The sweetly uttered reprimand was more cutting than any of Arthur’s gruff scoldings.
Just as it was intended to be.
“It is not that I am unaware of your discomfort. You have, after all, reminded me of it in several letters. But you must know that I shall never again have access to such a vast library.” A hint of pleading entered Mercy’s voice. “Surely it is not asking so much to remain just a few more days.”
“No.” Arthur rose to his feet, his expression set in grim lines. “You have been gone long enough, Mercy. It is time for you to return home where you belong.”
“But, Father—”
“I will have no arguments, young lady. You will pack your bags and prepare to leave within the hour.”
“Actually, I fear that will be impossible, Mr. Simpson.” A clear, resolute female voice came from the doorway. “I simply cannot do without Mercy.”
The throbbing in Mercy’s temple had bloomed into a raging headache over the next hour.
Granted she was deeply relieved by Ella’s abrupt arrival. The older woman had taken swift command as she had swept into the parlor, a charming smile on her lips as she had ruthlessly overridden her parents’ every protest.
If Mr. and Mrs. Simpson could not do without their daughter, then they would simply remain at Rosehill until Ella was prepared to allow her to leave.
That was the final word on the subject.
Of course, her father did not concede to the decree without a great deal of fuss. Anyone could be forgiven for believing he was making some terrible sacrifice to put aside his return to the damp cottage to remain among such luxury. Her mother, on the other hand, was swift to take full advantage of Viscount Norrington’s generosity. With a fading voice, she had demanded a fire be lit in her chambers and a maid be on hand to assist with her bath, as well as her favorite tea be delivered to her chambers to ease her tender stomach.
Each complaint and command had been met with the kind yet unyielding force of Ella’s personality, and at last Mercy had herded them up to their chambers. She had endured another lecture from her father on upsetting his peaceful existence and her mother’s petulant refusal to be seen at dinner in her threadbare gown before she was at last allowed to escape.
The ache in her head had been well earned, she decided with a sigh, and no doubt would linger so long as her parents remained.
Returning to the parlor, Mercy discovered Ella seated near the window, calmly sipping her tea. At Mercy’s entrance she set aside the cup and regarded the younger woman with an expectant smile.
“Ah, Mercy, have you made your parents comfortable?”
Mercy grimaced as she crossed the room to lean against the window frame. The warmth of the slanting sun helped to ease a portion of her rigid tension.
“They are settled and already demanding that dinner be delivered to their rooms since they have nothing appropriate to wear.” She slanted Ella an apologetic gaze. “I fear they will prove to be decidedly demanding houseguests.”
Ella waved a dismissive hand. “So long as you are allowed to remain, they may be as demanding as they desire.”
Mercy rolled her eyes at the older woman’s naïveté. She had never been exposed to Arthur and Lydia Simpson’s grating personalities. There was a reason that the local villagers avoided the small cottage.
“You have no notion of how difficult my parents can be. You are bound to regret your generosity.”
“Nonsense.” Ella set aside her china cup, a stubborn expression settling on her face. “They can not be any more difficult than my cousin Miranda and her vast brood. Do you know that last Christmas she arrived without warning and then proceeded to invite nearly two dozen of her acquaintances to join her here? Poor Norry was at last driven to London to find a measure of peace at his club.”
Mercy shuddered at the mere thought of Lord Norrington encountering her father.
“His lordship might very well decide to bolt once he endures a few of my father’s lectures. They are not only long-winded, but they tend to condemn most of mankind as evil, especially those with the poor taste to possess a bit of wealth.” Mercy shook her head in regret. “A pity, really. I always suspected that his sermons might have been better attended if they had been somewhat more . . . tolerant.”
“Do not worry about Norry, my dear.” Rising to her feet, Ella reached out to pat Mercy’s hand. “He is very good at keeping others at a distance. Sometimes too good, I fear.”
Taking the older woman’s hand in her own, Mercy gave the plump fingers a soft squeeze. She had never had anyone treat her with such an uncomplicated affection. There were no demands, no expectations. Just a simple pleasure in her companionship.
It was . . . refreshing.
“You are very kind to me, Ella,” she said with a sigh. “I do not know how to thank you.”
“For what?”
“If not for your timely arrival, I should be packing my bags to leave.”
“Ah.” A mysterious smile curved Ella’s lips. “Actually, you must thank Ian for my fortunate return.”
Mercy dropped the woman’s hand in surprise. “What?”
“Ian arrived at the vicarage to claim that your parents had descended upon Rosehill and that unless I acted swiftly, you were about to be carted off.”
Mercy’s breath was suddenly elusive as she was struck by the image of Ian thundering toward the vicarage, wise enough to realize that only Ella could halt the tidal wave of doom.
Why had he gone to such an effort?
Was it only to keep his aunt from losing her companion? Or had he possessed more selfish reasons for desiring Mercy to remain near?
Somehow the answer seemed vitally important.
“Oh,” she breathed softly.
“He was very insistent that I not delay a moment,” Ella pressed, a hint of speculation in her light brown eyes.
“I am certain that Mr. Breckford was merely concerned that you would be distressed by my departure.”
“You are certain, eh?” Ella murmured.
“Of course.”
Ella studied her deliberately guarded expression before giving a vague shrug. “Whatever the cause, I must admit that I was pleased he came to me so swiftly.”
“As am I.” Strolling into the room, Ian met Mercy’s startled gaze with a smoldering intensity. “It would have been a shocking injustice to have Miss Simpson stolen away when she is needed at Rosehill.”
Ian had intended to devote the next hour to searching his father’s private parlor. He had witnessed the older man leaving in his carriage when he had returned from his mad gallop to the vicarage. It was the perfect opportunity to investigate his father’s chambers.
Unfortunately, he had been unable to concentrate on the mysteries of the past when his future was being threatened by a pair of selfish country bumpkins who would hold their own daughter captive to ensure their comfort.
As he paced the room, he had told himself that the flare of panic that had driven him to the vicarage had been frustrated desire. Not only had Mercy’s parents interrupted his determined seduction in the attic, but they threatened to steal her away before he could ease the ache that wracked him with a raw, merciless pain.
His thoughts, however, had not been centered upon his needs, but instead on the haunting memory of Mercy’s stricken expression as he had spurred himself into action. In that precise moment he would have done whatever necessary to ease her distress.
At last he had been driven from his search to the small parlor. He had to be sure that Mercy remained at Rosehill. He had to catch the scent of sweet vanilla and hear that soft, erotic voice brush over his skin.
Not halting until he stood at Mercy’s side, he allowed himself to drink in her delicate beauty.
“Mr. Breckford,” she breathed softly, her formality at utter odds with the awareness that flared through her spectacular eyes. “Ella informs me that I have you to thank for her return from the vicarage.”
Ian silently cursed
his aunt’s presence. If Mercy desired to thank him, then he preferred it to be somewhat more . . . tangible.
Like throwing her arms around him and offering those sweet lips for his consumption.
Instead he was forced to offer a small dip of his head, his hands curling into fists to keep from reaching out and tugging her close.
“I presumed that you might need reinforcements.” He briefly glanced about the room before returning his attention to Mercy. “Have your parents left so soon?”
“I fear not.” Her expression hardened. “They intend to remain until I am prepared to return to Surrey.”
He bit back a curse. Of course they had not left. From all that he had discovered, the elderly Simpsons were rather like barnacles that had attached themselves to their only child.
Nothing short of physical force would detach them.
“Ah,” he muttered, obviously revealing his annoyance, as Ella gave a loud click of her tongue.
“And we shall treat them as welcome guests, will we not, Ian?”
Ian summoned a ready smile even as he inwardly rebelled at the capitulation. Everything within him demanded that he battle anything that would endanger Mercy’s happiness. Including her overly demanding parents.
A pity that she had made it clear she would never accept a position in his life that would allow him the authority to rid her of such pests.
At least not overtly.
“If you insist, my dear.”
“I do.” Ella’s eyes widened. “Oh, I must warn Cook that we will be needing trays. Excuse me.”
The older woman scurried from the room, the stiff set of her spine warning that she was determined to be a proper hostess. Even if it killed her.
Alone with Mercy, he tucked a finger beneath her chin and tugged her face upward.
“You are pale.” His brows drew together. “Did your parents upset you?”
She bit her bottom lip as if embarrassed by his question. And perhaps she was. Her love for her parents would make it difficult for her to admit she might be less than pleased by their arrival.
“I will not deny that I was disturbed by their insistence that I return home,” she at last confessed. “I . . . I am not yet finished with my research. And of course I wish to assist Ella with the luncheon.”
It was more her slight hesitation than her actual words that softened Ian’s grim expression.
Even without having been present, Ian knew it had been a difficult task for Mercy to stand up to her parents’ demands. She had been an obedient daughter for too long to easily stand her ground. It had to be a compelling motivation that allowed her to break a lifetime of compliance.
“Of course.” He stroked the soft temptation of her cheek. “And there is no other reason you might wish to linger at Rosehill?”
Her eyes darkened in reaction to the rough edge of his voice. “Should there be?”
“I can think of one.”
Despite her innocence, there was the age-old call of the siren in her coy expression.
“And what is that?”
His fingers slid down the length of her jaw, his thumb brushing the edge of her mouth.
“We have unfinished business, sweet Mercy.”
Her breath was suddenly unsteady, her eyes wide with shimmering anticipation. Christ, she was so beautiful. So exquisitely enticing.
Not even a saint could be expected to resist such temptation.
And Ian was no damn saint.
“Is that why you went in search of Ella?” she demanded.
He hesitated. “In part.”
Mercy stilled, regarding him with a questioning gaze. “And the other part?”
His lips twisted with a rueful humor. “I am attempting not to consider my motives too deeply. They would no doubt send me fleeing back to London.”
“Ian?”
His chest tightened with a dangerous emotion. Something perilously close to longing.
“Never mind.” He dropped his hand as if he had been singed, and in truth, it felt as if he had. He might not fully understand the sensations that blasted through him whenever this woman was near, but he knew they were the sort of thing a wise man avoided. Taking a step back, he cleared the odd lump that was stuck in his throat. “Will your parents prove to be a bother during their stay?”
She grimaced, readily allowing herself to be distracted.
“That is a certainty. My parents would not know how to exist unless they were being a bother to someone. I can only shudder at what your father will think of them.”
Ian gave a short burst of laughter. “My father is very good at ignoring whatever displeases him. Trust me, I have ample evidence.”
The edge in his voice was unmistakable, and Mercy slowly narrowed her gaze.
“Do you know, Ian, you have never fully explained your reasons for visiting Rosehill.”
“And you, my wood sprite, never confessed why you truly desire to linger at Rosehill. I would say that we are even,” he countered, flicking a finger over her cheek before forcing his feet toward the door. He had assured himself that Mercy was still safely settled at Rosehill. It was time to return his attention to searching his father’s chambers before it was too late. “Until dinner, sweet Mercy.”
Chapter 14
Although Ian’s secretive search of his father’s chambers managed to go undetected, his efforts had turned up nothing.
Which, in itself, seemed odd.
Who the devil did not have a few secrets tucked away?
Illicit love letters, smuggled brandy, bills from the local brothel . . .
He had not discovered so much as a hidden lock of hair.
It seemed more than a bit peculiar, but then he could not be certain that it was not his determination to discover some clue, no matter how vague, that made him leap to the conclusion there was something suspicious in the absolute lack of sinful evidence.
With a sigh, he returned to his chambers and changed for dinner. He had never assumed it would be easy to discover the truth of his father’s secret sin. And he did have both Raoul and Reaver hunting down information.
For the moment he was at a stalemate.
Not nearly as disappointed in the realization he was more or less stuck at Rosehill as he should be, Ian entered the library in search of Mercy. Even knowing being close to the bewitching minx would set his senses aflame and harden him to the point of pain, he could not resist the temptation to be in her company. She was rather like drinking too much champagne. A dizzying pleasure followed by hours of throbbing discomfort.
Ian adored champagne.
Entering the library, Ian paused at the door, his gaze sweeping over the elegant furnishings. He growled in frustration when he realized Mercy was not there. Instead, he found his father standing near the window with a pensive expression upon his countenance.
Norrington turned at his entrance, easily moving to pour Ian a shot of whiskey from the crystal decanter.
“Ian,” he murmured, pressing the glass into his hand.
Ian sipped the amber spirit, relishing the smooth heat that slid down his throat.
“Good evening, Father.”
Stepping back, Norrington linked his hands behind his back and regarded Ian with a wry expression.
“I have discovered we are to have houseguests.”
“Unfortunately.” Ian did not disguise his flare of annoyance. “Miss Simpson’s parents have arrived and refuse to be dismissed. At least not without their daughter in tow.”
Norrington lifted his brows in curiosity. “And this disturbs you?”
“It disturbs Ella, so, yes, it disturbs me,” Ian smoothly countered. “My aunt takes great comfort in Miss Simpson’s presence.”
The viscount studied him a long moment, then, seemingly satisfied, shrugged. “Yes, she does. Of course, it would be difficult for anyone not to be pleased with her companionship. She is surprisingly peaceful for a young lady.”
“Peaceful?” Ian was struck by his father’s des
cription. It was true that Mercy stirred a violent mixture of emotions within him, but underneath them all there was a strange sense of ease in her company. As if she could soothe the restless discontent that had plagued him for most of his life.
“Yes, peaceful,” his father firmly retorted. “Unlike most females, she is not forever chattering or insisting that she be indulged in one social event or another. She seems quite content to spend her time in here with her studies or with your aunt planning her luncheon. Quite rare, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Simpson is definitely a rare woman.”
Norrington frowned, his suspicions once again aroused by Ian’s soft agreement.
“Ian . . .”
Ian met Norrington’s frown with a challenging gaze. “Yes, Father?”
The older man briefly struggled to choke back his words of warning. It was obvious he realized that chiding his bastard son from seducing a young lady was the height of hypocrisy, yet at the same time he wished to protect Mercy.
At last he heaved a resigned sigh. “I suppose you will do what you wish. You are rather too old to be taking advice.”
“To be honest, I have never been good at taking advice, much to Dunnington’s annoyance. A pity, really. My life should no doubt have been a good deal easier if I had heeded his words of warning.”
Expecting his father to swiftly agree, Ian was startled when the older gentleman merely shrugged as he moved toward the heavy walnut desk.
“We all must discover our own mistakes.” Perching on the edge of the desk, Norrington folded his arms over his chest. “Have you considered your future, Ian?”
Ian drained his whiskey as he warily regarded the man across the room. What the devil was this? A father and son chat?
Had hell frozen over?
“My future?”
“Do you have plans?”
“You must be jesting.” Ian laughed at the mere notion. Unlike his friend Fredrick, he had no use for lists and schedules and daily routines. “I rarely plan from one minute to the next, let alone for some elusive future that I may or may not live to see.”
Seducing the Viscount Page 17
