by Liz Carlyle
“Concerned, sir? In what way?” Her voice was sharp with unease, and the elder dog sensed it He came from beneath the chair and circled Jonet, sniffing at her hand until she touched him. Absently, she slicked a hand over his snowy head and the dog flopped down again.
Obviously awaiting an answer to her question, Jonet leaned forward, tightening the plain fabric of her mourning dress to reveal breasts that were high, full, and perfectly shaped. To his consternation, he discovered that he could not pull his gaze from her —from her. Even the swell of that exquisite bosom could not compete with the beauty and intensity of her face.
The woman had a way of focusing the whole of her attention on him. Boldly and purposefully, in a way that few women of Cole’s acquaintance had the confidence to do. And yet, there was no hint of capriciousness in her. Like a watchful tigress, Lady Mercer’s eyes were ever wary, and Cole was certain she would not hesitate to spring were it necessary. Such confidence was the mark of a good soldier. In selecting and assigning men, Cole had deliberately sought out those special few who had that same purposeful look, that utter lack of vacillation. At his next thought, he found himself compelled to suppress a bark of laughter. But dear God, it was so true! Lady Mercer would have made one hell of a warrior.
“Have I said something humorous, sir?” she asked pointedly. “I fancy you are laughing.”
Cole was taken aback. “Why, I do not believe that I am, my lady.”
“Have a care, sir,” she cautioned, her tone mocking. “After all, I understand that I am called the ‘Sorceress of Strathdyde.’ I can see into the darkest corners of men’s hearts.”
Cole suppressed an impulsive grin. It felt strangely incongruous in her presence.
“Then you shall see little enough humor in mine, Lady Mercer,” he said lightly.
“Call me Jonet” she corrected abruptly. “And I beg to argue, sir. You are laughing inside, and it is all the same, you see. Now, I merely wish to know what it is you find so humorous. Come, will you not share your joke with me, Cousin?”
He did not miss the hint of sarcasm, but today he merely wondered if something more serious lay behind it. “Very well, ma’am. It seems you have caught me out. I found myself thinking that you would have made a fine soldier. I have trained a few in my day, and I believe I know the necessary traits.”
Lady Mercer set her head to one side again in that quizzical way of hers. “And those traits would be... ?”
Suddenly, Cole sobered. He looked at her and could see no reason not to answer.
“A good soldier never hesitates when battle finally comes, ma’am” he responded, lightly resting one hand across his knee. “Perhaps he does not seek it. Indeed, he may even be filled with dread at the prospect, but he takes up the challenge boldly. It is a knack some men simply do not have.”
“And few women?” she asked a little caustically. “I have often been accused of being overly bold, sir.”
Cole nodded. “It was not ill-meant, your ladyship.”
“You will call me Jonet,” she said again.
“I think that unwise, ma’am. I am your children’s tutor.”
Lady Mercer drew her full lips into a stubborn line and stared into the depths of the book-room. “Captain, you have come to me ostensibly as a member of my late husband’s family. You refuse to accept a salary—at least from me.” She flicked a guarded look at him. “And if we are to reside in this house together under such circumstances, I daresay we ought to go on as we have begun.”
“And that would be?”
“As cousins. Therefore, I am Jonet And you are—Cole, is it not?”
“As you wish,” he stiffly replied.
“Thank you,” she said softly, then pulled her gaze from his and took up her sewing once more. With quick, precise motions, her needle began to dart in and out, then draw taut the thread, time and again. As with most of Jonet Rowland, her hands appeared superficially delicate, but Cole could sense the tremendous strength contained within them.
For a time, he was content to simply watch her, and she seemed equally content to let him do so. It was an unusual level of familiarity between two people who were so vastly different from one another; who did not even like one another, but who had quite obviously decided to bow to the dictates of civility and pretend. As if she felt his eyes upon her task, Lady Mercer’s gaze caught his for a moment, and she smiled.
“Satan finds some mischief for idle hands to do,” she quoted, as if an explanation were expected. “Is that not what the Bible teaches?”
Cole shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The Bible does caution us that sloth is an insidious vice, ma’am. But I believe those particular words belong to Mr. Watts.”
“Indeed?” She looked at him a little strangely. “How astute you are, sir. And who is Mr. Watts?”
“A theologian, ma’am. And a writer of hymns.”
“Ah, yes! I am persuaded you are right,” she replied, drawing taut her final stitch.
Then, with sharp white teeth, she bit her thread neatly in two and set down her work.
“Now, do you mean to tell me, Cole, just what it is about my children which concerns you? I have, of course, my own worries.”
Cole felt the heat of her steady blue eyes on his face. It was a good question, and yet he hesitated. He had seen her children, he had felt their vulnerability. But how could he explain it? How could he share with this woman things he had never shared with anyone—not even the one person with whom he should have shared all things? He had no wish to lay bare his own soul to Lady Mercer, a woman who, by some accounts, had none herself. Cole was sot sure he believed that, but he simply could not bring himself to explain to her the truth; that he had once been afraid and fatherless, and that he would forever understand a child’s sense of terror and loss.
And as to his other concerns—the scent of danger, that prickling sensation which crept down his spine at odd moments—how could he account for what was mostly a soldier’s instinct?
Only last night had he begun to lend words, and perhaps some small amount of logic to those feelings himself. Good God, he would scare Lady Mercer out of her wits. Or she might simply accuse him of attempting to frighten her. Or she might think him mad. Perhaps he was. Where was the danger? To whom was it directed? He had no notion. Perhaps he was merely suffering from the residual stress of battle. It had been months, he suddenly realized, since he had slept well. And Lady Mercer certainly seemed to shake his sanity at odd moments. Absently, Cole pulled the eye-glasses from his face and began to rub hard at his left ternple.
His head was beginning to ache again, and the new glasses had not helped at all. “Perhaps your sons are struggling with their father’s death rather more than I had initially suspected, ma’am,” he finally managed to utter. “And I hope you will take no offence when I say that your children are in need of more attention than I had first believed.”
Lady Mercer nodded slowly, still looking past his shoulder. She had the look of a woman caught in the web of her own introspection. A woman who, just perhaps, had a few regrets after ail. And what sort of regrets? Cole burned to know. In truth, he burned to know her better.
He did not like her, it was true. She was proud, distant, and almost painfully beautiful to look upon. And it was entirely possible—entirely likely, in fact—that she had had a hand in her husband’s death. But she was a fascinating woman just the same. Moreover, he was a philosopher, a student of human nature, was he not? A very devoted student, too, it would seem. For at that very moment, Cole would have cut off his right hand to know what was in Jonet Rowland’s hard, but very obviously melancholy, heart. Perplexingly, however, Lady Mercer neither asked for nor offered further explanation. Instead, her words seemed carefully chosen and hesitantly spoken.
“His late lordship had many failings, Captain,” she said quietly, “But he was an adequate father. Perhaps not the sort I would have chosen for my children, had I anysay in the matter. But Lord Mercer did care for his s
ons, and they loved him deeply. And they now suffer greatly from his loss.”
Cole politely attempted to keep the cynicism from showing in his face, but apparently he failed. Lady Mercer fixed him with a long, assessing stare, as if taking his measure against some standard he did not understand. A ghost of what looked like regret drifted over her eyes, and abruptly, she shoved aside her sewing, jerked from her chair, and crossed to the window.
Cole felt tension draw tight in the air as he watched Lady Mercer pull back the draperies and stare out into the street When at last she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. “Did you imagine, Captain, that I was so unfeeling as not to know that? That I had tailed to notice my children are hurting? If so, let me disabuse you of that notion. I do feel, and I do know it And it is breaking my heart.”
Cole could hear the catch in her throat; he could almost see the unshed tears which threatened, and he felt deeply ashamed. He had risen from his seat and unwittingly crossed the room to join her by the window. Lightly, he laid his hand upon her shoulder. “I am sorry, ma’am. I did not mean to imply that—”
“I do not give a damn what you did or did not mean,” she interjected harshly, spinning away from the window to stare up at him. Cole stood facing her now, but she jerked her eyes away, refusing to hold his gaze, as if she were ashamed of her own weakness. In the pale sunlight, Lady Mercer’s face was wan, her eyes limpid, rapidly blinking. Inside the sheath of black, which she wore with such innate elegance, she seemed almost to tremble.
In the face of such profound emotion—grief, guilt, pain; he neither knew nor cared —Cole’s gentlemanly instincts rose to the surface. Unfortunately, a few of his more libidinous ones came along with them. He was frustrated to realize how urgently he wished to draw her into his arms, to kiss away the tears that now spiked her long black lashes. She was dangerous. Wicked. And yet, in that moment, Cole ceased to care.
He stood very near to her now, near enough to draw in her exotic fragrance, made more potent by the heat of her emotion. The turn of her cheek and jaw was delicate, her face molded as if from the finest ivory porcelain. Cole wanted desperately to cradle it in his rough hands and kiss away the sadness. And almost as though the extremity were not his own, but someone else’s, Cole watched as his right hand came up to do just that.
Gently, ever so lightly, he let his willful fingers slide around the curve of her face, delicately cupping it, and brushing his thumb tenderly across the satiny flesh beneath her eye, as if to wipe away the tears which had not yet fallen. To his shock, Lady Mercer’s eyes dropped slowly shut, the damp, silky lashes fanning across her cheeks, and almost imperceptibly, she turned her face into the warmth of his hand, opening her mouth ever so slightly against the broad palm, and drawing in a deep, unsteady breath against his callused skin.
In that instant, it seemed to Cole as if the earth stopped spinning. Time froze, and in this one infinitesimal moment, no one else existed, save himself and this beautiful, darkly enigmatic woman. It was as if there were no higher purpose in his life, save comforting her, keeping her safe from the demons which so obviously threatened. But then slowly, without opening her eyes, Lady Mercer slid her left hand over his own, hesitated ever so briefly, and dragged his hand from her face. Almost ruthlessly, she pushed it away, and turned her back on him.
No longer able to see if her eyes were open or closed, Cole felt a heated sense of mortification sweep over him. Anger followed fast on its heels, directed both at himself, and inexplicably, at her. When she spoke, her words were flat, wholly without emotion of any sort “I suggest, sir, that you save your sympathy for my children, whom I can assure you have every need of it Do we understand one another?”
Strangely, the rebuff stung, as if it had come from an old friend rather than a distant acquaintance. Reluctant to examine that emotion too closely, Cole steeled his gaze and stared at her. “Perfectly, ma’am,” he answered.
“Very well” She came away from the window, her shoulders set stiffly back, and returned to her chair, sitting down so rigidly that her spine never touched the upholstery. Cole watched her go, not knowing what further to do, and then followed. It was as if those few emotional moments had never existed, Clearly, that was what Lady Mercer wished With grim determination, Cole decided to oblige her. What the devil had come over him, anyway? Did she truly have an almost magical hold over men? It was often said of her. It seemed his hand had moved to touch her entirely of its own accord.
Suddenly, Cole’s attention jerked back to the present. Lady Mercer was speaking, her voice cool, as if nothing untoward had occurred. “You may remove from your lodgings in Red Lion Street as soon as is convenient, sir, if that is still your wish. But understand me. The welfare of my children comes first in this house. You are to teach them well, and above all, to keep them safe. You will exercise no undue influence upon them”—her tone seemed to soften—”and you will discipline them as best you can without breaking their spirits.”
“Their spirits, ma’am?”
“I would have you make race horses of them, sir, not dray horses,” she answered a little more crisply. Then, Lady Mercer leaned forward and sighed. “But they are mischievous, and occasionally willful, it is true. Perhaps I have even spoilt them a bit these past few months, but I have been so very af—so very concerned. About their losing their father,” she belatedly added.
Cole listened, not just to her words, but to the tone behind them, and heard nothing but the voice of a devoted mother who was sincerely concerned for her children.
Just as she professed to be. But not at all as he had expected. Still, words were one thing, and actions quite another. It would not take long to ascertain just what sort of mother Lady Mercer really was. “They are lively boys, ma’am,” he agreed with a stiffsmile, “but they are quite bright. I promise I shan’t resort to beating them.”
Lady Mercer looked at him and lifted her shoulders a little beneath the black fabric of her dress. “If you cannot manage them, there is no shame in it, sir. Simply come to me, and I will intervene. I do assure you that I can make them behave, for they know perfectly well that they cannot pull the wool over my eyes.”
Cole smiled wryly at that. “No, ma’am. I expect few people can.”
Looking surprised, Lady Mercer opened her mouth as if she might reply, then reconsidered it. After a moment, she returned to their earlier topic. “Regarding your removal from your apartments, Char—Mr. Donaldson—can send someone, should you wish him to.”
Her words held a wealth of significance, but it took Cole a moment to understand the two very important things she had just confirmed: Lady Mercer and her butler were on very familiar terms. Indeed, Cole had already noted the knowing glances which passed between them. But the second realization gave him rather more pause.
Cole had never told her where he lived.
The former was none of his business. Cole did not doubt that Jonet Rowland was more woman than Lord Delacourt could handle. Charles Donaldson was a strapping, good-looking fellow, and stranger things had happened amongst the ton. His Uncle James had called Lady Mercer an immoral whore, but on that fine point, his uncle’s blue-blooded double standard became glaringly obvious. Lord Mercer’s penchant for courtesans and widows had been no secret, and on more than one occasion, even the haughty James himself had been known to toss up the skirts of a half-willing parlor maid.
What was it to them or to Cole—or to anyone but God—if Lady Mercer chose to take her pleasures with a butler? Or chose to bed a vigorous and handsome young man like Delacourt? On moral grounds, Cole disapproved of such behavior, particularly when it was done with so little regard for discretion. Adultery flew in the face of all that he believed in. But was her sin any worse than theirs? And what right had any of them to pass judgement on another’s transgression? Cole was hardly a candidate for sainthood. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep his own lust at bay.
Ruthlessly, he forced away all thought of his employer’s proclivity for mortal
sin— and his rather vivid imaginings of what she might look like in the midst of it. Further, he decided to ask Lady Mercer nothing about her knowledge of his address. That little fact bore further thought. Indeed it did.
“I believe I shall keep my rooms, ma’am,” he finally explained. “As it happens, I have a great many personal possessions, primarily books, which I arranged to have sent down from—er—by my orderly. I daresay they would be an inconvenience.”
“Not at all,” she smoothly replied. “There is a small suite on the third floor which you may take if it pleases you. It contains a bedchamber with a dressing room, and a sitting room in which you may receive personal guests, should you wish to.”
“You are most accommodating, ma’am,” he demurred, “but I do not entertain. My leisure hours are generally spent at my club, or in the various organizations to which I belong.”
Lady Mercer’s eyes narrowed in a rather feline fashion. “To which club do you belong? And to what sort of organizations?” Her questions were sharp, and brooked no opposition.
Cole hesitated, more unwilling than ever to reveal anything of himself to this woman. Perhaps Jonet Rowland really did have the Scottish gift Perhaps she really could see into his heart How appalling. How fanciful. “Nothing very grand, ma’am,” he hedged.
“I wish to know the habits of the man who is to educate my children,” she insisted.
“The United Service Club and the MCC,” he reluctantly answered. “I also belong to the London Society of Theologians, and the Philosophos Society.”
Lady Mercer’s delicate black brows flew up in amazement “Are you really something of a theologian, then? How quaint!”
Cole had the distinct feeling that her mild condescension was meant to place a distance between them. To set him, perhaps, in his place. He felt his temper spike.
“Quaint is not a word normally applied to the subject, ma’am.”
If she noticed his ire, she gave no sign of it “And the Philosophos Society, did you say?” She gave a humorless smile. “I understand my late husband was a member of the Society of Philistines himself —or was it the Philanderers? I can never quite remember.”
