The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (21 page)

Rafe, meanwhile, glanced at Mercy and saw her lips pressed tight, her chin lifted, her eyes determinedly focused across the room. While she was this close and they were separated from the others by a good distance, he felt the urgent need to make her talk to him. If he did not, the moment would pass. Always someone or something intervened.

“You left an item behind at my house, Lady Mercy.”

“I believe I did,” she replied hesitantly.

“When will you retrieve it?”

“That will not be possible.”

“Lost the use of your legs?”

Her lips barely moved, her reply little more than a ruffled breath. “Only my wits. Briefly.”

“They are recovered, then?”

“Quite robustly recovered,” she assured him firmly.

He was disappointed to hear it, although it was no less than he expected. A few nights ago, this woman had lain on his bed, exploring his body with eager hands, her warm laughter tickling his cheek. Now she was cold marble again, a statue in a museum or a grand house, something to be admired from a distance. No touching. No trespassing.

In his peripheral vision, he watched each deeply troubled breath lifting the sweet mounds that peeked shyly above her jade-green bodice. Her stiff demeanor was betrayed by that clue—a hint of vulnerability. His hunger quickened, pulse pacing like the paws of a caged tiger. “I suppose I can make use of what you left behind.”

She drawled wearily, “As you wish.”

“I’ll put it on my scarecrow. That should scare the blackbirds from my seed beds.”

He watched her feign a yawn, but she could not hide the indignant flame in her eyes at the idea of her corset being used in such a manner.

“Miss Milford plays very well,” he said, swallowing a chuckle.

“I suppose she does.”

“I
suppose
it was lucky you played first. Miss Milford would be a hard act to follow.”

She tapped her closed fan against the palm of one hand. “Do you infer that my skill is inferior?”

“I merely point out that she is very accomplished.”

“At the pianoforte, certainly.”

“She is also a young lady with humility, and has a very sensitive way about her.”

“How observant of you to know this already.”

“I find her conversation light and civil, her manner pleasingly demure.”

“You spoke to her for five minutes. I daresay that was not quite enough time for her to disagree with you on any point.”

“Some women could learn from her example.”

The tapping of her fan quickened.

“Perhaps you don’t like my honest opinion, my lady?”

Her delectable breasts, enticingly flushed, rose and fell ever more rapidly. He wondered if they might spill out with a little more encouragement. His stepmother was right, he realized; it was a form of tension he felt around her. A tightening of all his nerves and tendons. It couldn’t be healthy to let it continue without relief of some kind.

“I’m sure I don’t care one way or the other for your opinion, Rafe Hartley.”

“No. But everyone must always care to hear yours.”

Her lips moved, ready to argue.

“One should learn to admit one’s faults,” he added, reminding The Brat of her own words to him just a few days prior. “Or else one might never improve.”

To his surprise, she was silent. Even seemed to shrink slightly. Had he made a dent in her armor? He stretched his fingers over his knees, before they might feel tempted to start cracking knuckles. Or reach for her hand.

But suddenly she changed the subject. “You have not heard from Molly?”

He formed his reply with care. “I know she is not returning to the country. I am resigned to it.”

A slight frown passed over her expression, but she still watched Miss Milford. “Then you have had a reply to your letter?” she persisted.

“Whether or not I have had any communication from Miss Robbins is beside the point. I do not need a
letter
to tell me what is in her heart. She made that plain by her
actions
.”

“I think you—”

“The matter is over and done with. I have decided to look elsewhere for a wife. As you suggested recently, Lady Mercy, you might be of service to me.”

“Service?” she murmured, her lush, green-eyed gaze fixed on the pianoforte.

“In the acquisition of a bride. You did say you have had some success as a matchmaker.”

“I have.”

“As a working man, I am too busy to find a bride myself, and even if I had the time at my disposal, I would likely make a poor choice. I possess something of an unfortunate habit in that regard, as I’m sure you agree.” When she finally looked at him, it was Rafe’s turn to stare at Miss Milford across the room. He smiled as she finished the final notes of a well-executed, rather gloomy melody. “Unless, of course, you don’t feel up to the task. For personal reasons.”

“I accept the mission, Mr. Hartley. Please do tell me what you look for in your future wife.”

Apparently emboldened by Rafe’s smile, Miss Milford began another tune, this one much happier, her expression more animated. “A woman who minds her own business, does not try to tell me mine. Someone quiet and still, not prone to wander off.”

“A mute in leg irons, perhaps?”

He wanted to laugh, but curbed it. He also wanted to put his arm around her. What would she do, he wondered, if he leaned over and kissed the side of her neck here and now? Perhaps it was his imagination, or wishful thinking, but he thought she’d just moved her frosty drawers an inch closer.

“What I desire, your ladyship, is a gentle woman to entertain me in the evenings after a long day in the fields. Someone musical, whose voice does not remind me of fingernails on slate and whose approach does not startle me like carthorse hooves over cobbles.” He returned his gaze to her. “A woman who is not
too
proud
to work beside me and does not mind a little dirt on my skin after the day’s toil.”

Her slender brows arched gracefully; her lip quirked. “Is that all?”

“She must not lecture me about my manners and never think it her place to quarrel or question me.”

“She sounds a saint…or a fool.”

“Perhaps it is beyond you to find me such a woman.”

“I would advise you, Mr. Hartley, to consider your list of requirements most carefully. Marriage is a solemn undertaking that cannot be undone. It should not be approached as a jest.”

Amazed she could preach to him on that particular matter with a straight face, he stared. “
Cannot
be undone? Interesting you should say that. For once we are of the same opinion, you and I. A vow once made should be kept.”

Her lips tightened, eyelashes half-lowered. If she had anything to reply to that, apparently she chose to stifle it. Another first.

“I wonder why you did not mention
your
fiancé to me when we were last together, Lady Mercy. Perhaps it was the scrumpy that erased him from your mind.” Rafe rose swiftly from the couch. “I look forward to reviewing your selections for my bride. May they improve upon my own.” He strode over to the pianoforte, hands clasped behind his back. There, he thought, that told
her
.

***

She flapped her fan with as much elegance as she could muster. Rafe Hartley, she thought crossly, was behaving like an ill-tempered boar while attempting to dress it all up in a fine new coat.

And he’d dared to suggest she never listened to anyone else’s opinion. She was still reeling from that remark.

There were several moments when she felt the urge to let him know he belonged to her, that she’d paid good money for him, and he should, therefore, do whatever she bade him. Would that not add some excitement to the party?

But when her temper calmed, she knew it was better that he never know she was the woman behind Lady Blunt’s veil. It would be only another excuse for Rafe to accuse her of meddling, to shout and rail at her in that wearisome manner.

The seat cushion lowered beside her, and there, alas, was Mrs. Kenton. Mercy hid a groan of despair behind her fan.

“Such a well-favored young fellow. I confess myself surprised to find him in possession of good manners. When I heard he was a farmer, I expected Mr. Hartley’s son to be a little more…rustic.”

Mercy managed a thin smile, lowering her fan. “Oh, there is plenty of the rustic about Mr. Rafe Hartley, but he shows proper manners when he chooses. Beware, however, he is just as likely to choose not.”

“He is extremely handsome, and surely more than six foot tall in his stockinged feet.”

“Six foot four.” She felt her cheeks flush. “I would imagine.”

Mrs. Kenton drummed her fingers on her knee, keeping time with her sister’s playing. “Mrs. Hartley tells me you have been acquainted with the young man since childhood.”

“Yes,” she muttered wearily. “Our paths have crossed on numerous occasions.”

The lady nodded, and her feathered headdress bobbed. “He has been most fortunate to move in high circles of Society.”

“He would not see it as fortunate. For the most part, he spurns Society. I was surprised to see him here tonight, but he is keen to please his father now that he has returned.”

Mrs. Kenton, she sensed, was barely listening but picked up on the few words she found important. “The prodigal son, as Mrs. Hartley calls him. Now that he is settled, I am sure whatever wildness he once possessed will give way to maturity. Doubtless he will benefit from his father’s consequence.” Mrs. Kenton’s gaze circled the elegant parlor as she admired aloud the hand-painted wallpaper and elaborately carved, classical motifs of the marble chimneypiece.

Across the room, Rafe gave Isabella all his attention, and she had already fumbled several sheets of music, dropping them to the carpet in her haste to find something that might please him. Rafe had that effect on women—caused a grievous amount of disorder. Unfortunately, he knew it.

“Mr. Hartley the elder has no other son by his marriage, Lady Mercy?”

“He has two delightful daughters.”

“Splendid! Splendid!” Mrs. Kenton remarked distractedly, eyeing Rafe again with very evident approval.

He laughed loudly at some self-effacing remark Miss Milford made about her playing. Although unable to hear the words, Mercy saw the other woman’s expression of modesty and the hand gestures, all made so that Rafe could have the opportunity of rebuffing. An opportunity he took.

“Your sister plays beautifully,” said Mercy, setting aside a sudden twinge of jealousy. “I’m afraid she puts my attempt quite thoroughly in the shade.” Although difficult to admit any young lady could have more skills than she, sadly it must be acknowledged.

The older she grew, the more she was forced to face facts. There were, she supposed, a few things she might have improved upon—things at which other ladies had time to excel. Of course, she was always too busy managing her brother, his household, and other people who fell under her care. But Rafe had known Isabella for all of half an hour. It was no wonder she seemed so accomplished to him. He did not know many single, eligible ladies of that caliber. Besides, she thought peevishly, any woman could pull the fleece over a man’s eyes for half an hour.

“Isabella has come out of her shell tonight,” Mrs. Kenton announced, “and I am glad to see it, for she has been low in spirits these last few months. I hope we all become better acquainted, Lady Mercy. Perhaps you will honor us with a visit soon. We are always in want of company. There are days when I am so excessively bored out there that I would gladly take tea with anyone.”

Mercy was so preoccupied by her thoughts that she almost forgot to take offense at the idea of being a last resort.

At dinner, Mercy watched Miss Isabella Milford’s sorrowful aspect and became increasingly convinced she’d found another worthy project. It could be that Miss Milford was crossed in love. She had not mentioned any beaus, and her sister surely would have wasted no time giving all the details if there were any to be had. No, Miss Milford was in danger of becoming a wallflower. It would be a kind mission to take her in hand, brighten her up, and find her a suitor.

Rafe was very solicitous toward the lady, asking how she liked her soup and even gesturing for a footman when she dropped her napkin or her wineglass needed refilling. Mrs. Kenton’s hopes, begun while she watched them together at the pianoforte, expanded prematurely, like a bulging marrow under hothouse glass.

“You studied law, Mr. Rafe Hartley? Yet you do not practice in Town? Such a pity.”

“I doubt Town regrets my absence.”

“But you would look most dashing in a barrister’s robes.”

“I much prefer the country, madam. The life of a farmer suits me better than a horsehair wig.”

His father said, “Rafe thinks a man must work with his hands in the soil or else his is not a worthwhile occupation.”

“I never said that, Father.”

“Hmph.” Mr. Hartley senior glowered at his soup.

“I said no other work would suit
me
. Whatever makes a man content should be his to decide.” He shot Mercy a quick glance. “My opinions are
mine
. I do not expect everyone to agree with me.”

“Quite right, Rafe,” his stepmother exclaimed. “We should all be free to make our own choices.”

Her husband looked up. “One wants what is best for one’s children.”

“These young men and their ideas,” exclaimed Mrs. Kenton. “Just like William buying that decrepit fortress in which we are forced to stay. He could not wait until something more suitable became vacant. Now we suffer in discomfort because he would not heed my advice and lease a place in less need of refurbishment.”

“I did not want to lease, Augusta,” said her brother quietly. “I wanted to buy.”

“Hence we have a place falling down around our ears because it was all you could—” She stopped herself when he glared at her. “All you would look at.”

Mentioning money troubles would have been indelicate, to say the least. Mrs. Kenton, showing herself not entirely without prudence, seemed to realize her tongue had run away with itself, and she reinstated her focus on Rafe.