Mercy’s blurred gaze found Rafe. At least he liked her.
She couldn’t be so bad, if Rafe sought her company. He was honest about his likes and dislikes, and even though they quarreled—fiercely at times—no one made him walk over to her, did they? No one had made him call a truce with her.
Rafe. Thank goodness she was not completely without friends. Her gaze cleared after several more blinks and a hasty dab with a handkerchief. She observed him now with greater benevolence and forgiveness than ever before. Rafe.
***
Aware of his father and stepmother watching in bemusement, he steered Mrs. Pyke toward them. Time to begin Lady Know-All’s lesson.
“Father, may I introduce Mrs. Pyke of…” He glanced down at the woman wilting against his arm, cooling her face with flapping fingers in the absence of a proper fan. “From whence do you hail, madam? I forget the place.”
She looked blankly up at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
“Where are you from?” he whispered urgently.
Mrs. Pyke seemed vexed by the question and then exclaimed, “I was born in Pillory Lane, weren’t I?”
Well, that would do for now, he thought, amused. “Mrs. Pyke of Pillory Lane, London,” he confirmed to his startled parents.
His stepmother was the first to recover and politely ask how Mrs. Pyke enjoyed the ball.
“I’m fair worn out,” the woman replied. “Ain’t been to a ball in ages.”
“Perhaps some punch?”
Rafe interjected that he thought Mrs. Pyke had drunk enough punch, and his father gravely agreed. This left his stepmother temporarily at a loss for subjects. So Rafe said brightly, “Lady Mercy has selected Mrs. Pyke as a potential bride for me. Is that not thoughtful of her?”
While his parents looked on in undisguised horror, Mrs. Pyke slapped his arm and laughed. “Sauce box!”
Having left this news to ferment, Rafe gallantly led his partner back across the room, smiling broadly.
***
Within a quarter of an hour or less, the news was all over the room.
Mrs. Hartley rushed over to ask her what mischief she played to match Rafe with Mrs. Pyke. Mrs. Kenton approached her with the same question shortly after, but broached in less polite terms. “That frightful, common woman for Mr. Rafe Hartley? He tells us you selected her as a potential bride? This cannot be the case. I think he jests with me again.”
Mercy looked over and saw him grinning at her. “Mr. Rafe Hartley is full of jests, as you’ve observed.” He’d done it to irritate her, of course, make her look foolish. “I thought you liked Mrs. Pyke. You lent her a gown.”
“I begin to wish I had not,” the woman replied haughtily.
“But after all, despite Mrs. Pyke’s lack of elegance and refinement, she is a victim of unhappy circumstances. As such, she should be an object for our concern, not our scorn.”
“Well said,” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley.
“But I did not know you had plans of this nature. What about Isabella? She is a much better match for Rafe Hartley.”
“I’m not sure your sister is suitable for Rafe.” Mercy grappled with the best way to word her objections without seeming to criticize Isabella. “His character is too strong.”
His stepmother agreed that Rafe needed a wife capable of keeping him in line, not one who would permit him to rule the roost.
Mrs. Kenton’s feathered headdress trembled fitfully. “I will not let my sister’s chance for happiness be spoiled again, young woman.”
“Again?”
Mrs. Hartley intervened with another cup of punch for Mrs. Kenton. Mercy, fearing the woman would throw the drink at her, attempted to smooth the waters. “I can assure you both,” she said steadily, “Rafe is not going to marry Mrs. Pyke. It’s just another of his pranks and an opportunity for him to make sport of me. Of us all.”
Mrs. Kenton demanded to know why.
“I’m afraid it’s what he does,” his stepmother replied with a soft sigh. “He’s always looking for ways to ridicule convention.”
“Well, I must say!” Mrs. Kenton muttered under her breath, eyeing Rafe as he whirled his particular friend about the dance floor. “That fellow has gone down in my estimation, to be sure.”
“I thought you enjoyed his lively manner,” said Mercy.
“There’s lively and there’s impertinent. Mr. Rafe Hartley, I see now, is in danger of becoming the latter.”
Next came his father, who strode around the perimeter to complain to Mercy as if it was all her fault. “I thought that boy was settling down at last, finally growing up, serious about life. But now I see I was wrong. He’s just as intent on mischief as ever.”
“Mrs. Pyke is the wife of a friend,” she explained. “Rafe has been helping them, that’s all.”
The subject of their conversation was spinning his colorful partner around the floor like a dust mop, enjoying the scandalized expressions around him.
“And why could he not tell me this?” his father grumbled fiercely. “To make me suffer, of course.”
“Mr. Hartley, I’m sure he—”
“That boy will never change. He refuses my assistance, never heeds my advice. Everything in life to him is a jest.”
“But he is so anxious for your approval, sir.”
He scowled, adjusted his stance, put his hands behind his back. “I see scant evidence of that.”
“He wants to make his own way in the world so you will be proud of him.”
James gestured at the dancing fool. “And this is how he means to do it? He might at least have worn clean clothes and gloves.”
“But those things are not important to Rafe, sir.”
He sniffed. “I’m not sure what is these days.”
Mercy looked up at James Hartley, who was impeccably attired, as always. Like her, she supposed he took comfort from the proper garments and could not understand how anyone else managed without them. She was only just beginning to realize herself that it was not necessarily clothes that made the man. “You must remember, sir, your son’s experiences of life have been very different from your own. He has learned to value other things. He must wonder why appearances matter so much to us. Actions are far more important to him.”
James still frowned, watching his son escort Mrs. Pyke and her bosoms up and down the dance. “And his actions tonight? What are we to make of those?”
Mercy shook her head. “I fear this is my fault. He thinks he’s teasing me, sir. He’s making one of his points.”
“Which would be?”
“That he is not afraid of rumor or other folks’ opinions.”
“Those things may not be important to my son, but they are to me. It’s time he learned to consider the feelings of others.”
Mercy replied, “I’m sure he does not mean to hurt you, sir, but sometimes getting any reaction from a parent is better than getting none at all.” She knew this, because of her own trying relationship with Carver, the brother whose concern and attention she could capture only by running away.
Oh, Rafe was walking toward her with a very purposeful look on his face.
The prickly, overgrown hedge loomed again, and she raced toward it, wind whipping her face, tugging on her hair. Again, voices shouted warnings, urging her to slow down and take the gate instead. But she faced that hedge, put her head down, and gripped the reins.
It was not the fault of the horse out of control under her. This was her decision, just as it had once been her mother’s. She wanted to know what was on the other side of that hedge.
Her mother did not want the gate, because she preferred the thrill of adventure. Nothing would have stopped her that day. Mercy understood that now.
***
When she saw him heading toward her, she turned her back and walked through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor. Rafe lengthened his stride, took a sharp turn, and blocked her path.
“People are watching,” she exclaimed. “After the exhibit you just made of yourself—”
“She told me that you winkled it out of her. About Pyke’s debts and why she and the children are in my care.”
“Of course. As if I would truly believe Mrs. Pyke was your mistress!”
“But you kept up the pretense.”
“Why not? You recently lamented the fact that I had lost my sense of fun.”
Grabbing her hand, he hurried her through the small vestibule and into the gentlemen’s cloakroom.
“Whatever is the matter now?” she demanded.
“This is more the fun I had in mind.” He kicked the door shut behind him, and there in the dark, among the discarded greatcoats, Rafe kissed her, wrapping her in his arms, wanting to keep her in them forever. The need overflowed this evening, and it was too late for any attempt at good behavior. She pushed him back, whispering that they may have been seen, but he advanced again until they were both surrounded by coats, lost among them. Even when she cursed and struggled to get away, her slender arms in their long silk gloves seemed to be reaching for him. Her fingers made a pretense of slapping at him and ran teasingly along the broad slope of his shoulders. The warmth of her body, the soft curves undulating against his hard chest, only pulled him closer. And he ached for her.
Sweeping his hands down the sway of her spine, he reached her bottom and caressed it. She shivered. Her gasps tickled his cheek, then her rushed breath warmed his mouth, moistening his lips.
“Kiss me,” he demanded, needing her surrender in the darkness.
“No. How dare you compromise me yet again?”
“Kiss me,” he said again, his voice gruff, hard.
There was a small sound, like a mewl of despair. He knew the feeling.
At last came the kiss. An angry one, more complaint than submission. After a moment, as she began to withdraw from it, he deepened the kiss, made her give more, and he took it. She melted through the coats until she was against the wall. Her sweet perfume filled his senses, reminded him of the herb garden at his uncle’s house, where he’d arrived as a boy of ten. He could almost hear the bees droning amid the chalky mauve flowers. Coming there to live, he’d finally known happiness for the first time in his life, begun to think he might belong somewhere. It was the scent of coming home.
Her fingers slid down his chest to the buttons of his waistcoat, where they worked quickly. Ah, she was eager. His kisses moved to her chin, her cheek, her ear, the side of her neck. Here the perfume was even stronger, and he could imagine her seated at a dressing-table mirror, dabbing the scented oil on her pulse points, leaving little clues for him to follow. She was probably undressed while she sat there applying her perfume, he thought, the image foggy in his mind. Perhaps she wore stockings. Yes, just stockings. He pictured himself standing behind her, watching in her mirror as he reached around to cup her breasts and fondle them. A shudder of desire rippled through his body.
“Rafe.”
He licked her skin, let his tongue slip into the valley between her full breasts, where she was even warmer. Excitement lifted his cock, lengthened it.
“Rafe!” This time she spoke louder and pulled on his hair. “Rafe!”
Slightly annoyed, he looked up.
“There’s someone tapping at the door.”
Sure enough, as the blood stopped rushing quite so loudly through his ears, he heard the sound of a meek voice at the cloakroom door. “Mr. Rafe Hartley, sir. You’re needed at the farm, sir. Bessie’s calf-bed has come out. Young Will has been trying to get it back in, but it’s a right mess, sir.”
He set Mercy back on her feet and gathered his breath as best he could. “I’ll come at once,” he choked out.
In the darkness, he couldn’t see her features, but he could hear her unsteady breathing.
“I must go,” he muttered.
He kissed her quickly, just once more, while she stood limp against the wall. Then he left the cloakroom. As he followed the messenger boy down the stairs to the alley below, he made a hasty check of his clothes and discovered that Mercy had rebuttoned his waistcoat, putting the errant buttons back in their proper holes. Even in the dark, even in the heat of passion, she was anxious that everything be in order.
He mounted his horse and glanced upward at the glow of candles through the windows. Music still played, accompanied by the dancers’ merry stomping. He only hoped Mercy would not find anyone else to dance with. With any luck, he’d left her in a knee-weakened state. It was damned frustrating that he had to leave her at all.
And it was bloody inconvenient to be in love with one’s former wife.
Smiling haplessly, he steered his horse for home.
***
It was, she supposed, a farmer’s lot. Always there was some catastrophe with which to deal. She never had anything more trying to worry about than a wine stain on a crinoline.
Mercy waited a while before she exited the cloakroom, listening at the door first to be sure there was no one near. But if the messenger had been told to find Rafe in the cloakroom, someone must have seen them go in. It was a sobering thought. Once again, she’d flirted with scandal by letting him take her in there. Letting him kiss her that way. She had no excuse for it. Not a solitary glass of punch had passed her lips tonight.
She crossed the empty vestibule and reentered the ballroom. A few faces turned to observe her, and she thought she heard an odd snicker or two among them. Several fans fluttered a little too fast, and more than one gentleman cast her a knowing smirk.
This was very bad. She had forgotten herself with him again. This time in public.
Chin high, she walked to where Mrs. Hartley stood waving to her. Mercy’s heart was throbbing, butterflies beating their wings in her belly, but even with that madness inside, when she caught her reflection in a mirrored panel, a calm, composed face looked back at her. No blush of guilt, just a sultry twinkle in her eyes that might reveal—to an observant soul—mischief afoot.
It was suddenly very dull without Rafe, as if some of the candles were snuffed, she thought, one hand slyly checking her curls and the little flowers nestled among them. He hadn’t even stayed for half the ball, yet he’d made quite a stir, and now his loss was felt. It was his wicked charm, of course. That carefree manner that stopped at no boundary.
May he not ride home too incautiously, too hastily. Oh, what if he was thrown from his horse and lay injured on the dark road? What if he was set upon by robbers in the night? He could be dead already or minutes from it.
There she was again already, letting her imagination ornament a few facts into wild fiction, as Edward Hobbs would say.
Rafe could look after himself.
He couldn’t, though, could he? That was just the problem. What was she going to do about him? About them?
This sneaking about would not do. It was a sure way to court scandal.
But she wanted him. Every pore on her skin, every hair on her head, yearned for his touch. Mercy could no longer pretend that her concern for him was merely that of one old friend for another. In his case, she was not the detached observer she’d intended to be. She was entangled, ensnared too deeply to find her way out.
She looked around for Mrs. Pyke and saw her sleeping in a chair under a sconce, a half-eaten slice of cake in her lap. There, a short distance away, was Mrs. Kenton, conversing with her weepy sister at the punch bowl. They both looked over at Mercy, and she knew, at once, they’d seen her go with Rafe into the cloakroom. It felt as if the entire room spun, and the floor cleared around her. Whispers of scandal floated in the air along with the dustbeams stirred by the dancers’ feet.
She took a breath. And then another. Their next encounter, she decided in that instant, would be on her terms. No more hide-and-seek. No more games of chance. She, Mercy Danforthe, must take control of the situation before it got even further out of her hands.
Mr. James Hartley suddenly materialized at her side and courteously offered his services for the next dance. She took his hand, sincerely expressing her gratitude and feeling as if she wo
uld forever be in his debt.
“Mayhap, Lady Mercy, it is time you left Morecroft,” he said, his tone kindly but firm.
She nodded her agreement, but what she had in mind was probably not what he expected.
Chapter 19
It took a while to get the cow settled again, the calf-bed back. When it was done, he went back to the house, stripped off his soiled clothes, and washed his chest and shoulders. He pulled on some clean clothes and sat by the fire a while, thinking about Mercy, trying not to imagine her dancing at the ball without him. Once again, they’d left the matter between them undone. He wondered if it would ever be finished, if they would ever find a way to bridge the weir.
He stirred up the fire as he felt a sudden brisk chill. But then he heard the door hinges, and he knew it must have blown open. He turned.
His mind was surely playing tricks.
A woman stood in the open doorway. A woman in an evening gown and long white silk gloves. She was shivering in the cold. “I know we don’t belong together,” she said simply. “And I know we should never have kissed, should never have thought of each other this way. But I want to make love to you. I want us to have the wedding night we never had. This is our chance, and we should make the most of it. We have a few hours until dawn. Will it be enough?”
***
She waited, watching him, hoping she hadn’t just made a fool of herself.
Rafe stood with a poker in his hand, as if he might need to defend himself, she mused. “What made you change your mind, Brat?” he demanded, hoarse.
“Must have been the jealousy, country boy,” she replied wryly. “Watching you dance with Mrs. Pyke.”
Finally he put the poker back on its hook. “Shut the door. ’Tis damn cold out.”
“I know. I rode all the way here in your stepmother’s curricle. No coat.” She held out her arms and walked toward him. “I must be mad.”
Rafe raised his fingers to her hair and began slowly removing the little flowers. “Jealous, eh?”
“Yes. Jealousy and lust.” She knew he wanted to hear her admit that she had faults.
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 24