Oh…another shiver rippled over her skin, and her lips parted against her hand so she could feel what Rafe must have when he kissed her. She’d touched the tip of her tongue to her fingers and sighed. No, she was not confused, even if he was. She’d had all her senses about her when they lay together on his bed. In fact, she’d become aware of some senses she never knew she possessed until then.
Glancing at her bedchamber door, she checked that the key was turned in the lock. Then she slid her hand down her stomach to the juncture of her thighs. She closed her eyes. It was not the same as when Rafe touched her, but it felt very pleasing. Closing her legs tightly on her stroking fingers, she bit her lip and swallowed a moan of part excitement, part despair. She placed her other hand on her breast and cupped it though the soft lace of her chemise, picturing Rafe’s lips on her nipple again. The fire he’d begun in her loins, never fully smothered, quickly gained strength, heat, and density again. She gasped at the trickle of dew against her fingertips, where she blossomed and throbbed with unremitting tension. Mercy rubbed harder, biting her lip to keep from crying out.
At the moment of her peak, she opened her eyes to witness the wanton hussy she’d become. Her curls—sporting a new luster this morning—fell loose over her shoulders, her lips looked very dark and full, and her brown nipples pricked through the delicate, ivory lace with unabashed impertinence.
Nothing about her expression looked sorry, she realized. If anything, the woman staring back at her looked relaxed, content as a cream-thieving cat. An entire basket of naughty kittens, in fact.
Perhaps, as Lady Ursula said, it was all the fault of fertile spring air—pollen and spores invading her body, making her flustered.
She mouthed at her reflection in the mirror, “Do pull your garters up, woman.”
It simply wouldn’t do to let herself lose control this way. Rafe Hartley was a mischievous, lusty young man who took ungentlemanly delight in unsettling her nerves. She should put him out of her mind at once. Never again could she let him kiss her. Never.
There was just one more thing she must take care of before she left for London.
***
Spring was a busy time on the farm. Rafe barely had a moment to think of anything beyond the routine of work. Each morning he rose with the dawn to go out into the fields, and at night, soon after supper, he fell asleep quickly—a blessing. When the first opportunity arose, he traveled with his cart to Morecroft and called upon Mrs. Pyke at the Red Lion, anxious to make sure she was comfortable there. It was his hope that Pyke would soon show his face again and relieve him of this burden, but until then, he’d promised to keep the family safe.
A bosomy woman with no refinement but a great deal of natural cunning, Mrs. Pyke had spent her blossoming spring on the stage—which was how she caught Pyke’s eye—and her summer living in a style her husband could not afford. Now, having born three eternally crying children and suffered an autumn in penury, her formerly pretty face sagged like an empty wine sack. Since her life with Pyke had not turned out at all the way she expected—or her husband had promised her—Rafe supposed she was entitled to some pity, although her temperament, which was needy and querulous when not kept content, made her very trying to deal with at times. His patience was challenged when she presented him with a list of complaints about her new surroundings. The other guests at the Red Lion Inn, she said, looked down on her, and the innkeeper asked too many questions. She thought they would be better off in other, quieter lodgings, away from prying eyes.
“I’m quite sure Mr. Pyke wouldn’t want us to stay ’ere. There’s a vast deal o’ drunken rowdiness at night, and I must lie awake wondering what might become of us in such a den of ill repute.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Pyke, it is a respectable place.” Far safer than the lodgings in which her husband had previously left them, he thought.
But she was adamant that the Red Lion would not do for them. “Truth be told, me ’ealth suffers since we came ’ere, and our littlest one ’as such a cough. I daresay an afternoon in the sea air wouldn’t go amiss. Yarmouth is not far, so I ’eard.”
“It is not, Mrs. Pyke, but it would be an expense for all four of you to travel there.”
Her lips squeezed into a plump pout. “To be sure, I do miss my Pykey.”
“Indeed. We all miss him.” And wonder where he ran off to in such haste, leaving his family to the care of another.
“’Ere I am, all alone without ’im. Me and the little ’uns, left to manage in the cold, cruel world.”
Rafe attempted to cheer her spirits. “You have me, Mrs. Pyke. You are not alone.”
“I wager ol’ Catchpole is fair miffed.” She swung the youngest Pyke onto her hip and jiggled him so rapidly his sobs turned to hiccups, giving Rafe a brief respite from the noise. “To lose ’is best fighter and two tenants, all at the same time. Serves ’im right for being cruel to my Pykey, sendin’ ’im off to the Fleet like that.”
The fact that Pyke owed a vast amount of money to Catchpole, and many other tradesmen besides, made barely a dent in her awareness. Everyone was always against them, and it was never their fault. “You are my Pykey’s oldest pal and particular friend,” she’d said once. “Who else should stand up for us if you did not?”
And who else would pay her bills if Rafe did not? With her husband disappeared off the face of the earth, if not for Rafe’s support, she and her children would have been in the gutter, begging for food.
“Mayhap you should take up fighting again, if money’s short,” she said with a loud, wet sniff.
“I have put that behind me, madam,” he replied.
“Seems a shame to waste the talent.”
“I hope I have other avenues to success.”
Being a woman who looked always for the easiest, fastest route to coin, she had no comprehension of patience or the potential reward of slow toil. She screwed up her face in confusion, until a sudden thought occurred to her.
“Your pa lives here, don’t ’e? A right fancy gent, so my Pykey said. Mayhap your pa can ’elp us.”
Under no circumstances did he want his father meeting Mrs. Pyke. “I will see what can be arranged for your accommodations, but I’m afraid, for now, the Red Lion will have to do.”
Peevish, she grumbled at the child to stop pulling her hair. “At the very least we’d be able to get out more, if I ’ad proper shoes to walk in.”
He looked at her feet. Clad in a worn pair of boots, they looked perfectly normal to him. “Proper shoes?”
“These are winter boots, ain’t they? I need slippers for fine weather, and wooden pattens for when it’s wet and muddy. Like the other ladies I see walking about. Otherwise I stick out, don’t I? Since my Pykey went off to the Fleet, I’ve made do with these boots, but folk ’ere will notice.”
Rafe sincerely doubted it was her footwear that made his friend’s wife stand out, but he did want her to blend in as much as possible. Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out another banknote.
***
Old Mrs. Flick wasted no time informing the general populace about Lady Mercy “sneaking” away from the village at first light in her “fancy orange frock, just as brazen as you please!”
There were also, of course, several witnesses to her presence at his side that night in Merryweather’s Tavern—in the same brightly colored frock. Rafe told anyone who asked him that she was taken ill and she’d had to wait at his farm for his father to fetch her. Then he left it at that. Whether they believed him or not was up to them. As his aunt Sophie said, there was always gossip of some sort in a small village. The less kindling thrown upon it, the less stirring and poking it received, the quicker it fell to a smolder before dying away to ashes that would disperse when the next wind passed through.
His uncle suggested he find another bride quickly. “Don’t wait for Moll Robbins to come back, lad. She gave you up and doesn’t deserve your patience,” he said as he sat in Rafe’s cottage and warmed his hands at the f
ire.
Naturally, his father and his uncle were on opposing sides in this issue. Although never close friends, the two men had tentatively formed what his stepmother called a “laissez-faire attitude,” but while each sought privately to advise Rafe, their opinions seldom coincided. Rafe’s choice was never clear, for he worried about offending one or the other. The only point on which his uncle and father agreed was that he should marry. This had been their one, unequivocal, united decision. Now that Molly had run off, they privately retreated to enemy corners again on the matter of whom he should marry.
That was the good thing about his elderly benefactress in London; she had no side to take, no bias, and thought only of him. She listened as no one else ever did and encouraged him to do what was best for himself, with no concern beyond that.
“Oh, I’m not waiting for Molly Robbins,” he assured his uncle.
“Good lad. Move on and look ahead, not back.”
Leaving his uncle by the fire, Rafe stepped down into the scullery to wash his hands and forearms. He wondered whether Mercy would open that note she took from his mantel, for he’d be surprised if her boundless curiosity would let her send it off to Molly unread.
His uncle shouted from the other room, “There’s many a local girl trying to catch your eye.”
But he wasn’t interested in them. He’d spoken to Mercy about two dairymaids only to get some reaction from her. It worked too, he thought darkly. It caused her to ride by Merryweather’s and see what he was up to. Even made her follow him inside the place, endangering the reputation in which she took such pride.
“Your aunt suggested you might have some thought of Lady Mercy Danforthe,” his uncle said suddenly, startling him out of his reverie. “I told her she was a fool to imagine that.”
“She’s engaged,” Rafe muttered glumly as he stared at his hands in the water and watched the grime of another day in the fields float in clouds to the surface.
“So I hear. Some viscount from Surrey.”
His heart suffered a hiccup. How could she kiss him like that and be engaged to another? But was the fault not with him too? He was supposed to have married Molly Robbins a few days ago, and here he was dwelling on the lips of another woman, wishing they were his to play with just a while longer. Of course he wasn’t perfect—never claimed to be. He had his faults, his weaknesses. Mercy Danforthe, he realized now, was one of them.
“I told your aunt,” his uncle continued, “our Rafe would never take a fool’s fancy for a troublesome petticoat like the Danforthe girl.”
Rafe shook his head, winced, and reached for a dry rag. Odd that his uncle should say something like that, when he’d pursued and won a woman from a higher class, a wife the rules of Society told him he couldn’t have. Perhaps it ran in their blood, to reach for something forbidden. Did his uncle regret it? Not likely. He had a fine family now—one still growing—and Rafe occasionally knew envy when he saw his aunt and uncle laughing together, both so transparently happy it made his teeth grind.
He recalled suddenly how he and Molly had walked home from church one Sunday, following his aunt and uncle, observing the older couple holding hands and laughing together like young lovers.
“Not every wedded couple can be as fortunate as them,” Molly had murmured wistfully.
At the time, Rafe simply took it as a passing comment on a cool Sunday afternoon, and he was more concerned with making sure she didn’t walk in a puddle than he was listening to her conversation.
Now he realized what she’d tried to say.
Yes, he was jealous too when he watched them together; today he could acknowledge the emotion. His aunt and uncle were never very circumspect when it came to showing their devotion to each other. As a boy, it had made Rafe groan with embarrassment. As a man, if he was in a good mood, it amused him; if he was in a bad mood, their displays of affection annoyed him. He’d never paused to examine the reasons why. Until today.
He was lonely. He wanted a companion, his own family. For years he’d thought that was something he’d never have, wasn’t even sure he wanted it. Now he knew he did. Very much.
Rafe had spent a childhood moving from place to place, never quite belonging. His uncle had done the best he could, but he was absent for most of Rafe’s early years, trying to earn a living, going into the army and forced to leave his little nephew in the care of others. Then, after his uncle married and settled there in Sydney Dovedale, he brought Rafe to live with his new family. It took a while to adjust, much as it would for a stray tomcat to become a domesticated pet. A few years later came the discovery of his real father—James Hartley. So yes, there had been a great many changes in his life, a vast sea of ups and downs that sometimes threatened to swamp his little boat completely. But he rowed on. Did his best. Rafe knew he was still finding his way, his place. One day he hoped to reach smooth, tranquil waters so he might unwind his sails and take a break from rowing.
He liked it here in Sydney Dovedale, and he’d even become a shareholder in the Morecroft and Norwich Bank. He knew he could settle here. All he missed was a woman at his side.
Molly could have provided the steadiness his boat required. Mercy Danforthe would probably overturn it completely.
Better remember that and not think of her again.
Even if she would look good wet all over. Perhaps begging for his clemency and grateful to him for saving her from drowning.
He smiled as the pleasant fiction grew in his mind. She would offer him her kisses without complaining later, without accusing him of stealing them. Cupping his palms through the basin of water, he imagined her breasts in his hands, her soft clean flesh delicately scented, his for the tasting.
Heavy hooves clattered across the yard and shattered that glorious fantasy, and likewise his mood. Stepping out of the scullery, he saw Tom Ridge, the blacksmith’s son, lumbering back and forth in the light of the open doorway.
His uncle greeted the new arrival. “Mornin’, Tom.”
The tall fellow didn’t come in but hovered nervously, gesturing that Rafe should come outside.
What was it now, he wondered, another rumor?
He followed Tom into the yard.
“I’m to give this back to ye,” the big man muttered, reaching inside his old, dusty coat. A gleam of gold shone through his grimy fingers, and Rafe glanced hastily over his shoulder to make certain his uncle was still indoors.
“But you won it—”
“It were wrong o’ me to take advantage when you were so lovelorn.” Tom gave a wink and a gap-toothed grin. “This feller’s conscience won’t allow ’im to keep it.”
Assuming his fiercest scowl, Rafe snatched his pocket watch from the other man’s fist. “I was not lovelorn.” He’d known Tom for enough years now to know the man had very few scruples that troubled him.
Tom chuckled saucily, replaced his cap, and mounted his horse. “I ’ope, for your sakes, Rafe, young Moll comes back soon. Shouldn’t like you to get into worse trouble.”
He had a sense they were talking of more than his watch.
“She’d be none too ’appy to find what you been up to while she was gone, eh?”
“I’ll thank you to let me worry about Molly Robbins.”
Tom merely laughed as his carthorse set off for the gate in a swaying amble.
Rafe looked down at his watch, relieved to have it back again. Its absence would have taken some awkward explaining to his father. But why would a grumpy fellow like Tom Ridge bring it back to him? Any concern about Molly Robbins, spouted from a mouth unaccustomed to kind words, was unconvincing to say the least.
His uncle came out into the yard. “Well, I’d best go home and make sure Sophie isn’t doing too much again. Just wanted to give you a little nudge, my boy. No point sitting about waiting for that girl to come back. Plenty more ripe berries in the orchard.”
“How is Aunt Sophie?”
“Tired. But she will not listen to me and keep her feet up more often.”
Rafe nodded. “Stubborn creatures, women.”
“Aye. But the world would be a much duller place without them in it to quarrel with us. I had my pick of village girls back in my day, young Rafe, but I had eyes only for my Sophie. She didn’t make it easy for me, of course.”
He tried not to laugh. “I thought you told me once that she leapt from a balcony into your arms.” Although that was the romantic version of the story, he’d also heard that Sophie actually advertised in the Farmer’s Gazette for a husband, and that was how his uncle came to Sydney Dovedale. Rafe still wasn’t sure which tale to believe.
“Don’t let too many weeks pass, Rafe my boy. Spring is the season for love. Bring home a wife before harvest. Another pair of hands will never go amiss around here. There’s a few young girls the parson’s wife would like to introduce at tea after church, if you come with us next Sunday.”
Polite conversation and tea after church? He could think of nothing more painful.
Alas, the net of well-meaning attention closed in.
Rafe shrugged and then bowed his head to study his feet. “I can’t consider another lass just yet. After all this…” He rubbed one hand across his brow and let his lips droop. “Can’t change direction so fast.”
“Of course.” Sounding very sorry, his uncle placed a firm hand on Rafe’s heaving shoulder. “You take your time. Just not too much of it, eh?”
Finally raising his head, Rafe watched the other man stride off down the lane and smiled thoughtfully. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and carried the sweet fragrance of blossoms across the yard from the apple and cherry trees along the border of his rented property.
Spring is the season. Plenty more ripe berries. His smile faded.
If only life was that simple. If only he’d never laid eyes on Mercy Danforthe and been so distracted by her—the wrong woman. Not all berries were sweet. Some grew among prickles to discourage his fingers.
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 13