by Heather Boyd
“He is smaller than I imagined.” His breath whispered across her cheek, sending a thrill along her spine despite the criticism in his words.
“Come now, he is only four years of age. He will grow into the title.” Perhaps she responded a trifle defensively. Blythe always seemed to offer suggestions for Edwin’s upbringing that were not quite sympathetic to Mercy’s ideals. But she would not hear disapproval of her son from Leopold Randall.
“I thought he was older than four,” he said. “When exactly was the duke born?”
She looked up into Mr. Randall’s face and smiled. “May seventh, eighteen hundred and ten.”
“Eighteen ten.” Randall’s eyes widened. His fingers fell away from her arm as he glanced at Edwin again. He shook his head as if surprised, but then smiled apologetically. “It’s been so long since I’ve been around a small child. I’d quite confused how big he’d be.”
Mercy glanced to where her son played happily with his toys and let her tension slip away. He hadn’t meant to criticize. He’d obviously heard some wrong information regarding her son’s age and she could forgive him easily enough for his confusion. But he had let slip another small insight into his life that Mercy was curious about. “When were you near a young child last?”
Randall’s harsh exhalation sent her pulse racing again. She glanced up at him, his expression weary.
“My younger brother, Tobias,” he said softly.
“Are you close?”
“We were once.” A flicker of a dimple appeared on Randall’s cheek as his gaze sharpened on Edwin. “I was the eldest. He was my responsibility. I spoiled him.”
Mercy laughed. “Then you are a better brother than most. Mine was quite joyful to be rid of me when I married.”
“I imagine having one’s sister become a duchess is cause for celebration.”
“That wasn’t what he celebrated,” Mercy grumbled. “He celebrated getting me out from under his feet so he might return to his debauchery without facing my disapproval over breakfast.”
There, finally, a dimple.
“Ah, I believe most men would experience a similar feeling.” Randall’s dimple deepened.
Mercy set her hands to her hips. “What is it about men and wenching? Can you not do without?”
When he didn’t respond, Mercy decided her blunt question had flummoxed him. She waved her hands. “Ignore my question.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said hastily.
Randall’s speedy response didn’t surprise her. Since she’d become a duchess, people rarely contradicted her, except for Blythe. But she’d hoped Randall would be different. Disappointed to be faced with another person prepared to let her gaffs pass unchallenged, Mercy moved to sit by the window, closer to her son.
Her companion cleared his throat. “Most men are influenced by their peers. To be seen as an accomplished seducer is to be accepted without question by your fellow man. But from all I’ve seen, ladies attempting to satisfy those same desires are not treated so kindly.”
Mercy met his gaze. “You must rank quite high among your acquaintances. The stories you could tell of your travels, and companions, boggles the mind. The ladies must swoon at the sight of you.” Instantly, she regretted her observation. She sounded peevish even to her own ears. She should not be thinking of him in those terms, and she certainly shouldn’t be letting him know that she thought him irresistible. Men tended to think too well of themselves when flattered.
Randall’s face darkened. “Most men chase the ladies, Your Grace. Not all.”
He left her abruptly and moved to the other side of the chamber, passing her son with the barest of glances. What was it about him that made her want to question him, to dig beneath that polite façade and discover his real opinions? Perhaps she’d been too long alone. Her late husband might not have been a perfect man, but they’d rubbed along together well enough, she supposed. However, she’d never needed to see into his soul like this. She’d never wanted to know what her husband had done when they had been apart.
“He has your eyes,” Randall noted, returning to sit across from her.
“But not my temper,” Mercy added with a laugh. “He is a vastly agreeable child.”
Mercy let out a relieved breath at the return to a much safer topic of conversation. She could talk of Edwin for hours and never be discontent. Speaking of her son might even banish her foolish thoughts about the man sitting opposite, and that could only be a good thing.
But then Leopold Randall’s gaze fixed upon hers and she couldn’t look away. He’d not done that before, she realized. He’d not offered more than the briefest of glances. Whatever emotion she’d stirred within him by her talk of his paramours had been conquered and hidden again. Randall puzzled her immensely. Did he not like women? A wild surge of rebellion stirred within her. She wanted to find out exactly what he did like, and damn the consequences of that discovery.
His dark eyed stare provoked an irrational longing to move closer. Hot color stole up her face, and Mercy was the first to break. She looked to her son again. “I am truly lucky to have him.”
“Were there complications?” he asked suddenly.
The blunt question into matters most men wouldn’t think to enquire after pleased her.
“I carried him easily. The birth was arduous, but quicker than I was led to believe. I was blessed. Some women have a much harder time.”
Randall’s breath hissed out, and she had to wonder why he’d held it in the first place. “I believe my mother’s labors grew shorter each time. My youngest brother, Tobias—her fourth child—arrived before she’d made it to the birthing chamber.”
Mercy snorted a laugh and then quickly covered her mouth to pretend the unladylike sound hadn’t escaped her control. “Oh dear, I am glad Edwin took a little longer than that. How positively embarrassed your dear mama must have been.”
“Mother always hinted her children needed more patience.” Randall grew silent again, his gaze fixed on his fingers.
Mercy leaned forward. “You miss her?”
“Every day.” His glance pinned her in place. “My mother was an angel. Spontaneous. Always smiling. Happiest when her family rumbled under her feet. My father was devoted to keeping her happy, despite the difficulties of living here.”
“I’m told they died in a carriage accident? I’m so sorry.” At his arched brow, Mercy rushed to explain. “Wilcox has been advising me on family matters I was previously unaware of. You must have been devastated to lose them both on the same day.”
Randall kept silent, lips pressed tight together. His expression unreadable. After a long moment, his jaw unclenched. “He claimed it was an accident.”
“He?”
“The old duke wrote a short note to the school so they might inform my brother and me of our orphaned state.”
Mercy blinked. “Oh, that was kind of him.” And utterly impersonal.
Randall scowled and turned his face away. Judging by the high color in his cheeks, he was angry, possibly furious. Before she could question him, Edwin hurried over and pushed a small wooden horse into Randall’s hands.
He appeared startled, but then his fist closed over it. The small carved piece disappeared from view and when he opened his hand again, Edwin smiled in encouragement. Clearly her son had decided he liked his older second cousin. When Randall began to play, prancing the horse for her son’s amusement, Mercy leaned back and watched them.
Edwin accepted strangers so easily. Perhaps too easily, yet she couldn’t be sorry that he and his cousin had become acquainted. The boy would need male guidance later in life. Who better to show him the way than an elder relation?
When Randall handed the horse back to Edwin, her son hurried to her side. He fell into her lap, prancing the horse as Randall had shown him, up along her arm and into her neck.
“Play, Mama. Please.”
She pressed a brief kiss to her son’s raised lips and pushed him toward his toys. “I’ll be t
here soon.”
Mercy stood and pulled the bell to summon food for her son then turned to face Mr. Randall. He regarded her with a bemused expression and Mercy hoped that what she was about to do wouldn’t send him running from the estate. “I’m about to do something shocking again, Mr. Randall. Prepare yourself.”
Chapter Six
Leopold didn’t think he could be any more surprised by the Duchess of Romsey. He had the distinct feeling he was engaged in a battle of wits with a formidable enemy and was scrambling to defend himself from this slight woman. Her informality was chipping away at his hostility. She seemed nice, lovely even, but he could not think that way about her. He had to keep her at arm’s length until he achieved his goal.
She glided across the room and then settled to the floor with her skirts bunched around her. Sitting next to her son, the image was so pure and good that his heart stuttered. He had never expected to be so moved by the appearance of Edwin Randall or his mother.
He pressed his hands to his knees. His own mother had played with her children in just such a way. The reminder chipped away a little more of his defenses. At least the duke was loved so there was some hope for the future. It was clear to him that Edwin was the center of the duchess’ world.
Leopold looked about the room for something to do other than stare. The chamber was filled to the brim with entertainments, but the wealth around him paled in comparison to the duchess’ attempts to make the little boy happy. She wriggled around on the thick carpet until she lay flat on her belly. From the angle Leopold sat, he had a good view, perhaps too good a view, of her calves and tiny feet. Her legs were restless as she played with her son and Leopold had a hard time ignoring their movements. Good God, she was dangerous to him and his sanity.
The boy, too, would bring him to his knees.
He studied the child. Dark hair, lanky build, small dimple in his left cheek when he laughed, which was often. Leopold lifted his hand to his cheek and stroked over the same spot. If he smiled broadly, his own dimples would show and that might lead to questions he didn’t want to consider. Not yet, at any rate. He simply had to hide behind formality, find nothing agreeable enough to make him smile, until he discovered the fate of his remaining family.
Yet the child interested him on a deeper level. Despite the improbability, this boy, this duke, may very well be his own son. His age was about right for the night he came here to fulfill the duke’s last despicable demand. If his brother Oliver were present he would have the percentages and reassuring calculations to prove that Leopold’s fears were groundless and the child could not possibly be of his making.
The consequence of his actions five years ago had never truly seemed dangerous until now. The old duke had demanded he bed a woman in the dark of night, another deed to be performed in the duke’s service to keep his brothers and sister safe. Fool that he was, he’d never considered he might have bedded his cousins wife, and that this could be the consequence. But why had Edwin allowed it? Why had Mercy? Had his cousin been unable to bed his own wife and sire a child due to his weakened heart?
What he remembered of that night was a blur of whispered conversations and mindless pleasure. Despite the initial awkwardness, performing for the duke had not been difficult that night. His midnight lover had been worth the sacrifice of his time and energy. She had been irresistible, insatiable, and he had made sure she thoroughly enjoyed their many couplings. But he had never seen her clearly, or even asked her name.
He should have asked. He should have demanded to know every detail.
Leopold sat back, crossing one leg over the other as he dipped his hand into his coat pocket. He extracted his notebook and small pencil and without thinking too much about it, or asking if the duchess objected, he scratched out the scene before him on a fresh page. The familiar activity calmed him. While he sketched, he didn’t need to think or act on anything but what he witnessed at that moment. He could rid his mind of guilt and pretend all was right with his world.
Despite his misgivings, the duchess was lovely. As he neared completion of the outline, the duchess lifted her feet from the floor and crossed them at the ankles. They rocked backward and forward slowly in the air and Leopold hurried to capture the unguarded pose. He looked up as the boy laughed. Two deep dimples—just like his.
The young Duke of Romsey was a happy child. Perhaps, without the old duke’s influence, he would grow to be an honorable man one day. Leopold hoped so. His child or not, the boy was the only family he had left. He would not like to be constantly checking over his shoulder a few years down the track when the boy was grown and corrupted to resent his existence.
With the sketch complete, Leopold slid the notebook and pen away before he was noticed and dropped his hands to his knees. He’d add it to the many he carried with him to fill the void of emptiness his life had become. What would the duchess think if she learned he’d keep their images with him long after he’d left Romsey?
~ * ~
Leopold Randall was a captivating man. He watched them without speaking, but his gaze followed their every gesture. For the half hour she’d played with her son and his toys, jumping make believe fences, mimicking the animals of the farm, positioning his infantry about the toy sized estate, Leopold hadn’t spoken.
He’d sat silent and motionless, so much so that she peeked to check whether he was still with them. But he sat with his hands clenched on his lap, an unreadable expression on his features as he watched her son. When his gaze slipped sideways, and he caught her looking at him, heat stole up her cheeks.
Too handsome.
A slow smile grew on his face, warming his eyes to a brighter brown. Mercy turned away, heart thumping fast. That look in his eyes made her body thrum with excitement and she struggled to gather her wits. Luckily, she was saved by the distraction of a knock on the door. A servant arrived with little cakes for Edwin, and placed them on a nearby side table. Between bites, Edwin continued to play and demand her attention until his eyes grew drowsy. When he fell asleep on the floor, she pushed his dark hair from his eyes.
So precious. So perfect. Her angel boy. So sweet in his dreams.
She placed her hands to the floor and pushed to stand up. Randall crossed the room, caught her elbow, and helped her regain her feet.
As she thanked him, her foot landed on a farm animal causing her to wobble and fall into his arms. Delicious heat washed over her as he caught her tightly against him. She kicked away the offending toy, wriggling against the man holding her so silently. When she looked up, his face was inches from hers. The urge to rise on her toes and kiss him overwhelmed her. Those dark brown eyes filled her vision; his harsh unsmiling mouth tempted her to please him.
The scent of him caught her completely unprepared. Warm sandalwood, enticing and wickedly delightful, reminded her of a long forgotten pleasure. The memory was from so long ago that sometimes she wondered if the occasion had been real or a product of her lonely mind. She was lonely now, and so very attracted to him. Was it wrong to indulge in a small moment of physical pleasure?
Ignoring the need for decorum in Edwin’s presence, Mercy rose to the balls of her feet, stretching as far as she was able, to press her lips against Randall’s. The light, teasing brush brought a burst of desire to her blood in a shocking rush. But when she angled her head to deepen the kiss for more, he stepped back, far out of reach.
“Your Grace?” Randall didn’t smile, and the formality of his question suggested to her that what she’d just done was not welcomed. She wasn’t so grand that she could throw herself at any man she found attractive and expect him to feel the same. It was unfortunate he seemed the only man so far to tempt her in that way. Humiliation at his reaction cut into her soul, and she turned away to hide her disappointment and shame. What could one say at such a moment? Should she explain herself? Assure him that it was an impulse born of the moment and loneliness, or ignore what had happened completely? Mercy chose to ignore it.
She knelt at he
r son’s side and gathered him into her arms. His weight was slight enough that she could still negotiate the long dress and rise, but she wouldn’t be able to do it much longer. Randall’s hands slid about her waist to steady her ascent. She blushed again, but not with embarrassment. She really had wanted that kiss to continue.
“Where are you taking him? Shall I open a door?” Randall asked, his tone soft, deep and altogether reminding her that she wanted to feel his breath across her skin again. His hands circling her waist still caused all sorts of problems for her breathing.
Mercy swallowed nervously. “There is no need.” His hands slid slowly from her waist as she moved away toward a thickly padded window seat. She missed the touch immediately, but she had to be a mother now to Edwin. He would always come first in her world.
Edwin settled easily enough, snuggling into the light blanket and pillow that awaited his afternoon nap. She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his brow and sat quietly at his side. “We spend most afternoons here, Mr. Randall,” she said softly. “Would you ring the bell again for the servants to bring our tea?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
With Randall no longer hovering so close, Mercy could breathe again. She smoothed Edwin’s hair once more, and when she couldn’t bear the silence any longer, she turned to face her guest. But he wasn’t watching her, condemning her actions with those dark eyes. He’d fixed his gaze on the outside world.
Knowing her unseemly behavior would always lurk between them, she approached until she could see the side of his face. She should really clear the air or her unforgivable lapse in decorum would always be a discomfort between them. She usually didn’t try to kiss every handsome man that called at Romsey Abbey. So far, only he affected her that way.
Randall’s head turned after a long moment. “Does he sleep well? Deeply?”
Mercy drowned in his dark eyed stare. Her breath caught. She let it go in a rush before he noticed. “You could drop a pail of coals beside his sleeping form and he’d not wake.”