Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (3 page)

But he no longer looked to be a man who believed the declarations he’d once articulated with such conviction.

A ragged, unsightly red scar trailed from just below his temple to his chin, yet it did not diminish his rugged handsomeness. But his eyes—his beautiful blue eyes—had changed the most. They held such an incredible bleakness when he looked at her that she almost wept. His wounds went much deeper than his flesh; they had penetrated his soul.

The only thing about him that remained unchanged was the shade of his hair: a golden brown with streaks of blond woven through it. She’d often wondered how it might look with the sunlight bouncing off it. But she’d met him in winter amidst gray skies. Little sun chased back the dreariness of the hospital.

She wanted to race across the room, take him in her arms, and confess everything before he had a chance to denounce her for the fraud that she was. She should be trying to determine how best to save face, but all she could do was wonder about him. What had transpired during the months since she’d last seen him? Had he even noticed that she’d left Scutari? If he’d had occasion to visit the hospital, had he asked after her? He had been so terribly important to her, but he’d never made any declarations of affection. It wasn’t his way, she’d been told, but the knowledge had not stopped her from dreaming that he saw in her something special, something he saw in no other woman.

“Stephen,” Ainsley began, a gentleness, a caution in his voice, a tone that one might use when confronting a wild and unpredictable beast, “surely you remember Miss Mercy Dawson. She was a nurse at a military hospital in Scutari, tending to the soldiers who fought in the Crimea.”

She wondered why he’d felt the need to categorize her, to label her as though so many Mercy Dawsons filled his brother’s life that he would be unable to identify which one she was, precisely. She knew of his reputation with the ladies, knew that he sought pleasure with wild abandon, but surely, he was gentleman enough to recall every woman with whom he’d experienced carnal knowledge.

Tension rippled through the room, as if they were all connected by the wires on a pianoforte, each of them waiting for a chord to be plucked.

Major Lyons studied her for a heartbeat, and then another, but she saw no recognition in his deep blue eyes. None at all. She was but one of many nurses who had garnered his attention. The mortification of this moment, of being relegated to nothingness, to being completely unmemorable in spite of all they’d shared . . . it was almost more than she could bear. She didn’t know how she would survive it, but for John’s sake she would.

A dilemma reared its ugly head. Should she fight for John’s right to be here, to convince them that Major Lyons was his father, or should she take her son and be done with them, find a way to survive as best she could? She knew her father would not return her to his residence. He was done with her. He was here now only because he thought to gain from the situation, if not a pocketful of coins then a powerful son-in-law. She wondered what his impressions were, but she dared not look back at him. It took little to earn his wrath these days.

“Of course, I remember her.”

She blinked in surprise. Relief and dread beat within her breast. Conflicting desires, conflicting troubles. Everything had seemed much simpler when she thought he was dead. Now the truth picked at the lock, and she didn’t know if its release would serve her good or ill.

Major Lyons bowed slightly. “Miss Dawson.”

“Major. I’m so grateful you’re not dead.” In spite of the troubles his resurrection might cause her, the words were heartfelt. Grief had nearly done her in when she’d seen his name on the list of casualties. She owed him more than she could ever express, more than she could ever repay.

“No more so than I am, I assure you.”

The rough timbre of his voice sent a quiver of longing through her.
What
a
silly
chit
you
are,
Mercy.
He
speaks
that
way
to
every
lady.
You
are
not
so
special
after
all.
But there had been times when she’d thought, hoped, dared to dream that he gave her attention because he considered her distinctive, because he could distinguish her from the other nurses. After only one telling, he remembered her name. She learned later that she’d given too much significance to that small triumph. He knew every nurse by name. He could even differentiate the twin nuns—Mary and Margaret—from each other when no one else could.

“And her father, Mr. Daws—”

“You ruined my girl,” her father bellowed, interrupting Ainsley before the introductions were properly finished.

Mortification swamped her.
Oh,
what
a
tangled
web
we
weave. . .

Major Lyons’s eyes widened slightly at that, and his gaze swung back to her. His brow furrowed, and she could see him concentrating, trying to remember what had passed between them. How could he forget? Had he not seen her clearly in the darkness? Had she only imagined that he’d known who she was? She didn’t know if it would be better if he did recognize her as the lady he’d rescued that horrid night. Perhaps there was a mercy in his confusion. She should simply confess everything now, save herself further embarrassment.

But where to begin? How much to reveal? How much to keep hidden? How much would he deduce by whatever she told him? She had sworn an oath. No matter the price, she intended to keep it until she drew her last breath.

“Stephen, darling, do come here,” the duchess said, ushering him over to her side.

He walked slowly, as though even in this great room that was surely familiar to him he was lost, searching for his bearings. She’d seen far too many men with the same haunted quality, the same emptiness of soul in their expression. As though they’d left their essence out on the battlefield and only their bodies had returned. The price of war went far beyond the stores of munitions, food, uniforms, and medical supplies.

“This is John,” the duchess said softly when he reached her. “Miss Dawson claims he is your son. I can see a resemblance.”

“I don’t. For one thing I’m considerably taller.”

The duchess released a small laugh and tears welled in her eyes, as though she’d caught a glimpse of the teasing young man her son had once been. Reaching out, she squeezed his hand. “Is it possible, do you think? That he’s yours?”

He moved around to acquire a better look at John. With his large hand, he cradled the boy’s head, the pale wispy curls settling softly against his long, slender fingers. Mercy’s heart lurched, swelling with joy and breaking at the same time. How often she had dreamed of him holding his son, but none of her fanciful imaginings had prepared her for the moment of reality, of seeing him touching this precious child. He would recognize himself in the boy. Surely, he would. He would claim John as his, even if he would not offer Mercy the same consideration. For John, she could hold no greater joy than that he be accepted by his father. For herself, she knew it held the potential to have John ripped from her. A bastard child was the responsibility of his mother, but this powerful family could circumvent laws. With the proper amount of blunt slipped into her father’s palm, Mercy would be relegated to a pauper, with the one thing she treasured beyond her reach.

“Considering my well-earned reputation with the ladies, of course it’s possible,” he murmured. He lifted his eyes to hers, and she felt the full force of their impact as he studied her again. What did he see when he looked at her? Did he see her as she was the night he’d come to her rescue? Or did he see her as she was now? Determined to save the child when she’d been unable to save so many?

“You must do right by the girl,” his mother said softly. “If indeed, you have no doubt that she has given birth to your son.”

He would tell them now, would laugh at the ludicrousness of her claim. That a man such as he would ever desire a woman such as her—

“Of course, I should do right by her.”

Mercy’s knees shook and turned into jam. She sank into the chair. Had he just agreed to marry her? Surely not. She’d misheard. The Honorable Stephen Lyons, known rake and seducer of women. Major Stephen Lyons, admired soldier who had managed to make every nurse swoon. He couldn’t possibly be seriously considering marrying her with as much ease as he might snap his fingers.

“Miss Dawson, will you take a turn about the garden with me?”

“You can’t possibly think I’m going to leave her alone in your company,” her father barked.

“Walk along behind us if you like,” Major Lyons said, before glancing back down at John. “Although I daresay there is little I could do at this point that would ruin her reputation any more than it’s already been.” Once again, his gaze leaped across the distance separating them to land on her as powerfully as a touch. “Miss Dawson?”

She rose on unsteady legs. “Yes, Major. I would very much like to take a stroll with you.”

It was a lie, of course. She dreaded it with every fiber of her being.

H
e didn’t remember her. That truth disturbed Stephen more than he could voice with words, because if there was anything about the past two years that he should have remembered, it should have been her—or at the very least her eyes. An unusual shade, they reminded him of whiskey. But they were haunted, no doubt by things he couldn’t even begin to imagine, but with which he should have been intimately familiar.

War, blood, death.

The scars riddling his body and the still healing wounds served as a testament that he’d experienced the worst man had to offer, but his mind couldn’t recall a single detail of what he’d endured. He’d awoken in a regimental hospital on an odorous, thin pallet on a rickety wooden cot, tormented by physical pain that made no sense. Because the very last thing he’d remembered before he became fully conscious was having tea in the garden at Lyons Place with Claire.

The scent of flowers had been replaced by the pungent stench of oozing and rotting flesh. The sweet song of the meadowlark had been replaced by the moans and cries of dying men. So many calling out for their mothers, needing a familiar bosom upon which to take a final rest. The green of England had been replaced by the gray squalor of the Crimea. Even now he could still taste blood at the back of his throat, and he despaired of ever being free of it. An imperceptible red mist, it had been thick on the air, had saturated what remained of his tattered uniform. His blood, the blood of countless others—men he couldn’t remember. His inability to draw up memories of them dishonored them, disgraced him.

Lying beside them in the hospital, he’d wallowed in his own filth, his own pain, his own anguish. They would talk to him of battles fought and courage shown. He would pretend that he shared the recollections. They would talk fondly of those who were gone, and he felt he’d betrayed those who had died for his country—who might have died for him. What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t truly appreciate gnawed at his conscience, day and night. He remembered England, his family, his lovers in precise detail. What he couldn’t remember was how he had come to be in that wretched place.

He’d yearned to escape the reality of his surroundings. He’d longed to feel the silky softness of a woman’s body. He’d craved the solace her soothing hands and warm voice could offer.

But nothing was as it had been. The joy he’d once taken in women had been replaced by an almost desperate need to rid himself of what he’d become: a man who had lost two years of his life. He had an abbreviated past, had leaped over a chasm of time.

And now here was this woman who had emerged from that gaping, black nothingness that tormented him. He’d known her, bedded her, filled her with his seed. . .

Yet he couldn’t remember the flavor of her kiss, how soft her skin might have felt against his caressing fingers.

Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy: that she was obviously a lady of good breeding and she’d willingly given herself to him. It would not have been something she’d have done lightly. The way she constantly averted her gaze alerted him that she harbored guilt over their assignation. Yet for the life of him he remembered nothing at all about her.

He could tell—in spite of the unflattering black dress that might have given an unhandsome woman the appearance of a crow—that she was not easily forgotten. Yet, forget her he had.