“I don’t know why I’m set on this course,” he finally responded to his brother. “Marriage is not something that ever appealed to me.”
“Which is the very reason I’m confounded by your willingness to accept it as your fate so readily.”
“Mother says the child favors me.”
“I’ve seen numerous babes in my life and they all look the same. Ruddy cheeks and pursed mouths and squinting eyes.”
“You’re becoming quite the cynic as you grow older.”
“Taking after my older brothers.”
“So you excel in the bedchamber?” he asked, with a desperate need to divert the conversation away from him before his skull split in two.
Ainsley did little more than give him a sly smile. “You’re attempting to change the subject.”
“Well, yes, I—”
The door clicked open, and he glanced over his shoulder as his mother and Miss Dawson entered the room. Then he was coming to his feet more swiftly than he should have and the pain shot through his leg, nearly causing him to lose his balance. He caught himself on the back of the chair, hoping to God that Miss Dawson’s attention had been turned toward the books or some trivial piece of artwork and not him. If she had seen his pitiful display of rising she gave no sign of it. His mother, on the other hand, looked as though she wanted to weep, but, thankfully, recovered herself quickly enough. She knew he hated to be smothered by motherly concern.
To be smothered by a lusty maiden, however, brought no objections from him.
Although he’d not been with a woman since he woke up in that damnable cesspool that they called a hospital. Of late, he’d had the stirrings again, but what woman would want the scarred creature he’d become?
“I’m fine,” he muttered to Ainsley, jerking free of the helpful hand he’d been too preoccupied to notice until that moment. “I’m fine.”
Only he wasn’t. Mercy Dawson was not what he would consider beautiful, and yet there was a radiance to her. As though somehow from the moment he’d left her in the parlor after alerting his family that she’d be remaining and this moment when she’d arrived in the library, she’d found a measure of peace and contentment. He wanted what she seemed to possess so damned easily.
“Miss Dawson,” Ainsley began, stepping forward and bowing slightly. “Allow me to say that you look lovely. I assume you’ve found everything to your satisfaction.”
“Quite. Yes. Thank you, Your Grace. I’m not sure how your mother managed the miracle of finding a bassinet on such short notice, but John is quite content there. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him sleep so well.”
John rolled off her tongue like a sweet lullaby, soft and soothing. Stephen wondered how his own name might have sounded on her lips during the height of passion. It would be easy enough to find out later tonight. He’d had the servants place her in a bedchamber in the same wing as his. Scandalous, but then they were all adults, and her reputation was already ruined. Besides, at his brother’s estate, who was there to know? His mother’s lover, while not flaunted, was not hidden away either. Ainsley certainly wasn’t going to castigate Stephen for finding pleasure where he might. The servants knew a bit of gossip would result in their dismissal and that the duke never threatened what he would not carry out.
“You may thank my eldest brother, the Earl of Westcliffe, for that accommodation. He acquired his heir this summer past. The duchess insists that the little urchin be comfortable when he visits. She is quite adept at spoiling him beyond measure.”
“And I cannot spoil one grandson without spoiling the other,” the duchess said.
Stephen wasn’t certain why it hadn’t hit him before that if the child was his, his mother had another grandson. The knowledge made him feel remarkably old.
As though the same truth had occurred to Miss Dawson, he watched as her cheeks took on a pinkish hue. No cold wind biting them now. He found he rather liked the high color in her face. She did look lovely. The gown she wore now was a bit more fanciful, with a rounded neck that exposed her throat and shoulders while offering only a hint of cleavage. Had he ever seen her in the dress before? Had he commented on it? Or was it something new, something she’d expect him to remark on? She seemed to be expecting something. Perhaps for him to speak instead of standing there like a dimwit. “Miss Dawson, would you care for some wine before dinner?”
She appeared startled and disappointed. Should he have gone over and kissed the back of her hand? Had he been unable to keep his hands off her? If she were any other woman, he’d not be plagued with these questions. But not knowing a woman he should know was fraught with difficulties. Especially as he didn’t wish for her to know.
Preposterous. If they’d been close, she’d be understanding. As a nurse, she’d possibly seen others suffer the same fate. But he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing pity in those whiskey eyes. He might not remember her, but he knew his pride well enough and was determined not to lose it.
“A bit. Yes. Thank you,” she finally responded.
He fought not to favor his right leg as he made his way to the sidebar. “Will Leo be joining us this evening?”
“Most certainly,” the duchess said, and then he heard her explain to Miss Dawson, “He is a remarkable and talented artist I’ve commissioned to paint portraits of the family. I daresay he shall want to do you in oils.”
But it was not his talents with the brush that kept his mother near the younger man, but rather his talents elsewhere. Stephen was glad his mother had a lover who appreciated her, made her feel special. Perhaps it was her own scandalous life that made her so accepting and nonjudgmental of Miss Dawson.
“That may be a bit premature,” Miss Dawson stammered. “I’m not yet part of the family.”
“Of course you are, dear girl. If not legally, then morally,” the duchess assured her. He wondered if Miss Dawson possessed an inkling of knowledge regarding his mother’s determination. Defeat had never been in his mother’s vocabulary.
His cane seemed to be unusually loud as he hobbled across the room. Miss Dawson met him halfway. She reached for the glass. Their bare fingers touched. Hers sent a shock of warmth through him that settled low in his groin and caused him to tighten with desire. Was that the way it had been with them before? She appeared discomfited but not alarmed, as though the sensations had not taken her off guard. Or perhaps they had.
She took a very unladylike gulp of wine, coughed, and covered her mouth, her eyes watering. “Forgive me.”
“You might try sipping it.”
“Yes, of course. It’s excellent. Thank you.”
And they were left to stare at each other as though no one else was in the room. He noticed that her nose tilted up slightly. She had a miniscule mole at the corner of her mouth. Her lashes were long and he imagined them feathering over his face when they kissed. She had a permanent crease between her eyebrows as though she spent a good deal of time frowning. Caring for wounded soldiers, she no doubt had. He wished he’d known her three years ago, so he could now catalogue the changes in her.
How many might he be responsible for? For the first time in his life he wished he’d kept his damned trousers fastened. But more than that, he wished he remembered every single moment that he’d been nestled inside her.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of their last dinner guest.
With no fanfare but still managing to draw attention, Leo strolled in. Before Stephen had met him, he’d not known anyone who did everything with as leisurely a purpose as Leo. The man had never revealed his last name. He simply went by Leo.
“Miss Dawson,” his mother began, drawing the woman away from Stephen, leaving him to wish she hadn’t, “allow me to introduce to you the artist I was telling you about earlier. Leo.”
“Mr. Leo.”
“It’s simply Leo,” he drawled as he sauntered forward, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips.
Stephen was aware of the hand not holding his cane balling into a tight
ened fist. He wanted to snatch Miss Dawson’s fingers free from Leo’s lips. From where had this possessiveness emerged? He was never jealous of another man’s attentions on a woman he favored. He could always easily find another to replace her. He’d had lovers, but never a mistress. He’d never bothered to go to the trouble to set a woman up for his amusements alone, because he grew too easily bored. He preferred variety.
“Your arrival has made the duchess exceedingly happy,” Leo murmured, “which in turn pleases me. Thank you for coming.”
Ainsley gave Stephen a pointed look. Their mother was happy because she thought Stephen was regaining his senses. He’d have to find a private moment with her to reveal the truth. Yet another time in his life when he’d disappointed her.
“I must admit to being curious. I took a quick peek at the boy before coming down. He is quite the handsome lad,” Leo said.
“Thank you. I can take no credit for that. He takes after his father.”
“Yes, the resemblance is uncanny.”
“Leo is quite skilled at noting the particulars of the human form. The artist in him. If he sees a resemblance, you may rest assured it is there,” the duchess said, pride in her voice at her lover’s incredible ability—as though with it, he could capture the moon and stars for her.
Beside Stephen, Ainsley issued a low groan and whispered, “That was no doubt for my benefit.”
“To quell your doubts regarding the boy’s sire?” Stephen asked.
Ainsley shrugged. “Mother will have her way.”
“Do you enjoy your work?” Miss Dawson asked of Leo, a sparkle in her eyes that once again had Stephen clenching his fist. Was she flirting with the artist? Why was she so relaxed with him and not with Stephen? What the devil had their relationship entailed?
“Very much so.” Leo placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted her head slightly so she was looking toward a distant corner of the ceiling. “I would very much like to paint you, Miss Dawson.”
“As long as all you’re doing is painting,” Stephen grumbled.
“Stephen,” his mother chastised.
Leo grinned. “Why would I do anything else? I have a woman I love. Why would I want for more?”
“Oh, Leo.” The duchess certainly meant to chastise him as well, but her voice held the satisfaction and teasing of a woman half her age. “Let’s go in to dinner, shall we?”
“Yes, by all means,” Stephen said. He took Miss Dawson’s wineglass, twisted to set it down on a nearby table, and when he straightened, discovered that Ainsley had already wrapped her arm around his and was leading her from the room, murmuring near her ear.
Stephen’s stomach tightened. He knew his brother would never reveal a secret that was not his; he’d not tell her the true depth of Stephen’s injuries. Still, he didn’t like seeing the easy camaraderie between them. Nor did he like being left to walk with his own company. Of late it was sour and displeasing.
He had a feeling that it was going to be a very long dinner indeed.
The seating arrangement determined by the duchess placed Mercy between the duke, who sat at the head of the table, and the artist, who was seated near the duchess at the foot of the table. His fingers constantly sought excuses to brush against the duchess’s—not by accident, Mercy was fairly certain. While reaching for their wine at the same moment or signaling a servant. Eventually the pretense that they were less than what they were to each other dissipated and Leo wove his fingers through the duchess’s and simply stroked her hand in between servings of the most delicious dishes Mercy had ever eaten.
The bittersweet realization hit her that the duchess was the woman Leo had referred to when he’d said he was in love. She felt silly for not realizing it sooner, but she also longed for the same sort of declaration from Major Lyons.
Not that it was likely to ever come. Even in the Crimea, even when they’d found moments alone to talk, it had been little more than talking. He’d never even attempted to kiss her. She told herself that it was respect for her that held him at bay, when in all likelihood it was her plain features. Or her height that sometimes made men feel awkward. Or the awful shade of her hair. Or perhaps he’d seen that she was dedicated to her service.
At least three nurses had tittered about receiving kisses from him. One had received a good deal more. He’d certainly not been a saint. Not that she could blame him for taking pleasure where he might when any day would again find him in the midst of battle. Her own moral compass had lost its direction. She had hung on his every word, welcomed his attentions, prayed that they would be more than they were.
The Crimea was not England. It was not afternoon tea, ballrooms, and chaperones. It was not innocent ladies. It was putting aside one’s sensibilities. Men needed to have their dressings changed, and wounds were not always in the most convenient of places. Men needed to be bathed, and turned, and fed. They were attended to during the day and during the night. They needed the comfort of touch and a gentle word.
She remembered an afternoon when he’d escorted her from the hospital to her sleeping quarters. They were discussing literature, and he’d announced that Jane Austen wrote rubbish. Mercy had come to the woman’s defense. She wrote of love and people with frailties.
Mercy had finally demanded to know, “If you think she wrote rubbish, then why on earth do you read her works?”
He’d winked. “Because the ladies enjoy her, so I never lack for a topic of conversation.”
Now, directly across from her, he watched her with increasing confusion clouding his eyes, and she wondered if he was beginning to remember the details of their association. It brought the heat to her cheeks to consider that he might be.
She’d thought him incredibly handsome as he’d strutted about in his scarlet uniform, but she had to admit that she preferred him in his evening attire. His shirt and cravat were pristine white, but everything else was black. He’d taken some care to style his hair, she realized, because it partly covered the scar on his face, as though he wished to draw attention away from it. She supposed she couldn’t blame him for being self-conscious about it, but she viewed it as a badge of honor, more worthy than any accolade he might be given.
Curling at the ends, his hair was longer than she’d ever seen it. John had inherited his curls from his father—and the light blond of his hair. She wondered if it would darken over the years to match Major Lyons’s exactly. She imagined it would. Already his eyes were the blue of his father’s. But fortunately, they still contained the innocence that was lost to Major Lyons.
The lit candles on the table caused shadows to flitter over his face, like garden nymphs playing games among the flowers. But her fanciful thoughts didn’t do justice to the strong lines and planes of his features. They’d been carved by a master sculptor of flesh, then tempered by the brutality of war. At the corners of his eyes and mouth were deeper crevices that he’d not possessed when last she saw him. They spoke of hardship, endurance, pain. He’d suffered, and she suspected it had not all been physical. Mental anguish had worn at him.
He’d cared about his men. That had been obvious as he’d recovered, walking the wards to check on other soldiers almost as often as Miss Nightingale. Disease had taken far more lives than bullets or swords, and he’d exposed himself over and over to the dangers of illness, as he’d not limited his visiting to only those who had been wounded while serving under him. His voice, his words, had served as a rallying cry to the most disheartened. Their commanders had defeated Napoleon. They would be victorious in the Crimea.
Little wonder that every nurse had fancied herself in love with him. Little wonder that her solitary night with him had meant so much. She’d known him as a man with a heart as large as Russia, had thought his ability to care would span an ocean.
Yet, regardless of what they’d shared, she was fairly certain now that she’d been merely one more woman whom he’d held in his arms, one more lady to whom he’d whispered soft words of tenderness. He looked upon her no
w as though she were a stranger. In spite of that, she refused to cast what they’d shared into a pit of meaningless encounters. For John’s sake. She would continue to believe that the good in this man was deserving of her unfailing and heartfelt regard.
“Did you miss England while you were away, Miss Dawson?” the duke asked, and she cursed herself for flinching at the deep voice that intruded unexpectedly into her thoughts.
“More so than I expected.”
“Why ever did you do it, Miss Dawson?” the duchess asked. “Why traipse along in the footsteps of Miss Nightingale?”
“It seemed a noble endeavor and I … I had no other interests that I thought would be more worthy.” She’d had no suitors. She’d grown disenchanted serving as mistress of her father’s house. To her shame now, she had to admit that she’d also longed for adventure. Such a trivial reason, when the need—the war—that had caused the adventure to be available had brought with it so much suffering.
“Tell me. What is it truly like?” the duchess asked.
“Must we follow this path of conversation?” Major Lyons barked before Mercy could even open her mouth to respond. “I’m certain that Miss Dawson is as weary of the talk of war as I am.”
“My apologies. Of course you are. I suppose there is no reason to live again what you’ve already witnessed.”
Mercy could have sworn that Major Lyons flinched. His hand was unsteady when he lifted his wine goblet and drained its contents. It seemed an odd reaction, yet she couldn’t deny that the horrors he’d experienced were no doubt far worse than anything she’d endured. He’d been in the thick of it, while she’d been only on the outskirts, dealing with the aftermath. It had not been pretty, but at least it had not involved the paralyzing fear of being brutally killed on the battlefield.
“Was John’s birth difficult?” the duchess asked.
“Good God, Mother,” Major Lyons snapped. “Have you become a barbarian since I left England’s shores? That’s hardly proper dinner conversation, not proper conversation at all.”
Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman Page 5