It was as if Mercy’s presence at Rosehill was slowly melting the ice that had held the estate in its grip for so long.
Astonishing.
Continuing forward, Ian stepped into the charming breakfast room and regarded the two women seated at the table.
His aunt was as elegant as ever in her green and gold striped gown with her hair pulled into a simple knot at her nape. It was Mercy, though, that caught and held his attention.
His breath was wrenched from his lungs as he caught sight of her drenched in a golden ray of sunshine.
Christ, she truly was a wood sprite.
There could be no other explanation for her captivating beauty.
Certainly it could not be due to the simple blue gown that would have been suitable for a nun, or the golden hair that was pulled into a tight braid. It was not even in the perfect features that glowed a warm ivory.
He had known far too many beautiful women to be so easily dazzled.
No, it could only be magic.
Abruptly aware that both women were regarding him with varying degrees of welcome, Ian performed a shallow bow.
“Good morning, ladies.”
“Oh, Ian, what a lovely coincidence,” Ella murmured, her eyes warming at his entrance. “I do hope you have no plans for the day?”
Ian slowly smiled, not at all put out by the knowledge his aunt was clearly determined to maneuver him into assisting with some tedious task or other. Instead, his gaze was trained on Mercy’s wary expression.
“Not at all, Aunt Ella. I am at your complete disposal.”
“Excellent.” Ella clapped her hands together. “I have requested that Mercy search the attics for the trunk of good linen tablecloths and napkins that I had stored up there some years ago. They will need to be aired and pressed before the luncheon.”
“The attics, eh?” Ian’s smile widened. An entire morning alone with Mercy? Perfect.
Ella rose to her feet, seemingly oblivious to Mercy’s stiff dismay.
“Unfortunately, I cannot recall precisely which trunk was used, so I fear it may be a tedious chore searching through the lot,” the older woman murmured.
“How could any time spent in the company of Miss Simpson ever be considered tedious?” he questioned smoothly.
Ella smiled wryly. “Behave yourself, Ian, or you will be banished to mucking the stables.”
“It would not be the first occasion.” Ian placed his aunt’s hand on his arm as he escorted her to the door. “I seem to recall spending a great number of afternoons with a pitchfork in hand.”
“Much good it did,” Mercy muttered from behind, her voice pitched so low that Ian suspected she had never intended for him to overhear.
Hiding his sudden smile, Ian paused at the door and regarded his aunt with a lift of his brow. “Where are you off to, my dear?”
“I must travel to the vicarage.”
“At this hour?”
“Mrs. Delford has kindly offered to assist with the summer festival, and we must begin our planning.” The older woman offered a vague smile, her thoughts already upon her next charity affair. “I shall see you both for luncheon.”
Ian waited until his aunt had disappeared down the long corridor before turning to prop his shoulder against the door jam, his gaze running a hungry path over Mercy’s pale face.
“I must say that I am rather relieved to discover you sitting here eating your breakfast, my sweet.”
Rising to her feet, Mercy joined him at the door with a lift of her chin.
“I remained because of Ella, no other reason.”
“Whatever the cause, it saved me the effort of devoting my morning to hauling you back to Rosehill.”
She ignored the unmistakable warning in his words. Halting directly before the doorway, she regarded him with an air of impatience.
“If you will excuse me?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the attics.”
Straightening, Ian held out his arm. “Very well, I will join you.”
“There is no need.” With swift steps, she had pushed past him and was headed toward the back of the house. “I am perfectly capable of searching through the trunks, and I am certain you must have better things to do.”
With two long strides he was at her side, easily keeping pace with her brisk steps.
“I can think of at least one better thing to be doing, but I suspect that will have to wait until you are in a less”—he deliberately paused, waiting for the heat flood into her cheeks. He wasn’t disappointed—“Combative frame of mind.”
She frowned in disapproval. “Ian.”
“Yes, my sweet?”
Meeting his wicked gaze, she gave a resigned roll of her eyes. “You truly are impossible.”
“So I have been told.”
They traveled toward the servants’ staircase in silence, Ian content to savor the warm scent of vanilla that swirled through the air. Who knew just being near a woman could be so satisfying?
Christ, he was not even touching her.
Mounting the steep flight of steps until they at last reached the upper level of the mansion, Ian moved to step in front of Mercy before she could open the door.
“Perhaps you should allow me to go first and battle the cobwebs that have no doubt gathered.”
Mercy paused, and then astonishingly she offered no more than a faint shrug.
“By all means.”
“There is to be no argument?”
“I detest spiders.”
“Wait here,” he warned, tugging open the door and withdrawing his handkerchief to knock down the most tenacious webs. A Herculean task, he swiftly discovered, battling a path toward the landing. Once there, he grimaced. As a small lad he had often played among the various trunks and abandoned furniture that consumed a lion’s share of the attics. He did not recall the dust being quite so thick, or the sloped ceiling quite so low. “Good God, I had forgotten how cramped it was up here. It all looked a great deal larger when I was a child,” he muttered.
“Perhaps because you took up much less space in those days,” Mercy pointed out, lingering at the bottom of the steps.
“Perhaps.” Ian glanced over his shoulder. “I believe I have frightened off the most vicious of the spiders. There is nothing I can do, however, for the dust.”
She climbed the stairs, indifferent to the dirt marring the hem of her skirt as she edged past his large form.
“I knew the rumors of your near mythical ability to satisfy a woman’s deepest fantasy must be exaggerated,” she taunted, her low, erotic voice sending a jolt of pure lust through his groin.
He was moving before he was even aware of his intentions, pressing her against the tall armoire that had been condemned to the attics at least a century before.
“Are you implying that you doubt my ability to please a lady?” he demanded, ignoring the cloud of dust that floated about them. Hell, the ceiling could tumble on his head and he would be impervious.
The only thing that mattered was the feel of her delicate shoulders beneath his fingers and the womanly heat that was searing through his clothing.
He had ached to touch her for hours.
Belatedly realizing the dangers of teasing him, Mercy sucked in a sharp breath.
“Ian.”
Ian slowly smiled, his gaze running a hot path down the length of her stiff body.
“Perhaps you would care to make a little wager?”
“A wager?”
“I bet that if you allow me into your bed, I can satisfy each and every one of your fantasies.”
“And what do I win if you fail?”
“I will scour every bookstore in London for books concerning the Byzantine era and personally deliver them to your doorstep.”
“Hardly an arduous task.”
He nearly choked on her ridiculous words. He was still recovering from his previous visit to the musty bookshop.
“Perhaps not for a scholar, but I can assure
you that it would be nothing less than torture for a frivolous gentleman such as myself.” He deliberately shifted so his body brushed against hers. A primitive flare of satisfaction raced through him at her unmistakable tremor. “So, do we have a wager?”
Her eyes briefly darkened with an uncontrollable awareness. Then, with a grim effort, she was pressing her hands against his chest in denial.
“Do not be absurd. I would never allow a man into my bed for a wager.”
Ian refused to budge. His untimely proposal of making her his mistress had not destroyed her desire for him.
That was all he needed to know.
“So, you fear that I would win,” he drawled, his words a direct challenge. “Very wise.”
Chapter 12
Mercy was nearly consumed by the potent emotions that trembled through her body. Excitement, exasperation, and a small thread of unease.
It was not that she worried Ian would harm her. It was simply not in his nature. Unfortunately, the threat she sensed had nothing to do with such mundane danger.
Instead it had everything to do with the predatory male that branded her with his lightest touch.
When she had made the decision to remain at Rosehill, she had known it would be difficult. She might be infuriated with Ian, but it did nothing to lessen the fierce awareness that shimmered between them.
Foolishly, she had thought she could manage to avoid being alone with the man. So long as Ella was near, there was no concern that Mercy would give in to temptation. Not even Ian would attempt to seduce a woman beneath his aunt’s nose.
Now she had to wonder if she had deliberately deceived herself.
Perhaps her aching need to remain at Rosehill was not entirely a reluctance to return home, or even guilt at abandoning Ella after the woman had been so kind to her. Perhaps she had secretly . . .
No, she would not allow herself to consider the disturbing notion.
Not when it was bound to reveal she had no option but to pack her bags and leave.
For once in her life, she wanted to turn a blind eye and simply hope for the best.
Stupid, of course, but soon enough she would be back to her dull, sensible self. All she asked was a few more days of freedom.
Meeting Ian’s smoldering gaze, Mercy unconsciously squared her shoulders.
“It has nothing to do with fear of losing the bet,” she lied without compunction. Hot pokers could not induce her to confess her absolute confidence he could satisfy her every fantasy. “I simply find the thought distasteful.”
He brushed a hand up the bare curve of her neck. “For a woman who was so intent upon seducing me, sweet Mercy, you have a great number of conditions of how that seduction is to proceed. Are you always so demanding?”
Mercy quivered. Dear heavens, she was drowning in the scent and heat of his body. She pressed her hands flat against the armoire. It was that or throw her arms about his neck and beg for his kiss.
“I have demanded nothing of you.”
“No, I would prefer that you had.” His eyes darkened with a yearning he made no effort to disguise. “Instead, you have stirred my desire to a fever pitch and then refused to satisfy the need you have created. There are few things more cruel.” His lips twisted. “Or more likely to send me stark, raving mad.”
Mercy felt a small pang of guilt. There was no denying the fact she had done all in her power to lure this man into her bed.
Who knew a simple affair could become so bloody complicated?
“That was not my intent.”
“Then what was your intent?”
She attempted to inch toward the side, her hand reaching for the small wooden knob on the armoire to offer her leverage. It was impossible to think clearly when her entire body was throbbing with frustrated desire.
“I do not wish to discuss this, Ian.”
“But I do.” His fingers lingered on the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, his head lowering to gently nibble at her bottom lip. “I am, after all, the one suffering.”
Mercy could not hold back her low moan. His tongue lightly outlined her mouth, and her entire body tightened with anticipation. This man had tutored her in the delights of the flesh, and she was desperate to once again feel that glorious explosion of pleasure.
“Sweet Mercy,” he muttered, abruptly kissing her with a fierce hunger that was echoed within her.
For a wondrous moment she savored the stark demand of his lips. There was nothing practiced or skillful about this kiss. This was not the famous Casanova seducing a woman.
It was a sheer, raw need that was far more thrilling than any amount of expertise.
At last it was the feel of his fingers gently cupping the aching weight of her breast that jerked her out of the blissful fog.
Her body had no confusion. It wanted Ian. It wanted to melt onto the floor and allow him to fill the ache that tortured her.
Her mind, however, was not yet prepared to lower her guard.
She told herself that it was the memory of his offensive offer to make her his mistress. After all, no woman desired to be made to feel like a tart.
A tiny voice, however, whispered that she was not being entirely honest with herself.
“Ian . . .”
Her hand tightened on the knob of the armoire, causing the door to jerk open. A sudden avalanche of papers tumbled out of the dark depths, startling Ian enough to make him pull back in alarm. Mercy was swift to take advantage of his distraction, swiftly bending downward to begin gathering the scattered papers.
“Leave them,” Ian growled as he knelt beside her, his expression tight with frustration.
She ignored his command, her eyes widening as she glanced at the thick parchment in her hands.
“Good heavens, how beautiful,” she breathed.
Muttering a low curse, Ian snatched up one of the papers, his brows drawing together as he studied the charcoal sketching.
“The Coliseum . . .” He plucked another from the floor. “The Pantheon . . . These were done in Rome.”
“Yes,” Mercy agreed, holding up the sketch in her hand. “This one is of the Trevi Fountain.”
He shrugged, his eyes still dark with suppressed desire. “My father must have sketched these during his Grand Tour.”
“They may have been done during your father’s Grand Tour, but they were sketched by your aunt.”
Unexpectedly Ian stilled, as if disturbed by her offhand correction.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“They are signed and dated on the back.” She held up her sketch to point out Ella’s scrawled signature at the bottom corner. “See?”
“Impossible.” Surging to his feet, Ian tossed aside the papers and paced toward the small window that offered the only light amid the gloom.
With a frown, Mercy slowly straightened. “Is something the matter?”
“Ella never mentioned that she had traveled the Continent with my father.”
She studied the hard lines of his profile. “Does it matter?”
“It does if the dates are correct.”
“Why?”
“She would have been with my father when he was in the process of seducing my mother.” He slowly turned to meet her uncertain gaze. “Those sketches were completed just a few months before my birth.”
“Oh.” Mercy was still confused. She sensed Ian’s coiled tension, but she was not certain of the cause. “And she never told you?”
Ian glared toward the scattered sketches. “Not only did she not tell me, but she more than implied that she knew nothing of my mother or my father’s relationship with her.”
“Perhaps your father kept it a secret,” Mercy hesitantly suggested, uncertain of his strange mood. “After all, I doubt many gentlemen would be anxious to share the details of their intimate connections with their sister.”
“Maybe not, but it could hardly remain a secret once the poor woman died and left me in the care of my father.” He gave a short, humorless bark
of laughter. “Not even Lord Norrington would have been capable of hiding a newborn babe as he traveled across the Continent.”
“No, I am certain that he must have revealed the truth once he claimed you as his child.” She slowly shook her head as his gaze remained trained upon the sketches. “Ian?”
“Hmmm?”
“What is troubling you?”
He turned his head to meet her worried frown. Something flashed deep in his eyes before he was effectively hiding his emotions behind a smooth, unreadable expression.
“I am weary of my family’s habit of shrouding even the simplest of occurrences in a cloak of mystery. Anyone would think they possessed something to hide.”
She easily sensed that he was not telling her the full truth.
“You seem more angered than weary,” she accused, unconsciously closing the space between them. “Could it be that your family is not the only ones with secrets?”
“I do not like the knowledge I have been lied to.”
“Your aunt not revealing that she had traveled with your father is not precisely a lie. It is more a . . .” Mercy considered the appropriate word. “More an omission of facts.”
He arched a dark brow. “A rather fine distinction for a vicar’s daughter.”
“It is very possible Ella merely presumed you would have no interest in her youthful travels.” Mercy paused, her thoughts traveling back to Ella’s lecture upon the dangers of rakes. There had been a haunting bitterness about the woman. “Or perhaps they are simply too painful for her to recall.”
“Painful?”
“I have a distinct impression that your aunt suffered from a tragic disappointment in her life. It is quite possible she tumbled into love during her travels and after suffering through a broken heart packed away the memory of those days along with these mementoes.” Mercy gave a lift of her hands. “They would only cause her pain to have them out again.”
Ian stilled, his gaze suddenly shimmering with a heat that warned he was no longer consumed with the sketches or his aunt’s travels to the Continent.
Seducing the Viscount Page 15