She closed her eyes and saw Grant’s face, his generous mouth, his eyes turning to warm honey when he was amused or pleased. She wanted to make him laugh and approve of her. Her heart galloped on the wings of hope. Mercy loved her father. She’d always looked up to him and considered him an astute man. She prayed now that he was right, that Grant did care for her.
Clouds like white puffs from a dragon’s breath raced across the pale blue sky, driven by a stiff breeze. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh, more from nerves than the cold. After winding through the narrow lanes, the carriage deposited them before the awe-inspiring Gothic western face of York Minster.
When Mercy took her father’s arm, they entered the enormous interior through the tall arched doors and made their way along the handsome mosaic marble floor. As strains of Handel’s Water Music swelled into the echoing space from the church organ, sunlight heralded their approach, turning the magnificent rose window into sparkling jewel colors.
Mercy felt small in this huge, grand cathedral. She would have preferred to have been married in the family church at Tunbridge Wells, as her sisters were, but her opinion on the matter had never been sought.
Grant watched from his position before the altar, elegant in his dark-blue tailcoat with a white camellia in his lapel, pale blue waistcoat, and buff trousers, his best man, Baron Sexton in gray, at his side.
Mercy tried to quell her shivering as she passed familiar and unfamiliar faces. She smiled at Grant’s father. The duke’s eyes twinkled encouragingly from his seat on the front pew with Arabella and Aunt Jane beside him. On the other side of the aisle her mother amongst her family, beamed with joy. When Mercy joined Grant, her father stepped away.
“Here you are,” Grant said with a wide smile.
At the warm approval and reassurance she found in his eyes, her nervousness slipped away. She turned to the minister who had begun to intone the words of the marriage ceremony. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…” Straightening her shoulders, she faced headlong her future now resolutely entwined with this strong, dark-haired man beside her.
* * *
The minister’s words flowed over Grant, sealing a fate he’d initially dreaded, then came to accept, and now welcomed. He hadn’t spared much thought for the sort of woman he would one day marry. Such an occurrence seemed so far into the future. He expected to be older, more settled. Ready to be a steady husband and father. His wife would be eager to share his life and bear his children. She would love him as he did her. Someone quiet and sensible. This strong minded young lady standing so still beside him did not fit into his vague notion of a suitable wife. He feared he’d failed in some way to meet with her notion of an ideal husband.
But she was exquisite in her white bridal gown, so touchingly delicate, while in no way fragile, her slender back straight as a poker. Mercy stirred many feelings in him, some of which surprised him. He’d always found her beauty seductive. She could stir his loins with a glance, but more than that, he admired her intelligence, her lively spirit, and her complexity, although he could see those qualities would make his life more complicated. She was profoundly interesting. He wanted very much for her to love him. She didn’t yet, he was well aware of that.
He repeated the words…”have and to hold from this day forward…thereto I plight thee my troth.” Grant slipped the ring on her finger and gazed into eyes so blue, a man could get lost in them.
“I pronounce you man and wife.”
Grant lowered his head and pressed a brief kiss on Mercy’s mouth. “I shall endeavor to be a good husband,” he murmured.
“And I a good wife,” she replied with a remarkably meek smile.
He took her hand before they made their way into the vestry to sign the register.
The wedding breakfast was a marvel of organization, considering how little time the Baxendale’s had to prepare.
At the first strains of Haydn, Grant swept his bride into a waltz, and moments later, other guests joined them on the dance floor.
Did he see something close to deep longing in Mercy’s eyes? He wanted very much to respond, but her lashes lowered and when she glanced up again, the expression had vanished.
She smiled politely at him. “Your grandfather appears to be enjoying himself.”
He looked at where his grandparent held court surrounded by several men. “He relishes company. It’s a pity he no longer can endure long carriage trips. I hope to hold shooting parties at Thornhill and perhaps a hunt ball in October.”
“He will enjoy that, as will your father.”
His brow creased. “Father held them every year at Summerfield.” He spun her around. “Have I told you how lovely you look?”
Mercy laughed. “Yes. Several times.”
He tightened his hand at her waist. “And that I’m impatient to have you all to myself?”
She flushed. “I believe you have, sir.” She nodded at the decorations and urns of flowers scenting the air of the reception rooms which had been opened to form a large room, the carpets taken up for dancing. Waiters moved through the guests serving champagne and negus. “Today has been perfect.”
“It’s not over yet,” he said and was rewarded with a shy smile. “I should add that your sisters look quite lovely in their shades of pink.”
Mercy smiled. “Robin has likened us to roses, from the palest to the deepest hue.”
“Most appropriate.” Grant grinned. “But as lovely as roses are, they can prick you if you’re not careful.”
She tilted her head. “Are you suggesting I would rebuke you for some apparent slight?”
“Only over something I’m sure I deserve.” He laughed, determined to keep things on an even keel. Tonight, he would do nothing to stoke those fires he knew still burned in her breast. He led her over the floor enjoying how light she was in his arms. There was plenty of time to deal with their differing opinions and desires. The future excited him more than he’d thought possible. To be part of a big warm family which welcomed him with open arms, and to have this lovely girl as his wife.
“It’s wonderful to see Edward and Vaughn’s elder brothers, Bartholomew and Chaloner here,” she said when they slowed. “And Bartholomew’s wife, Emily. Bart’s parish isn’t far from York.”
Mercy smiled at Sibella as she danced past with her husband, the Marquess of Strathairn. “Sibella and John’s country estate is not far from York.”
He smiled down at her. “So, society won’t be so dull here in Yorkshire.”
“You thought I was reluctant to live here?”
“Well, apart from your sister in Northumberland, most of your family live in the south.”
“We are all scattered. With Hope the farthest away in France.”
“Then we must travel to France and visit them.”
Her lovely eyes lit up. “Could we? I should like that very much.”
“After their babe comes, perhaps.” Pleased to see her happy, he led her from the floor.
When Mercy excused herself to speak to her mother, Grant walked toward Adam and Hugh. Before he reached them, the butler waylaid him.
“Someone wishes to speak to you, milord.” He made a moue of distaste. “A roughly dressed fellow. Shall I send him away?”
“No. I’ll see him.”
The man hung back in the entry. His hollow-cheeked face was unshaven, his clothing travel stained. “You’re needed, milord,” he said when the butler left them. “In the back alley.”
Grant frowned, annoyed and suspicious. “Who wants me?”
“News from Colonel Black.”
He cursed under his breath. “Wait for me there.”
One didn’t take a gun to one’s wedding, Grant thought wryly. He grabbed a cane from the hall table and made his way to the rear of the building. With a glance to make sure his departure went unnoticed, he slipped through the servant’s door. The man waited half in shadow. Without another word, he turned and led Grant to an alley off the sq
uare.
The smells of rubbish, privies, and cats in the rank alley scalded his nostrils, making him curse anew. Grant swivelled on his toes when a second man rounded the building into the fading light, and whipped off his hat.
His big nose looked red and he sniffed. “Becknell, milord. We’ve come straight from London.”
Grant’s chest tightened. “What news?”
“There’s been another attack on the line where it runs along the river. This time the rails have been uprooted for over a mile.”
“Hound’s teeth! Anyone come forward with information?”
“No, but I have a letter for you from the colonel.”
Grant backed up to where the last of the daylight filtered down through the buildings. He opened the letter and scanned the missive Black had written in a hasty scrawl.
“Congratulations on your nuptials, Northcliffe. Please convey my felicitations to Lady Mercy. I would not ask this of you, but Lady Haighton has written to advise me of an attempted burglary. Someone searched her husband’s office. A footman was knocked unconscious. She has called in the Parish constable, but knowing she is a close friend of your family, I am sure you would want to see her immediately. Events are moving forward here. I will explain in more detail when I see you, but I can tell you that parliament will call a special session to look into the question of the vandalized railway. As we feared, it seems that the market is being manipulated for gain. I can inform you that the railway land was purchased from the Hon. Ambrose Fury’s estate. Fury is a close neighbor of the Haighton’s, so you might have words with him to see if you can turn up something. And of course, there’s Scullen’s death—my men will give you the details. My best regards, Black.”
Hell and damnation! Grant shoved the letter in his pocket and turned to the men. “What’s this about Scullen?”
The man sniffed. “The cove who worked at the Chinese Emporium in Vauxhall Gardens. We had Scullen followed as you instructed. Got ’imself stabbed to death.”
A muscle ticked in Grant’s jaw. “When was this?”
“These three nights gone. We caught the assailant, being on the spot as we were. ’E’s in a holding cell at Bow Street. The prisoner was wounded while resisting capture and ’es refusing to talk. No way of telling if it’s relevant to the investigation ’til he does.” He shook his head. “And the leech says he might cock up ’is toes afore that.”
The felon had obviously been severely beaten when detained in custody, if the doctor couldn’t help him. Black would be furious. He nodded at the men. “You must have forgone sleep to get here so fast.”
“Yes, milord.” The man sniffed while the other man shuffled his feet again.
“I’ll send out food and ale. Riding back today?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Tell Colonel Black I’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
Grant slipped back into the house. Could they be wrong in thinking Nat was killed because of what he saw? The pond became muddier by the day. It couldn’t be worse. He would be forced to tell his grandfather the truth. But how in the hell would he explain this to Mercy? It seemed their marriage must begin with a lie.
Chapter Sixteen
HER EMOTIONS IN a jumble, Mercy sat at the dressing table mirror as Penny removed the pins and brushed her long locks. Her new personal maid tugged at a tangle, sending a shot of pain into her scalp. Her head already ached a little, so she jerked away. “That will be all, thank you, Penny. You may go.” The maid stepped back dismayed and put down the brush.
“I’m so sorry, milady.”
The housekeeper had been at pains to apologize for the maid’s inexperience, informing Mercy that they had had difficulty fulfilling the position, after the woman chosen for the position was called home to a sick mother. Mercy must replace the girl if she found her inadequate. Ashamed at her display of uncharacteristic impatience, Mercy swivelled on the stool with an encouraging smile. “We shall grow more familiar with each other in time.”
Penny, a freckled-faced country girl of fifteen or sixteen, curtseyed. “Oh, yes, milady.”
“I will ring for you in the morning when I need you.”
The maid bobbed again and hurried from the room.
Left alone, Mercy plucked at the ribbon on her blush pink peignoir and stared at the interconnecting door. She had been relieved to discover she and Grant had separate chambers, with a sitting room between. Her gaze roamed the bedchamber. Its charm and comfort had made her feel less a stranger in this big house. The walls were an exquisite hand-painted Chinoiserie pattern of flowers and birds on a gray background, the slender bedposts rosewood and gilt with bed hangings, canopy and curtains of cream and white damask. The carpet was a dense, soft gray, with a pair of pink French chairs drawn up to the white marble fireplace.
A dainty white and gold desk near the long windows had a pleasing view of the walled rose garden. “For your writing,” Grant has suggested when he’d shown her the room yesterday. He had been trying to appease her, she saw that now. But she’d been so dismayed by their earlier quarrel, she’d failed to respond. Had she been as much to blame for the distance between them? Was she unreasonable? Her father had urged her to be kind. She flushed. Had she taken slight at Grant’s every word and deed because he’d failed to declare his love for her? Well she was his wife now. Hope and a rush of excitement flooded through her.
Might it be better if she lay beneath the covers? She rose and was in the act of slipping off the peignoir when a knock came on the door.
“Come in.” Mercy struggled with the delicate fabric, catching it on a fingernail.
Grant entered, dressed in an inky blue silk banyan and backless slippers. He kicked the door shut with his foot, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses held by their stems in the other. Tendrils of damp hair rested on his forehead.
She paused, clutching the lacy fabric which was halfway down her arms.
He smiled. “Am I welcome? Are you dressing or undressing?”
Mercy’s cheeks heated. “I was…um…I was getting into bed.” She gave up on the peignoir, slipping it off and placing it over a chair.
He put the bottle and glasses down on a table and turned to her. She stepped into his arms. He smelled of a woody soap, as he pressed a light kiss to her lips. “Are you tired, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone gentle.
“Yes. No. Only a little.” Mercy didn’t wish him to think she didn’t want him.
Grant turned his attention to the champagne on the bureau. He released the cork with a pop, and poured the wine. “It was a beautiful wedding wasn’t it: beautiful bride, beautiful service. Everyone thought so.”
Her heart lifted. “Oh yes, it all went very well.”
He held out a glass to her, and when she took it, raised his in a salute. “To a long and happy life together.” His eyes bathed her in admiration. “You look very pretty with your hair over your shoulders.”
“Thank you.” She took a large gulp and then another. The cold fizzy liquid slid down her throat and hit her nervous stomach. She shivered. The bedchamber was cool despite a small fire burning in the grate.
Grant took the glass from her and put them both on the dresser. He rubbed her bare arms. “You’re cold. Let me help you into bed.”
His arm around her, Mercy climbed onto the high bed. Once beneath the lavender scented bed coverings, she pulled them up over her chest.
Grant sat on the bed beside her. “Perhaps you’d prefer a hot drink. Shall I send for some hot chocolate?”
“No thank you. I’m quite warm now.” In fact, she grew rather too hot as he leaned forward and drew a lock of her hair through his fingers.
“Like pale silk.” He raised it to his nose. “And it smells sweetly of blossom.”
“It’s the rinse. I make it myself, or I did at home in Tunbridge Wells. I use…” She was suddenly bereft of breath. Grant had slipped beneath the covers beside her.
He turned on his side and leaned over to nuzzle her ear.
“Mmm. You must tell me more; it smells delicious.”
“To peach blossom extract I add rosewater and…” she drew in a sharp breath as he pressed kisses beneath her ear and across her cheek.
“And I promise to listen…later, sweetheart.” He took her chin in his hand and his mouth captured hers, his kiss more a caress. His breath hitching, he deepened the kiss.
Mercy’s heart galloped as his hand slid over her ribs to her breast sending sensations racing through her. He sat up and pulled off his banyan, his wide smooth back turned away from her. Fascinated, she put a tentative hand up to stroke across his satiny skin, liking the way his muscles moved, powerful and strong. He pulled the covers off them and she was caught by a sight of male nakedness she’d only seen when giggling over Charity’s art books. She couldn’t equate him with those marble statues. He was all warm flesh and rampant male, and she became limp and hot.
He grasped a fold of the thin material of her nightgown, a pretty, embroidered thing she liked. “Shall we remove this?” In one quick movement, she was naked.
His warm body against hers made her gasp. She wondered if she pleased him. She would not think of that other woman with her confident ways. Not tonight.
How lovely were his kisses. When his tongue darted inside her mouth, she gasped at the unexpected intimacy. She coiled her fingers in his dark hair, grateful for Honor’s insight, but even with the aid of the champagne and the wine earlier in the day, she could do little but allow Grant to take the lead. He was obviously well acquainted with a woman’s body. His murmured endearments made her sigh as he traced his hands over her stomach, down to that private place between her thighs. Her stomach tightened and throbbed in the neediest way and his stroking there brought a moan to her lips.
“Mercy,” he murmured softly. “You are so soft, so sweet. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll try not to.”
The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Page 12