The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (12 page)

It surprised her that Rafe would be so careless with his coin and valuables, but he always had a surfeit of self-assurance that was often more hindrance than help. Tonight it remained unwavering, despite a succession of bad cards. When he continually failed to win back his pocket watch, Mercy saw a shadow dim the merry light in his gaze, but he acted as if it was a mere trifle. Only she was aware of his knee bouncing anxiously beneath the table.

It was very odd to be seated there beside Rafe while wearing her very fine “Mystery of the Orient” muslin. She certainly had not expected this when she set out that day in her bright garments. The other men at the table were considerably quieted by her presence, on their best behavior and not very happy about having their evening spoiled in this manner. Some stared at her in curiosity. Most carefully avoided her eye. Rafe continued in his usual bold way, teasing her, laughing, and joking as if his opponents joined in. He pretended not to notice the general discomfort that dropped over the room, and he acted as if it did not matter at all whether she left or stayed.

Another tankard was brought for him, and she drank that one too. Then a third. He watched her with guarded amusement. “I drink like that only when I want to forget something. What are you trying to forget, precious primrose? Some scandal in your past, perhaps, milady?”

“I am merely passing the time until you’re ready to leave, country bumpkin.”

If he was concerned about the amount she imbibed, surely he would want to leave soon, she reasoned. It was the only way to get him out of there before he lost the shirt on his back, because she certainly couldn’t carry him over her shoulder.

“Perhaps”—he leaned closer to whisper, pretending to show her his cards—“you’re hoping the scrumpy cider will help you forget that kiss you gave me earlier.”

He meant to shock her, of course. He did like to make her blush while he played the “humble” country lad. “You gave it to me,” she corrected him crisply.

“You started it.”

“I most certainly did not. It was thrust upon me.” She swigged another mouthful of cider, growing accustomed to the burning sensation and then the numbness that followed until the next gulp. “In any case, what does it matter?” She flicked her hand carelessly, almost knocking the cards out of his grip. “It is already forgotten.” She finished the contents of the third tankard. Or was it the fourth? Her body felt very warm now, her mind pleasantly drowsy. “Your kisses are not that memorable, Hartley.”
Oh, what a lie!

“What would your brother have to say if he saw you here like this…with me?”

Carver, she mused, would probably laugh and make a wager on how many pints she could drink. He’d always viewed his little sister as an irritating burden, the charge of which had been forced upon him by unlucky fate. He would much rather have had only himself to worry about. When she was seventeen, running away with Rafe, she’d almost expected her brother to let her go. But she had discovered Carver did have some limits. She’d often thought, since then, that the evening of her elopement was the first time Carver realized it too.

It was the only time
he
took charge of
her
. The only time she’d ever known her brother cared.

Rafe was looking hard at her, unblinking, giving his full attention to the woman at his side instead of the cards in his hand. Mercy, vaguely aware of the other men watching them impatiently, could not take her gaze from Rafe or fail to concede, again, that he was darkly handsome. Attempting to convince herself of his utter unattractiveness was a hopeless endeavor.

He had discarded an old, patched coat at some point in the evening, and it hung over the back of his chair. Of course, a gentleman should never remove his coat in public, but what did he care? Now he wore only a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a frayed waistcoat, and stained buckskin breeches that might benefit from the application of a buffball. If he possessed such an item. Or a valet to draw it to his attention. All his garments were, no doubt, thrown on without a thought, and most of them clumsily sewn by Jammy Jim, yet he still managed to be very pleasing on the eye. As much as he thought he blended in there, he stuck out among all the other men in that tavern like a tall beeswax candle accidentally left in a box of tallow stumps. Imagine, she thought, how he would look if he actually took any effort over his clothes. If only he was hers to manage.

“It’s not mine,” she muttered.

“What isn’t?”

She licked her lips and tasted the tart apples of the scrumpy. Oh, why did these wildly irregular sensations come over her in his proximity? It was most unfair.

“What isn’t yours?” he repeated.

“The fault for your misfortunes.” She struggled to remain very solemn. As long as she maintained the appearance of being in control, no one could possibly accuse her of otherwise. “The fault isn’t mine.”

“Of course it isn’t. It never is.” He shook his head and reached for the empty tankard she gripped in both hands. “I reckon you’ve had enough. Some folk don’t know their limits.”

That reminded her… “Your aunt is having another baby,” she whispered, trying not to sound so shocked or disapproving. Failing on both counts.

“You don’t say,” he replied drily.

“But what can your uncle be thinking?”

He lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug. “Extra hands on the farm as they grow older? Free labor in the fields.”

She stared, tying to focus on his rugged profile while he played his next hand. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether Rafe was teasing or deadly serious. “Your cousins may not wish to be farmers.”

“Why wouldn’t they? Are we not all supposed to stay where we’re born? That is what people like you, your brother, and my great-grandmama believe, is it not? We are all born to a life we should never try to change. Things should stay the way they are. Anyone steps out of line and rebels, they must be punished.”

“I’m sure I never said such as that.”

“But it’s ingrained in the way you think. Now, my lady friend in London”—he smirked at his cards—“she did not think that way.”

“Your
lady
friend
?”

“She,” he said proudly, “wanted me to make something good of my life. Said I shouldn’t waste my talents.”

The men at the table chuckled into their scrumpy.

“She didn’t believe in holding a man down.”

“The only thing holding you down, Rafe Hartley, is yourself,” she exclaimed. He’d meandered through life, more intent on enjoying himself than making serious plans. Until recently. “I always thought it was a jest for you to study the law.
You
—who has always sought to break it.”

His fellow players laughed again, many agreeing with her. Rafe good-naturedly smiled too. “Aye. I was not cut of the right cloth for that profession. I thought to please my father.”

Surprised to hear him admit it, Mercy kept her gaze riveted on his smile as it turned to a contrite grimace. Rafe worked hard at trying to please everyone in his life—his father, his uncle, Molly… Most of the time pleasing one meant disappointing the other. No wonder he was confused and could not find his direction for so long.

She knew hers, of course. Had always known it. Was born to it. Marry well for the sake of the family name and provide at least one heir. Host parties and balls, manage household staff, visit the poor and infirm, write letters of thanks, sympathy, and felicitations. Arrange flowers. Most importantly, keep oneself above scandal. That was her purpose.

There was no profession for her to worry about, only a strict, unswerving duty.

And here she was, in a tavern full of men, unchaperoned, slightly drunk. None of this was in her plans. Where did she go wrong that day? At what point did it all go amiss?

Studying Rafe’s lips, she felt forlorn, overwhelmed, out of her depth for one of the few times in her memory. It was a rare occurrence for Mercy.

Fingers of sunset reached in through the tavern windows, which were left open this evening, and Rafe’s quizzical eyes reflected tiny sparks of gold that fizzled, like fireworks dampened by rain, smothered before they could show their full glory. Watching for them drew her in until she felt that deep, velvety blue all around her.

She hiccupped. “You should not have kissed me,” she whispered.

He swore under his breath. “And you should never have come back here.”

“Yes, I should. Someone had to put things…put things”—
hiccup—
“in our proper laces. In
their
proper…places.” Oh, she couldn’t think what she was saying. “And you should not curse in the presence of a lady.” There, that was better.

“You bring out the worst in me,” he replied, shaking his head, dark hair falling across his brow until he swept it back with his fingers. “’Tis dangerous, my lady, for me to be around you.”

“On the contrary. I will keep you out of trouble, young man.”

He licked his lips as they curved in a slight, weary smile. “Too late. Like my uncle says, you
are
trouble.”

“Well, I must say,” she exclaimed, “that’s most unkind and definitely uncalled for.”

“My uncle is a wise man. I only wish I could be the same.”

“Wise indeed! A wise man would know when he had enough children.”

The last thing she remembered with any clarity was his low, sultry chuckle as he finally extracted the tankard from her fingers. “Let’s get you home, Bossy-Buttercup,” he whispered.

***

Rafe drove the curricle back to his farm and unloaded the giggling woman, lifting her in his arms and taking her inside. Only then, as he sought somewhere to put her down, did it occur to him that he’d brought her to
his
home—not hers. He should have driven her back to Morecroft, but it was dark now, the drive another good hour at least, even at his usual reckless speed.

“Mind my bonnet,” she exclaimed as he carried her into his house. “And I hope your hands are clean. I don’t want my new gown spoiled. It’s mystery of the…something… I forget.”

“Oh, it’s a mystery, all right,” he muttered. Only Mercy Danforthe could lecture him while she was inebriated. But there was something almost human about her in this state. The ice queen was melting. Amused as he was by her current unraveled condition, she would not want this messy inkblot spoiling a page in her very proper ledger. He was shocked that she entered that tavern to find him, risking her reputation just to save him from losing all his money. On the other hand, The Brat was brazen enough to imagine she might carry it off without castigation.

He tried to sit her up in a chair at the table, but she kept wilting to one side. Finally, he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed. At once she rolled over, closed her eyes, and appeared to fall asleep. He shook his head, crouched at the foot of the bed, and removed her boots, struggling over the laces and breaking one of them in his fumbling haste. The only other thing he removed was her bonnet, which he laid carefully on the little bedside table. She looked disgustingly at peace and at home, sprawled across his bed, drooling into his bolster.

They’d have to make the best of it now, he reasoned. At first light, before he began work, he could get her up and sneak her out without anyone knowing she spent the night there. Although he had no idea what she could tell her hosts in Morecroft tomorrow. He’d leave that up to her. He had his own problems to deal with. Besides, he never asked her to come there, interfering, putting herself in his house…in his way.

“It was all because of you,” she murmured, her eyes closed, bronze lashes twitching against her cheeks.

“What was?”

“You talked me into it.”

Rafe’s temper, usually so quick to flare, was napping this evening, like an old dog lying in the shade of a tree on a sunny day, unwilling to rouse itself and bark. Could it be that he was simply tired of fighting with her? He never thought that was possible before. “Yes,” he replied. “If you say so.”

What would it matter, since she was unlikely to remember his concession come the morning?

“I need a peacock-feather muff direct from Paris,” she whispered. “It is just the thing. I cannot be married without it.”

Following that curious remark, there was nothing but a gentle snore. He sat, just a moment, on the edge of the bed. It was improper, but Lady Know-All was not awake to remind him.

Now what? Anyone might pass his yard and see that curricle. Best get the horses into the stable and pull the curricle out of sight around the side of the barn. He might not have invited her in, but she was there now. His responsibility for a few hours at least.

Rafe’s heart was beating very fast, not just from the exertion of carrying her up the stairs. The more he tried to calm the pace, the worse it became. He hadn’t felt this much excitement since the night of their elopement. After the hurt of her desertion, he hadn’t expected ever to feel his heart leaping like this again.

Mercy woke with a jolt, surprised to find herself lying flat in all her clothes. Where the blazes was she? Her skull felt several inches thicker than usual, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Moonlight sifted through knotholes in the wooden shutters. She was definitely on a bed, but not the soft mattress to which she was accustomed.

Very slowly she hauled herself upright. Her sight adjusted to the dim shadows, and although she didn’t recognize the chamber, she guessed where she was now. All was silent but for a low owl hoot. There was her bonnet beside the bed. But where were her boots? Her toes were cold in only stockings.

Mercy sat on the bed for a few minutes, and events came back to her like scenes visible in parts through a windblown curtain. The tavern and the card game. His gold watch sitting on the pile of coins. Her intention to keep him sober and sensible at all costs—to keep guard over that man for Molly’s sake. She sincerely hoped Rafe Hartley realized she went to these lengths for him and his fiancée. No other reason. Tonight, thanks to the scrumpy, she had possibly made a fool of herself. Not that she could quite remember what she said. Or did.