Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman

by Lorraine Heath

  “Then what would you suggest we discuss?” the duchess challenged.

  Much to Mercy’s surprise, she appeared triumphant, and Mercy realized that she’d purposely chosen those subjects to goad her son into doing something other than sit there and brood. She could only conclude that his taciturn mien was not out of the ordinary or brought on by Mercy’s sudden appearance in his life. But then how could she—or anyone—expect him to behave as though he weren’t haunted by the horrors of war?

  Every day was a challenge for her. If not for John, she feared she might not even leave her bed some days. Sometimes walking through the hospital, she’d felt so helpless and ineffectual. John was a constant distraction from such dire journeys into a past she could not change.

  What distracted Major Lyons from taking similar phantom walks over battlefields?

  As she watched him down yet another full goblet of wine, she thought the answer might reside in the bowl of that glass.

  “The weather,” he said laconically.

  “It’s dismal,” the duchess responded. “And boring. Select another.”

  He narrowed his eyes first at his mother, then at Mercy as though she were somehow responsible for the strange mood at the table. No doubt she was.

  “Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Dawson?” Leo asked.

  She jerked her attention to him, grateful for a simple, normal question, and gave a small laugh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Major Lyons take on a more murderous expression. Good Lord, whatever was wrong?

  “Years ago, yes, but it’s been some time since I’ve run my fingers over a keyboard.” It sounded as though Major Lyons was choking on his wine. “I fear my skills are sadly lacking now.”

  Leo smiled kindly at her. “I believe you’re being unduly modest. Perhaps we should give it a go sometime. I’m very good with duets. I could easily cover any of your missteps.”

  “Why place her in a position of possible embarrassment?” Major Lyons asked. “I should think she’s had enough of that.”

  Mercy stiffened, grew sick in her belly. The food she’d just enjoyed was fighting to work its way back onto her plate.

  “Stephen!” the duchess gasped. “Apologize this instant.”

  “For speaking the truth?” He came to his feet with such force that his chair wobbled. If not for the fact that it was constructed of such sturdy wood, Mercy was fairly certain that it would have toppled over. “You’re all trying to pretend that nothing is amiss. I’ve done egregious harm to this girl. Her reputation can never be restored. Her only recourse is to marry me, and you’re well aware that with that way lies only madness.”

  Leaving them all stunned, he stormed from the room. She wanted to go after him, she wanted to apologize, she wanted to confess everything. She was also confused. Why did he think the tragedy would be in her marrying him and not him marrying her? Madness? To what was he referring? Did he suffer from injuries that were not visible?

  She didn’t care. Nothing would dissuade her from being a wife to him if he would have her. The challenge was to convince him to have her.

  Ainsley cleared his throat. “Allow me to apologize for my brother. He’s not been himself since he returned home.”

  “With all due respect, Your Grace, I suspect he’s being exactly himself. He’s just simply no longer the person you knew before he left. How could he be? He lived through horrors that I pray you have not the ability to even imagine.” Embarrassed by her brutal honesty, she set her napkin aside and rose. The gentlemen immediately did the same. “If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I must see to John.”

  She was surprised by how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. She wanted to run from the room, but she forced herself to walk sedately as a lady and not as a hoyden. She needed to make a good impression on these people, but at the moment she cared about only one. Where would she find him?

  In the library, standing at the window, gazing out on the night, with a glass in one hand and a decanter on the table near the other. Her heart was hammering and her steps seemed exceptionally loud as she crossed the massive room to join him. His face was a wreath of torment and fury. Studying her as he had at the table, he’d obviously remembered her, knew of her duplicity. He’d take John from her. She should have been honest from the beginning. Perhaps with heartfelt honesty now, she could repair some of the damage and ensure that the precious babe remain in her life.

  “Major Lyons—”

  “Good God, Mercy, considering the intimacy we’ve shared, do you not think we should go by our Christian names?”

  Relief swamped her with such swiftness and force that her knees almost buckled. He didn’t remember the precise circumstances of the night they’d spent together. Another reason had heralded his departure from the table. It was only by force of will that she remained standing.

  “I know it’s difficult to hear others speak so carelessly of war,” she said softly, wanting to fold him into her embrace as he’d once done her. But she didn’t have the courage to risk his rebuff. “And for all the correspondents writing so passionately about the intolerable conditions into which we blithely sent our soldiers, words on paper are not the same as blood on hands. Your family was not there. They can’t know how you suffered.”

  “But you were there,” he said quietly, staring into the darkness beyond the window. “You know.”

  She nodded. Physicians, nurses, soldiers—they all concentrated on the physical wounds, those they could touch, knew existed, but Mercy was confident that there were invisible wounds that needed to be administered to. How many men had she cared for who appeared to be well on their way to recovery, only to succumb to death? She’d known of a case where a man had complained of pain in his arm so severe that he’d been unable to hold a rifle. But numerous examinations had found no cause for it. They’d labeled him a liar and a coward, but she’d not been convinced. She’d known of other illnesses that couldn’t be diagnosed. The human body was not like a timepiece that could be easily opened in order to learn precisely how it worked. She’d seen men die from wounds that had not appeared severe. She’d seen men survive injuries that had torn them apart. She was convinced there was an element of the soul or the heart or the spirit with immeasurable influence on the ability to flourish after a catastrophic injury.

  “I think the constant fear of dying must take a toll,” she continued. “I think experiencing the hardships we are willing to inflict upon each other gives us a perspective that nothing else can. It batters us without our realizing it. I’ve had mornings where, if not for John, I’m certain I would have never left my bed.”

  Turning slightly, he pressed his back to the corner of the window casing. The sharp edge could not have provided comfort, but he seemed not to notice. Or perhaps he needed the discomfort to keep him focused on the present so he didn’t slip into the past horrors. Sometimes she would awaken disoriented and think she was back in Scutari. For all the good she’d done there, it was not a place to which she wished to return, not even in dreams.

  She grew uncomfortable under his increasing scrutiny. What was he searching for? Did he suspect her duplicity?

  “Why did you keep him?” he asked. “The babe. Why not find a good family for him?”

  “Because he is yours.”

  “You say that as though you care deeply for me. Do you not think whatever feelings you may have, I may have, were brought on by the circumstances of where we were? That none of it was real.”

  “It was all real. My God in heaven, I wish it wasn’t. The blood, the filth, the men weeping for their mothers, their wives. None of the horrors of that ghastly place discounts what I felt—feel—for you. If anything it only made me realize how very fragile life is, that we have no guarantee of tomorrow, that we must make our decisions based upon what we know at this moment.”

  He set the glass aside, then reached out and cradled her face, his thumb sweeping along the curve of her cheek to capture a tear she’d not even realized had formed. His
action was heartbreakingly familiar. He’d done the same in Scutari, just before he’d drawn her into the circle of his arms and provided her with a safe haven. “What do you know at this moment?”

  “That you’re the most remarkable man I’ve ever known.”

  His thumb stilled. “Do you know that my brothers bought me a commission because they thought me lacking in character? That I preferred women above all things.”

  “And women prefer you above all men.”

  His eyes widened slightly.

  “I do not think there was a nurse in all of Scutari who didn’t fancy herself in love with you. You have the ability to smile at a woman and make her believe that you have never smiled in quite the same way at any other.”

  “Was it my smile that charmed you into my bed, then?”

  Once again, all hope that she’d been more than simply one of the nurses shattered into sharp shards with the affirmation that she’d been merely one of a dozen. When he touched her, when she was near enough to look into the blue depths of his eyes and absorb the beauty of them, when his attention was focused on her, she could easily forget that she’d meant nothing to him. While she had worshipped him for his strength, his unselfishness, and his willingness to tend to her heart, she’d obviously misread his affections for her, had thought herself more than she was. But what did her place in his heart truly matter when he had so courageously secured a place in hers?

  Slowly she shook her head, unable to usher forth the teasing smile that he was no doubt expecting. How could she when her heart was cracking? “No, not your smile.”

  His other hand came up, as large and strong as the first. His gaze wandered over her face, stopped at her lips. They tingled, parted. In his eyes, she saw interest, curiosity … desire. “My kiss then.”

  Before she could inform him that he’d not enticed her with a kiss, he was doing exactly that, his mouth plying provocatively over hers. She stiffened when he pushed his tongue between her lips and swirled velvet over silk, then relaxed as his skill seduced her. He did not force, but he invited. She accepted the invitation. His flavor was rich and powerful, wine and whiskey combined into a darkness that was as intoxicating as the caress of his tongue. He ravished without brutality. He caused every nerve to tingle, every inch of her body to respond as though he slowly stroked her from toe to chin.

  She’d dreamed of him sweeping her off her feet a thousand times as she’d walked the narrow path between the beds at the Barrack Hospital tending to the needs of other men, as she’d prepared to leave Scutari because of John’s impending birth, as she’d traveled the rough seas on a ship, as she’d journeyed via railway to Paris. Major Stephen Lyons had never been far from her thoughts.

  But in spite of her various imaginings, she’d not been prepared for the compelling nature of his kiss, delivered with such urgency. She returned it in full measure. Life was short, opportunities few, and she’d yearned for this nearness for too long to be demure now. She stepped into his embrace and felt as though she’d finally returned home, to the spot where one night with him had shown her she could be. As his arms came around her, drew her even closer, she knew she was where she was meant to be. She had looked into his eyes that long-ago night and she’d seen his compassion and kindness. She knew of his bravery, had seen his unselfish devotion to his men.

  A man lacking in character? If he’d ever truly been such, she had no doubt he’d left that part of himself on England’s shores when he’d boarded the ship that carried him east.

  She’d feared that he’d left his memories of her in Scutari, but he kissed her now as though he were intimately familiar with the contours of her mouth. He left no part wanting for attention. His feral groan echoed around them, and he deepened a kiss that she’d thought could go no further. Intense heat swarmed through her. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought she’d suddenly taken ill. Her stomach clenched, and between her legs, warmth pooled with the promise of more pleasure and eventual surcease.

  He dragged his mouth from hers, his breathing harsh and heavy. She drew in great draughts of air, as his hot, moist lips trailed to the sensitive spot below her ear and nibbled there. She wanted to tell him that his kiss had not enticed her before, but he’d left her without the strength to speak. It was a wonder she still stood. If not for the sturdiness of his arm at her back, she suspected she’d be on the floor now, a silken puddle of heated desire.

  Then he returned his mouth to hers with an urgency that matched hers. She wanted this, wanted whatever he would grant. A kiss, a touch, a caress, yes, even more. She’d come too far, taken too many chances, ruined her reputation. She had nothing else to lose and all to gain. She could tell him that she loved him, because she did. The man she’d met on distant shores was worthy of her devotion.

  She might not have stood out in his mind as memorable, but he’d never become diminished in hers.

  She heard the clatter of pins hitting the parquet floor, felt the strands of her hair falling free to brush along her shoulders. He tunneled his fingers through her hair—

  His mouth left hers with an abruptness that startled her. His brow was furrowed with confusion. His breathing was labored as though he’d just run up a hill. Hers was no better. Her pulse thrummed an unsteady beat. She wanted his mouth back on hers. She wanted to be locked in his embrace, the key tossed away.

  “Your hair. It’s … short.”

  It was considerably longer than it had been, but not nearly as long as it once was. What did that have to do with anything? The words made no sense, lifted her from the sensual well into which she’d fallen. “Vermin. Difficult to keep it free of vermin. With all the wounded … so little time. Cropping it was—”

  He released her with a suddenness that had her staggering. Why had she gone on and on about her dratted hair? Why hadn’t she simply moved forward before the spell was completely broken?

  “My God. I forgot myself,” he said, his voice rough with needs unfulfilled. “Forgive me.”

  Before she could assure him there was nothing to forgive, he snatched up his walking stick from where it had been resting against the wall. Without another word, he began trudging toward the door, his limp incredibly pronounced.

  Had she caused him pain by forcing him to hold her aloft, by pressing against him? Could he better place her now? Was he toying with her? Surely, he had to know that he’d never before kissed her. Had he finally desired her as she’d always desired him?

  She was confused, mortified. Why did he act as though he didn’t know her at all? “Stephen?”

  “I need to ride.”

  And then he was gone.

  She stood there for the longest, trying to regain her bearings, clutching the short strands of her hair, trying to determine why he would be so bothered by them. They’d been even shorter when she’d tended to him. He acted as though he had absolutely no memory of her at all. Wretched tears burned her eyes. How could she have meant nothing at all to him?

  She heard a distant door slam. She hurried in the direction of the sound.

  “Have you seen Major Lyons?” she asked the first servant with whom she crossed paths.

  “Yes, ma’am. He retrieved his greatcoat and left.”

  By the time she was standing outside the front door, he was already galloping away, his greatcoat billowing behind him. She wanted to be on the horse with him. She wanted him, pitiful creature that she was, content to receive the smallest bit of his attention. He gave it so easily and so completely to other women.

  Why not to her?

  Chapter 3

  All he wanted was to bury himself, bury himself in woman after woman, bury himself and forget … that he couldn’t remember.

  So why the bloody hell didn’t he turn his horse in the direction of the nearest village where he’d find a tavern and a willing wench? Why was he riding hell-bent-for-leather into the countryside where he’d find no solace? Because he couldn’t bed another woman when the mother of his child smelled so enticing a
nd smiled so sweetly and laughed so softly.

  It was the laugh that had done him in. He desperately wanted to remember hearing it before. Had they laughed in bed? Had she been comfortable with the intimacy?

  Only one night. He should ask her why.

  Had he left her feeling abandoned while he flitted to another flower, or had the roar of cannons torn him from her bed?

  He’d sat at that blasted table and studied her features—every movement, every expression, every nuance—searching for the smallest glimmer of familiarity. He wasn’t greedy. He’d take crumbs.

  He’d watched her fingers dancing over the table, signaling for bread, lifting a fork, holding a knife, carrying red wine to her lips, and he’d wondered if they’d danced over him, eliciting pleasure. He’d wanted them to skim over him again, to caress and stroke. He wanted to know if he’d had a pet name for her. Red, perhaps, in honor of her hair. Had he teased her about its brightness, or had her eyes always held the majority of his attention?

  Had he looked into them before war had torn away her innocence? Or had he always known them as they were now, with the haunted shadows weaving in and out? He’d seen her stiffen at his mother’s intrusive questions, and even though he desperately wanted to know the answers as well, he’d put a stop to the inquisition. He might have known her reasons at one time. He might have known her dreams and her hopes.

  Why was she not more comfortable with him? Had they parted in anger? Or had he broken her heart?

  She certainly hadn’t kissed him as though he had. She’d been eager, but there had also been a hint of shyness. Perhaps it was because of the length of time they’d been separated. He’d hoped that the kiss would spark his memory, but more than that, he’d simply wanted to kiss her, to know how it might affect him.

  It had very nearly dropped him to his knees. No other woman had ever affected him so, no other had ever made him not want to waltz into lovemaking, but to rush headlong toward pleasure. He’d not wanted to hold back. He’d wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bedchamber. He’d wanted to take her someplace where he knew that they’d not be disturbed. He’d almost forgotten what had brought her to Grantwood Manor.