Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (28 page)

What a selfish bastard he’d been.

But when it came to Mercy, she was all that mattered.

He had a footman fetch his coat, hat, and gloves, and before he realized what he’d fully intended, he was scouring through the winter gardens searching for his wife and son. He found them on a bench covered with a light dusting of snow. She appeared serene. No evidence remained of the firebrand that had been in his library.

“You have quite the temper, Mrs. Lyons. Had I my memories, would I have known that?”

She glanced over at him, her mouth twitching as though she fought back a smile. She couldn’t stay angry with him for long. He took comfort in that knowledge, because he had years left in which to prick her anger.

“A spinster is agreeable in all things with the hope that she will not chase a prospective suitor away. I don’t recall if I ever put my temper on display for you before. I rather doubt it.”

He sat beside her and stretched his arm along the back of the bench. “Well, if you had, I can tell you I’d have thought twice before marrying you.”

She smirked. “You thought twice anyway.”

“I thought about it a great many more times than that.” He touched her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mercy, sorry for everything I said in the library.”

“I’m sorry, too, sorry that I can’t comprehend your situation. You’re correct, though. If I lost the memory of a single moment with John, I would be devastated.”

Sitting on her lap with his back to her chest and her arms holding him upright, the child was completely ignoring his parents, making nonsensical noises, and becoming fast friends with the snowflakes.

“I think he took your temperament more than mine,” Stephen said.

“I’m not so sure.”

An oddness marked her tone, as though she were embarrassed by the thought. She curled her gloved hand around Stephen’s arm. “I’m not even sure if I should congratulate you for receiving the honor, but I am proud and I know it is deserved.”

“I shall take your word for it.”

“I would never lie to you. You must believe that.”

Such earnestness in the whiskey of her eyes. God, he could drink from them all day and all night. He never wanted to be denied the pleasure of gazing into them.

“There are times when I think that the details of what happened in the Crimea must reside deeply within me, must somehow still have some influence. The man I was before would have laughed at the absurdity of a knighthood, and then he’d have snatched it with both hands and not given a damn as to the reasons that he was being knighted. In here . . .” He touched his fist to his chest. “There are times, Mercy, when I swear to God I do not know the man I have become. I am a stranger to myself.”

“You are no stranger to me.” She leaned in and kissed him, sweetly, softly. A brief touch of their lips that promised more later. She’d forgiven him. Now if he could only forgive himself.

If only he could come to accept that a stranger did not live inside his skin.

Chapter 18

T
he grand room of Westcliffe’s London residence was overflowing with guests. Claire had insisted that a celebration be held to honor Stephen and his accomplishment. As Mercy watched Stephen wending his way among the crush of people, she was struck by his confident swagger and the ease with which he smiled—even if she suspected much of it was for show. While he accepted the tribute with grace and dignity, she knew he still questioned his deserving it.

Parliament was not yet in session. People had come to London specifically for this affair. While they’d not all attended the ceremony that afternoon, they were all chatting about it, seeking out what details they could find. It was not every day that someone was knighted.

The ceremony had taken place in the ballroom of Buckingham Palace. Mercy’s throat had clogged with tears that she’d refused to allow to reach her eyes—she wouldn’t embarrass Stephen for the world—as she’d watched him in his scarlet uniform kneel before the Queen. Seeing him in it again made her realize that he’d aged more than the time that had passed since she’d first fallen in love with him. War and wounds had taken a toll. He looked older than his twenty-six years. So much older. But then she looked a great deal older as well. She wouldn’t change a minute of the hardship that had shaped them both.

In a ritual dating back hundreds of years, Queen Victoria touched a sword to one of his shoulders and then the other, spoke words that Mercy barely heard with the thundering rush of blood in her ears. Then it was done. And Sir Stephen rose.

He had looked magnificent.

His family had been there. They were not strangers to the Queen and she’d greeted them warmly. In a ceremony earlier in the day, Mercy had been formally presented to Her Majesty. But her honor was nothing compared with Stephen’s.

He’d traded his uniform for a black swallow-tailed coat, white shirt, silver waistcoat, and pristine white cravat. He moved about the ballroom with such grace, no evidence of a limp. All his physical injuries healed. She wished she could be as certain of his emotional wounds.

When the party ended, a little after midnight, they would return to their residence. It was not so far away. An hour at the most. She couldn’t wait to be absolutely and completely alone with him. She was even thinking that the carriage might suffice for a bed. Her love for him was so grand, her passion immeasurable. She wanted his hands on her and hers on him. She would tease him about the fact that she’d never taken a knight to her bed before.

Sir Stephen. Lady Lyons.

Her father was certain to be impressed. Since Christmas, she’d received a letter from him, inviting her to visit. She still felt some awkwardness around him, but in time, perhaps it would lessen until it no longer existed. She could hardly fathom how wonderful—

“Mercy?”

The familiar voice turned the blood pumping through her veins into ice. A chill went through her. She straightened her shoulders and her spine. If she’d learned nothing else from tending to soldiers, she’d learned defeat came after the battle and not before. Turning slowly, she smiled as brightly as possible. “Miss Whisenhunt.”

The black hair she’d refused to cut while they were in the east was captured into an elaborate style decorated with loops of pearls. Her blue gaze roamed over Mercy as though she was searching for something, and unfortunately, Mercy had a good idea of what it might be.

The woman smiled warmly. “Mercy, after all we’ve been through, surely there is no cause for such formality between us. But please, tell me. How is my son? How is John?”

Mercy felt as though she were standing in a foggy haze, the ballroom fading away until she was once again in Scutari, sharing a sparsely furnished room in the north tower with a dozen other nurses. Her bed had been next to Sarah’s.

One night Mercy heard her crying softly. Fearing Sarah had encountered ruffians as she had, she crept out of bed and knelt on the cold floor beside her bed. “Sarah, whatever’s wrong?”

“Oh, Mercy, I’ve been a naughty girl. I’m in trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“The sort that . . . ruins reputations. Captain Lyons and I . . .”

Mercy felt the sharp pain that the man who had been so kind to her had chosen Sarah, had been intimate with her. “We should talk about this in the morning, somewhere private.”

Sarah nodded, and Mercy returned to her bed, where she wept her own silent tears. How silly she had been to think that she’d meant something special to the captain. He had saved her and comforted her simply because that was what soldiers did. They protected.

She’d thought something special existed between them, but it was simply her longings, her desires. He was in love with someone else.

But the following morning, as they walked near the waterfront, Sarah confessed, “I believe I shall go to Paris, have the babe, and leave it secretly at a foundling home.”

Mercy was appalled. “Surely Captain Lyons will marry you.”

“If he knew of my condition, possibly.”

“You can send word.”

“I do not wish to marry him.”

Mercy stared in stunned silence, trying to wrap her mind around this woman not wanting what Mercy desperately longed to have. Finally, she stammered, “Why ever not?”

“I have no desire to be a military wife. Coming here was a lark. And Stephen is the second son. He will inherit nothing. He is not a man of independent means, except for what the regiment gives to him, and that is pitiful. I would have to do without so much, and as I have learned since coming here, doing without does not suit me at all. No, I will not tell him of the babe. No one must ever know, Mercy. I wish to find a man who will provide for me as I wish to be provided for. Knowledge of my indiscretion would hamper my becoming well situated.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. But to give his child away—”

“I do not wish to have children, ever. This was a mistake. If I did not fear that ridding myself of it now might bring me death, I would do so this minute.”

“I cannot believe—”

“No, you probably can’t. You no doubt believe in love.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I believe in being well taken care of.” She squeezed Mercy’s hand. “I don’t suppose you’d consider coming with me, because quite honestly, I’m terrified.”

Mercy thought of Captain Lyons—how he had rescued her and comforted her. She thought of how wonderful it had felt to be held in his arms, to inhale his masculine scent, to feel the warmth of his body penetrating his clothes and hers. She thought of his child, given away to someone who might not have a care for it. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

Two weeks after the child was born, she’d placed him in Mercy’s arms. “Do something with him. I care not what.” The next day she’d disappeared, and Mercy had not seen her since. She’d taken John as her own, making a silent promise to Captain Lyons that his son would never be unloved, would never come to harm.

In Westcliffe’s ballroom, she stared at the one person who had the power to shatter her promise.

Mercy opened her mouth to assure her that John was well and that he would remain so as long as Sarah remembered that she’d willingly given him up, when Stephen’s familiar hand landing on the small of her back stopped her.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart. What say we . . . Sarah?”

Everything within Mercy—every hope, every dream, every desire—died. Stephen remembered nothing at all about her.

But apparently he
did
remember the woman who’d given birth to his son.

M
ercy wanted to die right on the spot. The sight of Sarah had been enough to cause his memories to come flooding back. She despaired looking at him, at seeing the disgust and knowledge in his eyes. But when she did dare look, he was gazing on Sarah with fondness. It was as though a thousand swords were slashing into her heart, her soul.

“Sir Stephen,” Sarah said, a delicate pleat beginning to form between her brows as her gaze darted between Stephen and Mercy. “Congratulations on your knighthood. Your mother must be delighted to have three titled sons.”

“My mother is delighted about a good many things, Sarah.”

“Modesty does not become you, Sir Stephen. And please, you must call me by the pet name you gave me.” She looked at Mercy. “Fancy. It was a little joke between us, but I’ve begun to use it with some regularity. It suits better, don’t you think, Sir Stephen?”

“It does indeed. I see you’ve met my wife.”

All the blood drained from Sarah’s—Fancy’s—face, and her mouth opened slightly. “You’re married.”

“Not a word I ever expected to associate with myself, but yes. Mercy and I met in Scutari. She was one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses.”

“Yes, I know. That’s where she and I met.”

“In Scutari?” Stephen barely whispered. His fingers, still on Mercy’s waist, spasmed, and she saw the devastating combination of panic and despair in his eyes.

He didn’t remember Fancy! He had to have known her before. Of course. Fancy had mentioned his scandalous reputation, but Mercy had thought she spoke of gossip, not knowledge. The joy spiraling through her was unforgivable.

She could not leave him to flounder, to risk Fancy discovering the affliction that still embarrassed him.

“Stephen and I seldom talk of that time. Such harsh memories,” Mercy said. “Do you remember how crammed together we were in the nurses’ quarters?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, but Mercy could see the wheels spinning in her mind as she tried to make sense of things. “Married,” she repeated. “More congratulations are in order, it seems. When did this happen?”

“Not soon enough,” Stephen said. He seemed to hesitate, then said, “We have a son.”

“Do you?” Fancy asked, as though all breath had been pounded from her body. “It seems there is no end to the good fortune that has befallen you.”

Mercy wished she could have a moment alone with Fancy to explain . . . before disaster had a chance to strike.

“And what of you, Fancy?” Stephen asked. “Who did you choose, for you wear too much jewelry not to have landed with someone?”

Mercy had no idea what he was on about, but Fancy apparently did, because a fine blush crept up her cheeks. “Lord Dearbourne.”

“He’s a damned lucky man,” Stephen said, “and he has the means to keep you in style.”

“Yes, I am most fortunate that he has favored me.”

The strains of a waltz filled the room. “If you’ll excuse us, Fancy, my wife was saving this dance for me.”

“Yes, it was so lovely to see you again.”

“And you.” Stephen took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Take care of yourself, Fancy.”

“Oh, yes.” She seemed to struggling to speak past a clog of tears. “I will.”

Mercy didn’t think Stephen could guide her away quickly enough. She’d been holding her breath, fearful that Fancy might say something about John, might reveal that she’d given birth to him.

When he swept her onto the dance floor, he said in a low hiss, “God help me. She was in Scutari?”

She realized he’d been as tense as she, fearful that he’d give away his affliction. Perhaps tonight would be the only time that Fancy—why ever had he called her that?—would make an appearance in their lives and they could carry on as they’d been. Happy and content. Joyful.

“Yes,” Mercy said, “but you seem to know her from sometime before. Were you friends?”

“In a manner of speaking. She was . . . one of the ladies who contributed to my notorious reputation.”

“You were lovers.” Even before Scutari.

He gave a brusque nod, and silence stretched taut between them.

“It seems a long time ago,” he finally said.

“Did you love her?” Her heart cramped up waiting for his answer.

His gaze traveled over her face and finally settled on her eyes. “I didn’t love any of them, Mercy. I was a cad. I cared only about pleasure, mine and theirs. No promises were ever made, none to be kept.”

They dipped and swirled, and she realized his leg was truly healed now. It could support him, give him mobility. She wanted to remain in his arms forever, but the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rose . . . and she saw Fancy standing off to the side studying them speculatively, and Mercy feared her wish would not last.