The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (17 page)

His uncle suggested he find another bride quickly. “Don’t wait for Moll Robbins to come back, lad. She gave you up and doesn’t deserve your patience,” he said as he sat in Rafe’s cottage and warmed his hands at the fire.

Naturally, his father and his uncle were on opposing sides in this issue. Although never close friends, the two men had tentatively formed what his stepmother called a “laissez-faire attitude,” but while each sought privately to advise Rafe, their opinions seldom coincided. Rafe’s choice was never clear, for he worried about offending one or the other. The only point on which his uncle and father agreed was that he should marry. This had been their one, unequivocal, united decision. Now that Molly had run off, they privately retreated to enemy corners again on the matter of whom he should marry.

That was the good thing about his elderly benefactress in London; she had no side to take, no bias, and thought only of him. She listened as no one else ever did and encouraged him to do what was best for himself, with no concern beyond that.

“Oh, I’m not waiting for Molly Robbins,” he assured his uncle.

“Good lad. Move on and look ahead, not back.”

Leaving his uncle by the fire, Rafe stepped down into the scullery to wash his hands and forearms. He wondered whether Mercy would open that note she took from his mantel, for he’d be surprised if her boundless curiosity would let her send it off to Molly unread.

His uncle shouted from the other room, “There’s many a local girl trying to catch your eye.”

But he wasn’t interested in them. He’d spoken to Mercy about two dairymaids only to get some reaction from her. It worked too, he thought darkly. It caused her to ride by Merryweather’s and see what he was up to. Even made her follow him inside the place, endangering the reputation in which she took such pride.

“Your aunt suggested you might have some thought of Lady Mercy Danforthe,” his uncle said suddenly, startling him out of his reverie. “I told her she was a fool to imagine that.”

“She’s engaged,” Rafe muttered glumly as he stared at his hands in the water and watched the grime of another day in the fields float in clouds to the surface.

“So I hear. Some viscount from Surrey.”

His heart suffered a hiccup. How could she kiss him like that and be engaged to another? But was the fault not with him too? He was supposed to have married Molly Robbins a few days ago, and here he was dwelling on the lips of another woman, wishing they were his to play with just a while longer. Of course he wasn’t perfect—never claimed to be. He had his faults, his weaknesses. Mercy Danforthe, he realized now, was one of them.

“I told your aunt,” his uncle continued, “our Rafe would never take a fool’s fancy for a troublesome petticoat like the Danforthe girl.”

Rafe shook his head, winced, and reached for a dry rag. Odd that his uncle should say something like that, when he’d pursued and won a woman from a higher class, a wife the rules of Society told him he couldn’t have. Perhaps it ran in their blood, to reach for something forbidden. Did his uncle regret it? Not likely. He had a fine family now—one still growing—and Rafe occasionally knew envy when he saw his aunt and uncle laughing together, both so transparently happy it made his teeth grind.

He recalled suddenly how he and Molly had walked home from church one Sunday, following his aunt and uncle, observing the older couple holding hands and laughing together like young lovers.

“Not every wedded couple can be as fortunate as them,” Molly had murmured wistfully.

At the time, Rafe simply took it as a passing comment on a cool Sunday afternoon, and he was more concerned with making sure she didn’t walk in a puddle than he was listening to her conversation.

Now he realized what she’d tried to say.

Yes, he was jealous too when he watched them together; today he could acknowledge the emotion. His aunt and uncle were never very circumspect when it came to showing their devotion to each other. As a boy, it had made Rafe groan with embarrassment. As a man, if he was in a good mood, it amused him; if he was in a bad mood, their displays of affection annoyed him. He’d never paused to examine the reasons why. Until today.

He was lonely. He wanted a companion, his own family. For years he’d thought that was something he’d never have, wasn’t even sure he wanted it. Now he knew he did. Very much.

Rafe had spent a childhood moving from place to place, never quite belonging. His uncle had done the best he could, but he was absent for most of Rafe’s early years, trying to earn a living, going into the army and forced to leave his little nephew in the care of others. Then, after his uncle married and settled there in Sydney Dovedale, he brought Rafe to live with his new family. It took a while to adjust, much as it would for a stray tomcat to become a domesticated pet. A few years later came the discovery of his real father—James Hartley. So yes, there had been a great many changes in his life, a vast sea of ups and downs that sometimes threatened to swamp his little boat completely. But he rowed on. Did his best. Rafe knew he was still finding his way, his place. One day he hoped to reach smooth, tranquil waters so he might unwind his sails and take a break from rowing.

He liked it here in Sydney Dovedale, and he’d even become a shareholder in the Morecroft and Norwich Bank. He knew he could settle here. All he missed was a woman at his side.

Molly could have provided the steadiness his boat required. Mercy Danforthe would probably overturn it completely.

Better remember that and not think of her again.

Even if she would look good wet all over. Perhaps begging for his clemency and grateful to him for saving her from drowning.

He smiled as the pleasant fiction grew in his mind. She would offer him her kisses without complaining later, without accusing him of stealing them. Cupping his palms through the basin of water, he imagined her breasts in his hands, her soft clean flesh delicately scented, his for the tasting.

Heavy hooves clattered across the yard and shattered that glorious fantasy, and likewise his mood. Stepping out of the scullery, he saw Tom Ridge, the blacksmith’s son, lumbering back and forth in the light of the open doorway.

His uncle greeted the new arrival. “Mornin’, Tom.”

The tall fellow didn’t come in but hovered nervously, gesturing that Rafe should come outside.

What was it now, he wondered, another rumor?

He followed Tom into the yard.

“I’m to give this back to ye,” the big man muttered, reaching inside his old, dusty coat. A gleam of gold shone through his grimy fingers, and Rafe glanced hastily over his shoulder to make certain his uncle was still indoors.

“But you won it—”

“It were wrong o’ me to take advantage when you were so lovelorn.” Tom gave a wink and a gap-toothed grin. “This feller’s conscience won’t allow ’im to keep it.”

Assuming his fiercest scowl, Rafe snatched his pocket watch from the other man’s fist. “I was not lovelorn.” He’d known Tom for enough years now to know the man had very few scruples that troubled him.

Tom chuckled saucily, replaced his cap, and mounted his horse. “I ’ope, for your sakes, Rafe, young Moll comes back soon. Shouldn’t like you to get into worse trouble.”

He had a sense they were talking of more than his watch.

“She’d be none too ’appy to find what you been up to while she was gone, eh?”

“I’ll thank you to let me worry about Molly Robbins.”

Tom merely laughed as his carthorse set off for the gate in a swaying amble.

Rafe looked down at his watch, relieved to have it back again. Its absence would have taken some awkward explaining to his father. But why would a grumpy fellow like Tom Ridge bring it back to him? Any concern about Molly Robbins, spouted from a mouth unaccustomed to kind words, was unconvincing to say the least.

His uncle came out into the yard. “Well, I’d best go home and make sure Sophie isn’t doing too much again. Just wanted to give you a little nudge, my boy. No point sitting about waiting for that girl to come back. Plenty more ripe berries in the orchard.”

“How is Aunt Sophie?”

“Tired. But she will not listen to me and keep her feet up more often.”

Rafe nodded. “Stubborn creatures, women.”

“Aye. But the world would be a much duller place without them in it to quarrel with us. I had my pick of village girls back in my day, young Rafe, but I had eyes only for my Sophie. She didn’t make it easy for me, of course.”

He tried not to laugh. “I thought you told me once that she leapt from a balcony into your arms.” Although that was the romantic version of the story, he’d also heard that Sophie actually advertised in the
Farmer’s Gazette
for a husband, and that was how his uncle came to Sydney Dovedale. Rafe still wasn’t sure which tale to believe.

“Don’t let too many weeks pass, Rafe my boy. Spring is the season for love. Bring home a wife before harvest. Another pair of hands will never go amiss around here. There’s a few young girls the parson’s wife would like to introduce at tea after church, if you come with us next Sunday.”

Polite conversation and tea after church? He could think of nothing more painful.

Alas, the net of well-meaning attention closed in.

Rafe shrugged and then bowed his head to study his feet. “I can’t consider another lass just yet. After all this…” He rubbed one hand across his brow and let his lips droop. “Can’t change direction so fast.”

“Of course.” Sounding very sorry, his uncle placed a firm hand on Rafe’s heaving shoulder. “You take your time. Just not too much of it, eh?”

Finally raising his head, Rafe watched the other man stride off down the lane and smiled thoughtfully. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and carried the sweet fragrance of blossoms across the yard from the apple and cherry trees along the border of his rented property.

Spring
is
the
season. Plenty more ripe berries.
His smile faded.

If only life was that simple. If only he’d never laid eyes on Mercy Danforthe and been so distracted by her—the wrong woman. Not all berries were sweet. Some grew among prickles to discourage his fingers.

Rafe looked at his watch again, snapped it shut, and rubbed a smeared fingerprint from the engraved case.

He knew The Brat was behind it. Who else would pay Tom Ridge’s price, which was no doubt high. Not to mention persuade the hard-hearted bugger to return it. She could debate the hind leg off a donkey.

He shouldn’t read too much into it.

Should he?

“My dear gell, I won’t hear of you going back to London already,” Lady Ursula complained loudly one morning in the drawing room where the ladies gathered with books and needlework. “You have only just got here. Why must you be dashing about the country? Can no young people be settled in one place these days for more than a few hours?”

“I was supposed to stay only for the wedding,” Mercy replied. “My brother will expect me back.”

“Wedding? What wedding?”

Seated on the couch beside Mercy, Rafe’s stepmother wearily explained, “Your great-grandson’s wedding.”

But Lady Ursula had never acknowledged Rafe as a Hartley. The old lady closed her ears to anything she did not care to hear, and as she grew deafer, this trick was ever more convenient.

“You must stay a while longer, my dear gell, and keep me company. I am in need of a companion, since I have no one here who cares about me.”

When Rafe’s stepmother joined in with a gentle, “Please do stay, Lady Mercy. The girls enjoy your company, and you are a great help to me in keeping them entertained,” Mercy eventually conceded that she might impose upon them a little longer—until the end of another week, perhaps. That would bring her visit to a full fortnight.

Mrs. Hartley went on to say how much Rafe’s aunt had appreciated her visit recently. “Sophie is so overwhelmed with all those children. I have offered to have them here until after the new baby is born, but she will not hear of being parted from them. I even suggested sending Mrs. Grieves, the girls’ nanny, to help her out, but she will have none of it. Her stubborn nature will not allow her to accept anything she views as charity. Her husband is much the same.” She shook her head. “They struggle along in that drafty old farmhouse, living from harvest to harvest. I do worry for Sophie.”

“But they seem very happy.”

“Oh, yes, they are happy, of course. Two people in love can be happy anywhere as long as they are together. But I do wish they would accept help when it is offered.”

Lady Ursula piped up with her shilling’s worth, “As they brew, so shall they drink. The fault is their own. Lust is no basis for a marriage. In my day, folk married where they were told, and happiness did not come into it.”

Mrs. Hartley laughed lightly. “Ah, the good old days.”

Lust.
Mercy stared at her hands in her lap and thought how eager those fingers were to caress Rafe Hartley’s naked body. Only a week ago, she’d assumed that lust was a sin suffered only by men. How wrong she turned out to be. Her cheeks, she mused, must be scarlet. Or “Mystery of the Orient.” That sounded far more romantic.

“When I was young,” Lady Ursula grumbled, “there was none of this marriage betwixt classes. Everyone knew their place and stayed where they were put. These days, there is too much traveling about, too much laxity, too much dancing and music.”

The eldest Miss Hartley exclaimed in horror, “There was no music when you were young, Great-grandmama?”

“There was music, of course…”

Mrs. Hartley whispered in Mercy’s ear, “Banging on rocks with sticks.”

“…but it was regal, and the dancing was dignified, stately. There was none of this hurling of one’s body about. None of this public caressing.” Lady Ursula shuddered. “That obscene dance they call a waltz would never have been allowed in the ballrooms where I made my debut.”

“How did you dance with a gentleman then, Great-grandmama?”

“One held hands,” she replied sternly. “But only when necessary.”