Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (5 page)

But Major Lyons seemed to be in complete control of his faculties . . . and yet, his statement indicated otherwise.

He had confused her with someone else, someone who could have given birth to his child.

Not a woman whom he had merely held and comforted through the night. Not a woman who had fallen in love with him, knowing that she would never possess his heart.

She couldn’t help but be disappointed that a night that had changed her forever had apparently meant nothing at all to him. He’d been so solicitous, so kind, so tender that long-ago night. What a fool she was to think he’d held her in any sort of special regard. No other man ever had. And Stephen Lyons was far above every other man in existence. Handsome, charming, devoted to women. Not a single nurse had been immune to his charms.

Mercy had been no exception.

She wanted to be angry that she’d been no more than a momentary diversion, but she was also acutely aware that his not remembering the details of their association could work to her advantage. And why not make the most of it? From the moment John had come into her life, she’d been more duplicitous than she’d ever thought herself capable of being. Her love of Stephen Lyons and subsequently his son had ruined her reputation, had ensured that no other man would have her.

She had so much to gain, and Major Lyons had very little to lose. She’d already proven herself an excellent mother. She would excel at being a wife. Marriage would ensure that John remained in her life and she in his.

Was she truly considering moving forward with this farce?

And what if he did remember? He would loathe her. Dare she risk it?

Mercy had never declared to anyone that she had brought John into the world. That honor had been granted another. But the woman who had birthed him had turned away from him. Had abandoned him because his presence was a threat to the prestigious life she’d always envisioned for herself. So Mercy had sheltered him and found a wet nurse to provide the nourishment she could not. He’d been sickly in the beginning, and Mercy had tended to him with an obsessive need to ensure he lived. She’d been so dreadfully weary of watching men die. She’d refused to allow Death to snatch him away. She’d fought vigilantly until her own health suffered.

But during those difficult and frightening weeks, she’d come to love John as though she
had
given birth to him. She’d become his mother in every sense of the word. She’d made no plans for his future or hers. She’d simply taken each day as it came.

During her time in the Crimea she’d learned that not even the next moment was guaranteed. Then she’d seen Major Lyons’s name on the list of the dead, and she’d known that she had to bring John to the duchess. He was all that remained of her son.

But fear that John, whom she could not love more if she had actually birthed him, would be taken from her had caused her to declare herself his mother. She’d known shame and humiliation would accompany her declaration, but they were nothing compared with the heartbreak she would endure if she were not allowed to be part of his life. She could not explain the motherly instincts that rampaged through her. But to lose him would be to break her heart.

She’d known a frisson of fear when she’d learned Major Lyons was alive—because surely he would know that she could not possibly be John’s mother. In spite of the night she’d spent with Major Lyons.

But it seemed he did not remember their night together. That he did not truly remember her. Did he not remember her because she was forgettable? Had there been so many women that he had confused her with one he’d bedded?

She should ask him: Who do you think I am? What do you think happened between us? But what would she gain beyond further mortification? What did she risk losing?

John. The only person who mattered in her life, who gave it purpose.

She could not reveal the truth, could not risk losing him. Everything within her shouted that she could not continue on this course. But her heart would not listen. She would compromise. She would not lie. But neither would she reveal the entire truth.

“It was only one night.” The words were rough at the edges, as their night together flooded her with memories. She’d endured mortification and shame far worse than being considered the mother of an illegitimate child.

“It’s getting dark. We should return to the house before your father comes searching for us, convinced I’ve yet again had my way with you.”

She spun around, her gaze leveling on his. She searched for some understanding, some hint regarding his abrupt dismissal of the situation. “What of John? What are we to do about him?”

“I don’t know. We still need to discuss that.”

“He’s not a
that
. He’s a babe, a child, a delight.”

“I was referring to
that
topic. You’re extremely protective of him.”

“He deserves better than he’s had so far.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Better than his mother?”

Was he trying to trick her? Did he know the truth? Did he suspect—

“I’m not enough. I can give him love, but it will not keep him warm, or his belly full, or protect him from harm.”

“Who would harm him?”

She glanced past him. “No one, I’m sure. I meant harm in the general sense.”

“You’ll stay the night.”

He immediately began trudging back toward the house, his limp more pronounced.

“What do you mean I’ll stay the night?” she asked as she grabbed his arm.

He jerked beyond reach. He acted as though he couldn’t bear her touch, when she knew he’d once been a man who relished any contact with women. What exactly had happened to him after she’d left the hospital?

She wanted to comfort him as he’d once comforted her, but where to even begin?

“We still have much to work out,” he said. “We have an ungodly abundance of rooms here. I’m certain you could be hidden away in one and I’d never find you.”

With a nod, she began walking, and he strove to catch up.

“Your limp is more pronounced than it was earlier,” she said softly, slowing her pace.

“The cold aggravates it.”

“What was the injury?”

“A ghastly gash, hip to knee. It’s still healing. I don’t know if I’ll ever walk without the pain. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate to still have possession of my leg. My head constantly aches—” He stopped, sighed deeply. “My apologies. It was not my intention to burden you with my various afflictions.”

“No, I . . . I wish I’d been there to tend to your wounds. I’d already left. Miss N had no tolerance for . . . inappropriate behavior.”

“It must have been very difficult for you.”

“I will do anything for John. Anything at all.”

His lips curved up slowly into a semblance of a smile, as though he’d grown unaccustomed to using those muscles. “He’s a very lucky fellow.”

She could only hope that Major Lyons would always believe that.

Chapter 2

S
itting at the vanity, Mercy met her gaze in the mirror. It was a bit more difficult to do than it had been yesterday. She’d have to be quick on her feet tonight.

She’d been prepared to stay—only because her father wouldn’t accept any other outcome regarding this visit. He’d had her trunk packed and loaded on the coach. If she’d not been welcomed here, he’d have left her on the side of the road. Her and John. How could he not love John? An innocent babe caught in a web of deceit.

Mercy fought not to think about it as the abigail the duchess sent her worked to arrange her unruly hair. It behaved much better when it was bound tightly, although she couldn’t deny that the maid’s skillful hands were hiding its imperfections.

With the duke and his mother vouching for her safety and the return of her good name, her father had taken his leave as though the matter were settled. When it wasn’t. Far from it. Still she felt safe here. More important, John was safe here. She’d seen the way the duchess had looked at the babe. Already she loved him. He was incredibly easy to love.

He’d taken that attribute from his father. Although Mercy couldn’t deny that he was very different from the cocky young man she’d first seen at the Barrack Hospital. But then she had changed as well. It was John who had made her feel like herself again. After what she’d experienced, what she’d witnessed, she’d thought never to smile again.

But he made her smile. At first it had been only a small smile, but it had widened with each passing day as she’d watched John grow, as she’d held him near, as she’d seen him marvel at the world surrounding him. Eventually, he would become more adventuresome and she wanted to experience those moments with him. She wanted to teach him to climb a tree, as unladylike as it was. She wanted to watch him master his first horse. She wanted to watch him become a man to be reckoned with. Like his father.

When the maid finished with her hair, Mercy carefully stepped into the pale green gown. She’d worn nothing beyond black in two years. It had seemed somehow important, as though the somber color would reflect the seriousness of her purpose. But tonight, it was far more important that she catch Major Lyons’s eye, that she do all in her power to ensure he accept her into his life. For John’s sake.

Green had always flattered her, accentuated the red of her hair. The harsh red had made her easy to spot as she’d walked among the wounded men. They’d begun to refer to her as the Red Angel.

To her shame, her reason for going with Miss N had not been entirely altruistic. She’d had no marriage prospects and she’d thought—foolishly hoped—that she might meet someone who would fancy her. She’d even had a romantic notion that she would be wiping the brow of a wounded soldier, and as they gazed into each other’s eyes, love would immediately blossom.

But love was far from a man’s mind when he was retching, shivering, unable to control the simplest of bodily functions. There was no romance when a man lost a limb and was wallowing in pain. The soft words spoken were all hers, to give comfort when illness reduced a man to a shell of his former self, until he faded away to nothing. She’d forced herself to withhold tears because she’d known the moment they started flowing, she’d have no success at stopping them. She’d loved every man in her ward, but it had not been the emotion written about in romance novels or sonnets.

It had been a love born of gratitude for service to country, a desire to ease the suffering, to grant comfort. She’d begun her journey as an idealistic young woman in search of adventure and the attentions of men. She’d quickly fallen into the routine of serving a greater good, until her needs mattered not at all, until what she’d been had ceased to exist and a woman she barely knew began to inhabit her skin. And then the night when her world tumbled . . .

Once again, she looked in the mirror as the maid adjusted the sleeves of her gown, her petticoats, and her skirts. She should tell Stephen Lyons everything—but by doing so she would risk losing John.

“Thank you. That’s all I require at this time,” she said to the abigail, dismissing her. Once the girl had left, Mercy walked over to the bassinet that the duchess had somehow managed to secure for her. John lay there, sucking on his tiny balled fist in slumber. She needed to summon the wet nurse she’d hired in Paris and who accompanied her wherever she went with John. Jeanette had traveled with Mercy and her father in the coach. While they’d had their audience with the duke and his mother, Jeanette had been served tea in the kitchen. When it had become apparent that Major Lyons wished that Mercy stay, her hosts had provided the wet nurse with a bed in the servants’ quarters. Jeanette had lost her babe and husband to cholera. She’d been only too willing to leave France, and Mercy had welcomed the help she would provide with John. She’d known very little about caring for an infant, but she’d been determined that nothing would separate her from John.

He held her together, kept the nightmares at bay. She knew it wasn’t fair to place such a heavy burden on an innocent, but she couldn’t bear the thought of never again holding him, looking upon his beloved face, caressing his soft cheek.

If marriage to Stephen Lyons was required to ensure that she remained with John, then she would do all in her power to secure that marriage.

Even if it meant that she’d never reveal the entire truth about John, even if it required that she spend eternity burning in the fires of hell.

Nothing was too great a sacrifice. Nothing.

S
tephen felt as though he were perpetually waking up following too much drink the night before. It didn’t matter that he was consuming far less alcohol than he ever had. His head was reacting as though he were drinking gallons.

Even now, in early evening, a fogginess clouded his thoughts. Sitting in a stuffed leather chair in his brother’s library, he rubbed his temple, grimacing when his fingers skimmed over the scar that began just below it. He did not fool himself into thinking that even if he remembered the battle, he’d have been focused enough on his own welfare to be aware of each wound that he’d received, but at least they’d have made some sense. As it was, the past two years were nothing more than a gaping hole filled with nothingness.

“Mother is quite relieved that you remember Miss Dawson,” Ainsley said as he took the chair across from Stephen and stretched out his long legs. They’d not had a moment alone since he’d informed his mother and brother that they’d have overnight guests. “Surely, if you can remember her, the rest cannot be far behind.”

If only it were true.

“Unfortunately, Mother never has been able to tell when I’ve spoken false words. Why do you think I’ve managed to stay in her good graces for so long?”

In typical style, Ainsley did not give away his thoughts. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I feared that was the case, that you were striving . . .”

“To hide the truth?”

Ainsley blatantly ignored the biting retort. Stephen found his tolerance irritating, but then of late he lost patience with everything. He’d come to his brother’s estate to recover, to regain his strength. He thought he was as healed as he would ever be. He was itching to move on—to go to London, lease a house, return to the life he’d known. It would be as though nothing had changed. Yet, somehow, even without his memories, he knew he had—in some fundamental way. He was as much a stranger to himself as Miss Dawson was.

“If you don’t remember her, then how can you be certain she’s not lying?” Ainsley asked. “Perhaps she’s taking advantage of your . . . situation.”

Everyone parried so lightly around his affliction, striving not to call it exactly what it was: evidence of some sort of mental deficiency. He supposed he should be grateful that they’d not locked him away. What if this forgetfulness was only the beginning? What if there was more to come?

With fingers that had once caressed Miss Dawson, he rubbed his brow. “No one knows of it except for my family and the physicians who attended me. I demanded discretion. I must believe it was granted. So she came here fully expecting me to remember her. To lie would have served her no purpose. Her story would have been immediately discredited. Besides, I believe she thought I was dead.”

“She did seem taken aback to discover you were alive, but that doesn’t prove the child is yours. Perhaps she came here thinking there was no one to disprove her claim.”

“What a suspicious gent you are. She doesn’t strike me as capable of deception.”

“You deduced this after a mere half hour in her company? Did you tell her the truth about your circumstance when you took your turn about the garden?”

He slid his gaze over to his brother. Among his friends and associates, Stephen was the only one to have an older brother who was an earl and a younger one who was a duke. His mother had wasted no time in securing a second husband after her first had perished leaving her with two sons and no means of support. In her way of never putting off what must be done, she’d quickly given her second husband his heir. Ransom Seymour, the Duke of Ainsley, always gave the impression that he was far older than he was. His tendency toward responsibility was sometimes irksome, especially when Stephen preferred to play. Although his desire for games was what had gotten him into this current debacle with Miss Dawson. He wondered if she’d been worth it. He imagined so. He thought that, hovering above her, gazing down into her whiskey eyes, a man could very well take a journey into paradise.

“She gave birth to my child, Ainsley. How do I tell her that I have no memory of her whatsoever? It would only add to the mortification she has already endured.”

“It seems going to war made a worthy man of you yet.”

“But at what cost?”

He was haunted by his loss of memories. His leg, of late, was becomingly increasingly agonizing and at times he thought it might finish him off as the enemy had been unable to. His head kept him in a haze. He felt a burden to his family. He wanted to be fully recovered so he could get on with his life.

“I should think while you may not remember the horrors of war that you’d not forget a pretty face.”

Stephen would have glared at his brother but it would have served to intensify his head pain. Besides, Ainsley had never been one to be intimidated by a good glare. “I didn’t forget portions of the past two years; I’ve forgotten every damned thing associated with it.”

“But still . . . to forget a lady—”

“I could have bedded a dozen ladies—in all likelihood I did—but not a single one comes to mind.” He couldn’t see the face of one woman or man he may have encountered during the past two years. No soldier, no enemy. Shouldn’t he at least recall the features of a man he may have killed? Although God knew, the dead were not memories he wished to possess. But he would take them if they were all he could own.

“What are you going to do about her?” Ainsley asked, turning Stephen’s attention back to Miss Dawson.

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“If the boy is yours—”

“Do you doubt it?”

Ainsley straightened and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, his glass of port held loosely in his hand. “She wouldn’t have been the first woman to . . . select the father based upon her desire to move up in the world.”

Stephen ceased his rubbing and pressed his fingers against his temple. “She didn’t strike me as promiscuous. She said we shared but one night.”

And he had to wonder: Was she like the myriad of women who’d come before her? He’d wooed them into his arms, into his bed with no more care than one might gentle a horse. In London, he’d taken such pride in his sexual exploits, had thought of nothing beyond the pleasure. He’d competed with his older brother in the boudoirs, determined to be known as a far greater lover than his sibling.

Or had Miss Dawson been more? Had their love been so grand that she’d given herself to him fearing that one night might be all they’d have, that on the morrow he’d die?

And now there was this wretched awkwardness between them. If their situation had been the latter, it made matters all the worse for her. Surely, she’d have expected a more emotional reuniting.

Regardless of their circumstances, he was beginning to feel like a swine.

“Which makes it even more unlikely—”

“Or more a certainty if I were the only one.”

“Marriage will not restore her reputation, now that the child is born.”

“But it will lessen the taint of her sins—to marry the boy’s father. Dowagers will find it romantic.”

“Marrying her will not legitimize the boy.”

“But an act of Parliament would, and how fortunate for me to have two brothers who sit in the House of Lords.”