Seducing the Viscount Page 13

  Unfortunately, it was a voice that Ian found all too easy to ignore.

  Instead he allowed his aunt’s bright chatter and his father’s occasional grunts to wash over him as he brooded upon the best means of repairing the damage he had unwittingly caused.

  A thing easier said than done.

  Throughout the interminable dinner she refused to so much as glance in his direction. Ironic considering that only the previous evening he had done his best to ignore her.

  Of course in his case it was sheer defense against her potent enchantment during his brief struggle with nobility, while she was in a full-fledged snit. A snit that was in no way diminished by the beef in burgundy sauce or exquisite raspberry tart.

  At last Ella rose to her feet, motioning for Mercy to follow her from the room. Ian watched their retreat with a self-derisive flare of amusement.

  He was a master in the game of seduction. His heated glance could gain the key to a seasoned widow’s bedchamber, and a mere kiss on the fingers could cause a debutante to swoon. Hell, women had come to blows over who would be seated next to him at dinner.

  Now he was being given the cut direct by a tiny slip of a woman who had never had so much as a beau. And instead of being outraged, he was . . .

  The devil take it all, he was bewitched.

  And more determined than ever to return her to his arms.

  Rising to his feet, Ian watched Mercy’s retreat, his gaze riveted to the soft sway of her hips. The mere sight was enough to make him as hard as granite.

  On the point of following in the wake of the tempting minx, Ian was halted as his father cleared his throat and waved toward the hovering footman.

  “A moment, Ian. I thought we would share a port before joining the ladies.”

  Ian blinked, barely capable of hiding his shock. His father had never requested they linger after dinner. Hell, the man was usually bolting for the nearest door before the last serving could cool on his plate.

  Just for a moment he was gripped with a stark frustration. He needed to speak with Mercy. Now. The longer she allowed her resentment to smolder, the more difficult it would be to convince her that he had intended no insult.

  It was the unwelcome voice of reason that halted his impetuous flight. Dammit. He had come to Surrey to discover the truth behind his legacy, not chase after Miss Mercy Simpson.

  This was an opportunity he would be a fool to squander.

  “Of course,” he at last forced himself to mutter, taking his seat as the footman poured two glasses of the spirit.

  There was a strained silence before his father cleared his throat. “Cigar?”

  “No, I thank you.” Ian sipped the port as he covertly studied his father’s tense profile. Whatever the older man’s reason for requesting Ian to linger, it was obvious he was now at a loss as to how to actually converse with his son. Ian would have to take command of the awkward situation. “I traveled to Guildford today,” he said, taking the bull firmly by the horns.

  “Did you?” Norrington managed a stiff smile. “A rather tedious journey for you, I should think. There is not much there to tempt a young gentleman.”

  “It cannot compare to London, of course, but I did manage to find a few shops of interest, and surprisingly I ran across an old friend.”

  “Really? That actor friend of yours?”

  Ian gave a startled bark of laughter. “Thank God, no. Raoul Charlebois nearly created a riot when he attended Fredrick’s wedding. I shudder to think what his appearance would do in a simple, bucolic town like Guildford. Certainly Surrey would never be the same.”

  The Viscount could not hide his displeasure. He was a gentleman who lived a life of strict propriety and possessed an abiding distaste for those who preferred a more flamboyant existence. Including his son.

  As if sensing Ian’s flare of weary pain, Norrington smoothed his expression to one of bland curiosity.

  “Then who was your friend?”

  Ian drained his port and forced his thoughts back to the matters at hand.

  “Tolson.”

  “Tolson?” There was nothing but pleased surprise to be seen on his father’s countenance. Certainly it did not appear that he feared the old servant would reveal any nefarious secret. “My gracious, I have not seen him since he went to live with his sister. How is he?”

  “The same as ever.” Ian smiled wryly. “I must admit that it was good to see him despite his insistence on reminding me of my various childhood mishaps. You would think that age would have dimmed at least a few of those memories.”

  A genuine smile curved Norrington’s lips. “Tolson’s talent with roses was only superceded by his talent for knowing when a young lad is up to some sort of mischief. Thankfully he rarely felt the need to share the knowledge of that mischief with anyone else.”

  “Thankfully, indeed,” Ian agreed dryly. “I should not like to think of Aunt Ella’s disappointment should she learn that I was not quite the angelic lad she has always supposed me to be.”

  Norrington arched a dark brow. “I believe, Ian, that your aunt was far more aware of your . . . mishaps than you realize. Including your habit of pinching her handkerchiefs to use as sails for your toy boats and the secret tunnel you dug beneath the kitchen gardens to the gazebo.”

  “Good God, I took such pride in that tunnel,” Ian muttered, disgruntled to realize he was not nearly as clever as he had believed. “I was quite convinced that it was not only the finest tunnel in all of Surrey, but that it was so cleverly hidden that not even the most nefarious smuggler could stumble across it. Now I learn that it was never secret at all. I am uncertain that I shall ever recover.”

  Expecting the familiar lecture on his disregard for the rules, Ian was caught off guard when his father merely shrugged.

  “Which is no doubt why Ella never told you that she knew of your underground lair.”

  “No doubt.”

  Norrington toyed with his port glass. “Although I must admit that I am not entirely clear on why a smuggler would be searching for a tunnel in our kitchen garden.”

  “It is where I hid my treasure.”

  “Treasure?”

  “I believe my chest held a dead frog, a sea shell, a handful of dirty coins, and a fossil of some plant. For all I know it is still buried beneath the turnips.”

  “Thank God I have never cared for turnips.” His father lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Please resist any urges that might come upon you to bury dead frogs beneath the carrots.”

  Ian choked in surprise. Was his father actually . . . teasing him? Christ, it made him seem almost human.

  Which was a danger in itself.

  Already he possessed an unwelcome sympathy for what his father had endured as a child, and even a grudging understanding of why the man found it so difficult to lower his guard, even to those who should be closest to him.

  The very last thing he desired was to find him charming as well.

  “I shall do my best.” With a fierce determination, he steered the conversation back in the direction he desired. “Did you never have a secret tunnel?”

  There was a pause before the older man grimaced. “Actually, I preferred to do my hiding in the hedge maze.”

  “Ah yes, Tolson mentioned your habit of sneaking into the maze. He said that you often enjoyed playing there with another lad. What was the name . . . ?” He pretended to consider a long moment. “Ah yes, Summerville.”

  Carefully monitoring his father’s expression, he still nearly missed the brief shock that rippled over his countenance before it was smoothed away.

  “Summerville?”

  “He claimed the two of you were inseparable.”

  “Did he? How odd.” Norrington took a rigidly controlled sip of his port. “I remember inviting a friend or two from school, but I cannot recall a Summerville. Of course, it was all a very long time ago.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was.”

  Without warning, his father surged to his feet, his smil
e strained as he offered Ian a small dip of his head.

  “Forgive me. I must return to the conservatory. I received a shipment of orchids that must be transplanted without delay.”

  Ian watched his father’s retreat with an odd lack of satisfaction. Dammit, he should be delighted. There was no doubt that the name Summerville had rattled his father. And his adamant refusal to even acknowledge a friendship only confirmed his suspicions.

  It was not satisfaction he felt, however, as his father stiffly exited the room. Instead it was something perilously close to disappointment.

  Almost as if he regretted disturbing the fleeting sense of companionship that had so briefly hovered between them.

  The night air remained warm enough to leave open the French doors of the long parlor, allowing the welcome scent of spring flowers to waft through the room. Mercy discovered herself lingering near the door, her gaze trained on the dark garden beyond.

  Lost in her thoughts she failed to notice when the notes of the pianoforte fell silent. Not until Ella loudly cleared her throat in an obvious attempt to wrench Mercy out of her deep broodings.

  “You seem very quiet this evening, my dear.”

  Turning from the door, Mercy grimaced at the realization that she had allowed her annoyance with Ian Breckford to make her such a poor companion. Ella deserved better.

  “Forgive me, Ella. I fear my mind is elsewhere.”

  Ella rose from the pianoforte to cross the room. She halted next to Mercy with a swish of heavy satin and tangible concern.

  “Some fascinating new discovery in your studies?”

  Mercy struggled against the threatening blush. “No, just woolgathering.”

  “Hmmm. You look pale. Are you certain that nothing is the matter?”

  Sensing there was more to Ella’s concern, Mercy frowned.

  “What could possibly be the matter?”

  “I did note that the post brought you yet another missive from your parents.” There was a deliberate pause. “They must have a great deal to report to write so often.”

  “No, they live very quietly and there is very little to report,” Mercy denied. “At least nothing beyond the usual complaints of the house being wretchedly dusty and my father’s dinners not at all to his taste. There is also a vague hint that the nurse I hired might be pilfering strawberry jam from the pantry.”

  Ella blinked. “Why ever would she steal strawberry jam?”

  “That is not fully explained, although I suppose it is to give me a distrust of the woman.”

  Ella pursed her lips. “Really, my dear, they are behaving rather like children.”

  “They miss me.”

  “Well, of course they do, but that is no excuse not to be pleased that you are being given the opportunity to enjoy your studies.” Ella frowned. “I do hope you will not give in to their bullying.”

  “Hardly bullying,” Mercy instinctively protested. “More of a . . . gentle persuasion.”

  “A gentle persuasion that is specifically designed to wrack you with guilt.”

  Mercy’s heart clenched as she recalled Ian making the precise same argument. Then she cursed herself roundly for allowing the aggravating wretch back into her thoughts.

  Not that she actually hoped to put him far from her mind. Not so long as she remained at Rosehill. How could she? There would not be a moment when she was not vividly aware that he could stroll into the room, his beautiful, whiskey gold eyes flashing with wicked temptation and his sandalwood scent teasing her senses.

  Even now a part of her was tingling with tension, waiting for Ian to make his appearance in the parlor.

  Which begged the question of whether it was time to consider returning home.

  As depressing as her father’s cottage might be, it at least did not possess an agonizingly handsome devil that could drive a sane woman to Bedlam.

  “They have every right to expect their only child to assist in their care as they grow older,” she said, her voice low to disguise her sinking sense of disappointment. “And in truth, it is time that I consider returning home.”

  Ella’s eyes widened with sudden distress. “Oh, my dear, I do hope you will not abandon me before the charity luncheon. I would be lost without your assistance.”

  Mercy forced a weak smile. “Nonsense, you will do quite well without me, and since my parents are obviously unhappy with my absence, it does seem that my duty—”

  “Am I intruding?”

  Mercy stiffened at the dark male voice that cut through the air with a soft, lethal edge.

  Slowly Mercy forced herself to turn, not at all surprised to discover Ian standing at the entrance of the parlor, his fiercely handsome features set in hard lines.

  A nervous flutter attacked the pit of her stomach. She did not need to be a mind reader to realize he had overheard at least a portion of her conversation with Ella. And that he was not at all pleased.

  “Oh, Ian, you must assist me in convincing Mercy that she cannot possibly leave Rosehill until the end of the month,” Ella broke the tense silence. “I simply do not know what I would do without her assistance.”

  The gold eyes never wavered from Mercy’s pale face as he prowled across the room to stand directly at her side.

  “I should be happy to lend my support.” Without warning, he reached to take her hand and placed it firmly on his arm. “Perhaps, Miss Simpson, you would care to join me on the terrace while I make my plea? It is too lovely an evening to remain indoors.”

  Despite her unease, Mercy could not ignore the potent jolt of awareness that shook through her body. The muscles of his arm were hard beneath her fingers, the heat of his body brushing intimately over her skin.

  Blast the annoying man. She was supposed to be furious with him, not shivering with excitement because he was near.

  “Since my visit is to be brief, I believe my time would be best served completing the menu for the charity luncheon,” she said, cowardly hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

  “Nonsense.” Ella waved a plump hand. “A brief stroll is just what you need, my dear.”

  Ian covered her fingers on his arm with his hand, his predatory smile sending a shiver down her spine.

  “Come, Miss Simpson, or I shall fear that you have taken me in dislike.” He squeezed her fingers. “You would not wish Aunt Ella to see us bickering like children, would you?”

  The warning in his voice was unmistakable. He had something to say to her, and if she would not join him in the garden, then he would do so in front of his aunt. Even if it meant revealing her eager response to his kisses.

  “Very well.”

  Ignoring her stiff anger, Ian flashed his aunt a charming smile before tugging Mercy through the open window and leading her down the steps to the sunken garden.

  They strolled in silence until they reached one of the marble fountains. Coming to a halt, Ian released her hand and calmly lit a cheroot from a nearby torch.

  “There, I did tell you that it was a lovely evening,” he murmured.

  Mercy licked her lips. She had expected Ian to explode the moment they were away from the mansion. His anger, after all, shimmered about him with a shocking force. Somehow his tightly coiled composure was even more unnerving.

  “So you did.”

  There was another disturbing silence as he studied her defensive expression, his golden eyes narrowed.

  “You know, Mercy, I would never have suspected beneath all that sweet innocence and determined bravado was the heart of a coward,” he at last drawled.

  Mercy jerked at the smooth insult. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are running away from me.” Drawing deeply on the cheroot, he released a stream of smoke before tossing the thin cigar into a nearby rosebush. “The question is whether you are fleeing because I outraged you with my offer of becoming my mistress or because you are terrified you might agree.”

  Her heart lodged in her throat. No, she was not fleeing because she feared she might gi
ve in to his offensive proposal. She would never, ever trade her body for wealth.

  Unfortunately, she was not entirely certain why she had been so suddenly struck by the urge to leave Rosehill.

  It was almost as if her heart were whispering a warning that she did not yet fully comprehend.

  Unsettled by the strange thought, Mercy sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  “Did it ever occur to you that my decision to return home might have nothing at all to do with you?” she demanded.

  “Not for a single moment.”

  Her lips thinned at his absolute certainty. “I begin to understand your reputation for excessive arrogance, Mr. Breckford.”

  “Mercy, I am many things, but I am not stupid.” Stepping forward, Ian brushed a finger down the line of her jaw. “Just a few hours ago you were distressed by the mere thought of returning to your parents’ cottage, and now you are suddenly eager to leave Rosehill?”

  His caress was feather light, but it sent a sheet of pure fire through her body. Even when she was angry with Ian, her body responded to his touch with a savage pleasure.

  “I did not say that I was eager, merely that I feel it my duty.” She stepped from his lingering finger. “No doubt you find it difficult to accept that there are those of us who take our responsibilities seriously.”

  “Obviously you do not take all of your responsibilities seriously.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You are willing to abandon Ella just when she is most in need of your services, are you not?”

  “That is absurd. I am not abandoning Ella.”

  “No?” He folded his arms over his chest. “Did you not promise to assist her with her charity luncheon?”

  “The majority of the work is done—”

  “A majority, but not all,” he overrode her soft words. “Surely you owe the woman who offered you a home and extensive use of an extraordinary library the small courtesy of finishing what you have started.”

  It was a ploy, of course. He was playing upon her fondness for Ella to achieve his own ends. Unfortunately, she could not entirely dismiss her flare of guilt. Ella had offered her a home, access to one of the finest libraries in all of England, and her ready kindness. And all she had asked in return was Mercy’s assistance with her luncheon.