Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (7 page)

Not that it was likely to ever come. Even in the Crimea, even when they’d found moments alone to talk, it had been little more than talking. He’d never even attempted to kiss her. She told herself that it was respect for her that held him at bay, when in all likelihood it was her plain features. Or her height that sometimes made men feel awkward. Or the awful shade of her hair. Or perhaps he’d seen that she was dedicated to her service.

At least three nurses had tittered about receiving kisses from him. One had received a good deal more. He’d certainly not been a saint. Not that she could blame him for taking pleasure where he might when any day would again find him in the midst of battle. Her own moral compass had lost its direction. She had hung on his every word, welcomed his attentions, prayed that they would be more than they were.

The Crimea was not England. It was not afternoon tea, ballrooms, and chaperones. It was not innocent ladies. It was putting aside one’s sensibilities. Men needed to have their dressings changed, and wounds were not always in the most convenient of places. Men needed to be bathed, and turned, and fed. They were attended to during the day and during the night. They needed the comfort of touch and a gentle word.

She remembered an afternoon when he’d escorted her from the hospital to her sleeping quarters. They were discussing literature, and he’d announced that Jane Austen wrote rubbish. Mercy had come to the woman’s defense. She wrote of love and people with frailties.

Mercy had finally demanded to know, “If you think she wrote rubbish, then why on earth do you read her works?”

He’d winked. “Because the ladies enjoy her, so I never lack for a topic of conversation.”

Now, directly across from her, he watched her with increasing confusion clouding his eyes, and she wondered if he was beginning to remember the details of their association. It brought the heat to her cheeks to consider that he might be.

She’d thought him incredibly handsome as he’d strutted about in his scarlet uniform, but she had to admit that she preferred him in his evening attire. His shirt and cravat were pristine white, but everything else was black. He’d taken some care to style his hair, she realized, because it partly covered the scar on his face, as though he wished to draw attention away from it. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for being self-conscious about it, but she viewed it as a badge of honor, more worthy than any accolade he might be given.

Curling at the ends, his hair was longer than she’d ever seen it. John had inherited his curls from his father—and the light blond of his hair. She wondered if it would darken over the years to match Major Lyons’s exactly. She imagined it would. Already his eyes were the blue of his father’s. But fortunately, they still contained the innocence that was lost to Major Lyons.

The lit candles on the table caused shadows to flitter over his face, like garden nymphs playing games among the flowers. But her fanciful thoughts didn’t do justice to the strong lines and planes of his features. They’d been carved by a master sculptor of flesh, then tempered by the brutality of war. At the corners of his eyes and mouth were deeper crevices that he’d not possessed when last she saw him. They spoke of hardship, endurance, pain. He’d suffered, and she suspected it had not all been physical. Mental anguish had worn at him.

He’d cared about his men. That had been obvious as he’d recovered, walking the wards to check on other soldiers almost as often as Miss Nightingale. Disease had taken far more lives than bullets or swords, and he’d exposed himself over and over to the dangers of illness, as he’d not limited his visiting to only those who had been wounded while serving under him. His voice, his words, had served as a rallying cry to the most disheartened. Their commanders had defeated Napoleon. They would be victorious in the Crimea.

Little wonder that every nurse had fancied herself in love with him. Little wonder that her solitary night with him had meant so much. She’d known him as a man with a heart as large as Russia, had thought his ability to care would span an ocean.

Yet, regardless of what they’d shared, she was fairly certain now that she’d been merely one more woman whom he’d held in his arms, one more lady to whom he’d whispered soft words of tenderness. He looked upon her now as though she were a stranger. In spite of that, she refused to cast what they’d shared into a pit of meaningless encounters. For John’s sake. She would continue to believe that the good in this man was deserving of her unfailing and heartfelt regard.

“Did you miss England while you were away, Miss Dawson?” the duke asked, and she cursed herself for flinching at the deep voice that intruded unexpectedly into her thoughts.

“More so than I expected.”

“Why ever did you do it, Miss Dawson?” the duchess asked. “Why traipse along in the footsteps of Miss Nightingale?”

“It seemed a noble endeavor and I . . . I had no other interests that I thought would be more worthy.” She’d had no suitors. She’d grown disenchanted serving as mistress of her father’s house. To her shame now, she had to admit that she’d also longed for adventure. Such a trivial reason, when the need—the war—that had caused the adventure to be available had brought with it so much suffering.

“Tell me. What is it truly like?” the duchess asked.

“Must we follow this path of conversation?” Major Lyons barked before Mercy could even open her mouth to respond. “I’m certain that Miss Dawson is as weary of the talk of war as I am.”

“My apologies. Of course you are. I suppose there is no reason to live again what you’ve already witnessed.”

Mercy could have sworn that Major Lyons flinched. His hand was unsteady when he lifted his wine goblet and drained its contents. It seemed an odd reaction, yet she couldn’t deny that the horrors he’d experienced were no doubt far worse than anything she’d endured. He’d been in the thick of it, while she’d been only on the outskirts, dealing with the aftermath. It had not been pretty, but at least it had not involved the paralyzing fear of being brutally killed on the battlefield.

“Was John’s birth difficult?” the duchess asked.

“Good God, Mother,” Major Lyons snapped. “Have you become a barbarian since I left England’s shores? That’s hardly proper dinner conversation, not proper conversation at all.”

“Then what would you suggest we discuss?” the duchess challenged.

Much to Mercy’s surprise, she appeared triumphant, and Mercy realized that she’d purposely chosen those subjects to goad her son into doing something other than sit there and brood. She could only conclude that his taciturn mien was not out of the ordinary or brought on by Mercy’s sudden appearance in his life. But then how could she—or anyone—expect him to behave as though he weren’t haunted by the horrors of war?

Every day was a challenge for her. If not for John, she feared she might not even leave her bed some days. Sometimes walking through the hospital, she’d felt so helpless and ineffectual. John was a constant distraction from such dire journeys into a past she could not change.

What distracted Major Lyons from taking similar phantom walks over battlefields?

As she watched him down yet another full goblet of wine, she thought the answer might reside in the bowl of that glass.

“The weather,” he said laconically.

“It’s dismal,” the duchess responded. “And boring. Select another.”

He narrowed his eyes first at his mother, then at Mercy as though she were somehow responsible for the strange mood at the table. No doubt she was.

“Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Dawson?” Leo asked.

She jerked her attention to him, grateful for a simple, normal question, and gave a small laugh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Major Lyons take on a more murderous expression. Good Lord, whatever was wrong?

“Years ago, yes, but it’s been some time since I’ve run my fingers over a keyboard.” It sounded as though Major Lyons was choking on his wine. “I fear my skills are sadly lacking now.”

Leo smiled kindly at her. “I believe you’re being unduly modest. Perhaps we should give it a go sometime. I’m very good with duets. I could easily cover any of your missteps.”

“Why place her in a position of possible embarrassment?” Major Lyons asked. “I should think she’s had enough of that.”

Mercy stiffened, grew sick in her belly. The food she’d just enjoyed was fighting to work its way back onto her plate.

“Stephen!” the duchess gasped. “Apologize this instant.”

“For speaking the truth?” He came to his feet with such force that his chair wobbled. If not for the fact that it was constructed of such sturdy wood, Mercy was fairly certain that it would have toppled over. “You’re all trying to pretend that nothing is amiss. I’ve done egregious harm to this girl. Her reputation can never be restored. Her only recourse is to marry me, and you’re well aware that with that way lies only madness.”

Leaving them all stunned, he stormed from the room. She wanted to go after him, she wanted to apologize, she wanted to confess everything. She was also confused. Why did he think the tragedy would be in her marrying him and not him marrying her? Madness? To what was he referring? Did he suffer from injuries that were not visible?

She didn’t care. Nothing would dissuade her from being a wife to him if he would have her. The challenge was to convince him to have her.

Ainsley cleared his throat. “Allow me to apologize for my brother. He’s not been himself since he returned home.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I suspect he’s being
exactly
himself. He’s just simply no longer the person you knew before he left. How could he be? He lived through horrors that I pray you have not the ability to even imagine.” Embarrassed by her brutal honesty, she set her napkin aside and rose. The gentlemen immediately did the same. “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I must see to John.”

She was surprised by how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. She wanted to run from the room, but she forced herself to walk sedately as a lady and not as a hoyden. She needed to make a good impression on these people, but at the moment she cared about only one. Where would she find him?

In the library, standing at the window, gazing out on the night, with a glass in one hand and a decanter on the table near the other. Her heart was hammering and her steps seemed exceptionally loud as she crossed the massive room to join him. His face was a wreath of torment and fury. Studying her as he had at the table, he’d obviously remembered her, knew of her duplicity. He’d take John from her. She should have been honest from the beginning. Perhaps with heartfelt honesty now, she could repair some of the damage and ensure that the precious babe remain in her life.

“Major Lyons—”

“Good God, Mercy, considering the intimacy we’ve shared, do you not think we should go by our Christian names?”

Relief swamped her with such swiftness and force that her knees almost buckled. He didn’t remember the precise circumstances of the night they’d spent together. Another reason had heralded his departure from the table. It was only by force of will that she remained standing.

“I know it’s difficult to hear others speak so carelessly of war,” she said softly, wanting to fold him into her embrace as he’d once done her. But she didn’t have the courage to risk his rebuff. “And for all the correspondents writing so passionately about the intolerable conditions into which we blithely sent our soldiers, words on paper are not the same as blood on hands. Your family was not there. They can’t know how you suffered.”

“But you were there,” he said quietly, staring into the darkness beyond the window. “You know.”

She nodded. Physicians, nurses, soldiers—they all concentrated on the physical wounds, those they could touch, knew existed, but Mercy was confident that there were invisible wounds that needed to be administered to. How many men had she cared for who appeared to be well on their way to recovery, only to succumb to death? She’d known of a case where a man had complained of pain in his arm so severe that he’d been unable to hold a rifle. But numerous examinations had found no cause for it. They’d labeled him a liar and a coward, but she’d not been convinced. She’d known of other illnesses that couldn’t be diagnosed. The human body was not like a timepiece that could be easily opened in order to learn precisely how it worked. She’d seen men die from wounds that had not appeared severe. She’d seen men survive injuries that had torn them apart. She was convinced there was an element of the soul or the heart or the spirit with immeasurable influence on the ability to flourish after a catastrophic injury.

“I think the constant fear of dying must take a toll,” she continued. “I think experiencing the hardships we are willing to inflict upon each other gives us a perspective that nothing else can. It batters us without our realizing it. I’ve had mornings where, if not for John, I’m certain I would have never left my bed.”