The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (10 page)

“You’ll be sorry,” he muttered, his voice low, deep, every breath heaving his shoulders.

“For what? Pointing out the blasted facts, you great, stupid brute?”

“For pushing my temper, yet again, with your unwanted opinions, wretched harpy.”

She tipped her head back even farther. “You, Rafe Hartley, are all bark.” With each word, her lips almost touched his chin. Her throat was dry, her pulse pounding. “All hot air.”

“Oh, I’m hot, all right,” he whispered. “Better that than be frigid—cold as an icehouse.”

“I’d rather be cold. One can always wear more clothes if necessary, but there is a limit to the number of layers one can remove in Polite Society.”

“Good thing my society is never polite.”

As he slid closer, her fingers lost their grip on her bonnet, and she grabbed onto his shirt. Her lips parted, ready to administer a word of warning.

But it was vanquished, smothered, the breath stolen from her as his hard mouth closed upon hers.

He didn’t mean to do it. With her refusal to step down and admit he was right, she pushed him to the edge. Her challenge to his manhood sent him over it.

His tongue found hers, fought with it as if they were two swords in a duel. Why did she have to taste so sweet? Smell so damn good? No woman this mouthy and stubborn should feel so soft and tempting. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.

He let his knuckles brush her silken ringlets, but he wouldn’t unfurl his fingers. That would be too dangerous. Putting his hands around her waist had been a daring move. Not many men would venture into that treacherous territory with this haughty madam, but he couldn’t let her leave with the last word. Rafe decided to kiss her until she lost the will to argue. But he knew that if he touched her again the way he wanted to, he would forget himself completely.
Her
fingers, meanwhile, seemed to have no such quandary, no such reserve. They clung to his shirt and then spread, boldly sweeping to his shoulders, then his neck, finally losing their tips in his hair.

Groaning softly, he leaned his body to hers, devoured her lips, ate the shocked sounds off her tongue. His arousal sprang to life, aching with raw need. The yearning was more than he could bear. Yes, he now knew for sure what he wanted from life. The one thing too far out of his reach.

Suddenly she pressed her hands to his chest, gentle but insistent.

Their lips parted enough to allow speech, even if it was of a slightly hoarse variety.

“How dare you?” she gasped.

“How dare you?” he demanded, his voice gruff, terse. More so than he meant it to be. He wanted to touch her, put his hands all over her. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around the stair railings again, keeping her trapped.

She lowered her lashes. His body still touched hers, and he felt every breath squeezing through her in a halting pattern of shattered sighs. At last he’d unsettled the wench. There were few things more satisfying in life than getting her to bite. Despite her attempts to retain control, she never could resist the bait he dangled, and she’d get caught on it for a while, until she wriggled free. He wished he could reel her all the way in.

Rafe leaned closer, wanting more, but she ducked under his arm to escape. “That’s quite enough of
that
, young man. You know where a kiss took us once before.”

Yes, he mused, all the way to Gretna Green in the middle of the night. One heated, forbidden kiss had been all it took to turn his world on its head five and a half years ago.

Now she was aloof again as she retrieved her bonnet from the flagstones and looked for her gloves. Back to the ice princess.

“Was that meant to be your apology for the bride you cost me?” he demanded, arms at his sides, hands trying to stay out of trouble. “Twice.”

“I did not come here to apologize. Only to set you straight.”

Oh, she’d set him straight, all right. Straight, tall, and hard as marble. Now, apparently, the rotten tease was leaving. Again.

While she tied the ribbons of her bonnet, she lectured him about making sure he ate some food and got some sleep, but he noticed she couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’ll come back tomorrow, when you are in a more sensible frame of mind, and help you write a letter to Molly.”

He scowled. “She can write to
me
. She’s the one who left.”

“You’ll do as I say, Rafe Hartley, and we’ll have no more of this nonsense.”

“You don’t own me, woman.”

“Oh, yes, I—” She stopped short. “I know what’s best for you and for Molly. I came here for a wedding, and there will be one.”

The bossy wench didn’t like her plans spoiled, or things falling out of place. Years ago, at his uncle’s harvest party when they were children, he’d watched Mercy spend half an hour organizing a pyramid of apples on the sideboard, patiently picking up each one that fell, polishing it again on her silk kerchief, and setting it carefully back in place. Naturally, he’d waited until she was done, then walked by and removed an apple from the bottom layer, causing her neat arrangement to tumble all over the room. He’d received a slap ’round the ear for that from his uncle, but, as he’d protested at the time, it was her fault for tempting him with the opportunity.

She’d begun pulling on her gloves, but her fingers fumbled and, if he was not mistaken, her hands trembled. Even so, she kept her tone curt. “You see, this is why you need my help.” One of her gloves fell to the floor because she was too rattled to keep control of it. “You’re a male,” she added, stooping to retrieve the fallen item, “oblivious.”

Rafe wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t; he was too amused by her funny, nervous little gestures as she tried to ignore what just happened between them, tried to maintain her customary frosty edge. “And you’re a woman. Fickle.”

She dismissed the statement with a shake of her head and a wrinkle of that prim nose. Her lips appeared darker, fuller, as if his kiss had stung them.

Mayhap he’d test the waters a little further. He cleared his throat. “Well, if you do come back tomorrow, woman, don’t come too early, and make sure you knock this time.”

“I certainly—”

“This
oblivious
male
might have company. Of the pretty and shapely female kind.”

Her gaze sharpened, finally lifting to meet his.

That tumbled her apples, didn’t it?

“Such as?”

He shrugged. “There’s a couple of milkmaids with their eye on me. I’ll saunter down to Merryweather’s Tavern later and pay them a visit on the way home. See if I can’t tempt them into joining me here for a jug of cider.”

“How quickly you forget about Molly,” she muttered.

“Just as you forgot about me.”

She stilled, her plump bottom lip disappearing beneath the upper.

“Didn’t you?” he pressed.

No answer. The woman held her emotions in so tightly that he couldn’t even see her breathing. Only a very slight gleam in the corner of her right eye proved how great an effort she made and how much she kept imprisoned within.

He hoped the memories plagued her. For the last five years he’d fought to push this desire down, to drown it, smother it. Now she reappeared in the flesh, dredging it all up to the surface again. The feelings were still there, much as he might have tried to deny them ever since.

“I suppose you’re too proud, my lady, to admit you made a mistake once.”

Silence again. He watched the gleam grow more evident in her verdigris eyes, the heated temper she tried to control.

He folded his arms high over his chest. “Why did you ask me to run away with you that night?”

She pursed her lips, and when they parted again, her words shot out to pierce him like arrows. “It was your idea. Not mine.”

He let that pass for now, although it was a blatant lie. “So why did you go with me?”

Her eyes shone brightly now with that stifled temper as more oozed out, freeing itself from her hold. “I thought it would be an adventure.”

“And then you changed your mind and left me.” He shook his head. “Brave Lady Bossy-Breeches got scared.”

Again her lips gathered in a tight pout, as if she was done with the conversation.

Well, he was not.

“Always giving out advice, aren’t you, woman? Never like to think you might have been wrong, even once in your life, eh?”

She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. Made it shine. Suddenly she said, “Yes. I made a mistake.”

Rafe stopped rocking on his heels. At the suddenness of her confession, his pulse became irregular, too rapid. “Now you’re sorry you left me?”

“No. My folly was agreeing to marry you in the first place when you are so far beneath me.”

At those brutal words, his heart stumbled, like a horse changing its mind at the last minute before a looming hedge and leaving him to fly over it alone.

“Molly is the one for you.” Adjusting the veil over her eyes, she walked to the door. “And Molly will come back. This is a temporary problem, nothing more.”

Thus she left him standing in his kitchen, alone again.

***

Dear God and all the saints in heaven! She’d just let Rafe Hartley kiss her on the mouth.

That kiss with Rafe had started a very strange sensation inside her, not unlike being caught out in a storm—a thrilling sort of anxiety that went spinning and bouncing through her until she couldn’t catch her breath. It made her think of her fiancé. Not because it reminded her of him, unfortunately, but because his kisses had
never
felt like that. She’d been waiting a long time to have her desires met in that regard, but her fiancé was every bit the gentleman he should be and never did more than kiss her lightly on the cheek or hand.

Tomorrow, when she returned, she would bring his stepmother along. It was the proper thing to do, even if she could, strictly speaking, handle him herself without assistance. Lady Mercy Danforthe had an irreproachable reputation, and it must remain unbesmirched. So what if Rafe made her admit, out loud, that she once made a mistake? The error in judgment occurred when she was only seventeen. He was two entire years older and should have known better. She hadn’t realized, until he held her against the stair rail and she succumbed to his forceful kiss, how much of a danger he was. Still.

Mercy ruefully pondered the difference in his attitude toward her when she was dressed in the guise of old Lady Blunt. He was much sweeter to her when she wore that gray wig, a thick layer of face powder, and heavy black widow’s weeds. When he thought she was that bent, frail old lady, his mysterious “benefactress,” he was quite receptive to her advice. Truly it was astonishing, the change in Rafe Hartley, when she stood before him as herself and he hadn’t one solitary pleasant thing to say to her. But then her own words today had lacked considerable finesse, because he got her in such a temper.

You
are
so
far
beneath
me.
Oh dear. Another thing she probably should not have said to him. She hadn’t meant to be cruel, but sometimes the truth was harsh, and it was always necessary. And she had, in that moment after his kiss, been in a state of panic that made her less than tactful. For both their sakes, it was important to remember their places in life. No good could ever come of forgetting the proper order of things. Thus leads the way to chaos.

Driving the curricle back toward Morecroft, she was soon slowing the horses until they moved in an ambling walk rather than the usual brisk trot she favored.

What if he did go to Merryweather’s tavern, drink too much, and stumble home through the village unguarded? Eligible bachelors were scarce in the area, so Molly had told her. Young girls who’d waited for their chance at handsome Rafe Hartley would surely take advantage of the fact that his bride-to-be had run off. Especially if he played for sympathy with those terribly blue eyes—the way Mercy knew he could.

Surely, as Molly’s best friend, and in her absence, it was up to Mercy to stop Rafe from doing anything foolish. It was not on her own behalf that she worried. No, it was all for Molly. After that shameful kiss, she felt even more determined. It was guilt, she supposed. A guilty conscience was a terrible thing indeed.

So she turned the curricle around and steered the horses back into the village. She would visit Rafe’s aunt and uncle, the Kanes, at their farm nearby. Indeed, it would have been impolite not to visit them while she was there. Later, when she drove back to Morecroft, she could ride by the tavern on the common and make certain Rafe was not drinking too much or gambling. If he was there, she would give him a ride back to the farm. And a piece of her mind.

A piece of one’s mind could safely be given from arm’s length. She ought to know, since she was a frequent giver of such pieces.

Clearly surprised to see her, his aunt and uncle nevertheless welcomed Mercy into their busy home, where she was instantly surrounded by the noise of three young boys and two little girls. It was somewhat overwhelming to be leapt upon from all angles, and her head soon ached as if it had been struck with a mallet repeatedly, but Mercy kept her composure under the lively assault.

“I do hope Molly returns before it’s too late,” said Rafe’s aunt Sophie while wrestling a carving knife from the youngest daughter. “She could be a stable influence in his life, and I fear her sudden desertion does not bode well. I wouldn’t want that boy to involve himself with the wrong sort of woman, and there are plenty here eager for their chance. He’s always had a slightly unpredictable quality. And many admirers.”

“Yes, so I hear.” It was a good thing she was there, she thought again, to keep him on the right path. Men should not be left untended for too long. Especially men like Rafe. Look what happened the last time he made a spur-of-the-moment decision about his love life—he ran off to Gretna Green with the first girl willing. “Don’t worry. I’m quite sure Molly will come back.”