole in the center of his heart.
Hope.
No, it was the one thing that he refused to allow himself.
Hope was what had led him to stupidly leap at Norrington’s offer of forming a business alliance, believing that he had at long last earned his father’s respect. Hope was what had led him to presume he could put his painful past behind him and seek to become a proper gentleman worthy of a wife and children.
And what had come of it?
Betrayal, that was what.
“Who can say what is in a woman’s mind?” That annoying voice was still niggling in the back of his mind as he forced the words past his stiff lips. “She claims to love you and then refuses to offer more than a small part of herself.”
Raoul clicked his tongue. “If you desire your future bride to trust you, mon ami, then you must earn it.”
“And how the devil am I to do that?”
“Consider the matter from her point of view. You have asked her to become your wife, but while it might be an earth-shattering notion for you to commit to one woman, she is the one expected to leave her family and home and the only security she has ever known to place herself in your care. No woman would take such a step lightly.”
Despite his best attempts, Ian could not entirely shut out his friend’s sage words.
In his cloud of fury, he hadn’t allowed himself to consider how he had thrust Mercy into an untenable position. In his mind he had decided that they should wed immediately, and even the least hesitation on her part had simply confirmed his belief that every woman was set out to betray him.
Now he grimaced at the unpleasant suspicion that he had behaved no better than Mercy’s peevish parents, making impossible demands and then sulking when she did not fall in with them without complaint.
Christ, what had he done?
“Ian?”
Wrenched from his mortified thoughts, Ian shoved his fingers through his tangled hair.
“What would you have me do?”
“Prove to her that you are capable of understanding her fears and are willing to give her the time she needs to accept the fact that you are prepared to place her happiness above your own.” Raoul stepped forward to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Is that so much to ask?”
“No.” Feeling as if he were emerging from the fog, Ian gave a sharp shake of his head. Raoul was perfectly right. He had been wallowing in his own self-pity, nursing his injuries and making himself miserable while allowing the woman he loved to slip from his grasp. He should be horsewhipped. “No, of course it is not.”
“Then why are you sitting in these dark rooms drinking yourself into oblivion?”
“Because I am an idiot,” Ian muttered, striding across the room to enter his bedchamber. Pouring water into the basin, he washed and shaved before he tugged his valise from beneath the armoire. Tossing it onto the bed, he began shoving his clothes in without care to Reaver’s outrage when he would discover they were creased beyond all hope.
“I will agree that you are an idiot,” Raoul said from the door. “Where the devil are you going?”
“If I leave for Surrey within the hour—” Ian’s words were cut off as there was yet another knock on his door. He turned to stab his friend with a suspicious glare. “Who the blazes can that be?”
Raoul held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I haven’t the least notion.”
For a moment, Ian considered ignoring the faint taps. He had wasted so damnable much time in his stupidity, even another second’s delay was intolerable.
It was only the knowledge that Mrs. Elliot, his infernal landlady, was bound to come snooping if he did not answer the knock that made him curse beneath his breath and return to the front chamber.
Expecting one of his endless parade of drunken friends, Ian pulled open the door with a scathing demand to quit the place at once, only to freeze in profound shock.
Standing on the dimly lit landing was a sweet, delicate wood sprite with golden curls covered by a black bonnet, her slender body nearly hidden beneath a heavy black cloak.
Ian’s breath was squeezed from his lungs, his heart forgetting to beat. The first time he had ever seen Mercy Simpson in that field of daisies, he had been mesmerized by her beauty, but in this moment he understood it was more than just her lovely features and expressive dark eyes.
It was . . . her very essence. The innocence of her soul. The kindness in her heart.
What sinner could possibly resist such temptation?
“Mercy,” he husked, hesitating to reach out and touch her in fear she might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination.
She nervously wetted her lips, shifting beneath his fierce gaze. “I know it is not proper for me to be here, but—”
“To hell with propriety,” he growled, tossing aside his fears to wrap her tightly in his arms. Tears filled his eyes as her warmth thawed the chill that had held him captive for the past three weeks. “God, tell me this is not just another dream.”
Tilting back her head, she regarded him with a searching gaze. “Did you dream of me, Ian?”
He gently cupped her face, his hands trembling. “I have been haunted by you night and day, sweet Mercy. I could find no peace, no matter how I tried.”
Raoul loudly cleared his throat, a wicked smile curling his lips as Ian tugged Mercy into his chambers, his arms still firmly wrapped about her.
“Being an actor with an exquisite sense of timing, I am capable of knowing my cue when I hear it,” Raoul murmured, sweeping them both a deep bow. “Adieu, mon ami. Miss Simpson.”
Ian made no attempt to halt his friend as he exited the room and closed the door behind his retreating form. Instead, he tugged Mercy toward the dying fire and impatiently removed her bonnet to reveal the gleaming gold of her curls.
“How did you get here?” he demanded, taking her hands to warm them with his own.
“Ella was kind enough to bring me to London in her carriage.”
Ian instinctively stiffened. “She is with you?”
“She is at the Norrington townhouse and has begged me to assure you that she will not attempt to see you without your leave,” Mercy said hastily.
“I see.” He gave a shake of his head, not yet willing to sort through the churning brew of emotions attached to his mother.
She stepped closer, her expression worried. “I am sorry if it troubles you to have her in town, but I had no other means of coming to you. I could not take my parents’ only carriage, and I did not precisely know how to go about hiring a vehicle to take me to the nearest coaching inn.”
Any thought of his mother was dashed by the mere notion of Mercy traveling in a public vehicle, surrounded by any sort of low-life scoundrel. The image was enough to turn his hair gray.
“You considered taking the stagecoach? Alone?” He glared into her wide eyes. “Do you wish to give me heart failure?”
Far from appearing repentant, the minx offered a serene smile. “I would have been perfectly safe as long as my guardian angel continued to haunt my every step. Few would dare to cross paths with such a formidable protector.”
Ian’s eyes widened before he gave a startled bark of laughter. “Reaver allowed himself to be caught?”
“He is rather difficult to overlook.”
“Where is the devil? He was not supposed to let you out of his sight.”
“Do not blame your servant. I pleaded with him to remain below stairs so I could surprise you.”
“Perhaps I should remind him who pays his wage,” Ian muttered, his words without heat. It was impossible to feel anything but bewildered joy at having Mercy so near. “Then again, perhaps I shall give him a rise in salary.”
“Actually, he is in part the reason I am here.”
“Then definitely a rise in salary,” he husked. “But how did he convince you to come to me?”
A hint of uncertainty entered the midnight eyes. “When I caught sight of him during my return to my parents’ cottage, I began to hope that you had not completely washed your hands of me.”
Ian sucked in breath at the wrenching regret that he had ever allowed this woman a moment of doubt.
“Not bloody likely.” He leaned his forehead against hers, remorse trembling through his body. “You will never be rid of me, Miss Mercy Simpson.”
“I feared . . .” Her words briefly faltered. “When you left Rosehill, I did not believe I would ever see you again.”
Stroking his lips over her temple, Ian wrapped an unyielding arm about her waist.
“Forgive me, my sweet. I should never have pressed you to wed me and then charged off like a sulky child. My only excuse is that I was not thinking clearly.” He pulled back, allowing his love to be written across his features. “If I am so fortunate as to earn your trust, my sweet, I will devote my life to ensuring you never know another moment of unhappiness. That I swear to you.”
The shadows fled from her eyes. “You still wish me as your wife?”
“More than I have ever wished for anything in my life.”
“You are certain?”
“If you would step into my bedchamber, you would discover that I was in the process of packing my bags to come in search of you.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek. Then, lowering his hand, he swiftly dealt with the hooks and buttons of her heavy cloak. There was far too much wool, and muslin, and God knew what else between them. “Although I am without doubt the world’s greatest idiot, I still possess the heart of a gambler, and I know better than to toss away the finest hand I have ever been dealt.” He tugged off the cloak to allow it to pool on the floor, revealing the pretty rose and ivory gown beneath. “Tell me that I have not made a total muck of this, Mercy. Tell me that you’ll be my wife.”
With an enchantress smile, Mercy wrapped her arms about his neck. “Well, I most certainly did not travel all this distance to become your mistress.”
His chuckle was strained as his body responded to the feel of her curves pressed so intimately against him. It had been three weeks since he’d felt the least stirrings of desire. Now his body seemed determined to punish him for the absence.
“Do you ever intend to forgive me for that wretched offer?”
“Utterly and completely,” she said without hesitation. “Just as I will always forgive you.”
He blinked at her fierce tone. “Always?”
“Is that so astonishing?”
“As astonishing as me swearing that I shall never do anything that needs to be forgiven.”
“Do not tease, Ian.” Her fingers toyed with the curls at his nape, not seeming to realize that a randy, besotted gentleman needed very little to set his blood on fire. “I have at last realized that there is nothing to compel me to follow in my parents’ footsteps. Not unless I choose to do so.”
“Which I sincerely hope you will not.”
“No.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “Actually, now that I have accepted that fate is in my own hands, it should be quite easy to go on. We at least comprehend what not to do in a proper marriage.”
“A proper marriage.” He crushed her to his body, not even a bit surprised by the rush of pure happiness. “Do you know, my love, I like the sound of that.”
She snuggled her head into the hollow of his shoulder, just as if it had been made for that purpose.
“I rather like it myself.”
Ian’s entire body hardened with an explosion of searing need, his mind barely capable of functioning. With an effort, he squashed the urge to toss her over his shoulder and head for the bed. There was still one unpleasant detail that had to be settled.
“What of your parents? I may be the most selfish beast ever born, but I will not have you plagued with guilt.” He swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “If you wish, I will purchase a home that is close enough for you to regularly visit, although I will not tolerate having you tend to them night and day. As your husband, I demand that any tending be exclusively devoted to me.”
She tilted back her head, her lips twitching. “Do you take a great deal of tending?”
He groaned, his hand slipping down to the curve of her back to press her against his aching erection.
“God, yes.”
Her breathless laugh feathered over his skin. “Actually, I hired a housekeeper from the village who has agreed to move in to the cottage, and while my parents are bound to grumble and grouse, I am confident that Mrs. Norville is perfectly capable of seeing to their needs.” She grimaced. “Of course, I will need to visit them quite often. For all their faults, they are my family.”
“Faults and family do seem to go hand in hand.”
Her eyes darkened at his unwittingly bitter words. “Ian—”
“Not tonight, my love,” he swiftly interrupted. “Tonight there is only you and me.”
“The two of us all alone.” Her teasing fingers brushed down his nape, slipping beneath the open collar of his shirt with devastating ease. “Whatever shall we do?”
Ian might be an idiot, but he was never one to miss an opportunity. No doubt if life were fair he would never have been allowed to win the love of this extraordinary woman, let alone have a second chance to have her as his wife, but now that he had been offered paradise, he was not about to waste a single moment.
With one smooth motion, Ian swept Mercy off her feet and headed for the bedchamber.
“Well, you did mention something about a proper marriage. Perhaps it would be best if we have a bit of practice.”
She met his smoldering gaze with a smile that held nothing but undiluted confidence in their future life together.
“Yes, indeed. All the best marriages must have practice.”
His chest swelled with a happiness that seemed too large to fit into his unworthy heart.
“And love,” he whispered.
“And love. . . .”
The Norrington townhouse was a splendid Palladian palace on Great Ormond Street. The façade was built of red brick with fluted columns that supported a balcony on the third story and towering windows that reflected the golden glow of the early morning sunlight.
Crossing the narrow courtyard behind a high wrought-iron fence, Ian mounted the shallow steps, his lips twisting as a uniformed footman swept open one of the heavy oak doors and stepped back to allow him entry.
In silence, the servant led him through the arched arcade of Corinthian columns, bypassing the split marble staircase to head toward the back of the massive house.
Ian ignored the click of his heels that echoed eerily about the lofted ceilings that were molded with a great deal of gilt and the elegant furnishings that were still hidden beneath Holland covers. During the handful of occasions he had visited the house during his childhood, he had been overawed by the majestic beauty and constantly in fear of breaking one of the priceless heirlooms that were scattered throughout. It was as oppressive and formal as Rosehill.
On this morning, he was too filled with joy to have it dimmed by ancient memories. Indeed, he was astonishingly pleased at the thought of Mercy being surrounded by such graceful beauty. This was precisely the sort of setting she deserved.
The past was gone, and in its place was a glorious future filled with endless possibilities.
The footman opened the doors to the second drawing room and Ian entered to discover Ella seated upon a crimson velvet chaise, sipping her morning chocolate as she shifted through an enormous pile of invitations that had clearly just arrived. Although Ella rarely entered into London society, her arrival at the townhouse was enough to stir the society hostesses to fight over her elusive presence.
She lifted her head at his entrance, her brown eyes widening in shock as the envelopes dropped from her shaking hands.
“Ian.” With an obvious effort, the older woman rose to her feet, her gaze sweeping desperately over his carefully guarded expression as if it had been years not weeks since she had last caught sight of him. “I fear that Mercy has not yet risen.”
Ian hid his smug smile. He had made love to Mercy for hours, savoring each and every caress. Only when the dawn was threatening to crest had he forced himself to escort her back to Norrington House.
“I did not expect her to be down yet. She had a rather late evening,” he murmured.
A knowing amusement briefly flickered over Ella’s pale face. “So she did.” The older woman paused, seeming oddly uncertain as she clutched her hands together. “Did you wish to leave a message for her?”
“Actually, I came to speak with you.”
“Oh.” Ella took a hesitant step forward. “I suppose you are angry that I came to London, but I assure you that I have no intention of pushing myself—”
“I came to thank you,” he firmly interrupted.
“Thank me?”
“For bringing Mercy safely to London.”
The round face colored with pleasure. “Oh, well, she was quite set on coming, and I could not possibly allow her to travel on her own.”
Thank God his mother at least understood the dangers. Which was more than he could say for his soon-to-be wife.
He smiled wryly. “Although my fiancée may possess a great deal of common sense, she is still adorably innocent in most worldly matters. She would no doubt have given half her coins to the local spongers and lost the other half to pickpockets before she ever reached the first coaching inn.”
“Fiancée?” Genuine happiness lightened Ella’s expression. “Then you are to wed?”
“I intend to seek a special license this afternoon.”
“But that is wonderful.” Ella abruptly frowned. “Oh, but surely Mercy will desire to be wed in her father’s church? He was the vicar there, after all.”
Ian snorted at the mere notion. “And have the surly old goat scowling through the entire ceremony while her mother wails and wrings her hands in the background? No, I would never allow Mercy’s wedding day to be ruined by such ridiculous theatrics. Thankfully, she is quite set on a quiet London ceremony with only a few witnesses.”
Ella’s smile returned. “That is no doubt for the best. May I inquire where will you hold the ceremony?”
Ian paused, briefly wrestling with his inner demons. Then, recalling Mercy’s soft demand as she lay in his arms, he squared his shoulders.
“Mercy would like the ceremony to be held here, at Norrington House, if you and the viscount will allow it.”
“Here? Oh . . .” Hastily retrieving a handkerchief from the sleeve of her French gray morning gown, Ella dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Ian. Oh.”
Ian shifted uneasily, his lingering bitterness no proof against the fragile hope that bloomed in the damp brown eyes.
“As I said, it is to be a quiet affair, a fortnight from Tuesday if that is convenient.”
“Perfectly convenient. I shall see to a wedding breakfast, of course, and Mercy’s trousseau, although it will be a close thing to have more than a few gowns actually finished by . . . by . . .”
Her words trailed to an end as she sank onto the edge of the chaise, her body shaking with deep sobs of relief.
With long strides, Ian was seated beside her, his arms encircling her heaving shoulders.
It was yet too soon to have entirely forgiven his sense of betrayal, but neither could he dismiss nine and twenty years of unconditional love.
Perhaps his childhood would have been easier had he known Norrington was not a cold, indifferent father and that Ella was more than an aunt. But in the end, did it truly matter?
“Enough, Ella. You will make yourself ill,” he soothed.
It was several moments before the older woman managed to gather her composure and glance into Ian’s softened expression.
“Ian, does this mean you have forgiven me?”
“It is not so much a matter of forgiveness, but rather one of understanding.” His lips twisted. “I do not deny it will take time to adjust to the thought of you being my mother, but I do comprehend just how difficult it must have been for you. You did what you thought was for the best.”
A watery smile broke through the tears as Ella lifted a hand to lightly touch his cheek.
“Do you know, Ian, if I could change the past I would, but I would never, ever change the man you have become.”
“Nor would I.” A soft female voice spoke from the doorway, causing Ian’s heart to leap with pleasure. “He might be a hellion, a scoundrel, and an infamous rake, but he is mine.”
Drawn like a magnet, Ian was on his feet and crossing the room to take the hands of the woman who had utterly and completely captured his heart.
Gazing into Mercy’s wide, beautiful eyes, he lifted her fingers to his lips.
“For all eternity, my sweet. For all eternity.”