Rafe leapt up beside Mercy, and the cart wheels bounced into action, carrying them away down the lane. Another unfortunate item for gossip, of course. She should not be riding unchaperoned with a man.
For a few moments, they said nothing. Eventually the lane turned, and the horses slowed as they started uphill. Catching her breath, Mercy looked at Rafe. “I’m afraid there will be a scandal.” Since several days had passed with no one making mention of her dawn exit from Rafe’s farmhouse, she’d happily and somewhat foolishly concluded it was forgotten. Or else people believed the story of her falling ill.
He shrugged easily, expression unchanged, eyes on the road ahead.
“Do you not care?” she demanded as she wondered if the fool even heard what she said.
“What worries you most? That she’ll spread the story of you spending the night with me, or that she’ll get the color of your dress wrong?”
“I did not spend the night with you. Kindly refrain from describing the incident as such.”
“Yes, you did,” he replied smoothly. “You were in my house, weren’t you? With me? All night. Don’t expect me to lie for you. That would be perjury, and I’m an honest soul.”
She gripped the edge of her seat as the lane evened out again and Rafe’s horses picked up speed. The verges whipped by, and her head began to spin.
“Worst comes to the worst,” he shouted above the clip of hooves and rumble of wheels, “you’ll just have to marry me, won’t you? Again.”
This was impossible, she thought irritably. Typical Rafe. Thank goodness for men like Viscount Grey. She knew where she was with him. There were no surprises, no puzzles. Life with him would be smooth, predictable, neat, and tidy.
They bumped over a hard rut, and Mercy almost slid out of her seat. His cart was far less comfortable and safe than any vehicle she’d ever ridden in before. “Slow down, knave!”
He slowed the horses to a walk, much to her relief and a measure of surprise. She stared at the passing verges and plowed fields beyond them, finding comfort in the neat lines of rolled earth and the trimmed hedges separating fields in a quilt-like pattern. “What did she mean about the Red Lion and company there to occupy your time?”
“Who knows?” He snorted. “The old hag is half-senile.”
Just then an open barouche appeared around a bend in the lane, heading toward them. Rafe pulled his cart aside to let it pass and tipped his hat when they saw it was Mrs. Kenton, her sister, and Sir William.
“Good day to you!” Mrs. Kenton called out as they trotted by. It looked as if she appealed to her brother to stop the carriage, but he was lost in his daydreams, and in the next instant they were gone. It had been just enough time for Mercy to see the large peacock-feather muff in Mrs. Kenton’s lap. The gall of that woman!
How could Rafe say she was just like her? It was an outrageous insult. She swiveled on the little wooden seat to stare straight ahead, teeth grinding.
“Miss Milford looked very pretty today,” he observed.
“Miss Milford looks pretty every day. The very moment she awakes, I’m certain, her face could launch a thousand ships.”
A rumble of laughter shook the wooden seat on which they both sat. “Envious, my lady Bossy-Drawers?”
“Not at all. I like her.” In truth, she wished she did not like Isabella Milford. It would have been far easier and much less confusing to dislike her, since Rafe was so enamored.
But then he said, “Do you not think there is something about her…almost an air of grief. Her heart has been abused, I think.”
Mercy was pleasantly surprised to find him that perceptive. It never occurred to her that he would take time to look beyond Isabella’s pretty surface. “I thought so too.”
“Sakes, we agree on something for once.” Then he sighed and hunched his great shoulders. “Obviously, I can detect the fellow sufferer of a broken heart.”
It was hard not to smile when he resorted to fishing for pity, but she managed nonetheless. “Perhaps you can suffer together then. You have a bond already. You can share your tales of lovelorn woe.” She didn’t believe his heart was in the slightest way injured, although his pride must be a different story. “Miss Milford is a very good sort of girl, and she likes you.”
“And you are a very wicked sort of girl who despises me.” Quickly abandoning the dour, sad expression, his lips lifted in a crooked grin. “I must be a glutton for punishment. Surely you understand, your ladyship. To me, you are that peacock-feather muff.”
Reminded of that item in Mrs. Kenton’s possession, Mercy seethed inwardly and glowered at the horizon.
“What did I say now?”
Ha! As if he didn’t know exactly how to get under her skin.
“Can’t you even smile at me today, Bossy-Drawers?” he asked silkily. “Show me your dimples.”
“No.”
“Would cost you too much, I suppose, to bestow any kindness on a lowly peasant like me.”
“Precisely. Since you know that to be the case, I wonder why you ask. And you are not lowly.” She thought of the night at Hartley House when he breached her bedchamber and threatened to stay if she did not meet his demands. “You are dreadfully forward, impertinent, and presumptuous.”
“And your coldhearted, haughty manner makes you the most irritating creature I ever beheld, but I have difficulty keeping my hands off you nonetheless.”
She reflected a moment on his peculiar talent for surprising her. Insults would tumble freely from his mouth and then turn, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, into a form of reluctant flattery. It meant that she never knew which part of his statement to correct first. “I’m sure ’tis a fascination that will pass.”
“Why? Because you say it must? I know you like everything in its proper place, all tidy and under your command. If only I obeyed your orders, but I make things untidy for you.”
“When things—and people—are in their proper places, life is predictable and calm.”
Rafe drew the cart to a halt. “Predictable and calm? Is that all you want out of your marriage? Out of life?”
He said that as if there was something wrong with an orderly world. Perhaps because he’d never known one.
Too many things had occurred in Mercy’s own young life to knock her tidy world askew, forcing her to scramble and restore order. She still recalled the gentle crackle of coals in the hearth, the methodical tick of the mantel clock on the night her mama died. Her nanny, old Mrs. Potts, sat nearby, sobbing quietly into her handkerchief, and no one spoke to Mercy of what happened at the hunt, but she overheard plenty and was aware of everything changing around her.
Her father’s voice rang throughout the house, cursing wildly. “Why did she take that hedge instead of going by the gate like everyone else? Why did she not heed my warning and take the safer route? Foolhardy! Reckless, headstrong woman!”
In all the chaos, Mercy was exiled to the nursery with Potts, instructed to fill the afternoon and then the evening cleaning out the shelves in her nursery and refolding her clothes, deciding which might be given away to charity. Once that was done, she’d sat by the fire to play with her dolls while the gentle and steady sound of the mantel clock kept rhythm and order among the madness.
Five years later, when her father died of a fever and—so she romantically liked to think—a broken heart, Mercy took her comfort again from that nursery mantel clock. After her brother came to relate the bad news, she ran not into the waiting arms of her governess, but to the fireplace, where she stared at the clock and watched the smiling moon face above the number twelve. Then she changed into the heavy black-crepe mourning clothes and set about tidying her shelves and cupboards, arranging her shoes and boots in a straight line.
Order must always be kept.
“Well?” Rafe Hartley demanded impatiently, eyes narrowed as he stared at her, elbows on his knees, reins slack between his fingers. “We both know what we want. We knew it when we were on my bed together and you put your la
dylike hands on my—”
“Never mention that lapse again. Yes, I do know what I want, and it is not you. I will take the gate, not risk my life over a hedge when I can’t see what’s on the other side.”
He blinked at her in a confused manner.
“Never mind,” she exclaimed. “Now please drive on.”
He dropped the reins, shifted closer on the wooden seat, and clasped her face between his large, warm palms. “First, I’ll take my fee for giving you a ride.”
Mercy grabbed his thick wrists and tried to pull his hands away, but he was too strong and determined. His lips found hers, forced them apart. She weakened. It horrified her to find this softened center beneath her cultivated barriers, but there it was. He knew it was there and teased it out of her, remorseless, ruthless. His tongue swept hers, curled around it, drank her startled moan. Thank God no one was in the lane at that moment, she thought. It might not matter to him if she was painted a scarlet hussy, but it did to her. As soon as his lips set hers free, she demanded that he remove his hands from her person.
“Are you intent on scandal?”
“If there’s to be rumor in any case, may as well make it worth our while.”
“Rafe Hartley, that is the wickedest thing you’ve ever said.” It was also not far removed from what she’d thought the morning after their escapade, when seated at her mirror and still suffering the fluttering ache of want.
“So you just used me when you had a fancy for a bit o’ rumpy-pumpy that night, my lady.” His voice was getting louder.
“I must ask you to stop compromising me at every opportunity. I am not here to be your plaything.” Mercy climbed down from the cart. “I can walk the rest of the way. Thank you, Mr. Hartley. Good day.” Lifting her petticoats out of the mud, she marched onward, heading for the farmhouse gates. It was suddenly very difficult to catch her breath, but she would not stop and look back at him. She could not.
By the time she reached the gate, his horses were following her.
She lifted the rusty latch, and the gate squealed open. Finally she felt composed enough to face him again. “Was I not clear enough?”
His expression was faintly amused. “Clear as crystal.”
“Then I would thank you not to trail after me.”
“I come to visit my aunt and uncle, ma’am, not to trail after you.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Very well.” She could hardly stop him from paying a visit to his family, could she? “As long as you don’t get any more of your silly ideas,” she added as she held the gate open to let him through.
He rode by at a brisk clip and laughed down at her. “Best make haste and find me a bride, woman, or I might take matters into my own hands, eh? Get her for myself.”
It was increasingly difficult to catch her breath and focus her mind. She kept seeing a looming hedge full of thorny brambles directly in her path as fast hooves carried her toward it. A loud rushing sound filled her ears, as though the wind tore at her. Why didn’t her mother take the gate?
Rafe was still talking, chattering away. “Might decide to take the wife I want by any means, whatever she has to say about it.” He leapt down from his cart.
Mercy gathered a breath at last, and forced the vision away. “Then I suggest you invest in a stout pair of manacles and a scold’s bridle if you hope to keep her.” Quarreling with Rafe was safe territory, familiar. It kept her from dwelling on those dark, unhappy thoughts. Strangely, she always felt better after a good fight with Rafe.
“I was thinking that very thing. Should have had them for my first wife,” he said.
“Be still my heart. That medieval view of romance certainly aligns with your thickheaded male chest-thumping.”
“Romance? I’ve no time for that.”
“Evidently.”
He scratched his head. “I need a woman to feed me, clothe me—”
“Why don’t you appeal for a housekeeper?”
“—and provide comfort on long, cold winter nights.”
“I would advise a woolen nightshift and a bed warmer.”
He grinned. “A bed warmer. Just what I had in mind.”
Rolling her eyes, she skirted him quickly to walk on into the house. “Do excuse me. I must get away from your irritating presence. I have surely put up with it long enough today.” And she felt the danger of it all too deeply. His mischievous company had certain addictive qualities.
Suddenly he caught her fingers. “Let’s call a truce.”
“A truce?”
“If you don’t plan to be here long, let’s not be at war the whole time.”
Wary, she studied his countenance, and for once she could not immediately read his intentions. “I’ve played enough games of chess with my brother to know that men give up only when they know they can’t win. Calling a draw is one way to save face.”
“But who’d want to save this one?” He laughed easily, pretending he didn’t know how handsome he was. “I promise not to try kissing you again. I’ll be sensible from now on. Friends?”
Mercy looked at his hand and thought of it on her waist earlier, gently guiding her up into his cart, rescuing her from Mrs. Flick.
“Very well then,” she muttered. “A truce.” No doubt she’d discover, soon enough, what he was up to.
“Now we are friends, we needn’t die alone and miserable,” he chirped. “I’ll visit you and make you laugh. We’ll have tea and scones together.”
Amused by the picture, she chuckled softly. “If we have teeth left with which to eat scones.”
He considered it, head on one side. “I’ll make you some wooden ones.”
“Lovely. And I’ll knit you some hair, because I daresay you will have lost all yours.”
“Splendid. See, we can be friends.” He gave her his arm, and after a brief hesitation, she took it. They walked into the house together.
Chapter 16
He found Tom Ridge, in his leather apron, standing outside the forge, taking a midday break.
“I’ll thank you not to go spreading tales about Lady Mercy Danforthe,” Rafe said as he strode up to the big fellow.
“What’s this, Hartley? No pleasant good morn? No gentlemanly greeting?”
“I do not care to hear her name on your lips ever again.”
“I spread no tales. I just tell what I see.” The man was smug, his sweaty face lined with dirt. “If other folk make their own conclusions, I can do naught about that.”
Rafe’s anger quickened, but he tamed it as best he could. He didn’t want trouble here, and had hoped to leave all that behind. “Then from now on, I suggest you keep what you see, in regards to that lady, entirely to yourself.”
There, he thought, that was polite, surely?
Tom croaked with laughter. “Lady, eh? In name only.”
“Watch your tongue, Ridge!” In Mercy’s presence, he’d shrugged off the gossip for her sake, not wanting her to see how it affected him.
“We all know what you were up to with her in that cottage. I don’t know why you try to deny it when ’tis a feather in your cap. There’s hope for us poor fellows after all, eh?”
Well, he’d tried. With no further warning, he swung his fist into the man’s belly, and as Tom doubled over, falling forward with the air gushing out of him, Rafe brought his second punch up under that broad, square jaw. Tom stumbled, weaving to and fro, and clutched at his bloodied mouth where he’d bit his own tongue.
“You young bugger. You’ll pay for that!”
“I warned you, Ridge.”
“That was a sneaky, underhand punch,” the man growled, humiliated because his father emerged from the shelter of the forge and laughed at him.
Rafe straightened up. “Next time, you’d best be prepared then. I hear one more word of gossip about Lady Mercy, and we’ll do this properly.”
Tom eyed his fists and spat upon the ground. For all his bluster, there was no way the man would chance his luck against Rafe.
The blac
ksmith looked at his son. “What’s all this? You’ll not speak badly of that lady. If I hear of it again, you’ll answer to me too.”
“Why?” Tom wiped blood from his lip. “She’s just a haughty madam. What do you care? Does she pay double to get her horses shod?”
“I care, lad, because when your ma died, Lady Mercy Danforthe brought us cooked food and clothes for the little ones. She consoled me with kind words and memories of your ma, when I didn’t even think she knew us by name. She attended the funeral and paid for a stone on your ma’s grave, because I couldn’t afford it. And why did she do all that? Just out of the goodness in her heart. She knows every family, every face in this village. If she were asked, I daresay she’d know every name too. Ours is not the only family to benefit from her kindness in hard times. Now you wash those insults and that filthy gossip out of your mouth. That lady deserves respect, and I won’t hear a word against her.”
Throughout this impassioned speech, Tom stared dumbfounded at his father, in whose stern eyes a fine mist of tears now formed. Rafe was equally surprised. He had no idea that Mercy ever did those things.
He’d been so caught up finding fault with her bossiness, he’d never acknowledged the good side of that “take-charge” nature.
Back at his cottage, he thought more about Mercy Danforthe—the facets of her life that he seldom considered. Duty was very important to her, and she would, no doubt, think it part of her obligations to take an interest in the lives of people like the Ridges, but perhaps she did so with genuine concern too. Rafe knew she was capable of throwing herself wholeheartedly into an idea when it came to her, and not only did she like things in neat order, but he sensed that she also wanted folk to be happy. That was often her driving force.
When the blacksmith spoke of her with such warmth and admiration, it made Rafe feel proud that he knew her, counted her as a friend. He also knew that whatever her thoughts on the matter, she would always be more than a friend to him. The regard in which he held her grew higher every day, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 20