Seducing the Viscount Page 16

  Before she could react, he had framed her face with his hands. “Good God, you are a romantic.”

  “What?”

  “There can be no other explanation for such a ridiculous flight of fancy.”

  “And you are a cynic to immediately presume some nefarious plot against you,” she swiftly countered.

  “Obviously we are perfectly suited.”

  “Perfectly . . .” She shook her head in disbelief. “That is the most ridiculous notion I have ever heard. We have just established that we are utter opposites.”

  His thumbs toyed at the corners of her mouth. “Which makes for the most intriguing combination.”

  “You would think any combination that includes a female intriguing,” she muttered.

  “Well, it is certainly preferable to one that includes a male. Still, I am not without standards.” He dipped his head, brushing her lips with a tender kiss. “Extraordinarily high standards.”

  Mercy shivered, her hands clutching at his arms as her knees went weak.

  “Ian, we are supposed to be searching for the tablecloths.”

  He nipped at her bottom lip before trailing a path of blazing kisses down the length of her jaw.

  “They will eventually be discovered.”

  “Not unless we search for them.”

  “We have plenty of time.”

  She splayed her hands across his chest, as always caught off guard by the ripple of muscle beneath her fingers. Ian was so slender it was easy to forget the strength in his lean body.

  She could just imagine all that hard maleness covering her and . . . no, no, no. She forced her hands to press against his chest.

  “Ian, stop this.”

  Ignoring her futile efforts, Ian buried his face in the curve of her neck.

  “Christ, your scent is driving me mad.”

  He was being driven mad? Good Lord, his hands were creating a trail of destruction as they skimmed down her back and gripped her hips. With one yank, she was pressed intimately against his body.

  She sucked in a sharp breath at the feel of his hard arousal pressed against her hip.

  “No, Ian, I am still furious with you,” she forced herself to mutter.

  “Why?” Lifting his head, he stabbed her with his glittering gaze. “I am not asking you to become my mistress.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  She had a point. Of course she had a point. It was just so damnably difficult to think when her heart was thundering and her lower body clenched with aching need.

  “That you would presume I was the sort of female to agree to your proposal,” she hastily accused as his head lowered to continue with his all-too-persuasive seduction.

  His eyes narrowed, as if sensing there was more to her bout of nerves than mere outrage. Oddly, however, he did not press.

  “I presumed nothing, my sweet Mercy,” he denied. “My only thought when I requested you to become my mistress was that I desired you more than I have desired any other woman and that I wanted to ensure that I had you in my bed for longer than a handful of nights. That might very well prove that I am a selfish bastard, but it has no judgment on your character.” He peered deep into her wide eyes. “I wanted you, and that’s all I considered.”

  The indignation that she had nurtured began to falter beneath his simple words. He had been selfish, but not deliberately cruel. Much like any other man, no doubt.

  Mercy, however, was more shaken by his precise words than by the overall content.

  “Ian, do not say such things.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they are so obviously untrue,” she said, her expression wounded.

  His brows snapped together. “What the hell do you mean?”

  She again shoved at his chest. With the same result. She would have more luck attempting to move the Great Wall of China.

  “You do not desire me more than any other woman. It is absurd.”

  His scowl only deepened. “You presume to know what I feel?”

  “I am a plain country miss who knows nothing of gentlemen. Hardly the sort to inspire passion in any man, let alone the renowned Casanova.”

  “Plain?” He gave a disbelieving shake of his head, his gaze searing over her pale face. “Christ, do you never glance into a mirror? You are . . . exquisite.”

  A blush stained her cheeks. “Hardly exquisite, but I spoke of my lack of worldly polish.”

  “Worldly polish?” He gave a snort of disgust. “Have you ever considered the notion that any gentleman would weary of the jaded sophistication to be found in London? I never realized just how intoxicating it could be to discover a woman who is capable of speaking what is on her mind.” His hands tightened on her hips, the tiny pain sending a small thrill down her spine. “A woman who does not use artifice to attract the attention of a gentleman.”

  Her breath was squeezed from her lungs at his low, husky words. She was being ridiculous, of course. A seasoned rake always knew the perfect words to make a woman feel special. How else could they so easily lure her to his bed?

  Still, she was an aging spinster who had never been courted or flattered or admired. She had never felt beautiful or desired by anyone.

  How could she not feel at least some pleasure in his pretense of unwavering fascination?

  “Ian . . .”

  She was not entirely certain what she intended to say, but in the end it did not matter. His name had barely tumbled from her lips when there was the sound of approaching footsteps that halted at the bottom of the attic stairs.

  “Miss Simpson.” The maid’s voice echoed eerily through the dusty gloom. “Miss Simpson, are ye up there?”

  Mercy froze, her heart lodged in her throat. She had devoted a great deal of thought to being seduced by Ian Breckford, more thought than she cared to admit. But those daydreams had never included being caught in a dusty attic in his arms. She had no wish to become the latest fodder for gossip among the servants.

  “Ian, you must release me,” she hissed.

  He lowered his head to whisper next to her ear, his sandalwood scent clouding her mind and making her knees weak.

  “Ignore her,” he whispered. “Eventually she will go away.”

  “More likely she will come up and discover us together,” she warned. “You must let me go.”

  As if to make her point, the maid loudly cleared her throat. “Miss Simpson?”

  With a glare at the man who refused to loosen his grip, Mercy concentrated on keeping her voice steady.

  “Yes, Maggie, I am here. What do you need?”

  “Ye have visitors.”

  “Visitors?” Mercy met Ian’s narrowed gaze with a flare of confusion. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Nay, Miss.” The maid sounded almost apologetic. “’Tis the Vicar and Mrs. Simpson.”

  “No . . .” Mercy grasped Ian’s shoulders as a black tide of dismay swept through her. “Oh no.”

  Chapter 13

  Half an hour later, Mercy was seated in a small back parlor as she poured tea for her elderly parents.

  The two seated on the striped satin settee could not have been more different. Arthur Simpson had once been a tall, strapping man who had filled his small church with his booming voice. Age had stooped his shoulders and turned his muscle into a growing pouch around his waist, while his once-black hair was now a thin strand of silver over his balding head. Still, he managed to nearly overwhelm his tiny wisp of a wife, who perched in obvious discomfort at his side.

  Lydia Simpson had once been a beauty with her fragile features and pale green eyes. Unfortunately her meek personality had never suited the role of a vicar’s wife. She detested the endless rounds of visiting the poor and infirm. She had no talent for arranging charity festivals and was nothing less than terrified of the local gentry. She had long ago discovered her only means of peace was to hide behind the pretense of a delicate constitution.

  They did have one
thing in common, however. It was the matching expression of peevish dissatisfaction with life.

  Her father for his inability to claim success beyond a small church in the midst of Surrey, and her mother for being forced to forgo the large house and handsome allowance she had presumed would be hers by marrying a vicar.

  For all their bitterness, however, they had loved her and provided her a comfortable home. It was far more than many young girls were given.

  She attempted to keep that thought forefront in her mind as her father regarded her with a chiding frown.

  “You appear flushed,” he accused in his deep, rumbling voice. “Lydia, do you not think that Mercy is flushed?”

  As always, Mercy’s mother fell into ready agreement with her forceful partner.

  “Oh, yes, quite flushed. Perhaps—”

  “I hope you have not taken a nasty chill,” Arthur Simpson continued, overriding his wife without compunction. “Not that it would be a surprise. A great drafty house such as this must be impossible to keep warm.”

  Mercy forced herself to continue pouring tea and arranging plates with the various cakes and sandwiches that the cook had prepared.

  It was not as if she could argue. She was flushed. She could feel the heat that lingered in her cheeks. But when a woman was interrupted in midseduction by her parents, she was bound to be somewhat unnerved.

  At the moment, however, she had more important matters to concentrate upon.

  The most important of which was the reason for her parents’ unexpected arrival. The journey was less than three hours, but the elderly Simpsons never traveled beyond their small village. Not for any reason.

  “I have always found Rosehill to be quite comfortable, father,” she murmured, handing him a cup of tea.

  Arthur grunted, his gaze condemning as it flicked over the exquisite furnishings.

  “Comfortable, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you flushed?”

  “If I am flushed, I suppose it is due to the fact that I was in the attics when you arrived and I had to hurry to change before greeting you.” It was not entirely a lie, she silently reassured herself. She had rushed to change her gown. Of course, her detour had been more a need for a few moments to regain her composure than out of fear her dusty hem would offend her parents. Heaven knew she spent most of her days with dusty hems.

  Predictably, her father’s scowl only deepened. “Miss Breckford had you cleaning the attics? There, Lydia, I warned you that woman would invite our poor daughter to her home and then expect her to become some sort of unpaid servant. These rich people are all alike. Expect us to scrape and bow for a few crumbs from their table.”

  Mercy shoved a plate of cake into her father’s hand. “Do not say such things, Father,” she snapped, genuinely angered by his rude implications. “Miss Breckford has treated me as an honored guest. Indeed, she could not be more kind.”

  “Then why were you in the attics, might I ask?”

  “Because I wished to help with the charity luncheon for wounded soldiers.” She met his belligerent glare with a tilt of her chin. “Surely you would expect your daughter to lend a hand for such a worthy cause.”

  He appeared momentarily flummoxed by her unexpected defense of Ella Breckford. Not surprising. As a rule, Mercy found it much easier to simply ignore the older man’s vigorous opinions. There never seemed much purpose in arguing when her father would as soon have his arm chopped off as admit that he might be mistaken.

  On this occasion, however, she would not allow him to criticize a woman who had treated her as if she were her own daughter.

  Impervious to the sudden tension in the air, Mercy’s mother heaved a sudden sigh. Turning her head, Mercy watched as Lydia cast an envious gaze over the delicate satinwood furnishings and French Sevres china.

  “This is a very grand home.” There was another wistful sigh. “I suppose the viscount possesses a number of servants?”

  “To be honest, I have long ago halted any attempt to keep track of them all,” she admitted.

  “Bah. A ridiculous waste of good money.” Arthur gave a shake of his head. “Whatever could two people need with so many to wait upon them?”

  “A good number of the servants are hired to keep the house in good order,” Mercy pointed out, her voice thankfully calm. “This is more than just a home—it is a work of art with priceless treasures that need constant attention.”

  “You begin to sound like the nobility with all your fancy talk.”

  “Would you have these servants unemployed or working in the coal mines? At least here they are treated well and allowed to make a decent wage to support their families.” Mercy forced herself to count to ten before handing a cup of tea to her mother. “Seed cake?”

  As expected, Lydia remained lost in her covetous bemusement, absently nibbling at her cake.

  “Yes, well, Miss Breckford obviously has a great deal of comfort in her fading years. Such a lovely home and servants to tend to her.” Her lips thinned with sour regret. “We should all be so fortunate.”

  “She is indeed fortunate, but she is quite generous with both her wealth and her time.” A fond smile curved Mercy’s lips. “She devotes a vast amount of her days visiting the tenants and caring for others.”

  “Does she?” Lydia shuddered in horror. “If I were her, I would never leave this splendid house.”

  Arthur snorted. “Not every woman is a timid mouse like you, Lydia.”

  The older woman seemed to shrink beneath the disdainful tone. “Really, Arthur, you know my constitution is not at all strong.”

  “’Tis strong enough when you wish to visit the local dressmaker or circulating library.”

  “You have never understood what I suffer.”

  Mercy once again counted to ten, the beginnings of a headache beginning to form behind her eyes.

  “You have yet to tell me why you are here.”

  Setting aside his empty cup and plate, Arthur regarded her with a stern expression.

  “I should think that obvious enough.” He narrowed his gaze. “We have come to take you home.”

  It was, of course, precisely what she had feared. There could be no other reason for her parents to put themselves to such an effort to travel to Rosehill. Still, to hear the words spoken with such blunt finality sent a jagged flare of panic through her heart.

  Abruptly rising to her feet, Mercy pressed a hand to her heaving stomach. No, please no. She was not prepared to return to the isolated cottage.

  Or the reality of her life there.

  Not yet.

  “Surely you received my letter telling you that I would be delayed until after the charity luncheon?” she demanded, restlessly pacing toward the window that offered a stunning view of the sunken garden. “I have promised Miss Breckford my assistance. After all her kindness, it would be extremely rude to leave her in the lurch.”

  Mercy did not need to turn to sense her father’s annoyance. “She has a dozen servants to assist her.”

  She sucked in a deep breath, struggling to think clearly through her fog of desperation.

  “None who are capable of writing out invitations or seeing to the unexpected troubles that are forever cropping up,” she said, futilely hoping that reason could earn her a brief respite. “She has need of a secretary, not a maid.”

  “And what of our needs?” her father demanded. “Our house is in complete shambles without you. By God, I have not had a decent meal since you left.”

  “I am very sorry that my absence has been bothersome—”

  “A great deal more than bothersome.” The older man’s voice boomed through the room. “I have not had a day of peace since you left, and your poor mother has taken to her bed to avoid the incessant chatter of that absurd woman you hired. We can endure no more.”

  Mercy briefly rested her forehead against the windowpane.

  It would be so easy to concede defeat. To simply give in to the inevitable. After all, her
parents would never have made such a long journey without the explicit intention of hauling her home.

  In the end it was the memory of Ian’s warning that her father would readily use love to keep her trapped in the small cottage that allowed her to grimly thrust aside her wave of despair.

  “Mrs. Green came highly recommended,” she said, forcing herself to turn and meet her parents’ reproachful gaze.

  Arthur leaned forward, his face ruddy. “No doubt from an employer who was anxious to be rid of her annoying companionship. Your mother is convinced that she is stealing from the pantry.”

  “If you wish to replace Mrs. Green with another nurse from the village, I am certain it can be arranged.” She managed a stiff smile. “I know there are several very trustworthy widows who are always in need of additional income.”

  Her father pounded his fist on his knee. He was unaccustomed to having anyone stand against him. Certainly not his daughter, who had devoted a lifetime to giving sway.

  “There is no need for a nurse. Not when we have a daughter who is perfectly capable of tending to our care.”

  Mercy wet her dry lips, trying to ignore the biting stab of guilt that clutched at her heart.

  Perhaps her parents did use her emotions to manipulate her, but that did not lessen the knowledge that she had a duty to care for them. Or even her desire to do so. Her parents were the only family she possessed. She would never willingly turn her back on them.

  Still, she had endless years lying ahead of her to devote to their care.

  This time at Rosehill would be no more than a fleeting taste of freedom that would soon be gone.

  She squared her shoulders. “I have told you that I cannot leave yet.”

  “Miss Breckford can very well do without you,” her father growled.

  “Perhaps she could, but I have not yet finished my research. There are still several books in Lord Norrington’s library that I wish to study.”

  The older man’s jaw tightened as he realized he could not bully Mercy into compliance. Slowly he leaned back against the satin settee, a sullen frown marring his brow.

  “Well, I never thought to raise such a selfish daughter, did you, Lydia?”

  “Oh, Arthur, I am certain that Mercy does not mean to be selfish,” Lydia protested in fading tones. “It is just that she is enjoying her time among such unfamiliar luxury and has not had the opportunity to consider our own discomfort. Is that not so, my dear?”