She was a remarkable woman of determination and courage. She was not the sort he usually took to his bed. She was so damned serious and responsible. She placed others’ needs above her own pleasures. She didn’t have a flighty bone in her body.
She’d have not become intimate with him on a whim. Yet, for the life of him, he couldn’t see himself going to the trouble it would have required to seduce her—not when there were always willing women who required far less effort. Had he simply been bored? Had he considered her a challenge? Could he have—by God, could he have possibly fallen in love with her?
It would have been a first for him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to see beyond the black haze. It suddenly seemed vital to remember her. But no memories of her surfaced, not even a shadow of one.
A brisk knock sounded, one he instantly recognized as belonging to his mother. He welcomed the distraction. “Come in.”
She walked in with her usual poise and grace. He didn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been formidable, although he was fairly certain that Westcliffe did. He was five years Stephen’s senior, remembered a father that Stephen didn’t. Their contradictory memories had never bothered him before. The recent gaping hole in his life made him view everything differently. Now he longed for memories he’d discarded carelessly. Strange to realize that they needed to be nurtured, thought of often, or like the bloom of a rose, they simply withered away. Once gone they could not be regained.
He chided himself for the morose thoughts. He’d been too young to have memories of his father. It was as simple as that. But memories of Mercy, those perhaps he could regain with a bit more exertion.
“I just had a word with Dr. Roberts,” his mother said sublimely. “He’s most pleased with your progress.”
“Well, then, I consider myself a success.” Stephen glanced back out the window, aware of his mother coming to stand beside the chair where he sat.
“What has your interest so?” she asked, peering over his head. “Ah, I see.”
He didn’t like the implication that he was at the window because of Mercy, like an unschooled lad experiencing his first infatuation. “I didn’t know she was there when I came to have a look. I merely wanted to gaze at something besides the canopy over my bed.”
“Of course, dearest. I thought nothing else. Although I will concur that she is of far more interest than a canopy.”
In silence, they watched Mercy for several minutes. She held the boy aloft, smiled brightly at him, then brought him in close to the warmth of her body, layering her cloak over him.
“It’s dashed cold out there, but she says the boy needs the briskness of fresh air,” the duchess said. “She is a strange one, wanting her window open at all hours. She bathes daily. Constantly washes her hands.”
“No doubt trying to rid herself of the filth of the military hospital.”
She jerked her gaze around. “You remember it?”
“I know something of the conditions of the place from when I woke up there recently.”
“Yes, of course. Silly of me to think you meant your memories went farther back than that. Far enough back to include her.”
“We spoke at length, she and I, while she was tending me. I am left with the impression the situation in the hospital was much more unpleasant for her.”
“You talked, so then she knows of your …”
He could see her struggling to find the correct word that wouldn’t cause him any embarrassment. “Affliction, Mother. I have an affliction. And no, I didn’t tell her of it. It’s bad enough she saw me trembling like a leaf in the wind in the hallway when my blasted leg gave out on me.”
“It was not your fault that you took a fever or that some imbecile physician didn’t do his job properly. It’s a wonder you didn’t die.”
“Because of the efforts of a man who in his eagerness to save me overlooked a bit of metal. I wouldn’t be so quick to find fault. You don’t know the conditions under which he worked.”
Silence greeted him. He was not usually so understanding of shoddy workmanship, but he felt an exception might be in order. He’d returned home. Many hadn’t.
“What are you going to do about her?” his mother finally asked. Not exactly a smooth change of topic, but then his mother had never been one to mince words.
He shifted his gaze up to her. “Have you no doubt the boy is mine?”
“None whatsoever.”
Well, then, he’d best get on with what needed to be done. “Will you have the servants prepare a warm bath for me?”
“What of your wound?”
“I can bathe without getting it wet. Send in my valet as well.”
It was a painstaking endeavor to properly prepare himself. In the tub, he’d required assistance from his valet. Then the man had begun to shave away several days’ worth of bearded growth on his face.
Stephen wasn’t quite certain why he bothered to make himself presentable. Mercy had seen him at his worst. The night he’d trampled through the rain, when he’d finally given into the pain, given into the haven of her arms. He’d taken advantage of her once, in a foreign land. He had no intention of doing it on English soil.
Yet she drew him like the nectar of a blossom drew a bee. With her, he could almost forget that he didn’t remember—
Until she began to talk of her time away from England’s shore. They shared memories, they shared experiences. They shared horrors and filth and wretchedness. He cursed himself for entertaining her in a place such as that—and then he would wonder if they’d both needed the escape. Certainly, he would have done all in his power to take her to heaven even if beyond them hell had reigned.
He’d been sixteen when he’d learned the wonders of a woman’s body. Westcliffe, bless him. They’d never been close, but in that one regard he’d been an exceptional brother. He’d taken Stephen to his first brothel, introduced him to a woman with impeccable talent and patience. As a callow youth, Stephen had disappeared behind a red door. When he’d emerged the next morning, he’d been determined that in this one area of his life he’d best his brothers. They were titled. They had respect. Westcliffe had already acquired a reputation as an unprecedented lover. Stephen had decided he would surpass him, his would be the name whispered about London’s wicked circles.
No lady had been safe from his amorous attentions.
The thought of him taking advantage of Mercy sickened him. But he couldn’t imagine that he’d held any true affection for her. They couldn’t have known each other long. Their time together had been brief. And yet he’d managed to do with her what he’d done with no other woman. He’d brought her harm. He’d ruined her reputation. He’d saddled her with a child.
And what had she done as retribution? She loved and cared for his son. She might very well have saved Stephen’s life. She asked nothing of him except that she be allowed to remain in the boy’s life. Her father was the one insisting upon marriage, and while Stephen had not initially been impressed with the man, he couldn’t deny that if he found his own daughter in the same state, he’d insist the man do right by her—only he’d do it with a pistol at the offending man’s back.
None of this leaving her with the man, expecting the right thing to be done. By God, he’d ensure it or the blackguard would answer to him.
The sharp pain nipped at his chin. “Dammit, man!”
“I’m sorry, Major,” his valet said. “I didn’t realize you were going to clench your jaw so suddenly. My fault entirely.”
“Hardly. Let’s just be quick about this, shall we?”
His hair needed trimming, his nails clipping. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly cared about his appearance. He’d dressed appropriately and with some style each morning only because he’d not wanted to disappoint his mother. But the particulars that he’d cared about when it came to women—he’d given little thought to.
When he was finally dressed to disarm, he tossed his greatcoat over his shoulders, snatched up his cane, and
went in search of Mercy.
She was returning to the residence, the boy snuggled in her arms, hidden beneath her heavy woolen cloak. A smile wreathed her face as he approached and he felt it like a kick to his gut.
“You’re barely limping,” she said, as though he’d made a major accomplishment, when in truth he had absolutely nothing to do with the healing. “Jolly good for you. Has the pain diminished?”
“Yes, somewhat. I feel confident that I’m well on my way to recovery. No little thanks to your efforts.”
She blushed, but her eyes sparkled. “I did nothing really.”
He nodded toward the bundle in her arms. “Should he be out here?”
“The air does him good, I think. But we’ve been walking about long enough. I was going to take him in now.”
He was astounded by his disappointment. The cold was bracing, and rain scented the air. Still he wanted to linger in her company, take a turn about the garden with her at his side. “Dr. Roberts said I should not overdo. As this is my first venture out, I should probably be content I made it this far without stumbling and head back in myself. Would you be kind enough to join me in The Duchess’s Sitting Room?”
“Will your mother mind?”
He found himself smiling as he hadn’t in a long while, and he couldn’t for the life of him explain why he was amused. “It’s not my mother’s room per se. I believe it is where the first duchess preferred to spend her afternoons with her ladies, and it has been named The Duchess’s Sitting Room ever since.”
“If we’re not imposing on anyone, then yes.”
He waited until she fell into step beside him. He wanted to offer her his arm but hers were full. “That is where we differ, you and I,” he said solemnly. “If I wanted something, I’d not care one whit if someone was imposed upon.”
“I know that’s not true. I witnessed your stubbornness and refusal to be tended until every wounded man around you had first been seen.”
He stumbled at her words, nearly tripped. Dammit. Clod. She reached out with one hand to steady him and he reached out with the other to ensure she didn’t drop the child. He stared into her eyes, trying to absorb more information without words. Had this happened when he was in danger of losing his arm? He’d insisted others go before him? Had he lost his mind? That sounded not at all like him. To put others ahead of himself? Had she confused him with someone else? Or during the war had he become a man who would be unrecognizable to him? It hardly signified.
“You’ve gone pale again. You should get off the leg,” she said.
She assumed it was pain that drained his face of blood. It was discomfiture, yes, not of the body, but of the soul. He nodded quickly. “Yes, of course.”
They shared not a single word as they made their way into the house. He, because he could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot. She? No doubt because she was worried he’d lost the ability to converse while walking, and therefore risked causing himself further injury with any sort of distraction.
Once inside, they left her cloak and his greatcoat with a servant. He ordered that tea and biscuits be brought to The Duchess’s Sitting Room. Then he led Mercy through the warren of hallways to the small room.
“How deliciously quaint,” she exclaimed softly with a thread of joy woven through her voice as they entered.
He realized he’d selected this particular room because he’d somehow known that it would please her. The beige walls were lined with portraits. A fire was already crackling in the hearth. A settee was before it, chairs on either side of it. But it was the bay window that he’d anticipated would draw her. The matching stuffed velvet armchairs were arranged so one could enjoy the room as well as the gardens. The draperies had been pulled back, providing light that the unlit crystal chandelier could not.
“I can quite understand why the first duchess appreciated this room,” she said as she wandered to the window and sat, tucking the boy into the crook of her arm. She glanced up at Stephen. “Is it a favorite of yours as well?”
“It is now.” He joined her.
Laughing lightly, she shook her head, then gazed around the room with obvious curiosity. “Are any of your ancestors in the portraits on these walls?”
“No. Mine are all at Lyons Place, which is Westcliffe’s estate. He and I share the same father. Ainsley and I don’t.”
“I’m not particularly intimate with the circles of the aristocracy, but I should think it is rare for one man to have two titled brothers.”
“My mother has always been one not to be outdone. Quite honestly, after Ainsley’s father died, I’m surprised she didn’t marry again and try for a third titled son. She was still young enough to have accomplished it.”
“Do you think she’ll marry Leo?”
“He may have … talents that she appreciates, but he is a commoner. I very much doubt she would settle for him.”
“Even if she loves him beyond all measure?”
He wasn’t certain his mother was capable of loving anyone other than her sons. “Do you believe someone should marry for love or gain?”
“I don’t believe one excludes the other,” she said.
“But if you could have only one?”
She turned her attention to the gardens. He wondered if she’d be here to see them in the spring.
“I think one must do what one must do to be happy,” she said finally.
“Can one be happy without love?”
“I think one can be happy without a good many things. If my time at the military hospital taught me anything at all, it was that.”
And what, he bloody well wondered, had his time in the Crimea taught him?
The gray sky chose that moment to lighten; the sun that had been hidden behind heavy clouds for most of the day broke free and sunlight poured in through the three windows to focus on her. If he were a religious man, he might have thought it was a sign. She possessed a calmness that appealed. Even at his worst, even when he’d forced her to give him a vow regarding his leg, she’d never wavered, never panicked. The light landed upon her cheeks, glowed in her eyes. Not for the first time, he thought it must have been her eyes that had drawn him to her. A man would be a fool not to notice them, not to wonder at the secrets they held.
“You’re doing it again,” she said softly, and he watched as pink tinged her cheeks.
“Whatever are you on about?”
“What you did that first night during dinner. Stare at me as though you were counting my freckles.”
“Have you freckles?” He’d been so distracted by her eyes that he’d not noticed.
“I’ve not spent much time in the sun of late, so they’ve faded. But they’re quite unbecoming when they have their way.”
“I can’t imagine anything about you being unbecoming.”
Her mouth quirked, the start of a smile, the beginning of a laugh. He knew not which. A time had existed when he’d been able to read women so easily. Was he simply out of practice, or was she unlike any woman he’d ever known?
The babe mewled, squirmed, then pressed his tiny balled fist to his mouth and began to suckle. Stephen had forgotten the lad was there. How could he not notice the child when he noticed everything about the mother? He had little interest in the boy. If he was indeed his son, shouldn’t he give a bloody damn? But still—
“Why John?” he heard himself ask.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed as though he’d confounded her with his query.
“The boy. Why did you name him John? Why not Stephen or Lyons or something to brand him as mine?”
“Because he is to be his own person. I didn’t want him to feel he had to live up to his namesake—a war hero.”
“I’m hardly a hero.”
He’d surprised her with his words. It was written on her face in the widening of her eyes, and the parting of her lips, lips he desperately wanted to kiss again. Perhaps that was the reason he’d selected this room in a distan
t corner of the residence. It was seldom visited. He could flirt, seduce—
The boy’s sucking grew louder. Stephen had failed to take into account that they would have a miniature chaperone.
“I’d not expected you to be overly modest,” she said softly. “I heard tales of your exploits even in Paris.”
“I don’t want to discuss the war or my role in it,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. That too surprised her, but she recovered quickly enough.
“Yes, no, of course not. John. I named him John because …” He could see the desperation, the fear, as though he’d find fault with her reasons. “I don’t know. It seemed to suit. I simply looked at him and thought … John. His name is John.”
He tried to make up for his earlier blunder, his harsh tone. He forced a lightness into his voice. “A mother’s instinct perhaps.”
“Yes, quite.”
She’d forgiven him so easily. He saw it in her winsome smile. He’d been wrong. It hadn’t been her eyes that had drawn him to her. It had been her smile. When it was freely and joyfully given, it eclipsed everything else about her. He thought he might give his last breath to see her smile.
“You’ve hardly gotten to know John. Would you care to hold him?”
Again, the reminder of the boy. He shook his head. “What do I know of babes?”
“But he’s your son. At least come nearer.” Her invitation was accompanied by another smile that he scarcely could resist.
He wiped his hand across his suddenly dry mouth. Where was the bloody servant with the damned tea? He darted a quick glance toward the door.
“Searching for an escape or a rescuer?” she asked, and he heard the amusement in her voice. He glared at her. “How can you be afraid of a child?”
“I’m not afraid of him,” he said, with an annoyance that belied his claim. “I simply have no interest in children. Whatsoever. At all.”
Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman Page 11