Chapter 8
He was as good as his word.
When Mercy woke the following morning, it was to discover her bed empty and all signs of his brief visit removed. Even the mattress and pillows had been smoothed with a skill only a true rake could employ. She might have thought that she had dreamed the entire glorious event if not for the fact she was perfectly naked beneath the covers.
Not for the first time, Mercy was grateful she had been steadfast in her refusal to accept Ella’s insistence that she be attended by a maid. There did not seem to be a convenient lie that would explain her current state of undress. At least none that would satisfy a gossipy servant.
Quickly washing and attiring herself in a gown of pale ivory with Brussels lace about the hem, Mercy tugged her hair into a tidy knot and regarded her reflection in the mirror.
To her critical eye it appeared her lips were a bit swollen from Ian’s kisses and her cheeks flushed with a lingering pleasure, but she was confident that there was no blatant evidence of her night of wicked delight.
With a tiny smile, she at last turned to leave her rooms.
She knew that she should be wracked by guilt. She had been raised to believe a woman’s virtue was her dearest possession and that it had to be guarded with grim diligence. And while her virginity remained intact, she most certainly had lost a portion of her innocence.
What Mercy felt, however, was nothing remotely akin to guilt.
Last night had been . . . magical.
She had always suspected that passion between a man and woman could be a beautiful, powerful experience. Why else would history be filled with stories of love that altered the world? But she had not realized the sheer joy of being held in a man’s arms as if he would never release her.
It was the intimacy that she hungered for. The comforting touch and soft teasing that was as much a part of the lovemaking as the actual act.
Or at least, it had been with Ian Breckford.
Mercy was not so naïve as to believe that every gentleman was willing or even capable of initiating her into the delights of desire with such tender care. Which was no small part of why she desired him to be her first lover.
For all his wicked reputation, she had easily sensed that he was a man who could be trusted. Not only with her body, but with her honor as well. She did not fear for a moment her name would be bandied about like so much rubbish.
And, of course, it did not hurt that he was gorgeous, sexy, and more charming than any man had a right to be.
With steps light enough to make her feel as if she could float on air, Mercy headed directly to the small parlor at the back of the house. As much as she longed to trail behind Ian Breckford as if she were a silly schoolgirl, she would never intrude into his time with Ella. The older woman cherished every moment she could have with her nephew.
They were all too rare.
She was seated at the delicate rosewood desk rearranging the seating for an upcoming luncheon when Ella swept into the room, filling the room with her enthusiastic energy. Mercy rose to her feet, hiding a wry smile.
Ian Breckford might have inherited his dark beauty directly from his father, but his powerful resolve was a gift from his aunt.
“There you are, Mercy.” The older woman regarded her with a hint of curiosity. “Why did you not join me for breakfast?”
“I did not wish to interrupt your time with Mr. Breckford. I know how special his companionship is to you.”
Ella reached out to pat her hand, her smile wistful. “Very thoughtful, my dear, but unnecessary. Ian left at the crack of dawn for Guildford.”
“Oh.” Mercy struggled to disguise her flare of shock. Ian left Rosehill? Without even a word to her? “Does he have business there?”
Ella shrugged. “He did not say.”
Strolling to the window, Mercy gazed blindly down at the sunken garden that was just coming into bloom. A part of her knew that it was none of her concern. Ian was a grown gentleman who was perfectly free to come and go as he pleased. Certainly he had no duty to answer to her.
But even as she lectured herself on her ridiculous disappointment, a part of her could not help but dread the thought she might never see him again.
“But he intends to return?” she demanded, unable to halt the question.
Ella moved to stand beside Mercy at the window. “Well, he did leave behind his luggage, although he has been known to disappear and send later for his belongings. In truth, I believe his poor valet, who only arrived yesterday afternoon, spends most of his time traveling from one destination to another in a ceaseless effort to catch up with his master.”
“I see.”
The older woman reached out to take Mercy’s hand, forcing her to turn and meet her narrowed gaze.
“Mercy?”
“Yes?”
“I hope . . .” She paused as if carefully considering her words. “I do hope that you will not allow your head to be turned by Ian’s practiced flirtations. As much as I love him, he is not at all the sort of gentleman to be in the company of a young lady.” She grimaced. “He cannot seem to help himself from seducing every woman who crosses his path, and I would not wish to see you become one of his heartbroken conquests.”
On this occasion Mercy managed to disguise her reaction. Perhaps because Ella’s warning was so absurdly unnecessary.
“I may not be a sophisticated lady of London, Ella, but I am capable of recognizing a hardened libertine,” she said dryly.
“The danger to us poor women is not in recognizing a libertine, but in the fatal belief that we are the one to mend his wicked ways.” Ella’s expression hardened with an uncharacteristic bitterness, her eyes holding a distant light. “We always think that we can bring a rake to heel.”
Mercy frowned, quite certain that the older woman was no longer speaking of Ian.
“Ella?” she said softly.
“’Tis nothing.” With an obvious effort, Ella dismissed her unpleasant memory. “I am just worried for you, my dear.”
“Well, do not worry.” Mercy patted Ella’s plump hand and offered a reassuring smile. “Even if I were foolish enough to believe that I could somehow bring a man such as Ian to heel, it would all be for naught. I cannot even think of marriage.”
Ella appeared genuinely surprised at her words. “Why ever not?”
“You know that my parents have need of me, Ella,” she reminded the woman. “It was difficult for them to allow me even this brief stay at Rosehill.”
“Well, yes, certainly they have come to depend upon you, but surely they must understand that someday you will wed and have your own family.”
Turning on her heel, Mercy paced to the center of the room, the restless ache that had been temporarily eased by Ian’s seduction returning with a biting vengeance.
“Actually, they are not at all convinced that I must wed. Indeed, they are quite insistent that I remain a spinster.”
“But, my dear, that is grossly unfair.”
“It is not a matter of being fair. It is my duty to care for them as they cared for me.”
Ella’s lips thinned, as if she were battling back words that were not entirely proper for a respectable lady. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she crossed to stand directly before Mercy.
“Certainly we all feel a duty to our families, but that does not mean we are expected to give up our own lives.”
“Have you not remained unwed to stay with your brother and act as his hostess?” she countered.
Ella gave a firm shake of her head. “No. As much as I love Norry, I would never have given up my dream of a family to remain at Rosehill. Unfortunately . . .”
“What is it, Ella?”
An ancient, profound pain darkened her eyes. “Unfortunately, I never received an offer to wed.”
“Oh.” A pang of sympathy squeezed Mercy’s heart. She sensed that while Ella might not have received a proposal, there had been a gentleman that she desired to offer her one. “I am so sorry.”
“I have reconciled myself to my fate.” A wistful smile curved her lips. “But that does not mean that you should, Mercy. You deserve to have a home and a family that loves you.”
Mercy gritted her teeth against the surge of frustration. Did Ella think that she had no regrets? That she was pleased to rot into a forgotten spinster in a lonely cottage?
“I have a family.”
“If they truly loved you, they would be anxious to see you settled with a gentleman who adores you and will devote his life to seeing to your care.”
A startling image of Ian flashed through her mind before Mercy was firmly squashing it. For heaven’s sake, what was the matter with her? Ian possessed no interest in a wife and children. And even if he could be persuaded to become a respectable gentleman (well, at least a less disrespectable gentleman), she would be the last woman he would desire for a wife.
Not when he could have his pick of beautiful and no doubt wealthy young women.
“Is such a creature to be found?” she demanded, hoping her cheeks were not as hot as they felt.
Ella smiled wryly. “I have heard rumors of such.”
“Actually, it seems to me that most women are settled with a gentleman who devotes himself to his own care and expects everyone around him to cater to his needs.”
Ella lifted her brows. “You are far too young for such cynicism, my dear.”
“It is not so much cynicism as observation.” Mercy shrugged. “A small village does not possess secrets, not even to those who are only casual visitors.”
“No doubt there are any number of unhappy marriages, but I refuse to believe that they are all miserable,” Ella said, the eternal optimist. “There must be those who live in wedded bliss.”
“Perhaps a rare few,” Mercy conceded, thinking of her own parents, who lived more as bickering siblings than as man and wife.
“I think with the right gentleman you could find such bliss, Mercy,” Ella said, reaching to pat Mercy’s cheek. “Your heart is kind and generous and loyal. Precisely what men desire in a wife.”
Mercy resisted the urge to sigh. She was not nearly so convinced that a gentleman cared a wit about a woman’s heart, but it did not matter if he did.
“Well, since the only gentlemen about are Lord Norrington and Mr. Breckford, it appears that any hope for an offer of marriage is doomed to go unfulfilled.”
“Yes.” Ella grimaced, thankfully diverted by Mercy’s light teasing. “It is a pity about Ian. If only he were not such a determined rake and gamester, he would be perfect for you.”
Mercy could not prevent her abrupt laugh. “I doubt he would share your opinion, Ella.”
The older woman merely smiled. “Who is to say?”
Mercy bit back her instinctive denial. When the older woman had a notion set in her mind, she could be remarkably stubborn. Instead, she sought to take advantage of the discomforting conversation. After all, it was Ella who had introduced Ian as a subject.
“I understand that Mr. Breckford is not close to his father,” she said, her voice carefully impassive. “Is there a particular reason for the estrangement?”
Ella paused, her fingers lifting to absently tug at the string of pearls about her neck.
“I fear that Norry never knew quite what to do with a boisterous young boy who was forever underfoot and in constant demand of his attention. It was easier for him to retreat to the peace of his conservatory than to try and find some means of communicating with the unruly scamp.” She heaved a deep sigh. “And perhaps, I own some share of the blame.”
“Now that I refuse to believe,” Mercy protested. “I know how much you adore him.”
“Yes, and it broke my heart to see him feeling shunned by his father.” The older woman heaved a deep sigh. “So of course I spoiled him unbearably. He learned at a far too early age that he could manipulate women with a dimpled smile and a bit of charm. Perhaps if I had been—”
“Ella, you are being absurd,” Mercy interrupted, her expression stern. “Mr. Breckford is obviously an intelligent, successful gentleman who is envied by all of society. What more would you have of him?”
“I would have him with a devoted wife and a dozen children running about his house. Perhaps a silly wish for a man such as Ian.”
Mercy discovered that she did not care for the image of Ian happily wed with a pack of children. Oh, it was not that she would ever wish him to be miserable or alone. It was just . . .
It was just that she was an utter fool, she severely chastised herself.
“If he is happy with his life, then surely that is all that matters.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Ella gave a disapproving click of her tongue. “That is, if he is happy.”
The memory of Ian’s very, very happy expression as she had squeezed her fingers around his manhood threatened to rise to mind. Swallowing a small squeak of alarm, Mercy cut off the thought before she could cause Ella even more suspicion.
“Would you like to see the seating arrangement for the Wounded Soldiers Charity Luncheon? I believe I have most of the guests settled, but I would like your opinion on Squire McKnight’s wife. She is always so difficult to please.”
As hoped, Ella was immediately distracted. There were few things that could get the older woman’s blood to a fevered pitch more than the mention of her treacherous adversary. There was nothing quite so frightening as two rival hostesses in full-scale battle.
“Good Lord, the woman is a plague and a pestilence. If it were not for her very generous donation, I would seat her in the nearest privy.” Hooking her arm through Mercy’s, Ella tugged her toward the rosewood desk. “Come along, my dear, and let us see how we can manage to place the woman so she is not allowed to entirely ruin our meal with her evil tongue.”
The bookstore was precisely the same as every other bookstore that Ian had ever entered (not that there had been many). The air was ripe with mildew and the scent of aged leather, while the endless stacks of books threatened to topple and crush the unwary. Even worse, there was a thick layer of shadows cloaking the long room that made a suspicious man wonder what was hiding among the dusty shelves.
On this afternoon, however, Ian had a pleasant purpose for his visit, and, ignoring his natural distaste for his surroundings, he concentrated on the wiry gentleman with a ferret countenance and threadbare coat. His brows lifted as his gaze lowered to the badly patched leather shoes. Obviously peddling books did not offer a particularly luxurious existence. A knowledge that Ian tucked away.
“The Byzantine Empire, you say?” the ferret-faced man demanded, dry-washing his hands as his gaze darted about the cramped shop.
“Yes, any books that you feel are written by a reputable scholar.”
“I do have a few in the back,” he said, his expression one of wary apology. “I fear that it is not a subject that is often requested.”
A small smile touched Ian’s mouth. Of course his wood sprite would choose an obscure empire to study. Her tiny rebellions were all that kept her magnificent spirit from being crushed.
His smile threatened to fade at the memory of her soft yet poignant confession of a future filled with nothing but cold duty. What sort of parents would make such a demand of their only child? And to do so in the name of love?
The devil take them, it was entirely their fault that Mercy had been driven into the arms of a renowned rake. If they had allowed her to have the normal flirtations of a young lady, she would no doubt be properly wed with a pack of children. Certainly she would not be so desperate for intimacy that she would put herself at such risk.
Not that he was blameless, he wryly acknowledged.
Despite his promise to ignore her blatant offers, he had given into lust readily enough. Why else had he gone to her chambers when he had been bosky and incapable of denying his need? Still, he found his guilty conscience was not enough to dim the fierce pleasure he had found in her arms.
Or the realization that he intended to be in her arms once again.
Suddenly aware that his thoughts had drifted, Ian cleared his throat and met the worried gaze of the bookseller.
“No, I suppose not.”
Seeming to take heart in Ian’s absent agreement, the man cleared his throat. “Now, the Roman Empire or even the Ottoman . . . well, they were great moments in history.”
“Perhaps, but my interest lies in the Byzantine. Do you have anything?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” With a nervous step, the bookseller headed toward one of the distant shelves. “If you will just come this way?”
With a grimace at the dust that was bound to ruin the gloss on his boots, Ian obediently followed the man to the distant shelves, inwardly wondering how the devil anyone could make sense of the haphazard shelves and stacks of books that nearly consumed the narrow shop. The place would be a good deal improved by a tinder and spark as far as Ian was concerned.
Coming to the shelf against the back wall, the bookseller bent down to peer at titles that were nearly obscured by thick layers of grime.
“Is there a particular interest that you have in the Byzantines?” he demanded.
“Anything related will do, although I would be very pleased if you could dredge up anything regarding the Empress Theodora.”
The man blinked in an owlish fashion. “You want to read of a woman?”
Ian peered down the long length of his nose. Of course he did not bloody well want to read of the woman, but Mercy did and he would not have her interest derided by anyone.
“Hardly an ordinary woman.”
The man paled at Ian’s soft, dangerous tone. “No. No, I suppose she was not.”
“And really, what could be more fascinating than to research our fairer sex?” he pressed, not at all certain why he was bothered by this twit’s badly hidden disdain for Empress Theodora and the Byzantine Empire. “Some would claim that a wise gentleman would make it his life’s purpose.”
“Oh . . . quite.” The man swallowed and with hasty movements gathered three books from the shelf and straightened. “Here we are, then. Allow me to wrap them. They are rather dusty, and I would not have you ruin your attire.”
Ian smiled sardonically as the man made a hasty dash toward the counter at the front of the store. The poor man seemed oddly terrified at having an actual customer within his walls. Or perhaps it was Ian who terrified him.
“Thank God,” he muttered as he made his way at a much more dignified pace.
Wrapping the books in brown paper and tying it with string, the man handed the bundle to Ian and managed a tepid smile.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Yes.” Ian reached beneath his jacket for his leather purse. “Could you direct me to the Swan’s Nest?”
“The Swan’s Nest?”
Ian frowned at the man’s startled expression. “I believe that was the name. There is such a pub, is there not?”
“Oh, certainly. ’Tis east of the big castle near the Wey River, but it is not at all the sort of place for a gentleman of quality.” The bookseller shuddered with delicate horror. “Nothing but ruffians and gin swills gather there. You would be far more comfortable to find a nice tavern on Stag Hill.”
Ian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “I appreciate your concern, but since I have always been more a ruffian than gentleman of quality I can only presume I shall feel quite at home at the Swan’s Nest.” Opening his small purse, he pulled out a handful of notes and tossed them onto the counter. “Here you are. I hope this will be enough to cover the cost of the books and the trouble of digging them from obscurity.”
His companion momentarily struggled to breathe at the sight of Ian’s generosity.
“Yes, sir,” he rasped. “Very kind of you, I must say.”
“If you hear of any other books to be found regarding the Byzantine Empire, I would appreciate you sending word to me.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It would be my pleasure.”
Ian hid a smile. He was a true gambler, who never overbid his hand. With just a few pounds he had ensured that this poor bookseller would scour the shops from here to London in search of more books to please him. Meaning Ian had seen the last of musty shops.
“You can send your message to Rosehill Estate.”
The owlish eyes widened. “Lord Norrington’s home?”
“Yes, are you acquainted?”
“Oh my, no.” The man was shocked by the mere suggestion. “At least not personally. It is only that I have heard that he possesses one of the finest libraries in all of Surrey. You are extraordinarily fortunate to have access to such bounty.”
The memory of a lonely little boy sitting in the middle of that vast library hoping to catch a glimpse of a father who never appeared flashed through his mind before he could savagely thrust it aside.
“Oh yes, my fortune is quite extraordinary,” he muttered, tucking the books beneath his arm. “If you will excuse me?”
“Good day to you, sir.”