They’d been intimate before. Would she detect the uncertainty in him? Did they share little jokes? Did she have a preference for a particular position? Was there one she abhorred? Would she deduce by his actions that he was not familiar with her?
What did he know of her? What did she know of him?
The not knowing, after only a few hours, was driving him to madness. He should confront her, tell her everything. She wouldn’t be quite so enamored of him then, not when she learned the truth. What did he owe her? Marriage? His name?
The tension shimmering through the dining room had been almost unbearable, everyone waiting for confirmation that he’d been restored to normalcy. His family had struggled to engage both Miss Dawson and himself in conversation. His family, who was so very skilled at walking through social situations unscathed, seemed to stumble tonight. Ainsley had the devil’s own tongue. His mother was herself an artist, an artist at deflecting conversation from her faults and scandals when it suited her, luring others into revealing their darkest secrets when she longed to know what they were. During dinner she’d stammered around like a schoolgirl at her first tea party.
All the while, Miss Dawson had squirmed in her chair, obviously wishing to be elsewhere. She’d avoided his direct gaze, studied her place setting as though she’d never encountered china or cutlery and was striving to unravel the mystery of each.
He made her uncomfortable with his intrusive staring, but he’d been unable to direct his eyes away from her.
It didn’t help matters that his leg ached unmercifully, to such an extent that he could barely tolerate his trousers touching it. Riding was excruciating, but he desperately needed to escape. His mother thought he should marry the girl who served as a constant reminder of all he’d lost.
But he couldn’t marry her without revealing the truth regarding his affliction—it wouldn’t be fair to her not to tell her he was but a partial man—and then she’d look upon him with the same pitying expression that he abhorred. And other doubts would surface. What if his memory loss was not related to the battle but to some deficiency in him, some madness?
Rain began falling, pattering his greatcoat, beating out a steady staccato that added a haunting element to the thud of the horse’s hooves as they made light work of rapidly distancing him from Grantwood Manor. He couldn’t get far enough away, quickly enough. He knew he’d have to return and face the dilemma before him. Even if they didn’t marry, he’d make arrangements to see after the boy’s welfare as well as hers. What sort of life would she have then? Men would see her as nothing more than a trollop. No man would ever want her as his wife. Stephen would be condemning her to spinsterhood. She deserved better.
Didn’t she? His conclusions were drawn after only a few hours of visiting with her. What did he truly know about her? What if Ainsley read her better? What if he could see her more clearly? Stephen’s thoughts had been in a fog ever since he awoke in that damned military hospital.
He urged his horse up the rise. At the top, he drew the gelding to a stop and dismounted. His right leg buckled and his knee hit the ground hard and torturously, shooting pain straight to his hip, before he could catch his balance. He roared out his frustrations, competing in volume with the thunder rumbling across the sky, as the anguish spiked. He tried to rub out the agony, but it only increased with his touch, as though he dug the blade of a knife into it.
He wouldn’t mind the scars or the discomfort so much if he knew that he’d given as good as he got.
He’d been making some progress toward letting the mystery of the past two years go. He couldn’t reclaim them. Maybe he didn’t want to. He wanted nothing more than to heal and then get on with his life. But Miss Dawson—Mercy, Mercy—had arrived and suddenly the past two years had become unbearably important. What other mysteries resided within the murky depths? Were there other children, other women he should have remembered? Or had she been the only one?
Only one night with one woman. Unlikely. Not in the span of two years. Not with his sexual appetites. Before he’d awakened on that damned filthy mattress, he’d barely been able to go a night without playing a game of seduction. Would she expect him to give up his nightly carousing?
A forced marriage had certainly never been his goal in life. He doubted it had been hers either. She’d probably dreamed of heartfelt declarations and a bended knee. He’d intended to die a bachelor. He had no title, no property, nothing to leave to a son.
But suddenly he had one. And a woman whose reputation was in shambles because of his actions.
The rain pouring around him couldn’t wash away his doubts or his burdens. He had to face them. On the morrow, he’d offer to marry Miss Dawson. It would certainly be no hardship. The kiss in the library had proven there was a spark between them that could be ignited into a roaring blaze with only a bit of kindling. Perhaps once she knew his intentions to do right by her, they would regain whatever comfortableness they’d once shared. Perhaps if he pretended all was well, it would be.
Wearily he battled the pain and shoved himself to his feet. Without his cane, he was fairly crippled when the agony was as great as this. Staggering forward, he fought to keep his balance as he made his way to the horse. It shied away. He cursed. He cooed. He sought to gentle it as he limped toward it. Thunder boomed and it skittered away.
He dropped his head back and allowed the rain to beat unmercifully on his face. With the increasing torment of his leg, he couldn’t walk all the way back to Grantwood Manor. He needed the damned horse. Why the bloody hell had he ever dismounted? The throbbing ache he’d experienced in the saddle was nothing compared with what was coursing through him now.
With renewed determination, he took a deep breath, struggled to ignore the shards of pain, and hobbled after his beastly horse.
“What do you think of the girl?” Tessa Seymour, Duchess of Ainsley, asked.
“She’d look lovely on canvas.”
Sitting at her vanity, she twisted around and glared at the young blond Adonis with the golden eyes lounging on her bed waiting for her to finish her nightly rituals. All the various creams she applied to her face, throat, and arms were all that kept her from looking all of her forty-seven years. “Leo.”
She did not bother to hide her displeasure with his answer. He demanded complete honesty between them. It had terrified her at first, but now she saw the wisdom in it. It was liberating, and she had come to realize that no matter her faults, he would always forgive her.
He shrugged. “You think she could be his salvation.”
“I hope she could be, yes. He seems so lost. While they don’t say anything, I know Westcliffe and Ainsley harbor much guilt over Stephen’s circumstance. After all, they purchased his commission.”
“And the queen sent him where she would. They couldn’t have known that this bloody situation with Russia was going to erupt into a godforsaken war that would not be over quickly.”
True enough. The newspapers had been filled with reports. And the casualties. So many casualties. The telegraph had shrunk the world, given the war an immediacy unlike any before it.
It had nearly killed her when she’d received word that he’d died. A mother was not supposed to have a favorite. But she did. She always had. Stephen. She had adored his father with every fiber of her being. The Earl of Lynnford. He’d been her lover when she was married to the Earl of Westcliffe. She’d never told Stephen the truth of his parentage.
Shame, when she was younger, had stopped her. Fear, as she grew older, trapped the truth within her.
Lynnford had not even known. But since Westcliffe had stopped visiting her bed as soon as she announced she was carrying their first child and never returned, even after his heir was born, she had no doubts regarding Stephen’s true father.
She’d gone to Lynnford with the news of Stephen’s death. “You must go to the Crimea and fetch his body. I’ll not leave him so far from home.”
“Tessa, he would want to be buried beside those w
ho fought next to him.”
“I don’t care what he wants. Call me selfish, but at this moment, I only care what I want.”
“This is a fool’s errand.”
And so she’d told him that which she’d sworn to never reveal. “He’s your son.”
She’d held him while he cried. She’d given him a son and taken him away in the space of a solitary heartbeat.
He’d admitted that he’d sometimes suspected Stephen was his son. But he had his own family and had been too cowardly to pursue the matter.
But she didn’t view him as cowardly. She saw him as a man who wished to bring as little hurt as possible to those he loved. What was to be gained with knowledge?
It was when he’d sent word to the army, alerting them that he would be arriving to bring back the body of Major Stephen Lyons, that they’d learned Stephen was not dead.
It was when he’d returned home that they’d learned he was not the young man who had left.
Her heart had broken all over again. How many times could a mother’s heart break? An infinite number. Each time her children were hurt. She’d long ago accepted the pain of it, as well as the stoicism to never let it show. It was a mother’s lot in life.
“Are you going to insist that he marry Miss Dawson?” Leo asked her now, drawing her back to the present moment and her current lover.
“You grant me more power than I possess. When it comes to my sons, they will do as they will. Still, I don’t see that he has much of a choice. The one thing he does not relish is disappointing me, so I might have a bit of leverage. I have no doubt that John is his son. I can already see the shape of his smile on his mouth. It would be unconscionable for him not to marry the girl.”
“Stephen’s father didn’t marry you.”
Leo, with his artist’s eye, had seen what she’d tried so valiantly not to reveal—that Lynnford was Stephen’s father. “Because I was married at the time and well you know it. I never should have confessed to you about my indiscretions.”
“I’d already guessed them, my love, as well as your feelings for the man. I still long for the day when you look upon me as you do Lynnford whenever he is near.”
Her heart nearly shattered. He asked so little of her, only this. Why could she not love him with the intensity that she did the Earl of Lynnford? Especially as it was obvious to one and all that Lynnford adored his wife. He’d not been married when he was Tessa’s lover. By the time she was once again without a husband, he’d been spoken for—and loyal beyond measure to his wife.
Leo held out his hand to her. “Come and join me. Allow me to erase the sadness from your eyes.”
She could never resist him. Rising gracefully, she glided over to the bed, crawled onto it, nestled against Leo, and caressed his cheek. “I do love you, you know.”
“But not as much as you do others.”
She opened her mouth to protest and he touched his finger to her lips. “I do not resent the love you have for your sons and now your grandsons. I would never seek to usurp their places in your heart. I cannot even resent the lover of your youth, because at least through him you knew what it was to be loved. But he is not here now. Tell me you do not think of him when you are in my arms.”
“Never does he cross my mind when I am here with you.”
“Liar,” he whispered softly, and proceeded to ensure the words she’d spoken took on a measure of truth.
Chapter 4
As Stephen headed into his bedchamber—exhausted from chasing down and finally recapturing his idiot horse, then stubbornly galloping back to the manor while every beat of the hooves jarred his leg and sharpened the pain—he heard the baby cry out. Immediately he paused, his hand on the doorknob.
Before this afternoon, Stephen had enjoyed having the entire wing to himself. Then he’d asked that Mercy be given a room near him. He didn’t know if she was aware that he was across the hall. In spite of the fact that he’d been wearing a greatcoat, which he’d discarded downstairs, he was wet and chilled. His hair clung to his head, the water dripped onto his shoulders. He was hardly presentable.
The babe’s wails rose in crescendo. There could be no doubt he had a good set of lungs. Why was he caterwauling? Why didn’t he cease his screaming?
Stephen crossed the hallway and knocked on the door. No one else was in this wing to be disturbed, and sleep never came easily to him. He could ignore the crying, but he was concerned for Mercy. He felt a need to do something to assist her.
Lie to everyone else, you fool, but not to yourself. You simply welcome the excuse to see her again in spite of your disheveled state.
The crying stopped, but now his curiosity was piqued beyond measure. Even though he was wet, shivering, and in need of a good dose of laudanum, he found himself knocking on the door once again. “Miss Dawson?”
He heard the soft pad of bare feet just before the door clicked and she peered out through the narrow opening. Fear and worry furrowed her brow. That was how she had come to have that little indention. It deepened with her concern, and she’d no doubt spent a great amount of time concerned.
“Is anything amiss?” Stephen asked.
“No. John gets hungry this time of night.”
He found himself peering over her shoulder, striving to see the boy. What was with his blasted curiosity?
“I’m sorry if he disturbed you. I thought this was the guest wing, that we were alone.”
He saw no need to alarm her by revealing how near she was to his chambers. He would not take advantage. For some inexplicable reason, it calmed him to know that he was available if she had a need. She was in no danger here, but still the notion reverberated through his aching head that he could protect her. It was only natural that he would want to shield her from hurt, but there was more to it that he couldn’t explain.
“Is there anything you require?” he asked.
She shook her head briskly. “No. I have a nurse.” She blushed to the roots of her hair, which was caught in a stubble of a braid. He imagined it much longer, draped over her shoulder, falling just past her breast. The thought was quickly followed by the realization that he’d cupped that breast, run his tongue over it, drawn the nipple—that even now puckered under his gaze—into his mouth. “John doesn’t go hungry.”
“You hired a wet nurse?”
The blush deepened, then retreated. She angled her chin with defiance as though quite offended. “A lady of breeding does not … she does not handle the task herself.”
“It seems a rather odd place to draw the line.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
He leaned toward her, bit back his groan as his thigh protested. “A lady of breeding doesn’t give birth to a child out of wedlock.”
“You were otherwise occupied and not available for marriage.”
She did not attempt to excuse her behavior. He liked that about her. It was also obvious that she took exception to his finding fault with her. He didn’t blame her. He’d been attempting to distract himself from traveling a path that might have led to a disastrous destination: her again in his bed before anything was resolved between them.
He wanted to take her hand and lead her across the hallway. He wanted to feather his fingers through her hair while kissing her. He wanted her draped over his bed, too sated to move. Then he would curl around her and … sleep. What an odd thought.
“My apologies. My words were uncalled for. It seems my sins regarding you know no bounds. I shan’t add preventing you from sleeping to the list. Good night.” He turned to leave, his leg gave out on him—
She was there in the hallway, supporting him, one hand clutching his elbow, her arm wrapped around his waist, her scent—lavender—wafting up to tease his nostrils, while that damned breast he’d been fantasizing about pressed up against his upper arm.
“You’re cold and in pain. What were you doing out and about?” she chastised.
“I needed to ride. Now if you’ll release me and return to your room,
I’ll make my way to my bedchamber.”
“I’ll assist you. Where is it?”
He nodded toward the door across the hallway and her eyes widened.
“You claimed there are an abundance of rooms.”
“There are. I cannot be held accountable if one of them is across from mine.”
Her lips twitched.
“Where’s the humor in that?”
She shook her head. “I’m just thinking of something you said when we first met.”
Damnation. They shared intimacies that went beyond the bedchamber. He couldn’t fool her regarding his mental affliction for long. He should just come out with it now, but the pain had ratcheted up to a level so intense that he could barely think.
“You may release your hold on me,” he informed her laconically.
Doubt flooded her eyes, but she moved away.
“Good night,” he repeated.
She did little more than arch a brow and cross her arms beneath her breasts, a challenge in her eyes. She didn’t believe any more than he did that he could make his way to his room without making an embarrassing spectacle of himself. Still, he was determined to try. Clenching his teeth, he stepped forward—
Pain sliced through him, he couldn’t swallow back the groan as his leg buckled, and she was once again supporting him.
“Don’t touch it,” he growled.
She froze. “What?”
“My leg. I can’t stand for it to be touched.”
“Why ever not? Is it not yet healed?”
“It’s healed. It just hurts like bloody hell.”
“May I have a look at it?”
“To what purpose?”
“I don’t know, but something isn’t right here. Based upon when I saw your name listed among the casualties, you’ve had ample time to recover. If it’s healed, you shouldn’t have this pain.”
Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman Page 7