He made his way to his father, who was easily found, being a good head taller than most others in the room.
“You took your time, young man. The ladies who bid for a turn about the room with you are not very happy, to put it mildly. I have been forced to stand up in your place five times already, with women I barely know. Hardly a pleasure at my time of life.” He looked Rafe up and down, clearly irritated by the garments he’d thrown on with haste.
Rafe explained about the newborn calf, and then quickly scoured the ballroom for Mercy.
“There you are at last.” Mrs. Kenton was at his elbow, a tall black feather in her hair standing directly upright like a sentinel and twitching just under his nose. “My sister will be exceedingly glad to see you. She won the first set with you and has refused to dance with anyone else until you came.”
Surprised, he looked down at her. “She did?” He had expected Mercy to outbid the other ladies. Disappointment and then crisp anger quickly followed on the footsteps of his surprise.
Mrs. Kenton took his arm and drew him aside in a conspiratorial fashion. “Mr. Hartley, you must excuse me, but I find it necessary, for my sister’s good, to share with you a sad story. I know she would not wish me to tell you of it, but I believe you should be informed.”
He waited. She looked up at him, that tall feather in her hair twitching like the raised tail of an excited hunting hound.
“Isabella is in much the same position as you, Mr. Hartley. She too has been treated abominably and had her heart trampled by a gentleman with whom she thought she had an understanding.”
He waited, putting on his concerned face, not knowing what else might be expected from him. One never knew with women what reaction they required. Frequently he chose the wrong expression, or was accused of not listening. Tonight, he made an effort.
“She is a tenderhearted creature, and it wounds me to see her so depressed,” Mrs. Kenton continued. “But since we came here, her spirits have lightened. I daresay you have much to do with it.”
“Me? But I have barely spoken to your sister.”
The lady laughed, shaking a finger at him. “You have charmed her, you sly thing. Now I do hope you will treat her well and not disappoint as another has done.” She stopped then, seeing Isabella approach, and lowered her voice. “Do not let her heart remain damaged, Mr. Hartley. Of all men here, I believe you can fix it.”
Isabella Milford approached and curtsied, her face shining with hope. He couldn’t very well put her off. As they joined the quadrille just beginning, he apologized for his lateness and explained the reason.
“But do you not have men to help on the farm?” the lady asked.
“Yes. Although I like to do much of the work myself.”
She seemed puzzled by this, her pretty eyes confused.
“There is much satisfaction to be had in it,” he added.
Isabella was looking at his hand, and he realized, belatedly, that in his rush that evening, he’d forgotten his gloves. There was also some dirt visible under his fingernails. His partner graciously tried to pretend it went unseen. “It is most commendable, Mr. Hartley, that you do not rely on your other advantages, but choose to make your own way.”
He thanked her but had no inkling what she meant by his other advantages. Over her head, he’d just spied Mercy Danforthe in rapt conversation with Sir William. There was something different about her, something not immediately obvious. What could that dull fellow be telling her that was so interesting? The man rarely put more than four words together, yet he kept her enthralled tonight.
Miss Milford must have tracked the path of his gaze. “My sister tells me you have known Lady Mercy for many years.”
“Yes,” he replied, terse. “Many.”
Mercy was simply dressed this evening, he realized; none of her usual bright plumage in evidence. The Danforthe Brat almost looked like a normal woman, he mused, when she was not all “done up” and hiding behind her garments. She seemed smaller somehow. More accessible. He watched the little white flowers nodding in her hair as she agreed with something Milford told her.
“And are you acquainted with her fiancé?”
“Never met the man.”
“Oh.”
“I am hardly likely to meet him.” He realized he must have taken a misstep, for his partner was suddenly on his wrong side. In haste to correct his error, he stepped on her gown, and the sound of ripping stitches could be heard even above the music. She assured him it did not matter, when quite plainly it did. He apologized and paid careful attention to the dance after that. Remembering what her sister had told him, he tried to find cheering subjects they might discuss. It was clear that Mrs. Kenton assumed they should have much in common, but he could not find more than a cordial connection to Isabella Milford. She was pleasing to look at, she said all the right things, flattered him constantly, smiled on cue when he tried to be amusing. But something was missing.
As soon as the set was done, he escorted Miss Milford to her brother, so he could interrupt that cozy tête-à-tête.
Mercy’s eyes surveyed him with extra warmth tonight, although he assured himself it must merely be the reflection of all the candles. “I am glad you found the time to join us, Mr. Hartley.”
“Had a calving at home,” he muttered.
“Sir William”—she turned to the stalk swaying at her side—“perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch me a glass of punch and some cake?” He obediently left her side to do just that. Isabella likewise hurried off to mend the tear caused by Rafe’s clumsy boots. The moment he and Mercy were alone, she dropped her gracious manners and took him to severe task.
“Since you arrived late—without gloves and with your waistcoat buttons all in the wrong holes, I might add—it has completely made a mess of the bidding order,” she exclaimed peevishly. Extracting a small folded card from her drawstring reticule, she almost threw it at him. “Here is the card that was made for you after the bachelor auction. As you see, half the dances are now over and done with. Those poor ladies were left to wait in vain. You will apologize to them, or a few may demand refunds.”
Clearly she was in one of those moods, he mused. Something made her cross with him again and flustered. He suspected it went deeper than the fact of his lateness and his dress. Rafe calmly took the dance card she’d made and gave it a cursory glance. “My father tells me he stood up in my place.”
“You are fortunate, Hartley, to have such a handsome and obliging father. If he was old and toothless, I daresay no one would have accepted him as a replacement. It was also very good of him to stand in for you, when he told me specifically that he does not like to dance with anyone but his wife. As for your stepmama, you must apologize to her also, for sacrificing the pleasure of her husband’s company for most of the evening.”
It seemed tonight would be one long apology, and he wondered why he bothered coming.
“I had a calving,” he said again. “It was not a circumstance I could avoid. But I will thank my father and his wife, of course.” Studying the card she’d pushed at him, he noted that her name was not among those listed. “You didn’t make a single bid for me?”
“No, I did not. Why would I?”
“I took part in that silly auction only because I thought you would bid for me.”
Her eyes glittered, full of reflected candlelight. “You know I am engaged. It would be improper.”
“But we are friends now.”
“Friends? Like you and Mrs. Pyke of the velvet purse?”
She was fishing to find out more. Good. He liked her curious; he liked to know she was thinking about him. “My relationship with Mrs. Pyke is quite different.”
“You are the very limit, Hartley,” she exclaimed. Rafe couldn’t tell whether she was close to laughter or tears.
Mrs. Kenton passed, chattering away as she danced with a young man whose expression was one of pained politesse.
“There goes your mirror image,” he pointed out.
“That woman is nothing like me.”
“Really? Let’s see.” He counted on his fingers. “She believes firmly that meddling is her duty. She manages her brother’s life to save him the trouble, and fancies herself a matchmaker. The only difference is she doesn’t know she’s annoying. You”—he leaned down to whisper—“do.”
Her expression was quizzical, her lips pouting.
“Underneath it all you both have good intentions,” he added, “just misguided methods sometimes.”
He tried to take her hand, and for just a moment, he succeeded. Must have caught her by surprise. Curled around her slender, white-clad fingers, his own looked enormous, ungainly, the knuckles broad and scarred. Another reminder of their different worlds.
“There is good and bad in everyone, Mercy. No one is perfect. Not even you.”
Her gaze sharpened, emerald sparks cooling. “Lady Mercy, to you.” After lending it to him so briefly, she now retrieved her hand.
Rafe sighed. “Lady Mercy. To me.” She seemed determined that this was all she would ever be. The distance remained between them, carefully maintained by her despite his attempts to steer her closer.
“You are so sure I do not fit in your world,” he murmured. “Yet you would be equally out of place in mine.” Not that it mattered to him. He still wanted her there. “If you lived in my world, you might have to enjoy yourself once in a while, let down your hair and stop worrying about what others think.”
She ignored him and looked away, searching the dancers for someone in particular. Someone else to save her from his company. His heart ached when she dismissed him like this.
Rafe shook his head and closed the card in his fist. “What were you talking of with Milford?”
Her left eyebrow curved in a sensuous arch. “He has just informed me that he plans to sell his property. You may soon have a new landlord.”
That was no surprise. Milford evidently took on more than he and his pockets could handle when he purchased that pile of stones on the hill.
“Good riddance to him,” Rafe snapped. “Perhaps we’ll get a squire who takes more interest in the management of the place and doesn’t spend three-quarters of the year away from it.”
“Sir William has a seat in parliament that keeps him in Town so often.”
He glowered at her, not liking the way she was so quick to defend Milford. “Exactly. Why purchase land here if he has no time for it? Men like him collect houses for a hobby. They never view them as homes to be lived in.”
“I daresay he had hoped one day to spend more time here and make it his home. When he retired, perhaps.” She shrugged. “But he has decided to sell up and relinquish the trouble to another.”
“Hmph.”
She looked up at him inquiringly. “And the meaning of that grunt?”
“I reckon Milford has pockets to let. That’s why he’s ready to sell. Mark my words, he’s after your fortune, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s why he’s all over you like spines on a hedgehog.”
“It is indelicate to talk of money,” she reminded him, pert.
“Just the truth. You’re always a strong proponent of the truth.” Except when it didn’t favor her, he thought.
“Well, I believe his sisters’ visit has prompted the decision to sell. Neither lady likes the country much—only the idea of it. Admiring a rustic scene on a willow-pattern plate is perhaps as far as they should have ventured. Sydney Dovedale is a little too rural for them. They much prefer the comforts of their brother’s London home, and Mrs. Kenton is extremely fond, she tells me, of the tamer environs of Buckinghamshire.”
“Is there such a difference?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, Sydney Dovedale is too rural and remote for many folk.” For Rafe, that was the attraction. He did not like crowds or busy streets where he had to adjust his stride to suit the speed of others.
“That will change in time.” Mercy sighed. “New developments will come even to Sydney Dovedale. One day I shouldn’t be at all surprised if even the smallest country cottage has indoor plumbing.”
“I hear it never works properly for those who have it.” He sniffed, digging his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “And who needs to bathe that often in any case?”
“You sound just like your great-grandmama!”
He did it on purpose to hear her laugh, to see her eyes light up. The pleasure he got from it never faded. Rafe was plucking up his courage to ask her to dance, when she raised her hand in an elegant gesture, and suddenly there was Mrs. Pyke at his side with feathers in her hair and too much punch on her breath. Efforts had been made to dress her up in dark blue silk, but the only thing about her not drooping was her bosom.
Mercy exclaimed jauntily, “You must find space on your dance card for Mrs. Pyke.”
His friend’s wife was tapping her feet to the music, which was loud enough at that point to prevent her hearing anything they said. There was a definite tilt and sway to her motion and a brilliance to her cheeks that went beyond the application of rouge. “Mrs. Pyke,” he shouted, “have you been at the punch?”
She nodded merrily. “To excess, Mr. Hartley.”
“Where are the children?” he demanded, annoyed. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d forgotten the little Pykes.
“The children are in good hands,” Mercy replied on the woman’s behalf. “They are in the care of a good lady I hired for the evening.”
“Oh, do let’s dance!” Mrs. Pyke exclaimed, grabbing his sleeve and pulling on it. “Do let’s!”
Rafe looked at Mercy. Her mouth was set in a firm pucker, her eyes stabbing at him like sharpened icicles. “Do dance with your particular friend.”
Fine, he thought angrily. Now she’d passed her snippy mood on to him. “Mrs. Pyke”—he turned to the bouncing woman—“we shall indeed dance. What was I thinking to delay?”
Chapter 18
She knew his aunt Sophie had given him dance lessons that week. Luckily for him, his partner was too dizzy, even before the dance began, to realize he steered her the wrong way most of the time. But he was trying. He had taken lessons in dancing. That he should bother was a surprise to Mercy, for he counted himself above all this. He might have mocked her for being proud and conceited, but he was no less discriminatory in his own way, scorning certain activities he considered beneath his trouble. Busy trying to convince her that he was Humble Farmer Rafe, he failed to recognize his own snobbery.
Lady Ursula had suggested she take Rafe’s “improvement” on as another of her missions. “The boy plainly needs a knowledgeable eye cast over his clothing choices and his grooming,” she had said. “We might at least see that he does not embarrass us on sight, even if the image is destroyed the moment he opens his mouth.”
Mercy had agreed with a chuckle. “I always think it a great pity men have to open their mouths at all. It would be much easier on us if they remained silent.”
This—she was forced to admit tonight—was equally true of some women. And she followed Mrs. Pyke around the room with a pained gaze. Several other faces were observing the lady with wondering eyes. She was loudly laughing now, having slipped on a piece of cake and fallen into Rafe’s embrace.
William Milford returned with cake and punch, but she had no time to enjoy either. A number of irate ladies headed directly for her. As head of the planning committee, they came to Mercy, ready to complain about the loss of the partner for whom they’d bid. Mr. James Hartley had saved many of them from a wallflower’s fate in the absence of his son, but he was, of course, a married man, and so not the catch they’d hoped to win. Now, adding insult to injury, Rafe not only came late, he danced with an anonymous lady.
Mercy hastily directed them all to Mrs. Kenton who, she assured them, was responsible for the foolish bachelor auction in the first place. Let her take some of the blame. If the woman was eager to meddle where she was not needed, she ought to take the arrows as well as the accolades. Mercy certainly had.
And she had more than Rafe’s lack of punctuality and a group of disgruntled ladies to worry about. Earlier that evening, Sir William had mentioned quite casually that he brought his sisters into the country entirely on the suggestion of Mrs. Hartley, who wrote to him very recently at his London house. It was wholly her idea, it seemed, that the ladies should come to Sydney Dovedale with him. She had wanted them, most particularly, to meet Mercy.
Mrs. Hartley, however, had always acted as if she had no hand in the ladies coming with Sir William—as if she barely knew them. It was all very strange. Did Rafe’s stepmother think that she and Mrs. Kenton would be friends? Did she, like Rafe, think they had much in common? A horrifying thought indeed.
Glancing around the room, she saw Mrs. Kenton apparently badgering one of the young ladies into eating a slice of cake she plainly didn’t want and advising another on drinking less punch. On all sides of the loud lady, people withdrew, trying not to catch her eye or likewise her criticism. Slowly, Mercy took measure of the wide space left around herself. Sir William was the only soul standing near, and he did so on the balls of his feet, ready to take flight. His nervous gaze constantly darted about, as if the room was on fire and he sought an exit.
She’d noticed a chill on her shoulders and now realized it was because no bodies were clustered around her, as they were around other people. Each time the doors opened to admit another person, and with them a blast of cold air, Mercy felt it directly, because there was no one nearby to shelter her. There were a great deal of backs turned. When she met an eye, it was hastily turned away and fastened intently elsewhere. In the past, she’d assumed it was natural deference—respect for her status. Now she wondered.
She swallowed with difficulty, for her throat was suddenly dry.
Had she been such a painful nuisance?
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 23