by Aileen Fish
With Woodcliffe’s cravat clutched in his hand, Markham held him pinned. “You’re my friend. You might gamble beyond your means, but you always honor your debts. Now you’re using blackmail to weasel out of it?”
Woodcliffe clamped a hand around Markham’s wrist and forced him back. “I can explain myself much better if I can breathe. You know I’d never resort to blackmail. You’re making too much of this. I was merely explaining to your sister the foolishness of her scheme.”
Closing her eyes, Mercy wished she’d taken Markham’s advice and left. Now her brother would learn the details of the wager. “I told you, it’s not what you think,” she pleaded. He would lock her in her room until she was thirty, or forty if Papa found out what she’d done.
“What did you and your friends bet on now?” Her brother looked at her instead of Woodcliffe, but he grabbed the man’s arm when he tried to leave. “I’m not done with you yet, Woodcliffe.”
Mercy stepped closer so no one else could hear. “May I tell you at home? I don’t wish to make a scene.”
“It’s a bit late for that,” muttered Woodcliffe. “It was harmless, but a bit foolish. I only wished to save her the embarrassment of being found out.”
Markham glanced from one to the other, his lips turned down sharply and his brow furled. “I can’t tell you how it feels to have this man—of all people—privy to your secrets.”
Chapter 5
“Why?” Woodcliffe demanded. Between Mercy’s aggravating pursuit of a kiss and Woodcliffe’s efforts to avoid Markham, he’d had enough for one night. “She’s known me most of her life. Am I truly such a scoundrel you’d keep your sister from speaking to me in a crowded assembly?”
Markham tipped his head in the direction of the noise spilling from the ballroom. “I’d prefer you weren’t so far from the crowd.”
Nodding, Woodcliffe acknowledged the marquess’s words. He wouldn’t want a sister of his, if he had one, slipping away to dark alcoves alone with a man, no matter how well he knew him.
“Can I trust her with you?” Markham asked.
That was the correct question—could she be trusted—even if it wasn’t the one Markham meant to ask. “You have my word.”
The marquess smirked. “Let’s hope your word is worth more than your vowels. Mercy, do not linger here. Finish your discussion quickly and return to Mother.”
This night grew stranger and stranger. Markham was leaving him alone with his sister. And he hadn’t made any threats or reminders regarding the money he was owed.
Straightening his neckcloth, Woodcliffe watched the marquess walk away before offering his arm to Mercy. “Now, will you let me take you into the ballroom?”
“We haven’t finished our discussion.” If Mercy continued to chew her lower lip, he’d lose all thought of restraining himself from another kiss.
“Your brother put a full stop to that conversation. No kiss.” For the first time that night, that fact disappointed him, which was utter foolishness. He couldn’t allow such nonsensical ideas in his head. “Besides, none of your friends are here to witness.”
Blast it! He clenched his jaw. He was a fool to encourage her. The wisest thing he could do was to leave Almack’s that moment. He hadn’t been making the wisest choices lately, he reminded himself.
“It doesn’t have to be tonight, unless one of them succeeds, and I honestly doubt any of them will be brave enough to try to kiss a man.”
There was his escape. “Excellent. We’ll make plans for another evening.” Before she could argue further, he took her arm and strode determinedly to the ballroom.
Only when she was safely at the duchess’s side, and he slipped away without notice, did he slow down enough for his thoughts to catch up with him. With her scent fading from the air around him, he could think clearly. He’d never been so distracted over the way a young lady smelled. He’d never been so distracted by the sister of a close friend. There were too many unspoken rules where they were concerned.
Too many ways to ruin a friendship and leave all parties involved in misery.
Now that he didn’t need to worry about Markham finding him, Woodcliffe returned to the card room and found a table with an empty chair. The third hand had just been dealt when Markham appeared, pulling up another chair. A cold sweat broke out on Woodcliffe’s forehead. “Your sister has been returned to the duchess’s side. I’m no longer responsible for any scheme she becomes involved in.”
Shaking his head with a chuckle, the marquess said, “I wish she would marry. Then she would be some other man’s concern.”
“Watch yourself. Some rakehell like me might come into the picture.”
“At least you’d be able to keep her under control.” He shot a stern glare across the table. “Don’t take that as permission to court her.”
Woodcliffe leaned back in his chair as if Markham could strike him from across the table. “Don’t worry yourself on my part.” Don’t even think such things.
He was so distracted he tossed the wrong card into play. There was no help for it—if he continued to play with his thoughts as jumbled as they were, he’d only increase his debts. He tossed down his hand. “That’s it for me, gentlemen. I wish you all bon chance.”
To add to the foolishness of the night, Woodcliffe turned toward the ballroom, not the street exit. If Mercy and her friends continued to search out their innocent victims, the night could prove quite entertaining.
As was his way, he stayed to the outside of the crush of people, as far from the dancers as possible. No one noticed him, so he could search for Mercy undistracted.
He saw Lady Selena first, flirting with Lord Dashworth. He must be her victim. Should Woodcliffe warn him? It wasn’t worth the bother. As long as they remained in the sight of so many, the man was safe.
There were words he never thought he’d say. At least, he’d never think of a man being safe from a woman. The parson’s noose, perhaps, but not the man’s honor.
While he observed the room, he failed to notice he approached Her Grace, the Duchess of Carrolton—Mercy’s mother. She spied him, however, and called out in her shrill voice. “Woodcliffe! Over here. Come to me, my boy.”
Torn between feeling like a faithful puppy and a young rascal, he did so, forcing a broad smile. “Your Grace, you’re a vision of beauty.”
“Save the pretty words for the young ladies, son. Do you dance tonight?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been in the card room all evening.” Where he’d been quite safe, praise the heavens. Coming into the ballroom was an imbecilic move.
“You’ve arrived just in time to stand up with Mercy in the next set. You wouldn’t want her to be thought a wallflower.”
“Your daughter would never be considered thus. Do you think being seen with me would do more for her than remaining with you?”
The duchess’s eyes smiled at him from above her fluttering fan. “I believe she’ll be safe with you.”
If you only knew, madam, you’d take your daughter home as soon as the music ends. That girl was much too headstrong to trust around any man.
There was one more dance in that set, more time for him to reflect on how mad he was for entering the ballroom in the first place. Now he’d locked himself into remaining, and to dancing with Mercy. Why did the idea scare him so much less than when she’d first seen him in the hallway?
When she approached her mother on the arm of her dance partner, her face glowed with pleasure from the exertion of dancing. It heightened the color in her cheeks and the radiance in her eyes. The effect was more than any amount of paint could give her, had she worn any. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, by far.
“Lord Woodcliffe, I’m all astonishment,” she proclaimed. “How lovely, and surprising, it is to see you in a ballroom.”
“I grew tired of cards and knew I couldn’t leave without dancing one set with the sister of my dearest friend.” Oh, Lud, he sounded like a lovesick pup, not to mention that “dear�
�� was the last thing Markham would call him.
Luckily, she laughed off his words. “Will you take me to the refreshment table? I’m in need of a drink to cool me.”
He led her away, noticing her jasmine scent was fading. As tempting as it was, he knew better than to nuzzle her curls to search for it. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am. No one has won yet.”
“Excellent.” Reaching the table, he picked up a cup for her and they continued into a relatively quiet corner. “Does that mean the wager is done, or will you continue another night?”
“The wager isn’t done until one of us wins, of course.” She took the cup he handed her and sipped the punch. When she lowered the drink, her tongue swiped across her full, pink lower lip. That simple move was his undoing.
All reason was gone. Woodcliffe drew her deeper into the corner, paying no mind to the crowd around them. “How badly do you wish to win?”
“I always win.” She showed no shyness, steadily meeting his gaze until hers dropped to his mouth.
“Your brother will have my head.”
“My brother doesn’t have to know.”
He chuckled and leaned in. “He always knows.”
“Are you saying kissing me isn’t worth the risk of running afoul of Markham?”
“How are you still unmarried?” He took her elbows, drawing her closer, so close her body met his. “No man is safe in your web.”
“I’m not looking to marry, my lord. Merely to win a wager.”
A wager, yes, that was all this was. Not a man attracted to a woman, wondering if her lips would taste of lemonade. Not a fool considering risking the friendship of a man he’d known for twenty years, all for the briefest touch of their flesh. Just a wager.
“I always win,” she reminded him.
That rubbed on his nerves. She wasn’t interested in him as a man, not in the least. It was a waste of breath to try to convince her otherwise. Did he care?
Not a jot.
He bent his head and inhaled her sweet gasp just before his lips found hers. Soft, pliable, her mouth was nothing like an innocent miss—and everything he could get lost in. She was dangerous.
It took everything he had to pull away.
Mercy stared at him as if he’d grown horns. Her sapphire eyes were so round, as were her lips before she pressed her fingers there.
“You’ve kissed your scoundrel,” he pointed out.
“Yes.” Her voice was so breathy he steeled himself to not kiss her again.
“You’ve won.”
She blinked. “I’ve won. Oh, I won!” She spun and looked at the people passing by. No one gave them a second glance. No whispers spread in a wave into the center of the room and back.
Mercy’s shoulders dropped. “No one saw. It’s not a win if no one saw.”
It was a win on his part, since it meant he hadn’t earned the anger of any fathers or brothers by foolishly agreeing to kiss this sweet temptress. “We can’t do it again without risking a scandal. No wager is worth that.”
The pain filling her eyes tugged at his gut. He was hopeless when it came to a pair of sad eyes. “You really want to win, don’t you?”
She fiddled with the seams of her elbow-length white gloves, and he couldn’t be certain it wasn’t another ploy to gain sympathy. “I don’t care about that.”
Lifting her chin, he asked, “Then what?”
Her lips trembled. “I liked it.”
He began to laugh but quickly caught himself. “Heaven forbid.”
“You mock me. Please don’t.”
She’d never looked so vulnerable before, so needing of his aid. His protection. As if he stood at the top of a muddy hillside in the rain and the ground beneath him gave way, Lord Woodcliffe fell for her. “I’d never do such a thing. And I have a solution for you, if you’ll permit me.”
“What’s that?” Leeriness shone in her eyes as if she’d remembered who she stood with.
“If you’ll save a dance for me tomorrow night, I’ll do my best to steal a kiss where one of your friends will see.” Oh, he was a besotted fool, and over one kiss. “Where will you be?”
“I…suppose that would be…perfect. I’ll make sure Mama takes me to Lady Bellinger’s ball.”
He squeezed her hands. “You’ll get what you wanted. You’ll win the wager.”
“Wager?” Her expression was truly blank. “Oh, yes. I’ll win.”
Against his heart’s desire, Woodcliffe took her back to her mother, their dance set having ended some time ago. Then he took his leave, his gambling losses almost forgotten. He didn’t even have a stake in this wager, and he’d come out the winner.
Chapter 6
The banging on his door woke Woodcliffe at some ungodly hour the next morning, and he stumbled bleary-eyed to answer it, tucking his shirt into his trousers on the way. He’d barely lifted the latch when the door was thrown open. He jumped back, out of the way.
“You will leave my sister alone.” Markham’s voice likely woke the neighbors of three floors of the building, he barked so loudly.
“I wouldn’t be foolish enough to compromise her.” Woodcliffe rubbed his eyes, searching for some sense of clarity in recent events. Had he done something to Mercy? An image of her looking up at him with wide sapphire eyes filled his head and the blood left his head. If Markham had seen them last night, he would have settled the matter then and there. Woodcliffe would be squinting through swollen eyelids and nursing a sore jaw, in that case. But he felt fine other than the gritty dryness of his eyes and the taste of rancid ale on his tongue. How had Markham found out about the second kiss?”
“And I’m not fool enough to believe a word you say. I heard it from Mercy, herself.”
Woodcliffe shook his head and stepped back just as a precaution, trying to judge how far Markham’s reach extended should he throw a punch. Mercy had told him about their kiss? What was she thinking? “You must be mistaken.”
“When I overheard her and Lady Selena talking, I assumed it was nothing but the tittle-tattle they engage in, but Mercy said she’d see you tonight for another kiss. What in God’s name are you thinking?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. Come. Sit.” Woodcliffe didn’t wait, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of the cold fireplace. “We explained last night she and her friends have a wager between them. She’s determined to win.”
“I saw you together. She’s won. Why are you meeting her tonight?”
Woodcliffe yawned as the last vestiges of sleep fought to force him back to bed. “It wasn’t witnessed by the other girls.”
“No.”
“Yes, that’s how they will prove a kiss was exchanged.”
“No, you will not kiss her again. No, you won’t go to whatever assembly she’s convinced you to attend. No to any sort of continued relationship between you and my sister.”
At this time yesterday, Woodcliffe would have been in full agreement. Today, after kissing her again and seeing the way she looked at him afterward, he wanted nothing else but another kiss. More than one wouldn’t be objectionable, but he knew better than to consider that. Markham would have his head, but more importantly, Mercy would have expectations of the relationship Markham spoke off. “There is no relationship. She’s your sister, I wouldn’t think of allowing an attachment to grow between us.”
“And I can trust you not to meet her tonight?”
Pausing as Woodcliffe opened his mouth to affirm the question, another thought crossed his mind. “She’s expecting me. She’ll be hurt if I don’t at least appear at some time.”
“Send her a note of regret that you won’t be there to join her in the dances you requested, or whatever you will say. Her heart won’t be broken…will it?”
“Of course not,” Woodcliffe said quickly. No hearts were involved, of that he was certain. Mercy wanted to win, and he simply wanted to feel her lips against his again. He couldn’t forget that look in her eyes, either.
Woodcliffe glanced down and inwardly cringed. “I hoped to win enough to pay you what I owe you.”
“Why start now?”
Lifting his gaze, he was relieved to see his friend’s grin. “What has your pockets to let this time?”
“What do you mean, this time? It’s been some years since I’ve borrowed from anyone.”
“As I said, why are you short of blunt?”
He didn’t want to answer, but he had to tell someone, if just to lighten the burden of guilt he carried. “My funds were embezzled. Eli Grainger, the man I hired last year to see to my business matters, stole everything. My father never turned over the remainder of my family portion and still pays me an allowance, but that’s a mere pittance to what I’d amassed on my own.”
“Do you know where Grainger is now? I assume he left Town before you discovered the loss.”
“Yes, he left, and no, I have no clue where he went. Scotland? France? He can keep a comfortable living most anywhere now.”
Markham went silent which bothered Woodcliffe more than the accusation he felt in the questions. He was an imbecile, a dupe of the greatest order. No one could think less of him than he did himself.
Pride kept him from admitting he’d been gambling so desperately to rebuild his account. He had nothing to sell, no employment to rely on. He refused to do what most men in his position would do, what his father had suggested, in fact. Marry a rich woman. Out of the question.
“I hadn’t noticed your improved finances. If you were so comfortable, why do you still live here? Surely you could find a terrace house to let.”
“I didn’t feel the need. I’m comfortable here.” He motioned to the space around him that served as drawing room, dining room, office, whatever he needed outside the bedroom.