Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (30 page)

“Really, my dear, you shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve. Even in Scutari, I knew where your affections lay.”

“Why were you there?”

“For Stephen, of course. I’d known him in London, but I was not yet ready to give him up. I wasn’t exactly honest about my experience and training, but I was still able to impress Miss Nightingale. Imagine my surprise, though, when I discovered the hospital where we would work was so far away from where the soldiers were fighting. As happy as Stephen was to have me near, once he returned to the regiment, there was no hope for it. I could not see him. It grew wearisome. Then, of course, I had to leave.” She touched her white gloved hand to Mercy’s face. “I think you are the only friend I ever had. I knew if you knew the child I carried was Stephen’s that you’d go to Paris with me. Still, I misjudged you. I didn’t think you’d use the child to land the father.”

“It was not my intent,” Mercy confessed earnestly. “I thought he was dead. I was returning John to his family.”

“But you told them
you
were his mother. Why would you tarnish your reputation so?”

Mercy nodded with the weight of the shame of it. “I had fallen in love with John by then. I was afraid I’d not be able to remain in his life if they thought he was not mine. You won’t tell Stephen . . . the truth, will you?”

“What sort of friend would I be if I did?”

She glided away, her movements so smooth and sensuous that it was as though her feet didn’t even touch the ground. Now it was Mercy who turned and stared out at the garden. Why was she not calmed by Fancy’s reassurance? Why did she feel that she was standing on a precipice and that one false step would send her spiraling over the edge, snatching from her both John and Stephen?

Chapter 19

M
ercy awoke screaming his name.

Stephen had been lost in his own torment, visited by what he could not remember, which was no visitation at all really, just a bleak emptiness, so he was still awake, drawing comfort by feathering his fingers over her hair, when her shriek rent the night. She was already in his arms, having nestled there after a passionate session of lovemaking once they’d returned from London. The late hour hadn’t mattered. They’d teased and taunted each other in the carriage on the journey back. It was a wonder they’d not ripped off their clothes in the entry hallway as soon as they’d closed the door behind them.

Now she struggled to free herself of his embrace. He only held her nearer.

“Mercy. Mercy. Sweetheart.” He cooed, he whispered, he tenderly stroked her back, but she’d have none of it. She thrashed about, lost to the demons that tormented her. It had been weeks since they’d invaded her dreams. He’d begun to think that she’d conquered them. She was so strong, so determined that she put him to shame when it came to battling the irrefutable horrors of the past.

He had no doubt that he was responsible for her anguish tonight. His damned knighthood had reawakened all her dormant memories. The reason behind the accolades, his actions that were heralded as bravery. They all served as reminders of where she’d once been. It probably hadn’t helped at all that he’d asked so many questions of Mercy concerning Fancy. He’d been stunned to see her at the ball Claire had arranged in his honor. Even more shocked to discover she’d been in the East, one of Miss Nightingale’s angels. He’d have never thought she had the inclination to help others. He’d enjoyed her company immensely but he’d always known that she placed herself above all others. He could not reconcile the woman he’d known with the woman Mercy had told him about. And pestering her for information had no doubt served to bring to her mind all that
she
’d done, all
she
’d seen. All the men who had died while she looked on. How powerless she’d been. How little she’d been able to alter.

But she’d done so much good. He was certain of that. He’d read the accounts about Florence Nightingale. Mercy had been at her side. She’d done many of the same deeds. She’d walked through the wards carrying a lamp, tending to the sick and injured. Had tended to him.

He had no memory of it, but he could see her so clearly in his mind. She’d been wrong with her insistence that he couldn’t re-create the memories. Perhaps they were not as vivid or as precise or as true as what he’d experienced. But still, he could envision her bending over his uncomfortable bed, wiping his sweating brow, giving him words of comfort. Compassion filled her. He didn’t know how to grant her the same relief.

He would return his knighthood that second if it would release her from the bondage of this nightmare.

He trailed kisses over her face, repeated her name. Suddenly she was clutching him, her fingers digging into his sides, and he knew he’d be bruised come morning. But it didn’t matter. His discomfort was nothing if it brought her peace.

“Take me,” she gasped. “Please take me. Make me forget. Make me forget it all.”

He kissed her as though he would die if he didn’t. She responded as she had earlier, with fire and passion. She pushed on him, rolled him over onto his back, and straddled him. She rained kisses over his chest, did to him what he wished to do to her. He wanted to carry her to new heights, wanted to cast her demons into perdition.

It was not fair that one such as she should be so tormented.

He threaded his fingers through her coppery hair. Longer now than it had once been, not as long as it would one day be. He wanted to see it spread out over his chest, his groin. When she was over him like this, he wanted her hair to provide a curtain that closed out the world.

Even as the thoughts scurried through his mind, he knew he would be content if she were bald. Nothing was more precious than this moment. The past, the future, what did they matter, when every nerve was centered on what she was doing? The caress of her fingers, the swirl of her tongue. The heat of her mouth enveloped him.

“Christ!”

He nearly came off the bed. His back arched, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingers dug into her shoulders, and he forced them to loosen their hold. He didn’t want to bruise her, but he needed to touch her. He opened his eyes to the sight of his angel eagerly ravishing him. Sweet Lord. Fiery molten lava pumped through his veins. Each deep breath into his lungs brought the musky scent of sex: his and hers. She was aroused by what she was doing as much as he was. He wondered if he might die of the sensations. His heart beat so forcefully that he was certain she had to feel the pounding through his body. She was driving him to madness.

“Enough! Enough, Mercy.” Reaching down he lifted her. “I need to feel you around me.” His voice was hoarse, his throat felt raw.

Grabbing her hips, he impaled her. She was hot, so unbelievably hot. Scalding. She cried out, not in pain, but in ecstasy. Tangling her fingers in her own hair, she arched back and rode him. He pumped ferociously. He cradled her breasts, relishing the weight in his palms. She ran her hands over his chest. Then she cupped the back of his head and kissed him, deeply, thoroughly, in near desperation.

It occurred to him that perhaps she was still locked in the throes of the nightmare. Never had she been so wild, so bold, so . . . imaginative.

Their grunts and moans echoed around them. Everything within him tautened, demanded release—

She arched back, calling out his name, her body closing in around him with the force of a vise. Unbearable pleasure ripped through him. He jerked, pumped, shattered.

Spasms shook him as he fell back from somewhere he’d never been before, a height he’d never before attained. He swallowed hard, his breathing harsh and heavy.

She flopped down on top of him, and he felt warm liquid running in rivulets along his chest. Her rasping sobs tore at his heart.

“Mercy, are you crying? Sweetheart, did I hurt you?” He’d rather lose the left arm she’d told him he’d fought so hard to keep, or his leg, before hurting her.

“I’m going to lose you,” she whimpered. “I know it. You’re going to leave me.”

Working his hands beneath her, he cradled her face, forcing her to look at him. Tears filled her whiskey eyes, eyes he wanted to gaze into when he took his last breath.

“Mercy, sweetheart. You’re not going to lose me. And I’ll never leave you. I’ve fallen in love with you.”

T
hey were words he’d never spoken to another woman. Tensing, he waited for thunder to boom and lightning to strike, for surely the angels were laughing at his downfall. He, who had always been so damned careful not to involve his heart, was holding his breath, waiting for her to—

“Say something.”

She opened her mouth, closed it. Her eyes misted. Her delicate throat worked as she swallowed. A bright smile formed. Joy turned the whiskey to gold. She released a light laugh. “I love you, too.”

He grinned and threaded his fingers through her hair. “I know. You told me when you were so very angry at me that day in the library. Terrified me, you know. Saying the words to you now. They seem inadequate somehow. They should be larger, bigger to encompass all that I feel for you.”

“They’re perfect.” She laughed again, buried her face in the curve of his neck. “I want to run through a field, climb a mountain, swim an ocean. You have filled me with such joy.”

“Give me a few more moments and I shall fill you with something else entirely yet again.”

She jerked upright, her cheeks burning a bright red that almost matched her hair. “Were you shocked by what I did? I don’t know what possessed me.”

“Feel free to
shock
me anytime.”

Her laughter touched him once more, as soft as the tinkling of glass bells. “I rather enjoyed it.”

“As did I.”

She gnawed on her lower lip. “Jeanette tried to tell me . . . but I didn’t believe her. But I know now that I would do anything at all for you. Anything. I thought I loved you in Scutari, but what I have come to feel for you since we married . . . it knows no bounds. It’s terrifying and yet, and yet it makes me feel so remarkably safe.”

He studied her beloved face. “Then why the nightmare? Did all the talk today of my supposed exploits bring it all rushing back to the surface?”

“It doesn’t matter. I think I’ve banished them for good. You’re mine now. And I know nothing will ever change that.”

Chapter 20

L
ady Lyons?”

Mercy thought she’d never grow accustomed to the new name. She was sitting on the floor playing with John in the nursery at Roseglenn, playing as much as she could with someone who was more interested in his hands and his feet than anything she could wave before his eyes. She glanced up at the serving girl. “Yes, Winnie.”

“You’ve a visitor. A Miss Whisenhunt. She says it’s most important that she speak with you.”

Icy dread slithered down Mercy’s spine. Stephen had gone to London to see to some matter. She wanted Fancy gone before he returned. She scrambled to her feet with such urgency that she nearly lost her balance. “Where is she?”

“In the front parlor, my lady.”

Mercy rushed out of the nursery and down the stairs. It didn’t matter why Fancy was here. Stephen loved Mercy. He had told her so. He had
shown
her so. They were a family, the three of them. Nothing would break them apart.

She came to a halt in the hallway near the front parlor. She patted her hair into place, wishing for the first time that she’d not cut it, that it was still as long and glorious as it had once been. It had outshone Fancy’s. She pinched her cheeks to ensure she had color. She straightened her spine. She felt as though she was preparing to face an army of Cossacks. She was prepared to win.

With a confidence she didn’t exactly feel, she strode into the parlor. Fancy was standing near a glass case, studying the various figurines that adorned it. Turning, she smiled, one that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I hope you will forgive me for intruding,
my lady
, but I have an urgent matter with which I’m certain you can help me.”

Mercy didn’t quite trust that smile. “I assisted you once before, Fancy, in Paris. I’m not certain I have anything else to offer you.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Not even tea?”

Mercy felt everything within her tauten. Why the deuce was Fancy truly here? She had the power to tear asunder everything that Mercy had built. As calmly as possible, determined not to give any hint as to her trepidation, she wandered over to the wall and yanked on the bellpull. When the serving girl appeared, she said, “Tea please.”

“And biscuits,” Fancy said. She held up her hand, showing a small amount of space between thumb and forefinger. “As well as little cakes if you have them.” When the maid left, she looked at Mercy. “I do so enjoy sweet things.”

“What precisely is it that you want?”

Ignoring Mercy, Fancy lifted a small clock from the mantel, studied it, and set it back down. “You do have a very nice residence. I’d have not thought Stephen would do so well for himself.”

“It’s Ainsley’s. He allows us to live here through his good graces. He can take it away at a moment’s notice.”

“But he won’t. He’s the good brother. The one who watched out for the other two, even though he’s the youngest. Stephen resented his brothers. Their titles, their power, Ainsley’s wealth. That’s the reason he worked so hard to excel in the bedchamber. He wanted to outshine his brothers in some regard, so why not pleasure? Has he shared all this with you?”

“What has this to do with anything?” she asked impatiently.

“Ah, our tea.”

Mercy thought she was going to crawl out of her skin after she had poured the tea and was forced to watch Fancy prepare it. How could a spoon that moved that slowly stir up anything at all? She knew Fancy was being deliberately difficult. If she didn’t have so much to risk losing, she’d tell her to go to the devil.

Finally, at last, Fancy sat back and took a sip of tea. “Delightful.” She licked her lips. “I’ve been thinking about our situation.”

The words sent a frisson of unease through Mercy. “What situation?”

Fancy smiled benignly. “You have something that belongs to me.”

“John does not belong to you. You walked away from him.”

“But I was distraught after learning that his father had died. It broke my heart to look upon John and to see his father and to know he would never again be in my life.”

Somehow, Mercy prevented her eyes from rolling. “You think that tale will gain you sympathy?”

“More so than yours. You lied, deceived, and used a babe for your own gain.”

“No. You guessed right last night. I did wear my heart on my sleeve, and I loved Stephen then, and I love him now. We’re happy. The three of us. John, Stephen, and I. Why would you take that from us?”

“Is it fair to say that you’ve discovered that a night in Stephen’s bed is worth any
price
?”

“Is that the reason you’re here, that you’re making all these innuendoes and claims? For payment?”

“Oh, Mercy, you must understand my position.”

Fancy picked up a tiny cake and popped it into her mouth. Mercy prayed she would choke on it. She’d thought her beautiful when she first met her. How looks could deceive.

Fancy swallowed the cake, sipped her tea . . . continued to breathe. Pity.

“I never expected Stephen to do so well for himself, but he was fun. I had no desire to marry him. I wanted someone who could offer me . . . more. When I realized I was with child, sentiment and fear prevented me from ridding myself of it before it was born. Ambition prevented me from keeping it.”

“Him,” Mercy snapped. “He is a him. Not an
it
.”

“Spoken like a true mother. You do know that a marriage built on a foundation of secrets will surely crumble.”

“What the devil do you want?” Mercy demanded.

“My plan had always been to serve as some lord’s paramour, to be pampered and cared for, to warm his bed. Hence, Lord Dearbourne. Unfortunately, I failed to take into account that not all men are as talented in the bedchamber as your husband. Most are bumbling oafs.”

“Then leave Dearbourne and find another.”

“He is my third since my return from Paris. I am weary of the hunt, and I’m sure you are weary of waiting to learn why I am here.” Setting her cup aside, she leaned forward, determination and a hard glint in her eyes. “I’ve given a good deal of thought to our little secret, and I’m certain you wish it to remain between us. I want to live in luxury without requiring a man. Four thousand pounds a year should do it.”

Mercy dared not understand what she was hearing. The consequences were too dire. She fought to hold on to her confidence, not to give any hint that she suspected where this was leading, for surely, even this hoyden would not go there. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why, my dear girl, you are naïve. I expect you to give it to me.”

“We were friends. I wiped your brow when you were nauseous. I helped to deliver . . .”

“My babe?” Fancy asked with an arched eyebrow.

How had she so badly misjudged this woman? She was a nurse. She’d gone to the Crimea. She’d attended the wounded and sick. Stephen had cared for her. How could he have cared for someone as vile as this? How could Mercy have befriended her?

“I don’t have that sort of money,” she said, her mouth suddenly so dry that she could barely form the words. “I had no dowry. My weekly allowance is a pittance.” It sufficed for her, she wished for no more. Her needs were few. But this request was beyond the pale.

“Surely you have a household allowance. Steal from that. Sell the silver. Pawn your jewelry. I don’t give a damn how you manage it, just make it happen.” She came to her feet in a rustle of silk and satin. “I don’t expect it all at once. You may make weekly payments. But make no mistake. I want it. I want it all. Or your husband will learn who the true mother of his son is.”

“I
am the true mother of his son!”

The rebuttal had lodged in Mercy’s throat, to go unspoken.

She walked briskly through the garden, searching for answers. It was a gray day, which mirrored her mood. The dark clouds blocked out the sun. It somehow seemed significant, as though the light would no longer shine in her life.

What the devil was she to do? Four thousand a year. She was given fifteen pounds each week for her own pleasures and enjoyments. She could ask for twenty. She doubted Stephen would deny her. But she would still be far short of what Fancy demanded. Where was she to get it?

She supposed she could find bits of silver here and there in rooms seldom used. Knickknacks that wouldn’t be missed. She felt as though she was betraying Stephen, who had admitted that he loved her.

She’d never expected to truly own his heart, to hear those sweet words pass through his lips. His words, so earnestly spoken, had pushed away the last cobwebs of her nightmare. In it, she’d been crawling over a battlefield littered with dismembered limbs. John had been on the other side. She’d needed to get to him, to save him. Then Stephen had swept him up and begun to carry him away. She’d called after them. But they’d ignored her. Both of them. And she’d known once they disappeared into the blackness that hovered at the edge of the field, she’d never see them again.

Now she feared if she confessed the hell she’d plummeted into that Stephen would leave her in truth. And it would be far more painful than in a dream world. And he would take John with him. His son.

“Ah, there you are.”

She spun around to marvel at her husband striding toward her. The bleakness of the day could not dim her joy at seeing him. The wind tousled his hair. He must have left his hat inside. He looked young and carefree. Happy.

“How was your business in London?” she asked.

“Incredibly boring. Ainsley wanted to go over some accounts.” He snaked an arm around her and drew her up against him. “And all I wanted was to be in bed with my wife.”

He kissed her soundly. Passion immediately sparked. She loved the feel of her body pressed against his. She did not want to lose this. She did not want to lose him.

When he drew back, his blue eyes were sparkling brighter than any jewel. “And as I was in Town . . .” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small black box and held it toward her.

She hesitated.

“Come along. Open it. I certainly have no use for it.”

Taking it carefully, as though it were as delicate as an egg shell, she again hesitated. Slowly, she opened it to reveal a locket in the shape of a heart. On the back was inscribed,
With love, Stephen and John
.

Tears welled and a sob broke free.

“I had hoped it would please you,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, and she knew he took satisfaction in her reaction. That he had meant to touch her deeply, knew he had accomplished his goal.

“I am pleased. So pleased.” She wound her arms around his neck, held him close. “Nothing could have been more perfect.”

She would do anything to retain this perfection, this idyllic life that she’d sacrificed so much to obtain. This residence contained so many small
things
. Surely, surely, no one would miss a few tiny, insignificant items.