by Aileen Fish
Wiping his finger over a small table and dusting off his hands, Markham commented, “You couldn’t keep a servant, I see.”
Realizing he was still barefoot and half-dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he leaned forward to rise. “Was there anything other than my friendship with your sister that you wished to discuss? I should see to my appointments for the day.”
Markham smirked, one side of his mouth pulling back as his eyes twinkled. “I wouldn’t wish to keep you from anything important. You’ll heed my warning?” He stood.
“Warning? Is that what you call it? It sounded more like a command. Yes, I’ll send Mercy a note right away. And I’ll keep to my club when I’m in the need of company.” Woodcliffe walked to the door with Markham and closed it behind him, letting out a long breath as it latched. Thank goodness he and the marquess had been friends for so long. If anything more than a brief peck had been passed between him and Mercy, he’d be looking at the barrel of a pistol forty paces across a field and aiming at his heart.
He stretched and scratched his jaw, debating going back to bed. It was much too early in the day to be imagining his death.
Mercy and Selena stood near an open window in the cramped room in Lady Bellinger’s home where too many people by half had accepted their invitations to dance. Even though their hostess had opened three smaller rooms to create what could pass as a ballroom, the location was much too popular for comfort.
And nowhere among the guests had Mercy seen Woodcliffe. “He said he’d come,” she said absently.
“Woodcliffe? It’s still early,” Selena said. “Perhaps he’s playing cards or is outside in a carriage waiting for his turn to disembark.”
Shaking her head, Mercy said, “I don’t see him as the type to wait patiently when he’s perfectly capable of walking.”
“Shall we explore the other rooms?”
“No.” She opened her lace-trimmed fan and fluttered it in front of her face. “I don’t want to look like I’m chasing him.”
“But you are, at least for tonight.”
Mercy shot a sharp side-glance at her friend.
“He knows you are only interested in the wager, correct?” Suddenly, Selena’s face brightened. “You don’t have an affection for him, do you? Do you? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me? Do the others know?”
Slipping her hand into the bend of Selena’s arm, Mercy said a little too loudly, “Let’s take a turn around the room.”
When they’d walked some distance from those who might have overheard them, Mercy said, “Keep your voice down. I don’t want to be the subject of all the columns in the morning paper.”
“Don’t avoid the question.”
Mercy wasn’t avoiding an answer, she was avoiding thinking about the subject of her feelings toward Woodcliffe. Her disappointment at his not coming hurt a bit more than the delay of her win would account for.
“Mercy? Tell me. Please?”
“Oh, there’s nothing to tell. I enjoyed his kiss, that is all.” Her smile grew difficult to keep in place. “Very well, I admit I was truly looking forward to seeing him again.”
“Why Woodcliffe? Why after all these years of knowing him? When you chose him to kiss, I never imagined you felt something for him. He’s just one of your brother’s friends, like the rest.”
“I always preferred him to the others, but never romantically. Well, maybe for a few moments at some point when I was thirteen or fourteen. That rakish grin of his, and his laugh…”
Selena laughed softly. “Yes, I can see how you grew beyond those girlish feelings toward him.”
“I don’t favor him more than any other man. I’m not ready to marry, and my father would never allow me to marry a man such as Woodcliffe.”
“You’ve thought about this a great deal for someone you have no interest in.”
Mercy’s fan fluttered harder again, but this time it was the lack of air in the room that bothered her. “Nonsense. Markham was quite clear when he saw us last night that there could be nothing between us. I didn’t need to think any further about the subject.”
But she had. She’d dreamed of Woodcliffe and his kiss. She’d felt the warmth of his nearness, smelled mint on his breath, and her heart had raced. This time he’d kissed her passionately, endlessly, and the feeling was simply heavenly.
Yet he didn’t come to Lady Bellinger’s. She couldn’t win the wager with an imaginary kiss. She clearly wouldn’t have the chance at another kiss from Woodcliffe.
When she went to bed that night, she decided she didn’t want a kiss from any man, ever, unless they were married so she could be sure of more kisses to come. And since she had no desire to marry, she’d never kiss a man again.
Chapter 7
December 1817
London
* * *
December in Town was as dreary and dismal as a foggy, rocky beach in the dead of winter, all grey and lonely. Everyone still mourned their beloved Princess Charlotte who had died just a month prior while giving birth to a stillborn son. Then came a moment of brightness when a new book was published by one of Mercy’s favorite authors, who she’d finally learned was Jane Austen. The brightness clouded quickly when Mercy learned Miss Austen had died in the summer. She felt like she’d lost a friend whose name she’d only just learned.
The fact that her friends were all at their country houses gave her few options for entertainment. Markham was busy doing whatever it was the heir to a dukedom did. Papa had insisted he remain in Town for business purposes, and Mama went wherever Papa was. Mercy supposed she could beg one of her friends for an invitation to visit, but with Christmas drawing near, she felt she should be near Mama.
And so she was bored. Not quite as bored as when she and the girls had made their wager—which no one had won yet—but nearly so. Each morning she checked the salver in the hallway in search of an invitation to something…anything, but they only received notes announcing morning calls from some of Mama’s friends.
Mercy had given up hope of a missive from Woodcliffe some months ago. He never explained why he hadn’t come to Lady Bellinger’s assembly. He never offered to help her win at another venue. She was silly to have expected him to. Her request was so far removed from anything proper, he was proven a gentleman for ignoring her. It didn’t matter if he’d come to his senses or if Markham had threatened him again, she was better off not kissing Woodcliffe.
One of the few outings Mercy and her mother did with any regularity was to attend Sunday service at St. George’s Cathedral. While it wasn’t exciting, it gave her a sense of belonging to something important. The service made up for not taking baskets to the needy in the village near her family seat.
Realizing how altruistic that sounded, she chided herself. Attending church services simply gave some structure to an endless week.
Two weeks before Christmas, Mercy waited with Papa and Mama to greet the pastor at the door after the service ended, when she noticed a man standing two people to her right. Not a man, Woodcliffe. She reached across the other patrons and tapped his arm. “Good morning, Woodcliffe.”
Turning his head, his smile grew from polite to friendly, carrying into his eyes. “Good morning. I’m pleased to see you.”
Her stomach fluttered. “How is it we’ve gone to the same church all these years and I’ve never seen you?”
“I…er, that is, I’m not a regular attendee. But the season is upon us, so here I am.”
Here he was, six months since she last saw him. Due to their location she couldn’t even tease him about the wager, which was best forgotten anyway. Polite conversation just wouldn’t do, so she stood in uncomfortable silence taking a step forward each time the crowd shuffled toward the door.
Mama saved the day. “Lord Woodcliffe, how delightful to see you. Will you join us for dinner this afternoon? Markham will be there. I miss those days when you boys stayed with us for weeks at a time. You can tell us what you’ve done since we last saw you.”
<
br /> He met Mercy’s eyes for a long moment and must had read the answer she would give. “Yes, I’d like that. How kind of you.”
Mercy’s smile relaxed. She wasn’t going to get her kiss; there’d be no one there to take notice, regardless. But he would spend a few hours in her presence and that was delightful.
Woodcliffe would never admit that his reason for accepting the duchess’s dinner invitation was merely to see Mercy. Yes, the food was a damned sight better than what he could buy from the street vendors he frequented, and yes, eating in the company of others was pleasant. He could have supper at his club with any members who ate there that night, but it wasn’t the same as sitting with a family. A family who was happier to see him than his own.
Mama did her best to make him feel welcome when he came home to visit, but she usually had some sort of nervous condition or sniffles that kept her to her bed. Father…he was just Father. He’d never shown emotion beyond anger and frustration at the flaws he felt his son had acquired from Mama’s brother.
Dinner was excellent, and he removed to the drawing room with Her Grace, Markham and Mercy after they’d eaten the last bite of their blanc-manger and finished their sherry. The duchess sat in the chair closest to the fire and Markham leaned against the mantle on the opposite side. Mercy lagged behind, appearing to watch where Woodcliffe would sit. She chose the chair opposite his, her eyes holding his gaze.
He wanted to ask if she’d gotten a kiss before her friends, but knowing he wasn’t the recipient made an angry tension hit his gut. He might have been her first kiss, but that brief touch was the equivalent of a biscuit when an entire display of sweets and elaborate cakes lay before one.
He wanted cake.
“Do you stay in Town during the winter most years?” Mercy asked.
“Yes.” The answer was too short but he wasn’t going to elaborate. He amount of time he’d spent with her family on school holiday said enough, if she thought about it. “I was surprised to see you are still here. I’d assumed you and your mother escaped to the country as soon as the weather warmed last summer.”
“Most years we do. There’s so little entertainment when the Season ends.”
He tipped his head and frowned. “There aren’t many balls, but surely the ton continue to play cards and invite others to watch their daughters display their musical talents.”
“Mm, yes. But none of my friends are here.”
He glanced at Markham, who was studying his nails and probably listening to every word he and Mercy said. Older brother be damned, Woodcliffe took a chance. “Would you care to visit the museum with me? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
Yes, Markham was listening, and his gaze spoke volumes, none of which the man would say in front of the ladies, Woodcliffe guessed.
Mercy also looked at her brother, then answered softly. “I would enjoy that.”
“Excellent.” All his tension fled and Woodcliffe leaned back in the chair. He called out, “Markham, will you join us?”
“I have previous plans, I’m afraid. Mercy’s maid will chaperone you.” The touch of gruffness in his voice held the threat of punishment if Woodcliffe overstepped propriety, but Woodcliffe was pleased that Markham wasn’t preventing the activity.
Mercy brightened, describing tidbits of gossip from the papers and mentioned a book she’d borrowed from the lending library. Woodcliffe was glad he’d come. Seeing Mercy was always a pleasure, but seeing that she enjoyed the prospect of spending more time with him filled him with delight.
The next afternoon they took in the Egyptian exhibit at the museum, strolling slowly, pausing for lengthy spells in front of each display. For his part, the nearness of Mercy was all he cared about. Either of them would read the sign in front of the display, they’d comment on something of interest, then a comfortable silence would settle around them.
He longed to say more. The maid kept a discreet distance between the couple and herself, and there were few visitors at that hour, so no one was likely to hear, and he convinced himself it was safe to talk. “I must tell you how much I’ve missed you.”
Mercy ducked her head and toyed with her reticule strings, then said, “I feel the same. We barely met again last Season when you disappeared.”
“I did. I had to.” He refused to mention Markham’s part in his actions. “Given a choice, I would have seen you again. You would have won your wager.”
He couldn’t call it a kiss, just in case someone overheard. Just in case he was suddenly overwhelmed by a passionate need to taste her lips now. His lips twitched in a battle not to smile. He never was swept away by passion. Never lost himself in the excitement of a moment even when experiencing a winning streak. He would never lose his wits over a kiss.
Never, he emphasized.
But what if he did? What if he was so enraptured of her that he could think of nothing else but her scent, the warmth of her mouth on his? The catch of her breath when she leaned in close knowing what lay ahead?
Oh, it wouldn’t do. Woodcliffe wasn’t going to let another chance pass only to go home wondering if she wanted the kiss for any reason other than the wager. He searched the room they were in, filled with prehistoric skeletons and a stuffed wooly mammoth. That shaggy creature would suit.
Holding himself to a casual stroll, he led Mercy to the corner of the room, putting the mammoth between them and the door. The maid had her back to the couple, appearing engrossed in a map of the area where one of the dinosaurs had been discovered. The time was now.
He took Mercy’s hands and turned her to face him, unable to speak, yet unwilling to go on without her permission. “Mercy…”
“Yes?” she said when the pause stretched on.
“May I kiss you?” He wondered if she’d steal a peck like she’d done before, which would leave him completely dissatisfied.
“Yes,” she said on a breathy exclamation.
And he did. He did everything he’d imagined doing over the past six months, memorizing her fresh, clean scent, the warmth of her breath when she leaned in to meet him. The hint of uncertainty in her eyes and the tremble of her lips. He’d never forget any of the moment.
Voiced outside the room brought his awareness back to the room and he drew away much too soon. For a brief moment he waited to see if she mentioned that blasted wager, but she didn’t. She gazed at him as if lost in a dream, which warmed him. She’d felt it, too. The magic that was the two of them together. How had he never noticed it in all these years?
“Mercy, do you think your father would object if I called again tomorrow?”
“I’ll make certain he doesn’t.” She smiled and her cheeks turned an intriguing shade of peach.
He did call the next day, and the next, until several weeks of calls had passed. When he once again stood in her drawing room to take his leave, he asked, “May I see you tomorrow?”
“It’s Christmas,” she said, her brow furling.
“Of course. I’d forgotten.” Time had ceased to exist for him of late.
“Will you be at church?”
He hadn’t thought about it until now. “Yes.”
“Then you’ll come home with us after and join us for Christmas dinner.”
“Are you certain your mother won’t object?”
The sweet look she offered him, soft eyes and gentle smile, warmed him to his toes. “She’s mentioned the possibility of a certain offer being made soon, owing to how much time we’ve spent together these few weeks.”
An offer. Engagement. Marriage. A family. A lifetime together. How wonderful that would be. “I’ll have to think on that,” he said.
Her lips parted in surprise.
“A proposal isn’t something one can do willy-nilly. It’s like a kiss, something that should come of a particular longing, a knowing that one more moment without it would be the end of the world.”
“Yes, a kiss should never be given without much consideration. Never done, say, to win a bet.”
Woodcliffe nodded. �
�Much consideration. Careful contemplation leading to a decision. Like this.”
He drew her to him, grasped her upper arms and kneaded his lips against hers. She returned the kiss, passion beginning to grow in mere moments of contact. His better sense took over and Woodcliffe pulled away before they took it any further.
“Tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll have a very special Christmas this year.”
As he took his leave, he looked up at the drawing room window where Mercy stood, and he waved. Very special, indeed. The first of many special Christmases to come.
Chapter 8
Woodcliffe had never been this nervous knocking on the door of someone’s home. Not even when standing before Father’s door to ask for another advance on his allowance.
An advance. He’d been so distracted by Mercy’s beautiful eyes that he’d neglected his search for Eli Grainger. Finding the man was no longer as important as recouping his loss. Finding the man didn’t guarantee recovering the money. His time would be better served earning the money again.
All he wanted for Christmas was Mercy, yet he couldn’t ask for her hand when he had nothing to offer her. She couldn’t come live with him in his rooms in Town, and he’d never live with Father again no matter how much Mother would enjoy it. Woodcliffe needed a home of his own, one suitable for a family. One Mercy would be happy to live in.
He smiled when he realized he was perfectly confident that she’d agree to marry him, although he couldn’t propose just yet. But he wouldn’t leave today without making certain she knew just how he felt about her.
When Woodcliffe was led to the drawing room, he found the Duke and Duchess of Stanhope sitting near the fire, each with a young tot in their arms. An older man stood near the duchess, and a young couple were playing cards with Mercy and Markham. Upon seeing him, Mercy stood and walked gracefully to him.
“Good afternoon, my lord.” Her eyes gleamed and danced and her cheeks glowed from either the warmth of the fire or a reaction to her excitement upon seeing him.