Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (16 page)

He’d expected her to be horrified by him, and instead she was horrified
for
him. He’d expected her to rebuff him. Instead she accepted him. He’d thought she’d be frightened by what he’d become—a man uncertain of his past. Instead she embraced him.

If he’d not loved her, he thought, he damned well should have.

Chapter 8

O
h, John, I am a wicked, wicked girl,” Mercy lamented hours later as she rocked John to sleep following his feeding. Where the duchess had procured a rocker, she didn’t know. Truly didn’t care. She was grateful to have it but more pressing matters were on her mind.

She and Stephen had enjoyed a private dinner. They’d spoken of nothing of consequence. Their childhoods, hers in Shrewsbury, his here at Grantwood Manor. They’d talked of London. Theaters and pleasure gardens. Their favorite parks. He told her of his older brother, the Earl of Westcliffe. How they’d never been close, yet he’d finally come to appreciate him. His younger brother, Ainsley, who had always made him feel like a child.

“I think I saw my time as a military man as a chance to prove something to them. I don’t know if I did.”

It was the only time he mentioned the recent past. She didn’t pursue it further.

They had quiet moments, filled only with the scraping of silver over china, or the constant ticking of the clock on the mantel. He studied her during those times, with an intensity that might have been unsettling if she didn’t know that he recalled nothing at all about her. Still he had to be wondering what it was about her that had attracted him. She thought more than once about telling him of their time together in Scutari.

But she sensed that he didn’t want to journey there. Not tonight. Tonight was more about coming to know each other as though the past two years had never been.

She was grateful for the reprieve, because when he did ask—and she was fairly certain that at some point he would want to know how they had met, what exactly they’d done together—she wasn’t entirely certain what story she would tell.

“I’ve never truly lied,” she whispered to John, watching as his eyelids grew heavier and heavier. This was her favorite time, after he was bathed and before bed. He smelled of sweet milk. He was always at his most content. “I am your mother for all intents and purposes even if I did not give birth to you.”

That honor had been granted to Sarah Whisenhunt. A striking woman with a mane of glorious black hair, which she’d refused to shorten in spite of the health benefits, and a voluptuous figure that Mercy was fairly certain had been responsible for Miss Nightingale selecting the horrid plain black dresses as their uniforms. Many considered a nurse little more than a prostitute putting on airs. Miss N was determined to alter that perception.

Mercy had never quite understood why Sarah had interviewed for the challenging position of being one of Miss N’s nurses. She complained of the boredom and the backbreaking work of scrubbing floors and mopping up the blood in the hospital. But she was exceedingly kind to the men, and she could not be faulted for her devotion to the soldiers. In particular Captain Lyons. Mercy had often seen her reading to the captain when she was finished with her duties.

In spite of it all, she was a likable girl and Mercy had befriended her.

And, of course, Sarah had quickly fallen under the spell of Stephen Lyons. Six months later, when Sarah could no longer hide her condition, Miss N had summarily dismissed her. Amidst her tears and shame, Sarah had begged Mercy not to abandon her as well. She couldn’t return to England in such a state. Fearing the girl might do something dangerously drastic, Mercy had left with her to provide moral support and aid as best she could. She’d always intended to return to Miss N after the babe was born.

“But I couldn’t leave you, my little one,” she said now.

Sarah had planned to deliver him to a foundling home, but Mercy had fallen in love with him moments after he was born. One morning when she’d gone out to get pastries for breakfast, she’d purchased a newspaper. As was her daily habit, she scoured the list of French and British casualties. That particular morning the paper had listed Major Stephen Lyons as one of the fallen. Her first idle thought was that he’d been promoted. And then the devastating news sunk deep. John was all that remained of the charming young man who had captivated hearts.

She and Sarah had argued heatedly. Mercy had wanted to take John to Stephen’s family. Sarah had wanted to be rid of him.

“His death does not obliterate my shameful behavior. If it is learned I had a bastard child, I will lose all prospects for a good marriage. I will be ostracized. It was a mistake, one night of sinful passion, and you expect me to pay for it forever. I would be relieved if it died.”

Mercy had awoken the next morning to find Sarah gone and John ill. His little body burned with fever. She’d found a permanent wet nurse for him. Jeanette. Mercy had bathed him, cooled his skin, held him, rocked him, sung lullabies to him, and pleaded with him to live. When his fever finally broke, they were both exhausted. So she’d decided to take just one day for them to regain their strength. It turned into two, then three, then a fortnight, then a month. With each passing day, he wormed his way into her life, into her heart, into her soul. She had every intention of giving him up freely, but by the time she arrived on her father’s doorstep, she had well and truly become John’s mother.

Her greatest fear now was that he would be torn from her life. If Stephen remembered their night together, what had happened to her, why he’d stayed with her until dawn, he’d be disgusted with the knowledge. To tell it was not the same as to experience it. She could not recreate the horror of what she’d endured or the comfort she’d taken in his arms. That night he’d saved her in ways that he would never be able to fully comprehend. He’d given her a reason to live . . . when all she’d wanted to do was die.

S
tephen awoke to a scream that damned near shattered his eardrums. He scrambled out of bed, drew on his trousers, and rushed across the hall, throwing open the door just as another scream sounded.

Mercy was thrashing about on the bed. Jeanette was attempting to subdue her, taking a fist to her cheek for her efforts. John was caterwauling—what a fine set of lungs his son had. Stephen was surprised the family sleeping in the other wing wasn’t disturbed by this madness.

Jeanette looked up him, frantic. “She’s locked in a nightmare.”

“See to the boy. I’ll tend to Mercy.”

Without objection, Jeanette rushed to the bassinet and lifted John into her arms, but the lad was not consoled. God, he was like his sire. When he wanted something, he wanted it at that moment.

“Take him to my bedchamber,” he ordered.

Jeanette rushed across the room.

“Shut the door on your way out,” he shouted after her, certain the boy’s screeching wasn’t helping matters.

Stephen sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her. “Mercy.”

“No, no, no. Please, dear God, no.”

“Mercy.” He tried to gently shake her and received a fist to the eye. Damn, but she had a powerful punch. “Mercy.”

She cried out, swung again—

He grabbed her wrists, secured them in one hand, and stretched her arms over her head. “Mercy. Sweetheart, darling. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

She gasped. Her eyes flew open. The horror and fear he saw in the whiskey depths raked painfully through his heart. She was shivering, her skin clammy and cold. Her gown damp with sweat. He realized the moment recognition dawned, and the nightmare faded into oblivion.

“Stephen?”

“I’m here.”

She jerked her gaze to the bassinet. “John?”

“Jeanette took him to my bedchamber. He’s fine.” He couldn’t hear any crying in the distance and had to assume Jeanette had managed to calm the boy. He released Mercy’s wrists. She raised herself to a sitting position, pressing back against the pillows as though she thought she could escape through them.

Tears welled in her eyes and rolled over onto her cheeks. “So many dead. So many dying. I could do nothing for them. I was powerless. They just kept dying. Hundreds of them. The massive numbers were frightening. The Cossacks weren’t doing us in, disease was.” She swiped angrily at her cheeks. “They lay there on the floor and on stuffed sacks and filthy beds, holding out their hands as we walked by. ‘Sister. Sister. Mercy.’ And there was none to be given. I knew they weren’t calling for me particularly, but
mercy
echoed up and down the wards. And there were times when I thought I would go mad with it.”

He had no words with which to comfort her. He’d been there. He’d been in that hospital. He should have known what she’d suffered. He should have known what she’d given of herself. But the only images he could see were the ones she painted.

She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I try not to sleep for long periods. I try not to give myself time to get to the place of nightmares. But I was so tired tonight. And I so enjoyed our dinner. I drank too much wine. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I disturbed your rest.”

“For God’s sake, Mercy, do you truly believe that I give a damn about my sleep?” He pulled her hands down, grabbed her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and held her in place so he could lock his eyes on to hers. “Tell me what I can do for you. Tell me what you need.”

“I need to forget it all. Ironic, is it not? That you wish desperately to remember what I would give my soul to forget?”

She made another rough swipe at her cheeks. He stayed her actions by slipping his hands beneath hers and gently capturing the droplets that had grown cold. He fought to keep his gaze raised and not lower it to her thin linen nightdress, where her dark nipples pressed, puckered, against the flimsy sweat-saturated cloth. A shiver coursed through her, and he didn’t fool himself into thinking it was because of his touch.

Although God help him, he wished for it to be. He wanted to ease her suffering, bring her solace and comfort, and the only way he knew to do that was with his body. But he wouldn’t risk subjecting her to further shame. In spite of whatever precautions he might have taken, one night was all she’d required to get with babe. She deserved more consideration from him. Until he knew if he was going to offer marriage, he had to keep his damned hands to himself.

“I wish I still had the memories from those two years, so I would know better what to do for you.”

She gave him a heartrending smile. “I have enough memories for us both.”

S
tephen had offered to have a servant prepare a bath for her. Sweaty and sticky, Mercy appreciated the opportunity to wash the salt from her skin and slip on a clean nightdress.

Between her bedchamber and the next was a changing room. It was there that the copper tub was filled with warm water. She was grateful to remove the clinging cloth from her body and sink down into the comforting scented bath. She’d expected the serving girl to stay with her, but instead she left. Mercy welcomed the solitude. She leaned her head back, partially lowered her eyelids, and watched the candle flames chasing the shadows around the room.

She knew the nightmares hovered nearby like thieves, keeping watch, waiting for the right moment to strike. She’d gotten into the habit of sleeping in short bursts—several moments here, a few more there. John’s night schedule in the beginning of waking every couple of hours for a feeding had helped. But he was settling into sleeping for longer periods of time. She was usually able to rouse herself before the dreams took hold. But as she’d told Stephen, tonight the wine had taken her under, to a place where her demons reigned. They were a strange mixture of her time in the hospital and what had happened the night Stephen had saved her from the abuse of three men. They’d become interwoven somehow, but she wouldn’t tell him about her attackers. Didn’t want him to remember their ugliness, their debauchery.

Besides, they were nothing beyond pitiful specimens of men. The good men dying haunted her the most. Husbands who would never return to their wives, young men who may not yet have had the opportunity to marry. Perhaps they’d had sweethearts to whom they’d not returned. All she’d been able to do was comfort them and then weep for them. And so they haunted her, because she’d failed them.

She wondered if she’d ever again be able to sleep peacefully through the entire night.

The door clicked. The maid no doubt returning to assist her. “I’m sorry, I’m not yet ready to get out,” she said, reaching for the soap.

“That’s all right,” Stephen said. “I’m in no hurry.”

She jerked around, the water splashing around her and over the lip of the tub. She grabbed onto it, ducked down as far as she was able to and still see him. He’d put on a billowy shirt but had bothered to do up only half the buttons. She’d seen his chest before. Washed it. Trailed her fingers over the scars. Still, only partially revealed seemed so much more intimate. Wicked even, as though he were taunting, teasing her.