Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (27 page)

“Isn’t this wonderful? I’ll be able to continue to take John outside, even as he gets heavier.”

“Marvelous, but I have another surprise for you. Come along.”

He passed John off to his grandmother, who eagerly welcomed the boy, then Stephen guided Mercy through the parlor, entryway, and front door, until they were standing at the top of the steps leading up to the house.

“Whatever is it?” she asked as the coach came to a halt.

He placed his arm around her to shield her from the cold and to protect her from hurt if need be. A footman opened the coach door and a man stepped out. Mercy gasped.

“My father. Whatever is he doing here?”

“I invited him.”

She jerked her head around to stare at him. “Why?”

“I thought you might like to see him. If he doesn’t behave, he’ll be back in the coach and on his way home.”

M
ercy was torn between joy and trepidation as she watched her father slowly walk toward them. When had he aged so much, and what did his presence signify? Had he forgiven her?

Breaking free of Stephen’s hold, she rushed down the steps, halting on the cobblestones near enough to her father that she could smell his familiar tobacco scent. She was aware of Stephen suddenly standing behind her, and she realized that he was just as wary as she regarding how this encounter might go.

“Father.”

He looked so stern and forbidding. He nodded, suddenly not looking quite so bold. “I was told I’d be welcomed.”

“You are,” she assured him.

“I see he did right by you.”

“He married me, yes.”

“You didn’t invite me to the wedding.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come . . . and it all happened very quickly.”

“As it should have.”

“Would you like to come inside, sir?” Stephen asked, and there was an undercurrent in his voice that issued a warning along with the welcome.

“No, I won’t be staying. I just wanted to see that you were well. And I wanted you to have this.” He removed a brown parcel from his pocket.

She opened it to discover a silk handkerchief that smelled of roses.

“It’s your mother’s. It’s all I have of her.”

“Then you should keep it.”

“She’d want you to have it.”

She crushed it to her bosom. “I’ll treasure it. Would you like to see John?”

“No, I must be going.”

Her heart nearly broke. He turned away. Reaching out, she grabbed his arm, felt Stephen’s hand fold around her shoulder—to stop her or offer strength, she wasn’t certain until she felt him squeeze gently. Strength, then, as though he knew what she wanted. “Please stay.”

He glanced back. “You’ve always been far too compassionate for your own good. I treated you shabbily, daughter.”

“I disappointed you. I do not regret the decisions I made regarding John. It would be a shame, however, if he did not have an opportunity to know his grandfather.”

“Well, then,” he grumbled, “perhaps I could stay for a bit.”

Mercy was not surprised that everyone welcomed her father. As she watched him holding John on his lap, she leaned against Stephen, fighting back the tears in her eyes.

“I never thought to see that,” she whispered. “It is a far greater gift than the pearls.”

She felt the press of his lips against her hair. “I have learned of late the value of reconciling with one’s family. It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it to make the effort.”

“But you did nothing as egregious as bringing your father shame.”

“Oh, I think Westcliffe would disagree.”

She peered up at him, and he gave her a wry grin. “It is a tale I will not tell. Suffice it to say, it is also one I’d not mind forgetting.”

“I would not think you’d want to forget anything else.”

“A pity we cannot pick and choose what we remember.”

“You’ve had no success recalling anything that you’ve forgotten?”

“No.”

“I thought being here might rekindle—”

“No such luck. I spent an hour sipping tea on the terrace in the cold this morning. Nothing stirs. Westcliffe found me there, invited me for a walk. We spoke of the past, all that happened when last I was here . . . but nothing.”

She hated it for him, but was relieved for herself. Did it make her a horrid wife to wish that her husband never acquired what he so desperately desired?

T
he remainder of the day was filled with silly parlor games that Stephen refused to be drawn into. He used to participate with vigor, but now he felt remarkably old. Mercy found one excuse after another not to be involved as well. She spent a good deal of time visiting with her father.

“Hmm,” Stephen’s mother muttered at one point, coming to stand beside him. “I’d never expected to see her father again, especially in such a forgiving temperament. Whatever did you say to him?”

“I may have mentioned that certain family members with access to the queen’s ear might not take it kindly if he continued to ignore his daughter.”

“Considering how much you always resented that they had a title and you did not, I never thought you’d use your brothers’ titles in such a dastardly manner.”

“I was referring to you.”

“Of course you were, darling. Marriage becomes you.”

“She’s not like anyone I’ve ever known.” He grimaced. “And yet I have known her, haven’t I?”

“It bothers you that you don’t remember her.”

“I can see forgetting battles, blood, and death . . . but her? She is nothing at all like any of the other women I . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“Entertained?” his mother asked pointedly.

He shook his head. “You are unlike any mother—”

“I’ve earned the right to do as I please and say what I will. People act as though what happens between a man and a woman is something of which to be ashamed, something to be hidden, not spoken of. In truth, it can be the most beautiful part of our lives. I see no reason to pretend otherwise.”

“Obviously you’ve had some influence on my wife. She asked me this morning if you and Lynnford had been involved in an affair.”

“Did she?” his mother asked quietly, in such an unnaturally reserved tone that Stephen shifted his gaze away from his wife and studied his mother. “What did you tell her?”

“I laughed.”

“Good for you.”

She left it at that, walking away, leaving him with his thoughts.

Dinner was served promptly at four. The seating arrangement was once again informal, people sitting where they pleased. Stephen sat on one side of Mercy, her father on the other. His mother sat beside him, with Westcliffe and Ainsley at opposite ends of the table.

Westcliffe stood and raised his wineglass. “Before we begin, I’d like to make a toast. Last year was the first year, in large part due to the efforts of my wonderful wife, the family celebrated Christmas here since the death of Stephen’s and my father. I recall making a toast last year that this year would find Stephen here with us. Brother, I don’t imagine the journey to get here was one you would have wished for and certainly your being wounded was not what I had in mind when I made my toast—still we’re ever so grateful that you’re with us.”

“Hear! Hear!” chorused through the room as glasses were lifted and sips taken.

Westcliffe again raised his glass. “Mercy, I don’t know how you manage to put up with him”—Stephen heard Ainsley laugh, and beneath the table, Mercy’s hand came to rest on his thigh. He wrapped his fingers around it, astounded to realize the rightness of it, unable to imagine how his life would be now if she weren’t in it—“but bless you for doing so. We’re—all of us here—delighted and honored to have you and John in the family.”

More cheers followed. Stephen caught his brother’s eye and lifted his glass in a silent salute and an acknowledgment of appreciation. He knew the words had been spoken for the benefit of Mercy’s father, so he might understand how much she was valued within his family.

Stephen had never cherished his family as much as he did at that moment.

The conversation at the table was a bit more subdued, no doubt in deference to their guest. Ainsley was given the honor of carving the goose, which he did with considerable aplomb.

“I daresay, Ainsley,” Mallard said, “if you ever lose your title, you’d make a fine servant.”

“Pox on you, Mallard.”

Everyone was giddy from too much wine and fine company by the time the plum pudding was served. As fate would have it, Ainsley was the one who spooned out the ring that had been cooked within it.

“Oh, Ainsley, you’ll be married by next Christmas,” Emily crowed.

“I will not. I’m all of three-and-twenty. Far too young for such a drastic measure.”

“Come on, brother,” Stephen cajoled. “With your responsible attitude, you might find it to your liking.”

“And then I might not. Emily?”

She glanced up at him. “What?”

He tossed her the ring, which she caught, nearly knocking over her wineglass. “You’re having your coming out. You’re more likely to get married than me.”

“Getting rid of it won’t change your fate, Ainsley.”

“I’m not getting married.”

“Methinks thou doth protest too much, Ainsley,” Westcliffe said. “Is there someone you’ve not told us about?”

“No one.”

“I think there is,” Mercy whispered to Stephen.

He loved the sparkle in her eyes, the radiance of her smile, the joy that emanated from her. “I think you’re right.”

It was sometime later—after dinner, after Mercy’s father left, when they’d all retired once again to the grand room and Charlotte was playing the pianoforte—that Stephen looked over at his wife and he had a flash of memory.

It was dark. He was in the military hospital, in pain, feeling despair, when an angel stopped by his bed and smiled at him. Mercy.

Perhaps the memory was only his imagination, trying to fill in the empty spaces.

But what he did know was that one of her smiles would have been enough to keep him alive. Just so he could see it again.

He wondered if it was possible that he’d fallen in love with her there as easily as he was beginning to fall in love with her here.

Chapter 17

T
he new year brought with it snow. Standing at the bedchamber window, watching the huge, fat flakes fall softly, Mercy was reminded of her time in the East, where the winters could get bitter. It was much worse for the soldiers in the field, who were ofttimes brought to the hospital with frostbite. She shook off the thought, not wanting to dwell on unpleasantness. It had been some time since she’d been bothered by a nightmare.

It helped that Stephen held her close every night. She drifted off to sleep with his arms wound around her and awoke to the same. It also helped that he was no longer asking her to recount their time together in Scutari.

During the day she managed the household while he managed the estate. He seemed content. He no longer spoke of what he couldn’t remember, never brought up that time at all. For that she was eternally grateful. They were both moving on with their lives. In so doing, she felt confident that John would grow up happy. She could see Stephen falling more in love with his son each day.

She’d never known such contentment, such joy.

Leaving the bedchamber, she walked aimlessly through the house. John was napping. She’d finished with her meetings with the servants. Every task was being handled splendidly. Ainsley could find no fault with her managing of his residence.

It was surprising that of Stephen’s two brothers, Ainsley was the one she felt most uncomfortable around. He was always studying her as though she were a wooden puzzle he was attempting to take apart so he could examine each individual piece and determine exactly how it contributed to the whole. He was so at ease with his surroundings, so apparently unbothered by things, but she could sense that below his surface lurked a dangerous combination of suspicion and the ability to decipher the most confounding of mysteries. He quite literally terrified her, an honor that should have gone to Westcliffe, with his darkly brooding mien. But he was too occupied with his wife to care about Mercy.

Perhaps she should see about finding a wife for Ainsley, something to distract him from his unsettling purpose—whatever it was.

Stephen had assured her that she had nothing to worry over. But he didn’t know the things she knew, the secrets she wished to keep locked away.

She needed him to distract her from these awful musings. Surely, she could lure him away from his own duties for a while. It would be a challenge—a fun one, even if she didn’t succeed. With that thought in mind, she went searching for him.

As she wandered the hallways, she couldn’t help but realize how much she’d come to love the house, to think of herself as its mistress. She wondered if Stephen would have difficulty relegating the responsibilities to Ainsley when he came to visit.

She wished she’d come with a dowry. She wondered if he resented that she hadn’t. With a dowry, he might not have been dependent upon the kindness of his brother. She’d wanted so badly to have him, to secure John in her life, that she’d given little thought to what Stephen might have yearned for in his own dreams.

But she couldn’t imagine that another woman would have loved him as deeply as she did. When she saw him with John, her heart swelled to the point of aching. When Stephen gazed at her with a hint of wickedness in his eyes, she melted. When they talked and shared the moments of their day, she knew unheralded contentment. When they pleasured each other, she was lost in a world of sublime ecstasy.

Her life contained a richness she’d never before experienced. She would do anything to hold on to it.

She located Stephen where she’d expected to find him: in the library, working diligently at his desk. An assortment of papers was spread over the mahogany wood. His furrowed brow revealed his deep concentration—as did the fact that he hadn’t heard her enter the room. Usually he was attuned to her presence, turning to greet her the moment she spied him, as though he felt the touch of her gaze.

But not so now. She wondered what had captured his attention so intently as to block out the world around him.

“It’s snowing,” she said softly.

He jerked his gaze up to her, then shifted it over to the window. “What am I to do about that?”

He’d never sounded so curt, so irritated with her. She couldn’t deny the prick of pain that his tartness caused, then castigated herself for placing too much importance on his annoyance. She had disturbed him, after all. “I thought we might take John out to experience it.”

“I have matters that are far more important than a snowflake landing on an eyelash.” He turned his attention back to the document he’d been reading.

His dismissal hurt. She wasn’t accustomed to their being out of sorts with each other. Since Christmas, they’d experienced an amazing accord, as though their marriage had come to reflect something special for both of them. They had settled in to this arrangement and found it pleasing. “What are you doing?”

“Reading some reports on the war that Ainsley was able to procure, as well as some letters from those who served under my command.”

Thinking he’d given up his quest for his memories had been a misconception. He still searched. He’d simply stopped bringing the subject up to her. “Why do you torment yourself?”

“Because I want to bloody well remember!” He held up a piece of paper, clutching it until it crackled. “I’ve just received word that I’m to be knighted. For services rendered to the Crown. Services that in here”—he slapped the side of his head—“never occurred. Imagine it, Mercy. Imagine walking out into the garden and suddenly a child appears. He runs toward you. You don’t know who he is, then you’re told he’s your son. You brought him into the world two years ago. You don’t remember the pain of his birth, the sound of his first cry, watching him take his first step. Everything that should mean something to you doesn’t exist for you.”

She clutched her hands, squeezing her fingers until they ached. She couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine the devastation of not having memories of John during the past five months, much less two years. The unfairness of it rattled her to her core. “It’s not the same,” she insisted. “The memories you’ve lost were ones of horror, pain, death, and gore.”

“Was it horrible when I was with you?”

She felt all her blood draining down her toes. Her mouth went as dry as sand. Yes, it had been horrible, but it had also been remarkable. But if she helped him remember it, he might also remember other things, question her claim that she was John’s mother.

“I know you don’t understand my obsession, Mercy. I know you think I should be content with what I have now. And I am. But there is a part of me that cannot escape what happened during those two years. I will be knighted for it. People will ask me questions about my actions, my bravery . . . my damned service to country. And what the devil do I say? Do I admit that I have this affliction? That part of my mind is gone? Memories washed away as though carried to a distant shore where I can no longer reach them?”

“Why did you not come to me? Why did you not explain it to me like this before?”

“And burden you? Ask you to resurrect what gives you nightmares?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t subject you to that torment.”

“So you pretended not to care about the past any longer?”

“I didn’t pretend. I simply ceased to discuss it. I acquired a list of names of men in my regiment. I wrote them. Told them I was writing a book about our adventures and that I required some details to confirm our exploits. It seems a good many of the men who served with me are dead. It’s a betrayal not to remember them.”

She’d failed to understand how much he suffered with what he couldn’t recall. But what if those letters spread over his desk contained more than stories of bravery and action against the enemy? What if they mentioned his time in Scutari and the nurses there? What if they mentioned one in particular and a name sparked a single memory, and a bit of that memory sparked another? Had her own selfishness brought him to this moment of grief?

“No matter how many accounts you read, you will never
feel
what you experienced on that battlefield. You will not know if you trembled upon your horse. If you dropped to your knees and cast up your accounts afterward. You cannot experience bravery or righteousness or fear when the moment is long past. You cannot recreate what you went through there. I think you are foolish to try.”

“You think me foolish,” he stated, each word enunciated with the bite of anger.

“I think you must accept that the queen has determined that you are worthy of this honor and therefore you are worthy.”

He laughed harshly. “You’ve not listened to a damned word I’ve said.” He came out of his chair, his eyes blistering with anger. “You can’t possibly understand. You think it trivial. You think me obsessed. Perhaps you even think me mad. And perhaps I am, because I would give my left arm to have the ability to reminisce about those missing two years of my life.”

She angled her chin. “You are correct. You do not know the man you were in the Crimea. Because that man did every damned thing possible not to lose his left arm. He defied physicians. He threatened bodily harm to anyone who sawed it off. He proved to them with actions that it still worked, that it could be saved. And do you know why he did that?” She took a step nearer. “Because he refused to let his men return to the battlefield without him. When they wanted to give up and die, he urged them to live to fight again. And those for whom there would never be another fight, he stayed by their side as they surrendered to death and he made them feel victorious with their last breath. That is the man I fell in love with. That is the man whose son I held to my breast and swore I would never abandon. You do not need his memories to be him. Because he is
you
.”

S
he made him feel small, petty, and ashamed. In the midst of his stunned silence, she’d stalked from the library, taking her magnificent fury with her. He’d wanted to rush after her, drag her back into this room, shove all this unimportant garbage off his desk, and lay the most important person of all upon it and have his way with her.

Let her have her way with him.

Instead, he’d dropped down into his chair and, with a shaking hand, he’d snatched up a letter and read words that no longer had any meaning, because hers had rendered them all into insignificance. Why, why could he not let it go? And every time he thought he had, it returned with a vengeance, demanding that he seek answers.

He didn’t know how long he stared at the scrawl of ink on parchment. She was right. He found no answers there. They were inside him, locked away, possibly forever. All the dangers had been in the Crimea. What he couldn’t remember could do him no harm here—unless his obsession with not knowing drove his wife from his side.

That would be tragic. That would be unbearable. That would be a hell worse than the empty pit in a distant part of his mind.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, something moving past the window. Shoving the chair back, he rose and strode over to the sitting area that looked out on the garden.

He couldn’t prevent his mouth from slanting upward ever so slightly at the sight of Mercy, holding John close. Her heavy red cape swirled around her ankles as she twirled in the descending snow. His son’s gleeful laughter filled the air and caused a painful knot to form in Stephen’s chest. What a turn of events his life had taken.

John’s father would be Sir Stephen. There was honor in that. For Stephen and his son. He’d never before given much thought to how his actions fell on those around him. He’d always only cared about playing. Now he had a chance to play with his son, and he was ensconced in his library reading letters in an effort to reassure himself that the Queen had not made a mistake, that he was worthy of this honor.

Who was he to decide?

Surely, Mercy was right. They’d not confer it upon him if he didn’t deserve it. He wished he’d known the man he’d been in the East. He wondered if it was possible he’d not lost him completely, that remnants of what he’d done, who he’d been, remained, even if he didn’t recognize them. Surely, the life he’d led for two years influenced him to some degree.

Mercy moved beyond his sight. He wondered what else she would share with their son. They would discuss it during dinner, if she was talking to Stephen by then. Her temper had been royally pricked. The thought of having her in bed with that fire blazing. . .

That
wasn’t going to happen, not when he’d disappointed her once again. Strange, how it had never bothered him to disappoint his family. Well, except for his mother. He’d always gotten angry with himself when he’d let her down, but he’d continued to disappoint her just the same. His needs, wants, desires had always come first.