The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (8 page)

“We can’t have Molly coming back to this, can we?” Mercy exclaimed.

“What makes you think she’s coming back?”

“It was matrimonial nerves. They happen all the time.”

“Matrimonial nerves?” This was rich coming from her, he mused. The girl who once changed her mind and abandoned him on their wedding night to run back to London with her brother. “Becoming a pattern, isn’t it?” he muttered sourly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The second time a wife has abandoned me.” He hadn’t meant to raise the subject, but there it was. She’d stirred the matter out of its dark, uneasy slumber by coming here to his house, forcing her way in.

Mercy’s eyes were two calm pools of verdigris that shone confidently through the little bit of lace that decorated her bonnet. “Let’s get the matter straight. We were two silly children, carried away in a moment of foolishness. You were nineteen, and I was seventeen. What you and Molly have is a proper match, quite different.”

Yes, he thought grimly, different in so many ways.

“Why aren’t you back in London by now?” he demanded again, since she’d not answered him before.

“I’ll help you write a letter to Molly, and she’ll be back before you know it.” Although still not a direct answer to his question, the statement was delivered with her usual air of unshakable conviction.

“You think that, do you?”

“I’m quite sure.” Of course she was never wrong. In her mind. Now she had the gall to smile as if there was anything in the world to feel gladness about today. He watched morosely as two dimples appeared in her cheeks. Old acquaintances, not forgotten.

His stomach hurt. “Mayhap I don’t want her back,” he snapped.

“Nonsense.” She briskly pulled off her gloves. It was a “taking charge” gesture, and something else he’d seen before many times. But not for a while. “Water?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Scullery. Pumped some from the well yesterday.”

She took the empty jug into the little room, and a few moments later he heard water pouring. “You’ll forgive her because you love her,” she shouted. “And she loves you.”

Love? He snorted. What did this wretched woman know of love? She didn’t have a heart.

He propped his elbows on the table, clutched the back of his neck, and let his head hang forward. His skull ached. Did the meddling menace have a cure for that? When footsteps returned, he raised his head and glared hard at her, putting every grain of effort into it. Calmly disregarding his expression—which he’d meant to be very fierce—she filled his cup. “Here. It’ll help the dry mouth.”

In fact, he
was
thirsty, so he took the cup from her hand. Their fingertips briefly touched. Water splashed up over the rim of the cup, and he thought he caught just a slight coloring of her cheeks. She strode quickly to the other end of the table and wiped her hand on her skirt.

Of course. She wouldn’t want his dirt marking her dainty, smooth skin. Now she ran that hand over her bonnet and her ringlets, as if to check they hadn’t let her down. God forbid any part of her neat attire should come “undone.”

“You think I told her not to marry you, but you’re wrong, Rafe Hartley,” she said. “I want you both to be happy. I’m very sorry about the way things turned out, but I am not the culprit.”

He stared at her skeptically. She must have had a hand in Molly’s sudden change of heart; everyone else was in favor of the marriage and keen to see him settle. It was too much coincidence that this woman arrived on the scene and, immediately, Molly changed her mind. Rafe swallowed a mouthful of water, relished the cooling liquid on his tongue and parched throat. “Something made you come here today,” he said. “Must have been a guilty conscience. Unless it was a hankering to see me again.” He was surprised at how quickly he fell into teasing her when he’d meant to stay angry.

She met his gaze and held it steadily, but little pricks of bright pink appeared on her cheeks. Her reply was terse, resorting to an old childhood insult. “I told you—
Cloth-Ears
—that Molly will come back.”

He shook his head and swilled the water around his mouth. Now he’d made her blush. Good.

Mercy paced before the window. “She’ll realize it was a mistake, letting you go. She must.”

“Was it a mistake, then?”

She stopped to look at him, and her eyes sparkled brightly through that pointless half veil of lace. “Of course it was. How could she let
you
go?”

Rafe stared at her mouth as it faltered. Her tongue hastily dampened her lower lip.

“I mean to say, you are perfect for Molly,” she continued. “She’ll see that, and then she’ll come back.”

Somehow his warriors regrouped, returning to formation, shields raised. “What if she doesn’t? What then, clever-drawers?”

“If she does not come back, I’ll personally find you a bride.”

His throat dry and hot, Rafe gulped down more water so fast that it spilled from the corners of his mouth and trickled over his rough stubble.

“There, see.” She looked smug. “You shall not go without a bride, whatever happens. I will put everything straight, just as I promised.”

He choked. “You’re going to find me a wife? You, Lady Bossy-Breeches, mean to play matchmaker for humble Rafe Hartley?”

“There is nothing humble about you,” she replied drily.

He held his cup to his chest and leaned back. “What makes you so concerned for my welfare?” He laughed low. “I suppose since you once ran away like a coward and now you talked Molly into doing the same, some might say you owe me a bride.” Now he teased her again. It was all too tempting, and his mood was much improved already. Perhaps it was the bright color of her frock. It was hard not to feel his heart cheered when the sun—in the guise of this little woman—came right into his cottage, filling it with light and warmth. Pity the sun, in this case, had to bring a lot of noise too.

“Are you still in your cups, Hartley? I owe you nothing. I do this because I don’t care to be unjustly accused of meddling.”

“You must be at loose ends, m’lady. I wish I was so in want of work to fill my days.” Rafe sighed deeply. “But the embarrassment of two runaway brides is quite enough for me. I’ll give marriage vows a miss from now on, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, the martyrdom.” She rolled her eyes. “Still playing for sympathy, I see.”

“And you’re still as irritating as a fleabite.” One he was forbidden from scratching.

“Well, I suggest you give it some thought. My matchmaking services are at your disposal, should Molly not return.” And then she added hurriedly, “Although I’m certain she will.”

There was new experience in her face now, he realized, more knowledge and wit apparent in her eyes, intriguing depths in the shimmering layers of green that gently twinkled beneath her copper lashes. He’d never known another woman quite like her. Most women let Rafe get his own way. This one didn’t. He’d often thought she must enjoy the argument, because she always came back for more.

If their marriage had stuck, he mused, they probably would have killed each other by now.

As she stood before his window, soft morning light framing her curves, he was forced to acknowledge his first wife’s surface attractions. Didn’t mean he was happy about it. And yes, even if that marriage was void in the eyes of the law, he could think of her still as his first wife. They’d said their vows before God, hadn’t they? The laws of man only complicated things and were always changing. God never changed. God knew what He’d heard, just as He knew what was hidden in a man’s heart.

Rafe set his cup down and cracked his knuckles. “Why don’t you go home?” he muttered under his breath. Her perfumed presence was more hindrance than help in his current overheated, frustrated mood.

“This place needs a woman’s touch, and since no one else dare disturb your brooding isolation, you’ll have to make do with me. For now.” Before he could protest, she was removing her bonnet. “Perhaps you could see to the horses and the curricle? I’ll make a start on the fire.”

Short of picking her up and bodily tossing her out, there was nothing he could do. She wasn’t leaving.

“Just one thing I must know,” she said suddenly.

He waited, scowling.

“Are you quite certain this is what you want? This life of a farmer? You will not change your mind again?”

“It’s what I always wanted,” he replied crossly. “As a wise lady told me recently in London, a man can never be content if he spends his life pleasing others. This is my choice.”

The hint of an odd, relieved smile seemed poised to claim her lips and soften them, but she quelled it and gave a brisk nod instead. “Very well.”

Accustomed to folk questioning his choices, he was unprepared for that simple reply. “I suppose you think I should wear a starched shirt every day and work for my father’s business.”

She answered very certainly, very calmly. “I think you should do what makes you happiest.”

“Do you give yourself the same advice?”

“Always.”

But he knew her to be a proponent of “duty first.” If he questioned her further, she would probably say that duty made her happy, and thus they would descend into another quarrel.

Finally Rafe got to his feet. He scratched his rumpled head, glanced through the window, and saw his father’s curricle by the gate. She must be staying at Hartley House then. Did her wretched ladyship have nothing else to get back to? Or no one else? He’d spent more time than he should, on dark, cold, lonely nights, wondering what this annoying pixie was up to and who she was with. He couldn’t ask Molly, and she volunteered very little, assuming he didn’t care to hear about her mistress—the woman he made no secret of despising.

When he looked over his shoulder, she was bent before the fireplace, getting soot on her fine frock, her pert posterior high in the air.

“Do you know how to tend a fire?” he grumbled, slightly breathless as he watched her hips sway. “Don’t you have servants to do that?” She probably had one to tend every fireplace in her house.

“Worry not,” she muttered distractedly as she examined the tinderbox with a wary eye. “I have it all under control.”

Rafe was glad someone did. He often felt as if he’d never get his life settled and straight. The harder he tried, the more tangled it became. As he paused in the doorway, he thought about going to help her with the fire, but since she insisted she knew what to do, he decided to leave her to it. She already had a dot of soot on the end of her prim nose, a sight that cheered his spirits more than might be expected under his current circumstances. In fact, it was suddenly expedient that he get outside quickly or else risk bursting into laughter and thus alert her to the presence of that smudge.

It was truly astonishing how quickly the quarrelsome creature’s company lifted him out of his doldrums.

***

When at home in London, Mercy considered herself in charge of her brother and ran his household with a firm hand, but Carver tolerated her attempts to manage him because he was the lazy sort. The same could not be said of Rafe. He accused her of being there only to “pry” into his “things,” not being specific about what they were. She briskly ignored his muttered complaints and sent him into the scullery to wash his face and hands before he ate.

There was great satisfaction to be had in seeing his small house put back together, a good fire in the hearth, food on the table, floor swept with a damp mop, window ledge dusted. Now if only the man himself could be so tamed, but there seemed little chance of that now Molly Robbins had left him, taking her calm, steadying influence with her. He would doubtless use that excuse as long as possible to vindicate any bad behavior in which he felt inclined to indulge.

Mercy hoped the exertion of cleaning his house hadn’t flattened her curls or made her face too pink, which would clash horribly with her “Mystery of the Orient” frock. Finding a shard of mirror resting on the dresser, Mercy took a moment to check her reflection. A fingertip-sized black blob darkened the end of her nose. Hastily, she licked her handkerchief and rubbed at the offending mark.

On the shelf beside the mirror fragment, there rested a burgundy velvet money purse. The rich color stood out among the pewter plates and chipped pottery jugs. She recognized the purse at once as being the one she’d given him in London while she was disguised as Lady Blunt. Mercy ran her finger over the soft nap of the velvet and felt a little pang deep in her heart. Their meetings in London had been few yet special. She missed sitting with him in that small room, dispensing advice while he was, for once, listening.

“Now I know for sure you have a guilty conscience—doing all this for me, Bossy-Drawers.”

Mercy jumped like a little girl caught with her finger in the jam jar and almost dropped the mirror. She set it back on the shelf beside the velvet purse and turned to look at him. He was in the scullery doorway, shoulder propped against the frame while he dried his hands on a cloth. Water dripped from his dark hair and fell upon his shirt. Quickly his gaze moved beyond her to the shelf.

“What are you doing with my things, woman?”

There it was again, she mused, his precious “things.” As if he had a great many. As if she was ever likely to do anything but tidy them, whatever they might be.

“That’s a very fine purse,” she muttered, hands behind her back. “I was just admiring the soft velvet.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “It’s not mine.”

“I thought it must not be.”

“A lady gave it to me.” He flipped the hand cloth over his shoulder.

“A lady?” She raised her eyebrows. “Would this be your wise lady friend in London?”

“That’s right. A benefactress.”

“A benefactress?”

“A good, kind lady I knew there.”

“Perhaps I know her.”

“I doubt it,” he answered curtly. “She’s not one for your Society parties and balls. She’s too sensible to be caught up in all that foolishness.”

Oh, she wanted to laugh. It actually hurt her stomach. She took a steadying breath. “Does Molly know you have a
benefactress
?”