Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal

by Jayne Fresina

  Mercy chose to take that as a compliment. She’d been told before that her taste in fashion was very bold, but she saw it as another of her duties in life—to lead others in the matter of style. Few people had her eye for taste, and even fewer, as Molly Robbins once said, had her gumption.

  Alas, although she could control everything about her appearance that day, she could do nothing about the changeable temper of Mother Nature. The country lanes were in an atrocious state after the previous two days of rainfall, and it was not conducive to the picturesque jaunt she’d imagined. Instead, the ride was rough, the curricle wheels lurching in and out of deep ruts filled with muddy rainwater. By the time she finally pulled up before the farmhouse gate, sprinkles of rain began to fall again and the temperature dropped rapidly, causing her to regret the lack of a coat that was practical rather than decorative.

  A quick assessment of Rafe’s cottage suggested it was deserted. The windows were shuttered, the yard empty but for a few hens, not a sign of human life anywhere. Surely he hadn’t gone chasing after Molly? That would be the worst thing to do.

  It was a pretty cottage, with dimpled pebble-and-flint walls, the windows framed with redbrick. Two dormers peeped through the fringe of a thatched roof, and a stout brick chimney coughed out slender wisps of smoke—proof that someone was home. Mercy clambered down from the curricle and shouted for assistance, but no one appeared, although one of the plow horses looked out of his box and whinnied a greeting. She unlatched the wide gates and marched up to Rafe’s front door, where a few stout raps on the weathered wooden planks were also ignored. After trying the door handle in vain, she checked the building by peering in through cracks and knotholes. At last, she discovered a pair of window shutters unlatched, nudged them farther open, and looked inside, where she searched through a curtain of ashy fog.

  There he was, slumped over the table. Panic squeezed around her heart with cold fingers until her searching eyes adjusted to the dim, smoky light and she saw the pewter jug beside his head. Mercy exhaled in relief. Unless he’d cracked himself over the head with it, he was merely drunk. That she could deal with, thanks to experience with her brother. Since no one else was brave enough to beard the beast in his lair, the task was up to her.

  She hitched up her skirt and petticoat, climbed onto the brick window ledge, and swung her legs into the room. It was an action no proper chaperone would have condoned, but Mercy could never be kept out of somewhere she intended to be.

  The shutters fell back against the wall with a clatter, causing Rafe to jerk upright in his chair as if roused by cannon fire. He swore loudly, holding his hands to his brow, and then she watched his gaze tracking the pale morning light where it cleared a path through the ashen gloom. Stiffly, he turned his head, and a pair of furious, hot blue eyes burned into her, scorching her fine gown.

  When he spoke, his voice cracked, and the way he set each word down like a heavy burden was more menacing even than the manner in which his eyes raked over her. “My Lady Bossy-Breeches…what the blazes are you doing here?”

  She brushed dirt from her frock and checked that her bonnet remained in place. If she was going to face this man, eye to eye, and deal with the business for which she came, Mercy needed all her parts in order. This was a man who earned money by fighting with his fists, and she knew he had a hot temper. However, she thought with a sudden sly smile, he was her property now, was he not? Rafe Hartley’s boxing contract was in her hands. With this pleasing thought in mind, Mercy ran her wondering gaze over his wide shoulders, down his chest to his narrow hips and thick, hard thighs. Her eyelids grew heavy; her pulse quickened. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, and she forgot—for just a moment—what she’d gone there to do.

  “Well?” he barked as he jerked to his feet and the chair fell back to the flagstones with a bang. “You’d better have a damned good reason for coming here, woman.”

  It did not escape her notice that this was the second time he’d said “damn” in her presence. He not only said it, he relished the word.

  Mercy’s gaze fastened on the abused chair. Someone ought to pick that up before it was tripped over, she thought.

  “Well?” Rafe demanded.

  Back to the business at hand. “I’m here to set you straight, Master Rafe Hartley. Apparently no one else has the courage. Your father thinks you should be left to your own devices until you stop sulking. But I have no time to wait around on your whim. Oh, and I’ll take an apology, too, for those things you said to me in the churchyard. I understand I must make certain allowances for your temper in the heat of that moment, but I would like an apology nonetheless.”

  “Don’t hold your breath for one, meddlesome harridan.”

  He stood before her, shoulders braced, fists at his side—a man ready to chase her out. She might as well be ten again and guilty of aiming an egg at the back of his head. Mercy could almost see the yolk dripping down the side of his neck, as it did back then.

  Assessing him slowly, inch by inch, Mercy was just as astonished by his height today as she was every time she saw him since he turned fifteen and shot up almost overnight. It never ceased to shock. Rafe Hartley continued stretching north, and his shoulders were, she was certain, wider than some doors.

  His eyes were still as blue as cornflowers, his hair as black as a crow’s wing. And that sizable chip remained on his shoulders, possibly growing in unison with their width.

  Chapter 5

  Rafe stared at the scarlet trespasser. Didn’t she know it was dangerous to wear red around a bull? Standing in a shaft of rain-streaked daylight, once again she glowed. Like an angel. No, he quickly corrected himself—not an angel. Like an evil pixie. A demon of some unholy nature.

  She observed him slowly, and then her gaze turned to the pewter jug on the table. Her fine eyebrows arched high. “So your first reaction to a little setback is to drink yourself unconscious?”

  A little setback? Yes, that is all it would be to her. Nothing ever ruffled her pristine feathers. Naturally the woman assumed he was drunk. In fact, he’d fallen asleep reading last night, but she was prepared to imagine the worst. High-and-mighty people like Mercy Danforthe had their preconceived notions about “common” folk like him. He wouldn’t bother disabusing her of the idea. Hands behind his back, he quietly closed the open copy of Bell’s Weekly upon which he’d slept most of the night. “Come to gloat over my misfortunes, woman?”

  She passed slowly through the beam of light to stand within his reach—either brave or stupid to put herself that close. It had to be the former, because he knew she wasn’t the latter. She was too outspoken for her own good. Always had been, and he’d known her since she was ten, when she was all bronze curls, big green eyes, and busy mouth.

  “Why are you still here?” he demanded, fists clenched at his sides.

  Ignoring the question, she stooped gracefully to retrieve his chair from the floor. Her sweet, soft scent wafted up into his nostrils, and his heart slowed. The steady thumps in his chest seemed to thicken, grow heavier. He opened his fists, shook out his fingers.

  Don’t think about that sort of thing now. Not with her here. The Danforthe Brat.

  He groaned and pressed his hands to his head.

  “Sit down before you fall down,” she exclaimed. With her hand on his arm, she forced him down into the chair. Even when she took her hand away again, he still felt her firm touch though his rolled shirtsleeve. Bloody woman. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? She’d done enough damage. Perhaps she had yet more planned. Through narrowed eyes, he watched her opening shutters, sighing extravagantly, and tut-tutting at the mess he’d made in his bachelor solitude over the past few days.

  “We can’t have Molly coming back to this, can we?” Mercy exclaimed.

  “What makes you think she’s coming back?”

  “It was matrimonial nerves. They happen all the time.”

  “Matrimonial nerves?” This was rich coming from her, he mused. The girl who once changed her
mind and abandoned him on their wedding night to run back to London with her brother. “Becoming a pattern, isn’t it?” he muttered sourly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The second time a wife has abandoned me.” He hadn’t meant to raise the subject, but there it was. She’d stirred the matter out of its dark, uneasy slumber by coming here to his house, forcing her way in.

  Mercy’s eyes were two calm pools of verdigris that shone confidently through the little bit of lace that decorated her bonnet. “Let’s get the matter straight. We were two silly children, carried away in a moment of foolishness. You were nineteen, and I was seventeen. What you and Molly have is a proper match, quite different.”

  Yes, he thought grimly, different in so many ways.

  “Why aren’t you back in London by now?” he demanded again, since she’d not answered him before.

  “I’ll help you write a letter to Molly, and she’ll be back before you know it.” Although still not a direct answer to his question, the statement was delivered with her usual air of unshakable conviction.

  “You think that, do you?”

  “I’m quite sure.” Of course she was never wrong. In her mind. Now she had the gall to smile as if there was anything in the world to feel gladness about today. He watched morosely as two dimples appeared in her cheeks. Old acquaintances, not forgotten.

  His stomach hurt. “Mayhap I don’t want her back,” he snapped.

  “Nonsense.” She briskly pulled off her gloves. It was a “taking charge” gesture, and something else he’d seen before many times. But not for a while. “Water?”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Scullery. Pumped some from the well yesterday.”

  She took the empty jug into the little room, and a few moments later he heard water pouring. “You’ll forgive her because you love her,” she shouted. “And she loves you.”

  Love? He snorted. What did this wretched woman know of love? She didn’t have a heart.

  He propped his elbows on the table, clutched the back of his neck, and let his head hang forward. His skull ached. Did the meddling menace have a cure for that? When footsteps returned, he raised his head and glared hard at her, putting every grain of effort into it. Calmly disregarding his expression—which he’d meant to be very fierce—she filled his cup. “Here. It’ll help the dry mouth.”

  In fact, he was thirsty, so he took the cup from her hand. Their fingertips briefly touched. Water splashed up over the rim of the cup, and he thought he caught just a slight coloring of her cheeks. She strode quickly to the other end of the table and wiped her hand on her skirt.

  Of course. She wouldn’t want his dirt marking her dainty, smooth skin. Now she ran that hand over her bonnet and her ringlets, as if to check they hadn’t let her down. God forbid any part of her neat attire should come “undone.”

  “You think I told her not to marry you, but you’re wrong, Rafe Hartley,” she said. “I want you both to be happy. I’m very sorry about the way things turned out, but I am not the culprit.”

  He stared at her skeptically. She must have had a hand in Molly’s sudden change of heart; everyone else was in favor of the marriage and keen to see him settle. It was too much coincidence that this woman arrived on the scene and, immediately, Molly changed her mind. Rafe swallowed a mouthful of water, relished the cooling liquid on his tongue and parched throat. “Something made you come here today,” he said. “Must have been a guilty conscience. Unless it was a hankering to see me again.” He was surprised at how quickly he fell into teasing her when he’d meant to stay angry.

  She met his gaze and held it steadily, but little pricks of bright pink appeared on her cheeks. Her reply was terse, resorting to an old childhood insult. “I told you—Cloth-Ears—that Molly will come back.”

  He shook his head and swilled the water around his mouth. Now he’d made her blush. Good.

  Mercy paced before the window. “She’ll realize it was a mistake, letting you go. She must.”

  “Was it a mistake, then?”

  She stopped to look at him, and her eyes sparkled brightly through that pointless half veil of lace. “Of course it was. How could she let you go?”

  Rafe stared at her mouth as it faltered. Her tongue hastily dampened her lower lip.

  “I mean to say, you are perfect for Molly,” she continued. “She’ll see that, and then she’ll come back.”

  Somehow his warriors regrouped, returning to formation, shields raised. “What if she doesn’t? What then, clever-drawers?”

  “If she does not come back, I’ll personally find you a bride.”

  His throat dry and hot, Rafe gulped down more water so fast that it spilled from the corners of his mouth and trickled over his rough stubble.

  “There, see.” She looked smug. “You shall not go without a bride, whatever happens. I will put everything straight, just as I promised.”

  He choked. “You’re going to find me a wife? You, Lady Bossy-Breeches, mean to play matchmaker for humble Rafe Hartley?”

  “There is nothing humble about you,” she replied drily.

  He held his cup to his chest and leaned back. “What makes you so concerned for my welfare?” He laughed low. “I suppose since you once ran away like a coward and now you talked Molly into doing the same, some might say you owe me a bride.” Now he teased her again. It was all too tempting, and his mood was much improved already. Perhaps it was the bright color of her frock. It was hard not to feel his heart cheered when the sun—in the guise of this little woman—came right into his cottage, filling it with light and warmth. Pity the sun, in this case, had to bring a lot of noise too.

  “Are you still in your cups, Hartley? I owe you nothing. I do this because I don’t care to be unjustly accused of meddling.”

  “You must be at loose ends, m’lady. I wish I was so in want of work to fill my days.” Rafe sighed deeply. “But the embarrassment of two runaway brides is quite enough for me. I’ll give marriage vows a miss from now on, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, the martyrdom.” She rolled her eyes. “Still playing for sympathy, I see.”

  “And you’re still as irritating as a fleabite.” One he was forbidden from scratching.

  “Well, I suggest you give it some thought. My matchmaking services are at your disposal, should Molly not return.” And then she added hurriedly, “Although I’m certain she will.”

  There was new experience in her face now, he realized, more knowledge and wit apparent in her eyes, intriguing depths in the shimmering layers of green that gently twinkled beneath her copper lashes. He’d never known another woman quite like her. Most women let Rafe get his own way. This one didn’t. He’d often thought she must enjoy the argument, because she always came back for more.

  If their marriage had stuck, he mused, they probably would have killed each other by now.

  As she stood before his window, soft morning light framing her curves, he was forced to acknowledge his first wife’s surface attractions. Didn’t mean he was happy about it. And yes, even if that marriage was void in the eyes of the law, he could think of her still as his first wife. They’d said their vows before God, hadn’t they? The laws of man only complicated things and were always changing. God never changed. God knew what He’d heard, just as He knew what was hidden in a man’s heart.

  Rafe set his cup down and cracked his knuckles. “Why don’t you go home?” he muttered under his breath. Her perfumed presence was more hindrance than help in his current overheated, frustrated mood.

  “This place needs a woman’s touch, and since no one else dare disturb your brooding isolation, you’ll have to make do with me. For now.” Before he could protest, she was removing her bonnet. “Perhaps you could see to the horses and the curricle? I’ll make a start on the fire.”

  Short of picking her up and bodily tossing her out, there was nothing he could do. She wasn’t leaving.

  “Just one thing I must know,” she said suddenly.

  He w
aited, scowling.

  “Are you quite certain this is what you want? This life of a farmer? You will not change your mind again?”

  “It’s what I always wanted,” he replied crossly. “As a wise lady told me recently in London, a man can never be content if he spends his life pleasing others. This is my choice.”

  The hint of an odd, relieved smile seemed poised to claim her lips and soften them, but she quelled it and gave a brisk nod instead. “Very well.”

  Accustomed to folk questioning his choices, he was unprepared for that simple reply. “I suppose you think I should wear a starched shirt every day and work for my father’s business.”

  She answered very certainly, very calmly. “I think you should do what makes you happiest.”

  “Do you give yourself the same advice?”

  “Always.”

  But he knew her to be a proponent of “duty first.” If he questioned her further, she would probably say that duty made her happy, and thus they would descend into another quarrel.

  Finally Rafe got to his feet. He scratched his rumpled head, glanced through the window, and saw his father’s curricle by the gate. She must be staying at Hartley House then. Did her wretched ladyship have nothing else to get back to? Or no one else? He’d spent more time than he should, on dark, cold, lonely nights, wondering what this annoying pixie was up to and who she was with. He couldn’t ask Molly, and she volunteered very little, assuming he didn’t care to hear about her mistress—the woman he made no secret of despising.

  When he looked over his shoulder, she was bent before the fireplace, getting soot on her fine frock, her pert posterior high in the air.

  “Do you know how to tend a fire?” he grumbled, slightly breathless as he watched her hips sway. “Don’t you have servants to do that?” She probably had one to tend every fireplace in her house.

  “Worry not,” she muttered distractedly as she examined the tinderbox with a wary eye. “I have it all under control.”