Seducing the Viscount

by Alexandra Ivy

  In this moment, she was done with sacrifices.

  “Yes.”

  He stilled as the word fell softly from her lips.

  “Mercy?”

  “Yes, I will join you in the gazebo.”

  “Thank God.”

  As if fearing she might change her mind, Ian swept her off her feet and cradled her against his chest as he charged through the rose-scented garden. Struggling to capture her breath, Mercy stared at Ian’s dark features, a tiny thrill racing down her spine at the grim intensity of his expression.

  There was nothing of the smooth, sophisticated Casanova in his urgent step or the beads of perspiration that dotted his forehead.

  This was quite simply a man caught in the grip of an overwhelming desire.

  As if to prove her point, Ian vaulted up the steps of the gazebo, kicking the door closed behind him as he carried her toward the cushioned bench. Claiming her lips in a demanding kiss, he set her on her feet and swiftly stripped her of her gown and corset.

  Mercy welcomed his hungry onslaught, returning his kiss with the smoldering frustration that had plagued her for the past two days.

  He tasted of whiskey and warm male desire. An erotic combination that made her head spin and her heart race.

  It was only when her thin chemise was pooling at her feet and Ian was jerking off his jacket that Mercy reluctantly pulled back.

  “Wait, Ian.”

  Ian groaned, leaning his forehead against hers as he struggled to control his fierce need.

  “Forgive me, Mercy,” he rasped. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “No, Ian, you could never frighten me.”

  Lifting his head, he regarded her with a wary gaze. “Then what is wrong?”

  With a small smile, she reached up to unknot his cravat, tugging it free before attacking the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “I believe this should be my honor,” she murmured.

  He chuckled, his fingers skimming lightly down the bare curve of her back. “By all means, my dear.”

  Mercy swiftly discovered that a gentleman’s attire was considerably more complicated than she had ever dreamed possible, but with more than a few awkward stumbles and a good deal of giggling, she at last was able to strip away the last of his clothing and reveal his glorious form.

  And it was glorious.

  The world seemed to halt as Mercy lifted her hands to trace the smooth planes of his chest. Beneath her fingers she could feel his muscles flex at her touch, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth as his hands clutched at her hips.

  “Mercy.”

  “Not yet,” she muttered.

  She allowed her fingers to skim lower, discovering the hard ridges of his stomach and the trail of dark hair that led to the thick jut of his erection. Just for a moment, she hesitated, unexpectedly embarrassed by her bold behavior.

  “Please,” Ian muttered, his voice a harsh rasp.

  Gathering her courage, Mercy allowed her fingers to curl around the straining shaft, once again amazed how smoothly the skin moved over the hard muscles beneath. She stroked downward, reaching the soft sack before exploring back to the damp tip.

  Ian’s groans filled the gazebo as she stroked downward again, his lips capturing her mouth in a kiss of sheer desperation. Encouraged by his fierce response, Mercy continued her daring caresses, so lost in her heady sense of power that she was barely aware Ian was moving until she found herself flat on her back on the cushioned bench.

  “The honor is now mine,” he warned, poised above her with a predatory expression.

  Mercy shivered, her hands clutching the cushions beneath her as he lowered his head and nibbled his way down the curve of her neck. Her body bowed in pleasure as he paused to tease the aching tips of her breasts, his tongue sending flames pouring through her blood. Gently he captured one beaded nipple between his teeth, chuckling softly as she cried out in delight.

  “I did not know anything could feel so wondrous,” she whispered, lifting her hands to shove her fingers in the thick satin of his hair.

  “You are wondrous, Mercy Simpson.” With slow, savoring kisses, Ian journeyed down the shallow curve of her stomach, smiling against her flesh as she wriggled beneath his teasing caresses. “There has never been another woman like you.”

  Mercy’s hips lifted off the cushions as he stroked his mouth over her hip bone and down the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

  “Oh heavens.” Her chest was so tight she could not breathe. “You must do something. I cannot bear much more.”

  “Be patient, my sweet tyrant.” Ian relentlessly tugged her legs apart, slipping off the bench to kneel between her thighs.

  Lifting on her elbows, Mercy regarded him with a smoldering gaze. “Ian?”

  “I need to taste your sweetness.”

  “But . . .” Her protest died in her throat as he shifted and stroked his tongue through her damp curls.

  She tumbled back onto the cushions, her eyes squeezing shut at the pure bliss that trembled through her body. Oh, this was decadent. Decadent and wicked and so utterly wonderful.

  Moaning in pleasure, she allowed herself to be swept into the maelstrom of sensations. Over and over his tongue dipped into her gathering dampness, stroking with a steady rhythm until her soft pants filled the silence of the gazebo.

  Then, gently, he sucked the tiny nub of pleasure into his mouth and Mercy screamed as the entire world exploded in a burst of shimmering stars.

  Stunned by the sheer force of her release, Mercy was barely aware of Ian sliding up her body and entering her in one smooth thrust. But as he captured her lips in a heated kiss, she instinctively wrapped her arms about his shoulders and arched her back to meet the fierce strokes of his invading erection.

  “Mercy, my love, I need you,” he husked against her lips, his entire body trembling as he jerkily surged in and out of her body. “Don’t ever leave me.”

  Mercy barely registered his soft command, lost in the shimmering magic that was once again building in her lower body. With every thrust, he pressed deeper into her body, his fullness creating a friction that was rapidly urging her toward that breathless pinnacle.

  “Yes, Ian . . . yes . . .” She urged him to a faster pace, raking her nails down his back as he bucked against her with a wild lack of control.

  “Mine,” he rasped as he pressed his lips to the hollow beneath her ear. “My sweet Mercy.”

  With one last surge he tumbled them both over the edge of reason, remaining buried deep inside her as he released the hot flood of his seed.

  It was only the knowledge that he must be crushing the slender woman beneath him that gave Ian the strength to at last roll to the side and pull Mercy into his arms.

  Christ, he felt . . . what?

  Sated, of course. Utterly, blissfully sated.

  And oddly peaceful. As if just having Mercy near was enough to soothe the restless beast that had plagued him for his entire life.

  But beyond that, he felt a vague sense of dread that refused to be dismissed.

  Pressing his lips into her vanilla-scented curls, Ian did not have to search far to discover the reason for the unease lodged deep in his heart. After years of taking precautions to avoid creating a child with his various lovers, he had just thrown all caution to the wind to release his seed deep in Mercy’s body.

  This woman was no longer a delightful distraction that he would soon put in his past.

  In truth, the mere thought of losing her was enough to make his gut clench with something perilously close to panic.

  The question was what he did now.

  Although Mercy had been eager and willing to share her delightful body, she had never indicated she desired more than a brief affair. Quite the contrary. She had been one of the few females who had asked nothing of him.

  There had been no pleas for his undivided attention, no demands for pretty baubles, no subtle hints of a more lasting connection.

  Dammit. He was supposed to be
an expert when it came to women, so why the hell did he suddenly feel like a bumbling novice?

  Stirring at his side, Mercy heaved a faint sigh. “As much as I wish to remain here, I suppose we should return to the house.”

  His arms instinctively tightened, his lips nuzzling the soft skin of her temple.

  “Not yet.”

  “Ian?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Is something the matter?”

  “I just want to hold you in my arms.”

  Her fingers lightly brushed over his chest. “This is nice.”

  He shuddered beneath her touch, his body instantly hardening.

  “A great deal more than nice. You fit perfectly against me,” he husked. “As if you were made to be here.”

  “A good thing, considering this bench is rather narrow.” Tilting back her head, Mercy offered a teasing smile. “I do not believe your ancestors intended it to be used for such a purpose.”

  Ian’s heart came to a complete, perfect halt at the sight of her beautiful eyes dancing with amusement. Dear God, he would walk through the pits of hell for that smile.

  “I would not be so certain.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Unlike my father, most of my ancestors were a lusty bunch. I should not be at all surprised to discover this gazebo had been built for the precise purpose of providing privacy for romantic trysts.”

  “Have you often used it for . . . trysts?”

  Her tone was casual, but Ian felt a fierce flare of satisfaction. Mercy did not like the thought of him being with another woman.

  “I cannot deny my past. Nor will I pretend that I did not find pleasure in the women I have known. They were each lovely and fascinating in their own way.”

  She stiffened at his blunt honesty. “I would rather not hear of your endless conquests, Ian.”

  “Allow me to finish, my love.” Shifting onto his elbow, Ian caught and held her gaze. “As much as I enjoyed the brief liaisons, they never meant more than a delightful means to devote a few hours. And as much as I was attracted to my lovers, they did not truly stir my emotions. But you . . .”

  Mercy’s eyes widened, her hands lifting to press her fingers against his lips.

  “No, Ian. Do not.”

  With a gentle insistence, Ian grasped her wrists and pulled her fingers from his mouth.

  “I must. I do not know how or why, but you have become a necessary part of my life, Mercy. I cannot allow you to slip away.”

  Battling her way from his arms, Mercy stumbled off the bench and began tugging on her rumpled clothes.

  “We have already discussed this, Ian. I will not be your mistress.”

  “Fine. Then be my wife.”

  A stunned silence filled the gazebo. For a long moment, Mercy stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.

  And perhaps he had, Ian wryly acknowledged. Unfortunately, he did not give a tinker’s damn at the moment.

  At last Mercy sucked in a sharp breath and tugged her gown over her loosely knotted corset.

  “That is not amusing.”

  Rising to his feet, Ian crossed to stand directly in front of her, gently knocking aside her trembling fingers to tie the ribbons on her bodice.

  “It was not intended to be.”

  “You . . . you want to marry me?”

  “That is the usual means of acquiring a wife.”

  She gave a slow shake of her head. “This is madness.”

  “Perhaps, but it is the most delightful sort of madness,” he murmured, lowering his head to steal a gentle kiss.

  Her hands fluttered against his chest before she was abruptly pushing him away, her eyes wide with a bewildered fear that tugged at his heart.

  “Why?”

  “I have just told you. I cannot imagine my life without you in it.”

  “No, I mean why me?”

  His lips twisted. That was a question more suited to poets and philosophers, not hardened rakes.

  “I could tell you that it is your unwavering loyalty or your generous heart or your inquisitive mind, but the truth of the matter is that I have no reasonable explanation for my belief you are the woman destined to be at my side.” He brushed a finger down her pale cheek. “I only know that I have never been so certain of anything in my entire life.”

  “Ian.”

  Stepping closer, he grasped her shoulders in a tight grip. “Can you tell me that you do not feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “The power of the attraction that burns between us.” Ian frowned, his lips thinning with a hint of frustration. “For God’s sake, the very air nearly catches fire when we are in the same room.”

  “Of course I am attracted to you. You are . . .”

  “What?”

  She licked her lips. “A very desirable gentleman, as you very well know.”

  Ian’s frustration became outright fury at her hesitant words. The devil take the woman. How dare she pretend she felt nothing for him? Even an untried schoolboy could have sensed her emotions in every soft caress, in every sweet response to his touch.

  “And that is all?” he growled.

  The pulse at the base of her throat beat at a frantic pace, revealing she was not nearly as composed as she would have him believe.

  “There was never meant to be anything more. This was just supposed to be a harmless affair.”

  “A harmless affair.”

  Mercy flinched at his flat tone, clearly sensing the danger that prickled in the air.

  “I only wanted to experience the passion that others take for granted,” she said, her tone softly pleading. “I wanted to feel like a woman, not an aging spinster, if only for a little while.”

  “I see.” His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “So I was just a convenient body to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “I—”

  “Tell me, Mercy, would any man willing to climb between your legs have done?”

  With a gasp, she wrenched from his biting hold, stepping back to regard him with a wounded expression.

  “That is a horrid thing to say.”

  “Then do not try and tarnish what occurred between us,” he snapped, pausing to gather his raw emotions. Damn. He had not intended to lose his temper. It was hardly the best means of convincing a jittering young maiden he was a gentleman she could trust with her heart and soul. Still, he would not tolerate having the exquisite bond between them dismissed as mere lust. “You would never have given your innocence to me if you did not possess feelings for me.”

  The emotions she tried so desperately to hide briefly flickered in the dark beauty of her eyes. Then, with an obvious effort, she was giving a sharp shake of her head.

  “Do you presume that every woman who shares your bed must be in love with you?”

  This time Ian refused to be provoked. “You are not other women, Miss Mercy Simpson,” he said with gentle insistence. “You might have convinced yourself that it was no more than desire that led you into my arms, but your heart has always recognized the truth.”

  “Ian—”

  The sound of a horse clattering into the nearby stable yard abruptly intruded into the gazebo, making them both stiffen in surprise.

  Pressing a warning finger to her lips, Ian slipped toward the nearby window and peered into the darkness. From his vantage he could easily view the grooms scurrying from the stables and the tall, lean form of the gentleman who vaulted from the large stallion, the torchlight gleaming off the white gold curls peeking beneath his tall, beaver hat.

  “What the devil is he doing here?”

  Mercy moved to stand at his side, her vanilla scent filling his senses with that wondrous peace.

  “Who is it?”

  “Charlebois.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  Ian’s lips twisted. “Not in this moment.” Giving a reluctant shake of his head, Ian turned to meet her troubled gaze. As much as he longed to remain and force Mercy to admit that they were destined to be together,
he knew better than most that the peace of Rosehill was about to be shattered. Raoul Charlebois’ presence created a greater havoc than most royalty. There was not a person in all of England who did not recognize the actor and desire to have the privilege of claiming they had caught a glimpse of his famous beauty. “Forgive me, Mercy, but Charlebois is bound to be asking for me. You must return to the house before you are missed.”

  “Of course.”

  Clearly relieved by the timely interruption, Mercy turned and hastily made her way toward the door, her hands fumbling as she reached for the latch.

  “Mercy.”

  She paused, but refused to turn and face him.

  “What?”

  “This is no more than a temporary reprieve,” he warned, his tone grim with determination. “We will finish this discussion, and in the end, you will be my wife.”

  Chapter 18

  Later Mercy would have no memory of her flight from the gazebo to her private chambers. Thank heaven some inner sense of self-possession urged her to choose the back entrance to slip through silent passages rather than dashing headlong into the path of Ella, or worse, her parents.

  Once in her bedchamber, she used the familiar task of changing into her night rail and brushing her hair into a simple braid to try and sort out her stunned thoughts.

  Not that it did a great deal of good, she wryly acknowledged, pacing the beautiful Persian carpet with a restless step.

  Marriage.

  To Ian Breckford.

  It was . . .

  She choked back a laugh as she realized she had no words to describe the disbelief that held her captive. She would have expected the earth to open up and swallow her before she would ever have expected the renowned Casanova to propose.

  Beneath her astonishment, however, there was another emotion.

  A dangerous, bittersweet longing that refused to be dismissed, even after she told herself that Ian would come to his senses and realize that the very last thing he desired was a drab spinster as his wife.

  She was still in the midst of her pacing when the door to her chamber was thrust open. Mercy’s heart fluttered with renegade excitement before plunging in resignation as her mother stepped over the threshold.