A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  And for the first time in eight years, the Earl of Perth rested as well as slept.

  Chapter 23

  “Hart, for heaven’s sake, where are you? The maid here said she knocked but you didn’t answer and Richard is waiting to go and Fanny refuses to leave until you say good-bye—Oh, my God!”

  Hart fought his way up through thick shrouds of lethargy. Muzzily, he searched for the source of the voices.

  Two feminine figures stood in the doorway, outlined by a nimbus of early morning light. He squinted and shook his head. Annabelle and some maid. He heard his sister gasp before he could form a word. With a snap of whirling skirts she disappeared.

  “ ’Scuse me, sir!” the maid sang out. The door slammed shut and Mercy, snuggled against him, stirred.

  With a growing sense of despair Hart stared down at her. The coverlet had slipped during the night and the sun, angling low in the autumn sky, streamed across the bed, bathing her naked breasts in golden, soporific light. Her hair rippled in a tangled veil over his naked chest. Her hand splayed intimately across his chest.

  For an instant he closed his eyes and tightened his hold on her, savoring the pleasure of sheltering her in his arms, however illusional he knew that to be. She made a soft, objecting noise. A smile touched his lips and died. He would give his soul to hear that grumbling complaint each of the rest of his dawns.

  “Mercy, wake up.”

  “What?” Her voice was husky. She lifted her face. Her skin was flushed pink. She looked so damn young and fresh and innocent.… He wanted to howl. “Hart?”

  “Yes.” There was no time to talk. Each minute counted toward rectifying this unrectifiable situation. “Mercy, you have to go back to your room. People are starting to rise. They’ll be in the corridors soon.”

  She pushed herself up on her arms. Comprehension sharpened the soft cast of her features. She looked down at her open shirt and her hair fell forward, veiling her expression from him. She jerked away from him, sitting back on her heels. He ached to haul her back into his embrace. With unsteady fingers she began buttoning her crumpled shirt.

  “I’ll send for you,” he said. “Within the hour. We have to talk. But not now. Annabelle was just here. She saw you.”

  “What timing!” Her voice shook. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t tread the boards.”

  “Damn it to hell,” he muttered. She blanched.

  No time.

  “You have to go now, Mercy.” He stood up, pulling her to her feet beside him. She moved away from him and for the first time he noted that her feet were still encased in their soft leather half boots and this, of all the acts he’d perpetrated on her virgin body, seemed the most monstrous: he’d taken her maidenhead while she’d still had her boots on. She moved carefully and he cursed when he realized what made her wince with each footfall.

  “Jesus, Mercy. I am so—”

  “Do not say you are sorry.” She wheeled around, her hand on the doorknob. “I could not stand it if you were to say you were sorry.”

  “But—”

  “You are not some animal at the mercy of your impulses, Hart,” she said in a tense, savage voice. “You knew full well what you did. You could have stopped. You could have.”

  He went rigid, stung with a razor-tipped lash.

  He’d thought he endured a full measure of torment before. That he’d tasted a complete portion of despair when he’d questioned his own sanity. He nearly smiled. He had only dallied with anguish. But now, now he would learn its full embrace.

  She hated him. And with every reason.

  Somehow he managed to nod. She was right. He could have stopped. But he hadn’t.

  “And dammit,” she continued in that low, furious voice. “I’m not an animal either. I could have said no. I could have stopped you. So do not say you are sorry.”

  He stared at her, amazed.

  “Not now. Not ever,” she said. “It’s too late to wish you hadn’t indulged yourself and far too late to wish that I’d stopped you.”

  She snatched the door open and without glancing either way, marched into the hall, leaving him stunned with disbelief.

  The clock on the marble mantel struck eight times and Mercy, who’d been waiting for the chime, rose from her bedroom window seat. Lady Acton was expecting her. The Dowager’s note, delivered an hour after Mercy had returned to her own room, had been specific.

  In a way it was a relief. Nothing could have been more torturous than hours—perhaps days—of anticipating the aftermath of, of—God, what did one call what had happened last night? Maelstrom? Vortex? Cyclone?

  It had certainly not been the fulfillment of the secret, tender expectations she’d harbored. Those had been gentle imaginings; this was fierceness, an urgency she’d never dreamed possible. Passion. They’d made passion.

  She smoothed her hair back with shaking fingers and pinched color into the cheeks she knew were far too pale. She made her way to the hall, aware of a dull ache between her legs, an ache that had less to do with pain than tangible memory.

  Hart had been in her last night. His hard, tense body had lain over her, pressing down on her, and then he had been in her; a thick, hard presence that had been uncomfortable and compelling and shatteringly intimate. She would never be the same.

  She almost laughed at the melodramatic summation as she made her way down the interminably long staircase. But it was true. Beyond anyone’s ability to argue, last night had changed her life, her body, and her heart.

  And—she bit down hard on her lip, forcing tears away—the hell of it was, she had no idea what it had meant to Hart. He’d not said a word besides his near apology. God, how could he? Didn’t he want to know what she felt?

  She paused outside the morning room. Tipping her chin at a defiant angle, she pushed open the heavy mahogany door and went in.

  She was unprepared for the number of people therein. Good God, she thought, feeling the floorboards tilt slightly beneath her feet, she’d been called to a tribunal. Was it really necessary for Lady Acton to have an audience at her denunciation?

  The Dowager was ensconced in a chair near the fire. Her spine did not touch the upholstery. Her gaze narrowed on Mercy and Mercy understood. She, impertinent pretender to the Acton coronet, was once and for all to be revealed as the brazen, lowborn creature she was. It was to be a lesson for Lord Acton.

  Seated at Lady Acton’s feet was Annabelle Moreland. Her head was bowed, her expression hidden. Behind the two women, hovering near the fireplace mantel, stood Acton. He looked up as she entered. Reproach and embarrassment chased each other across his blunt features.

  And in front of her, facing them, his back rigid, was Hart. His hair, she noted irrelevantly, was too long. It curled against the acid whiteness of his shirt collar. It was thick hair. She knew firsthand just how luxuriant. Warmth washed up her throat.

  Hart, following Acton’s gaze, turned. When he saw her his mouth—Lord, had that mouth touched her so boldly, so intimately?—parted only to snap shut. His expression, always unreadable, seemed even more remote. The very color seemed leached from his beautiful eyes.

  “Miss Coltrane.” Lady Acton beckoned her forward.

  Mercy started. Lady Acton’s voice revealed not only a deep revulsion but grudging pity as well. For the first time Mercy realized how society would see her.

  Ruined.

  This is how it would be. Lady Acton’s flat, superior regard or the disappointment in Lord Acton’s gaze, even the shamed hint of curiosity with which Annabelle glanced at her, they would all become familiar, echoed in numberless faces.

  “Come in, Miss Coltrane. It appears we have much to discuss.” Lady Acton’s rings glinted in the sunlight as she gestured to the settee across from her.

  Mercy did as she was bid, took a seat upon the edge of the cushion, and hid her twining hands in her skirts. Her stomach was knotting and her heart raced. She was afraid.

  “I believe this … situation would be best served with frankness.�
� Mercy glanced at Hart. He was watching Lady Acton silently, an odd, controlled readiness about his posture.

  “It is too late to express shock,” Lady Acton continued. “Whatever respect due my home or my feelings or the feelings of my guests”—her gaze touched Annabelle’s blond head—“apparently has not influenced you.”

  Mercy closed her eyes for a second, fighting for composure. Hart took a step forward and Lady Acton met his movement with a quelling stare. “Or you either, sir.”

  “I don’t give a damn—”

  “Obviously,” Lady Acton shot back.

  “Here, Perth,” Acton interjected, stepping to his mother’s side. “I’d have you remember your manners, sir.”

  “If he’d remembered his manners, we wouldn’t be having this discussion!” Lady Acton snapped. “To be caught by his own sister … in Acton Hall!”

  “Manners?” Mercy stared. Is that all that had happened last night, a breach of etiquette? Was she ruined not because she’d lost her virginity but because she’d been foolish enough to be caught?

  “Good God,” she said, hearing the rising hysteria in her choked laugh, “I must write Woolsey’s School for Exceptional Young Ladies immediately!”

  “What are you talking about, Miss Coltrane?” Lady Acton asked.

  “I shall insist they offer more discussion on the Social Graces. Manners! Who would have made the connection? To think my … downfall may have begun with something so seemingly inconsequential as using the fish fork in place of the shrimp trident!”

  Her mockery was met with absolute silence until, impossibly, Hart laughed. It was a full-throated, appreciative sound and it echoed in the quiet room.

  “For my friend Lady Timmons’s sake I will assume you are overwrought,” Lady Acton said, the skin whitening on either side of her nostrils.

  “Kind of you,” Mercy answered. For the first time since she’d woken, she felt herself. Lady Acton could have broken her. Had the Dowager accused her of disgracing her family, her mother, her upbringing, Mercy would have been reduced to as pliant a material as Lady Acton could have wished.

  But to dismiss what had transpired between Hart and herself as a social infraction, one whose gravest consequence was that it might put Lady Acton in a unflattering light …! But then, to these people social transgressions were the only real sin.

  She knew what she must do.

  “As I was saying,” Lady Acton went on, “whatever the failings of others, I know my duty. And I shall do it. Your welfare is my responsibility, Miss Coltrane. That responsibility does not stop at mere physical considerations. It includes your social health as well.”

  Hart’s gaze narrowed on Lady Acton. Lord Acton cleared his throat. “Well said, Mother. And I … I am fully cognizant of my own part in this … misfortune.”

  Oh, God, thought Mercy, trying to stifle another burble of hysteria, how could he possibly conceive himself accountable for last night? It was absurd!

  Unless, she thought, he believed that in her wretchedness at discovering he wasn’t going to offer for her she’d thrown herself at the nearest available Title? Or rather into The Title’s bed.

  “And what part would that be?” The Title Himself asked, and by God, if there was not a glint of rueful amusement in his eyes.

  Acton cleared his throat again. “Mother—and Miss Moreland—have pointed out to me that in attempting to bolster Miss Coltrane’s self-confidence”—Hart snorted. Acton blushed profusely—“well, I encouraged the gel to have an inflated sense of her own importance. Undoubtedly, she was led to expect—”

  “Expect what?” Mercy asked.

  Acton pulled his collar away from his throat with one finger. Her refused to meet her eye. “I … possibly … led her to think herself socially invulnerable. I am sorry, Miss Coltrane. There are, when all is said and done, rules.”

  This last was said with such remorse that Mercy found herself pitying him. Hart, apparently, did not share the feeling. All humor had died on his lean face. He surged forward only to stop suddenly, as if checked by an invisible cord.

  Annabelle peeked up at her, triumph in her pale eyes.

  “That doesn’t matter now,” Lady Acton said. “What does matter is how we will deal with this situation. And we will deal with it, as distasteful as it must be to all parties involved, in the only honorable way open to us.” She turned to Mercy, antipathy in the jerk of her head. “Perth will make it right, gel.”

  “How kind of him,” Mercy said. She refused to look at Hart.

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it. You are fortunate that you are in the Duke of Acton’s house. Fortunate or perfidious.”

  Hart quivered where he stood, but remained silent. Mercy felt herself grow chill. “How so, madam?” she asked, her chin hitching higher.

  “I will have no scandal attached to my house, my name, or my guests. You knew this. We will not allow our ancestral home to be used as a brothel by light-skirts and profligates.”

  She would not break eye contact first. She would not give this woman the satisfaction. Her hands trembled in her skirts and still she met that imperious glare with her own brand of hauteur.

  “You had best watch your own manners, madam.” Hart’s voice was low, calm, and deadly. “You are addressing the future Marchioness of Perth.”

  Annabelle’s head snapped upright and she gasped.

  Little fool, thought Mercy. Hadn’t she seen this coming? It had been obvious from the first where this conversation must end.

  “Hart. You can’t! Our family … the title.… You’re the Earl of Perth!”

  “Be quiet, Annabelle,” Hart said coldly. “You should have anticipated the results of your … divulgence. Did you imagine that Lady Acton would demand”—there was an odd emphasis, nearly a sneer, on the word—“anything less? God, you are a fool.”

  “Here now, Perth—”

  Hart ignored Lord Acton. “Lady Acton is Mercy’s chaperone, her surrogate guardian, for God’s sake.” His lips spread in a biting, humorless smile. “Though it will doubtless comfort you to know that I am certain Lady Acton is even more chagrined than you by the contingency which necessitates an earl marrying an American.”

  He was right, Mercy thought. Damn him, she could read the truth of what he said in the harsh, indignant line of Lady Acton’s countenance.

  “Perhaps Miss Coltrane does not wish to wed?” Annabelle made the suggestion wildly, frantically. As one, each of them looked at her, waiting for her answer.

  “Oh, but she does. For now,” Mercy said. She was not going to act the fool, no matter how much her pride demanded it. She would not bring an unnamed babe into the world. She would play along with this farce as long as she had to.

  “Well, then,” Lady Acton said. “I suppose we can announce the nuptials at the ball. Though such a hasty courtship will provoke comment.”

  “No,” Mercy said.

  “Miss Coltrane?” Lady Acton asked, eyes narrowed.

  “I said no. You are correct, Lady Acton. An announcement at your ball will serve no purpose other than to awaken idle speculation. We will wait until next month.”

  Lady Acton and Annabelle traded confused glances. Hart regarded her for a second before understanding sharpened his already keen glance.

  “Well done, Mercy,” he said.

  “I think so, sir,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” Annabelle said, glancing about as though she expected some further horrendous ramifications to announce themselves. Her pallor was severe, and Mercy realized with some surprise just how very much Annabelle was stricken by the notion of having to welcome her as a sister-in-law. Though welcome was hardly the word for it.

  “Why, Annabelle. Miss Coltrane here is doing what I believe they call ‘covering her bases.’ ”

  “Bases? What rubbish are you talking, Perth?” Acton asked.

  “It’s a game they play in America, called baseball. ‘Covering your bases’ refers to protecting as many contingencies a
s possible.”

  “Well, I still don’t know what the blazes—sorry, Mama, Miss Moreland—you mean,” Acton said.

  Mercy noted his omission of her name. A small slight, inconsequential, but the cumulative effect was too much and, damn, damn, try as she might she could not control the quiver of her lower lip. Hart took three ground-eating strides to where Lord Acton stood.

  “If you ever show Miss Coltrane the least amount of disrespect again, I shall see to it that you are personally and very, very physically involved in a scandal that shall have society hissing for years.”

  Acton listened in open dread to the dispassionate promise and backed away, mumbling under his breath. “Didn’t mean any offense, I’m sure. Miss Coltrane, beg pardon.”

  “What did he mean, ‘covering your bases’?” Annabelle persisted.

  Mercy studied her a moment. “Your brother suspects that I’m not sure this is the best offer I can come up with. He is correct.”

  Annabelle gasped with outrage.

  “But,” Mercy continued, anger driving her now, “as I do not yet know if I have—how to say this?—a bun in the oven?” Annabelle’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Lady Acton touched her hand to her heart. Vulgar did they think her? She would bludgeon them with her vulgarity—“I shall simply wait and see. If I am, ah … about to find pups? I expect I’ll make do with His Lordship here. But if I haven’t, er … swallowed a pumpkin seed? Why, then, the field is still open and I shall certainly aim higher than a mere earl. One month and I shall doubtless know if I’m to, hm … wear the bustle backward? The royal family is extensive, is it not? I’m sure I’ll have numerous opportunities. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do. I would not wish to blemish Lady Acton’s ancestral home with my presence. I will be leaving this afternoon.”

  “You can’t leave, Miss Coltrane. Think of how it will look—”

  “I don’t give a damn, and yes, madam, I can. And I will.” Without waiting for a reply, she rose and swept from the room.

  Chapter 24