Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (20 page)

“Oh, posh,” she said, laughing. “Go on with you, then.”

As Leo strode from the room, she never turned her gaze away from him. “He has always had too romantic a bent.”

Stephen sat in the chair opposite hers and stretched out his legs. Without the sun catching her just so, she didn’t look quite so young, but she was still a handsome woman. “What did you wager?”

She blushed. “That is between Leo and me.” Sighing deeply, she studied him. “So you will marry her then.”

“If she’ll have me. I haven’t yet asked.” He’d hinted, tested the waters, but until she’d arrived here, apparently he’d not given her the best of himself. He intended to make up for that shortcoming.

“But you want the ring?” The ring Westcliffe’s father had given her had gone to Westcliffe’s wife. The ring Ainsley’s father had given her, she would give to Ainsley’s wife. The ring her father had given to her mother—it would go to Mercy.

“Yes.”

A mist quickly covered her eyes, and she blinked it away. “You have always loved women. So I thought you’d be the last to wed, if you wed at all.”

“Women, Mother. I have always loved women. Never
a
woman. Other than you, of course.”

Her lips twitched. “Cheeky devil.” The amusement faded away. “You don’t love her then?”

“For all practical purposes, I’ve known her for less than a week. How could I?”

Nodding, she gazed out the window. “Do not, I beg of you, be unfaithful to her.”

“Just as the conditions of your wager are between you and Leo, so my fidelity is between Mercy and me.”

“An unfaithful husband can shatter a woman’s heart, destroy her pride, leave her bitter, make—”

“Mother, ours is a forced marriage and will be one of convenience. I do not think either of us expects more,” he said sternly.

“I raised my sons to be strong, stubborn men with a good deal too much pride. You will follow your own course, I’m well aware of that. But I pray it will be your heart that serves as your compass.”

S
tephen had considered inviting Mercy to accompany him on a walk through the garden, but the winds had picked up and it was bitter cold out. The rain arrived at dusk and slashed at the windows. If it were spring, he’d take her on a picnic beside one of the rivers that cut through his brother’s land or one of the ponds where they’d sometimes fished as young lads. His chest tightened with the thought that one day he would take John fishing there.

He’d always known the possibility existed that he’d one day have children, but he’d always expected to ease into the role of father. Instead it had been thrust upon him with no preparation. He couldn’t bemoan the fact when the same situation had been thrust upon Mercy. He wouldn’t complain, resent, or wish matters were different. He would accept his duties as a father and a husband and make the best of them. He never wanted his son to regret that Stephen was his father. More, he never wanted Mercy to regret that Stephen was her husband.

He would begin their arrangement as he intended to continue it: with a great deal of thought and with her desires in mind.

He’d wanted someplace where they would have little chance of being disturbed. Someplace where his meddlesome mother couldn’t lurk in hiding and listen to what he intended to say. Finally, he’d decided on the portrait gallery. On the first floor the windows provided an exceptional view of his brother’s estate. He’d asked Mercy to join him there an hour before dinner was to be served.

He was standing at a window, rehearsing his words, when he heard her quiet footfalls. A burst of lightning lit up the black night sky and illuminated the countryside. The display was majestic and powerful. An appropriate setting, he finally decided, for a woman who had proven she was made of firmer stuff than he. As nature’s light faded, leaving only the lamps burning to provide a barrier against the shadows, he saw her reflection in the glass, standing near his. She was wearing the green gown she’d worn the first night. Only now he knew the treasures it hid.

As they would be going straight to dinner, she’d not bothered with gloves. Neither had he. The way her hair was arranged disguised its shortness. A pearl comb drew the eye. He wondered how old he would be by the time her hair once again reached her waist.

They stared at each other’s reflection. They stared at the night. They watched the storm have its way, wind lashing at nearby trees, the rain slashing at the windows. The corridor was long, the entire span of the house. He’d planned to walk the length of it with her. He’d even brought his walking stick so he could mask his remaining limp, barely noticeable as it had become. But in the end, he simply indicated a chair in front of the window. “Please sit.”

She did as he bade, folded her hands in her lap, and looked up at him with expectation. He wondered if she knew why he’d asked her to come here.

Placing his hands behind his back, he returned to staring out the window, but he could see her reflection clearly. He was drawn to her. He couldn’t deny the truth of that. Nor could he deny that he was responsible for her current situation. He could take the babe, allow the duchess to raise him, set Mercy free. But he’d witnessed her deep love for the child. It would be cruel to separate her from John.

He could take John and delegate Mercy to nursemaid or governess. If she never again claimed him, in time, those who knew of her transgression would forget. She might meet someone, fall in love, and marry. Have her own life. Leave John behind. But that was not fair to John.

If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want her to leave. But he did not love her, and again, that was not fair to her. He could think of no perfect solution. So he had to settle on the one he thought would be the best, in spite of its imperfections. She was the sort who would make the best of an unfortunate situation, and he was the sort who would do all in his power to ensure she was forever happy. A woman should know no sorrow, as far as he was concerned, at least none delivered by him. They entertained, they amused, they brought a man pleasure. They were a gift. As such, he had always treasured them.

Taking a deep breath, he held on to her reflection. “I do not know if I am the man you knew in Scutari. I do not know what that man felt for you or what his intentions toward you were. I am not even certain I know the man I am now. All I know is the man I was two years ago. Quite honestly, I’m not certain I held him in very high esteem.” He turned to face her. “For what comfort it might bring you, I can tell you that the man I was two years ago never took to his bed a woman for whom he held no affection whatsoever.”

She nodded and swallowed, her delicate throat drawing his eye, before he returned his gaze to hers. “You should know that there has never been any man other than you,” she said quietly.

He released a light laugh. “That was rather obvious last night. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn you were a virgin.”

“Have you known many?”

He arched a brow. “Virgins?”

She nodded in obvious embarrassment, her cheeks flaming red.

“No, but discussing my past exploits—in detail—is not the reason I asked you to join me here. This morning you indicated you were not opposed to marrying a man who had lost a part of his mind.”

“You’ve not lost your mind. You’ve lost only your memories.”

“And what if this . . .
affliction
is not limited to the time I was in the Crimea? What if it visits me again and I forget you again? Forget you and John?”

“I do not believe in borrowing trouble.”

But she had borrowed it, with a vengeance, when she’d made the decision to keep his son. Stephen couldn’t continue to allow her to carry that burden alone. Regardless of the man he might have been in the Crimea, he knew the man he’d been before it. That had not changed. Always when he’d bedded a woman, he’d done it with the full knowledge that he would never abandon her in a difficult situation.

“You are the mother of my child, and in my head, I know that would not have occurred if I did not have some care for you. I cannot say that I loved you. Even now, I cannot . . . but just as you did not abandon my son, I will not abandon you.” He dropped to his knee, his healing leg protesting as he bent it to accommodate his position.

She gasped. Her eyes widened. He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, drank in her whiskey eyes. “Miss Dawson—Mercy—will you marry me?”

Chapter 11

M
ercy continued to feel the weight of his words as they joined the others in the library.

The duchess came out of her chair in a rustle of silk. “Well?”

“She’s consented to marry me,” Stephen said, his voice strong with the conviction that he’d expected no other response from her.

Yes was the only answer she could have given and ensure her place in John’s life. Any other course would put her at risk of one day losing him. She loved him too much to take that chance. And she cared deeply for his father. The stirrings of love. No, he wasn’t exactly the man she’d known in Scutari, but then neither was she the woman he’d held through the night.

She knew this was a forced marriage, even if her father was not standing behind Stephen holding a gun against the small of his back. It was his honor as a gentleman that had prodded him to ask her. But that didn’t mean that things between them couldn’t be good. She could foresee a few complications, but she would find a way to deal with them. For John’s sake. And hers. And Stephen’s.

“Lovely!” the duchess said now. She swept across the room and took Mercy into her arms. “Oh, my dear girl. I could not be more pleased to have you in the family.”

The duchess stepped away with a no-nonsense gleam in her eyes. “The ceremony will take place here in the estate chapel. The village vicar will do the honors. I think under the circumstances, a small, select number of guests. Family, close friends.”

“I have no family to speak of,” Mercy told her, “and a letter to my father announcing the marriage should suffice. He’s washed his hands of me.” Heat burned her cheeks. “If not for Stephen’s generous offer, John and I would be living on the streets, I’m sure.”

“Nonsense. I would have handled matters if Stephen hadn’t. But I’m terribly pleased that he did. It shows he’s a man of character.”

“Mother, I’m quite famished. Could we possibly discuss the details after dinner?” Stephen asked.

“We can discuss them on the way in to dinner and during dinner.” To Mercy’s startlement, the duchess wrapped her arm around Mercy’s like a clinging vine. “Westcliffe and his family shall attend, of course. I believe you’ll enjoy Claire’s company. And their son is quite a delight. But I shall show no favoritism amongst my grandchildren. I made that mistake with my sons. We shall also invite Lynnford and his family. The earl served as guardian to my boys after my husband, the duke, passed. One or two others perhaps, but I see no reason for a big elaborate affair unless it’s what you wish.”

“No, I prefer small.” The smaller the better. Tiny even. Simply her and Stephen. She glanced back at him over her shoulder and was rewarded with an apologetic smile.

The duchess had apparently decided she was on a mission and was not about to be deterred. During dinner she spoke of little besides the upcoming nuptials—they would send for her London seamstress posthaste to attend to the gown that Mercy would wear. Flowers could prove a problem this time of year, but if Mercy had no objection to orchids, the duchess knew someone who cultivated them. The wedding breakfast was discussed.

By the time dinner ended, the magnitude to what Mercy had agreed overwhelmed her. She was dizzy with the thoughts of it all, how her life would change.

Later that night, she sat in her bed, her legs drawn up, her arms wrapped tightly around them. “We should elope,” Stephen had whispered in her ear as he’d pulled out her chair following dinner.

The thought didn’t half appeal, but there was something sordid about an elopement and the time for taking so drastic a measure to protect her reputation was long past. Certainly, if they were to marry, she didn’t want to delay it too much longer. Stephen might very well change his mind. Until they were joined by the law, she would not rest easy.

E
vents were moving at an amazing clip.

The nightmares increased in frequency and intensity. No matter how valiantly Mercy fought to sleep lightly, to not slip into the realm where dreams resided, the horrific images came. After two nights of having his sleep disturbed, Stephen began to join her in bed. He did little more than hold her. But it was enough. With his arms around her, she could sleep without fears. The weariness that had been a constant companion since her days in Scutari began to ebb. The heaviness that had shadowed her movements was no longer there. Her step regained its lightness. She began to put on some weight, so her clothing was fitting her as it had in the days before she’d left England.

But her worries over her wedding night did not abate. It didn’t help matters at all that the duchess had given her a white gossamer nightdress that scandalously revealed the shadows of her body.

“I hope you won’t be offended,” the duchess had said as she’d watched Mercy unwrap her gift. “I’ve never been one to be demure when it comes to what passes between a man and a woman—or elsewhere. Depending upon one’s adventuresome spirit and daring, it can be a glorious thing.”

Mercy had little doubt, based upon what Stephen had shared so far.

In three days, she would marry. It was difficult to believe how quickly everything had come to pass. As she rocked John in her bedchamber, he was busy blowing bubbles between his lips. The depth with which she loved him astounded her sometimes. It was almost painful. It terrified her and brought her joy. It was satisfying. All that mattered was that he was happy and well cared for. And that Mercy had the privilege of being his mother.

The knock sounded on her door. She knew it wasn’t Stephen. She recognized the rap of his knuckles. She bid entry and discovered it was one of the young maids.

She bobbed a curtsy. “Sorry to disturb you, m’um, but Her Grace sent me to fetch you. Lord and Lady Westcliffe have arrived. They be in the front parlor, waiting to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you. Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I’ve tidied up.” Her and John. She wanted to make a good impression. She knew she hadn’t quite won Ainsley over yet, and she wanted to have more luck with Westcliffe.

When she stepped into the hallway, she came up short at the sight of Stephen. As always, her spirits lifted at the sight of him, but her arms reflexively closed more securely around John, as though her heart and mind were in conflict. One part of her recognizing the immense feelings she harbored for this man, the other understanding that he had the power to take her son from her if he ever learned the truth, that she had not given birth to his son.

“You’re so pale, Mercy. Surely you didn’t think I’d allow you to walk into the lion’s den unescorted.”

Stephen Lyons, lion’s den. She wondered if he’d meant the play on the name. She released a nervous laugh. “Should I be fearful of meeting your older brother?”

He offered her his arm. “Not to worry. He only looks as though he bites.”

He did at that. Dark hair and darker eyes. His expression fearsome, his features appeared to have been carved from hard rock. He was taller and broader than either of his brothers. A man she could see wielding a broadsword. She saw none of Stephen in him, none at all.

“Condolences on being forced to wed my brother,” he said evenly.

“Westcliffe!” The woman beside him had moon-shaded hair, a luster Mercy had always envied. Her eyes were a softer blue than Stephen’s, and gentler. “Pay him no heed. He’s teasing you, of course. Stephen is an excellent catch. I’m Claire.” She glided forward and hugged Mercy. “Welcome to the family.”

She leaned back and studied the baby. “And this must be John.” With tears in her eyes, she looked up at Stephen. “He does favor you.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Because you’re a man.” She gave her attention back to Mercy. “They can be so troublesome sometimes. Would you care to meet Lord Waverly, our son?”

Mercy liked Lady Westcliffe immediately. She was welcoming and kind, and she saw no censure in her eyes. “Yes, very much, Lady Westcliffe.”

“You absolutely must call me Claire. We’ll be sisters after all.”

She led the way to where the boy was sitting up on the duchess’s lap. He was a miniature of his father. Stephen had already told her that his courtesy title was that of viscount. One day he would inherit his father’s title and all he possessed.

But what struck her the most was not the boy but his parents and the obvious love they held for each other, mirrored in their eyes whenever their gazes met. It hurt to know she’d never possess what they held dear.

In spite of all of Stephen’s tender regard, he did not love her. He’d accepted her as his duty. For John, she would weather it.

“S
o what exactly are your plans?” Westcliffe asked.

Stephen and his brothers were in the library. The ladies had gone off to do whatever it was they did when they gave each other sly smiles. He wasn’t too concerned that Claire would make Mercy feel as though she were in the midst of an inquisition. Claire and he had been dear friends since childhood. It was that strong bond that had caused trouble when she married Westcliffe. But all was well between them now, and he knew that Claire would make Mercy feel welcomed in a way that few could. He wished he’d thought to have his mother send for her sooner.

With his arm raised, his wrist pressed to the mantel, he studied the way the fire writhed and danced. With the thought of being shackled by bonds of matrimony, he felt his own need to writhe. “Be a good husband I suppose.”

“How do you intend to provide for your family?”

He pressed his thumb to his scar and slid it down the mottled skin. “I’m of little use to the military with no memory of all I learned while at war. I’d be no better than a fresh recruit. I’d make a deplorable clergyman. I suppose I could seek to get elected into Parliament.”

“I’ve been giving your situation some thought,” Ainsley said.

Stephen wasn’t surprised. There was very little that Ainsley didn’t put his mind to. When he was younger, Stephen resented that Ainsley always seemed in a position to effectively handle whatever challenge or crisis came his way. Now he appreciated it. He peered questioningly over at his younger brother.

“I was thinking you might manage Roseglenn Manor for me.” It was one of his smaller estates in Hertfordshire. “I’ve been so busy managing other things that I fear I’ve neglected it somewhat.”

“You don’t know how to neglect anything.”

“True enough. But it would reduce my burdens if I had someone I trusted to look after it. To offer incentive, a portion of the yearly income would go to you. Increase the income, increase your portion.”

Knowing he’d never inherit one unless Westcliffe died, Stephen had paid little enough attention to how one went about managing an estate. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit yet another shortcoming, even to his brothers. He wanted to do right by Mercy, provide well for her and John. God knew he owed her that much at least. “I accept your offer.”

Ainsley’s green eyes widened. “I’d not expected you to capitulate so easily. I had a whole host of arguments lined up to deliver.”

Now that he’d regained most of his strength, he was beginning to feel the walls of his family closing in on him. As the wedding date neared, so, too, was he beginning to doubt himself. He wasn’t certain he was cut out to be a husband or a father. What did he have to offer other than passion? It had occurred to him to simply leave Mercy and John here after the ceremony, to go his own way. Marriage wouldn’t restore her reputation, but it would make her status not quite so ruined. And surely, with the public outcry of support for the military, all would understand how a man and woman in love might use poor judgment on the eve of battle.

She could twist the tale and make herself out to be a heroine.

But he recognized that any sort of deception was not her way. Besides, while he had little to offer her, broken as he was, he recognized that she had much to offer him. So, be an attentive husband to her he would.

A
s a young girl Mercy had dreamed often of the day she would marry. While she knew that in most cases people did not marry for love, she’d not wanted it to be the case when it came to her marriage. She’d fully intended to be madly in love with the man and for him to absolutely adore her. As it was, her love for him and his son propelled her toward the altar, where he waited because of obligation.

It was bittersweet knowledge to reflect upon as they repeated vows. And she made silent ones to make certain he never regretted taking her to wife.

She wore a simple beige gown. She thought she would forever remember how handsome Stephen appeared standing there, in his dark blue jacket and black trousers. When he removed her glove and the simple gold band he placed on her finger fit perfectly, she wanted to believe that fate approved, that destiny had somehow brought them together.