Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman

by Lorraine Heath

  “I think there is,” Mercy whispered to Stephen.

  He loved the sparkle in her eyes, the radiance of her smile, the joy that emanated from her. “I think you’re right.”

  It was sometime later—after dinner, after Mercy’s father left, when they’d all retired once again to the grand room and Charlotte was playing the pianoforte—that Stephen looked over at his wife and he had a flash of memory.

  It was dark. He was in the military hospital, in pain, feeling despair, when an angel stopped by his bed and smiled at him. Mercy.

  Perhaps the memory was only his imagination, trying to fill in the empty spaces.

  But what he did know was that one of her smiles would have been enough to keep him alive. Just so he could see it again.

  He wondered if it was possible that he’d fallen in love with her there as easily as he was beginning to fall in love with her here.

  Chapter 17

  The new year brought with it snow. Standing at the bedchamber window, watching the huge, fat flakes fall softly, Mercy was reminded of her time in the East, where the winters could get bitter. It was much worse for the soldiers in the field, who were ofttimes brought to the hospital with frostbite. She shook off the thought, not wanting to dwell on unpleasantness. It had been some time since she’d been bothered by a nightmare.

  It helped that Stephen held her close every night. She drifted off to sleep with his arms wound around her and awoke to the same. It also helped that he was no longer asking her to recount their time together in Scutari.

  During the day she managed the household while he managed the estate. He seemed content. He no longer spoke of what he couldn’t remember, never brought up that time at all. For that she was eternally grateful. They were both moving on with their lives. In so doing, she felt confident that John would grow up happy. She could see Stephen falling more in love with his son each day.

  She’d never known such contentment, such joy.

  Leaving the bedchamber, she walked aimlessly through the house. John was napping. She’d finished with her meetings with the servants. Every task was being handled splendidly. Ainsley could find no fault with her managing of his residence.

  It was surprising that of Stephen’s two brothers, Ainsley was the one she felt most uncomfortable around. He was always studying her as though she were a wooden puzzle he was attempting to take apart so he could examine each individual piece and determine exactly how it contributed to the whole. He was so at ease with his surroundings, so apparently unbothered by things, but she could sense that below his surface lurked a dangerous combination of suspicion and the ability to decipher the most confounding of mysteries. He quite literally terrified her, an honor that should have gone to Westcliffe, with his darkly brooding mien. But he was too occupied with his wife to care about Mercy.

  Perhaps she should see about finding a wife for Ainsley, something to distract him from his unsettling purpose—whatever it was.

  Stephen had assured her that she had nothing to worry over. But he didn’t know the things she knew, the secrets she wished to keep locked away.

  She needed him to distract her from these awful musings. Surely, she could lure him away from his own duties for a while. It would be a challenge—a fun one, even if she didn’t succeed. With that thought in mind, she went searching for him.

  As she wandered the hallways, she couldn’t help but realize how much she’d come to love the house, to think of herself as its mistress. She wondered if Stephen would have difficulty relegating the responsibilities to Ainsley when he came to visit.

  She wished she’d come with a dowry. She wondered if he resented that she hadn’t. With a dowry, he might not have been dependent upon the kindness of his brother. She’d wanted so badly to have him, to secure John in her life, that she’d given little thought to what Stephen might have yearned for in his own dreams.

  But she couldn’t imagine that another woman would have loved him as deeply as she did. When she saw him with John, her heart swelled to the point of aching. When Stephen gazed at her with a hint of wickedness in his eyes, she melted. When they talked and shared the moments of their day, she knew unheralded contentment. When they pleasured each other, she was lost in a world of sublime ecstasy.

  Her life contained a richness she’d never before experienced. She would do anything to hold on to it.

  She located Stephen where she’d expected to find him: in the library, working diligently at his desk. An assortment of papers was spread over the mahogany wood. His furrowed brow revealed his deep concentration—as did the fact that he hadn’t heard her enter the room. Usually he was attuned to her presence, turning to greet her the moment she spied him, as though he felt the touch of her gaze.

  But not so now. She wondered what had captured his attention so intently as to block out the world around him.

  “It’s snowing,” she said softly.

  He jerked his gaze up to her, then shifted it over to the window. “What am I to do about that?”

  He’d never sounded so curt, so irritated with her. She couldn’t deny the prick of pain that his tartness caused, then castigated herself for placing too much importance on his annoyance. She had disturbed him, after all. “I thought we might take John out to experience it.”

  “I have matters that are far more important than a snowflake landing on an eyelash.” He turned his attention back to the document he’d been reading.

  His dismissal hurt. She wasn’t accustomed to their being out of sorts with each other. Since Christmas, they’d experienced an amazing accord, as though their marriage had come to reflect something special for both of them. They had settled in to this arrangement and found it pleasing. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading some reports on the war that Ainsley was able to procure, as well as some letters from those who served under my command.”

  Thinking he’d given up his quest for his memories had been a misconception. He still searched. He’d simply stopped bringing the subject up to her. “Why do you torment yourself?”

  “Because I want to bloody well remember!” He held up a piece of paper, clutching it until it crackled. “I’ve just received word that I’m to be knighted. For services rendered to the Crown. Services that in here”—he slapped the side of his head—“never occurred. Imagine it, Mercy. Imagine walking out into the garden and suddenly a child appears. He runs toward you. You don’t know who he is, then you’re told he’s your son. You brought him into the world two years ago. You don’t remember the pain of his birth, the sound of his first cry, watching him take his first step. Everything that should mean something to you doesn’t exist for you.”

  She clutched her hands, squeezing her fingers until they ached. She couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine the devastation of not having memories of John during the past five months, much less two years. The unfairness of it rattled her to her core. “It’s not the same,” she insisted. “The memories you’ve lost were ones of horror, pain, death, and gore.”

  “Was it horrible when I was with you?”

  She felt all her blood draining down her toes. Her mouth went as dry as sand. Yes, it had been horrible, but it had also been remarkable. But if she helped him remember it, he might also remember other things, question her claim that she was John’s mother.

  “I know you don’t understand my obsession, Mercy. I know you think I should be content with what I have now. And I am. But there is a part of me that cannot escape what happened during those two years. I will be knighted for it. People will ask me questions about my actions, my bravery … my damned service to country. And what the devil do I say? Do I admit that I have this affliction? That part of my mind is gone? Memories washed away as though carried to a distant shore where I can no longer reach them?”

  “Why did you not come to me? Why did you not explain it to me like this before?”

  “And burden you? Ask you to resurrect what gives you nightmares?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t subject
you to that torment.”

  “So you pretended not to care about the past any longer?”

  “I didn’t pretend. I simply ceased to discuss it. I acquired a list of names of men in my regiment. I wrote them. Told them I was writing a book about our adventures and that I required some details to confirm our exploits. It seems a good many of the men who served with me are dead. It’s a betrayal not to remember them.”

  She’d failed to understand how much he suffered with what he couldn’t recall. But what if those letters spread over his desk contained more than stories of bravery and action against the enemy? What if they mentioned his time in Scutari and the nurses there? What if they mentioned one in particular and a name sparked a single memory, and a bit of that memory sparked another? Had her own selfishness brought him to this moment of grief?

  “No matter how many accounts you read, you will never feel what you experienced on that battlefield. You will not know if you trembled upon your horse. If you dropped to your knees and cast up your accounts afterward. You cannot experience bravery or righteousness or fear when the moment is long past. You cannot recreate what you went through there. I think you are foolish to try.”

  “You think me foolish,” he stated, each word enunciated with the bite of anger.

  “I think you must accept that the queen has determined that you are worthy of this honor and therefore you are worthy.”

  He laughed harshly. “You’ve not listened to a damned word I’ve said.” He came out of his chair, his eyes blistering with anger. “You can’t possibly understand. You think it trivial. You think me obsessed. Perhaps you even think me mad. And perhaps I am, because I would give my left arm to have the ability to reminisce about those missing two years of my life.”

  She angled her chin. “You are correct. You do not know the man you were in the Crimea. Because that man did every damned thing possible not to lose his left arm. He defied physicians. He threatened bodily harm to anyone who sawed it off. He proved to them with actions that it still worked, that it could be saved. And do you know why he did that?” She took a step nearer. “Because he refused to let his men return to the battlefield without him. When they wanted to give up and die, he urged them to live to fight again. And those for whom there would never be another fight, he stayed by their side as they surrendered to death and he made them feel victorious with their last breath. That is the man I fell in love with. That is the man whose son I held to my breast and swore I would never abandon. You do not need his memories to be him. Because he is you.”

  She made him feel small, petty, and ashamed. In the midst of his stunned silence, she’d stalked from the library, taking her magnificent fury with her. He’d wanted to rush after her, drag her back into this room, shove all this unimportant garbage off his desk, and lay the most important person of all upon it and have his way with her.

  Let her have her way with him.

  Instead, he’d dropped down into his chair and, with a shaking hand, he’d snatched up a letter and read words that no longer had any meaning, because hers had rendered them all into insignificance. Why, why could he not let it go? And every time he thought he had, it returned with a vengeance, demanding that he seek answers.

  He didn’t know how long he stared at the scrawl of ink on parchment. She was right. He found no answers there. They were inside him, locked away, possibly forever. All the dangers had been in the Crimea. What he couldn’t remember could do him no harm here—unless his obsession with not knowing drove his wife from his side.

  That would be tragic. That would be unbearable. That would be a hell worse than the empty pit in a distant part of his mind.

  He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, something moving past the window. Shoving the chair back, he rose and strode over to the sitting area that looked out on the garden.

  He couldn’t prevent his mouth from slanting upward ever so slightly at the sight of Mercy, holding John close. Her heavy red cape swirled around her ankles as she twirled in the descending snow. His son’s gleeful laughter filled the air and caused a painful knot to form in Stephen’s chest. What a turn of events his life had taken.

  John’s father would be Sir Stephen. There was honor in that. For Stephen and his son. He’d never before given much thought to how his actions fell on those around him. He’d always only cared about playing. Now he had a chance to play with his son, and he was ensconced in his library reading letters in an effort to reassure himself that the Queen had not made a mistake, that he was worthy of this honor.

  Who was he to decide?

  Surely, Mercy was right. They’d not confer it upon him if he didn’t deserve it. He wished he’d known the man he’d been in the East. He wondered if it was possible he’d not lost him completely, that remnants of what he’d done, who he’d been, remained, even if he didn’t recognize them. Surely, the life he’d led for two years influenced him to some degree.

  Mercy moved beyond his sight. He wondered what else she would share with their son. They would discuss it during dinner, if she was talking to Stephen by then. Her temper had been royally pricked. The thought of having her in bed with that fire blazing…

  That wasn’t going to happen, not when he’d disappointed her once again. Strange, how it had never bothered him to disappoint his family. Well, except for his mother. He’d always gotten angry with himself when he’d let her down, but he’d continued to disappoint her just the same. His needs, wants, desires had always come first.

  What a selfish bastard he’d been.

  But when it came to Mercy, she was all that mattered.

  He had a footman fetch his coat, hat, and gloves, and before he realized what he’d fully intended, he was scouring through the winter gardens searching for his wife and son. He found them on a bench covered with a light dusting of snow. She appeared serene. No evidence remained of the firebrand that had been in his library.

  “You have quite the temper, Mrs. Lyons. Had I my memories, would I have known that?”

  She glanced over at him, her mouth twitching as though she fought back a smile. She couldn’t stay angry with him for long. He took comfort in that knowledge, because he had years left in which to prick her anger.

  “A spinster is agreeable in all things with the hope that she will not chase a prospective suitor away. I don’t recall if I ever put my temper on display for you before. I rather doubt it.”

  He sat beside her and stretched his arm along the back of the bench. “Well, if you had, I can tell you I’d have thought twice before marrying you.”

  She smirked. “You thought twice anyway.”

  “I thought about it a great many more times than that.” He touched her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mercy, sorry for everything I said in the library.”

  “I’m sorry, too, sorry that I can’t comprehend your situation. You’re correct, though. If I lost the memory of a single moment with John, I would be devastated.”

  Sitting on her lap with his back to her chest and her arms holding him upright, the child was completely ignoring his parents, making nonsensical noises, and becoming fast friends with the snowflakes.

  “I think he took your temperament more than mine,” Stephen said.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  An oddness marked her tone, as though she were embarrassed by the thought. She curled her gloved hand around Stephen’s arm. “I’m not even sure if I should congratulate you for receiving the honor, but I am proud and I know it is deserved.”

  “I shall take your word for it.”

  “I would never lie to you. You must believe that.”

  Such earnestness in the whiskey of her eyes. God, he could drink from them all day and all night. He never wanted to be denied the pleasure of gazing into them.

  “There are times when I think that the details of what happened in the Crimea must reside deeply within me, must somehow still have some influence. The man I was before would have laughed at the absurdity of a knighthood, and then he’d have snatch
ed it with both hands and not given a damn as to the reasons that he was being knighted. In here …” He touched his fist to his chest. “There are times, Mercy, when I swear to God I do not know the man I have become. I am a stranger to myself.”

  “You are no stranger to me.” She leaned in and kissed him, sweetly, softly. A brief touch of their lips that promised more later. She’d forgiven him. Now if he could only forgive himself.

  If only he could come to accept that a stranger did not live inside his skin.

  Chapter 18

  The grand room of Westcliffe’s London residence was overflowing with guests. Claire had insisted that a celebration be held to honor Stephen and his accomplishment. As Mercy watched Stephen wending his way among the crush of people, she was struck by his confident swagger and the ease with which he smiled—even if she suspected much of it was for show. While he accepted the tribute with grace and dignity, she knew he still questioned his deserving it.

  Parliament was not yet in session. People had come to London specifically for this affair. While they’d not all attended the ceremony that afternoon, they were all chatting about it, seeking out what details they could find. It was not every day that someone was knighted.

  The ceremony had taken place in the ballroom of Buckingham Palace. Mercy’s throat had clogged with tears that she’d refused to allow to reach her eyes—she wouldn’t embarrass Stephen for the world—as she’d watched him in his scarlet uniform kneel before the Queen. Seeing him in it again made her realize that he’d aged more than the time that had passed since she’d first fallen in love with him. War and wounds had taken a toll. He looked older than his twenty-six years. So much older. But then she looked a great deal older as well. She wouldn’t change a minute of the hardship that had shaped them both.

  In a ritual dating back hundreds of years, Queen Victoria touched a sword to one of his shoulders and then the other, spoke words that Mercy barely heard with the thundering rush of blood in her ears. Then it was done. And Sir Stephen rose.