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?”
“No.” There was a pause. “And why the tone?”
She walked around his table, rearranging the food she’d set out. “It’s just that you needn’t pretend for me. I know about the ways of men and the world.”
“Men and the world?”
“And their fancy women. Call her whatever you wish. She’s your paramour, I suppose. Your mistress, your floozy, your bit of petticoat.” Hiding her smile, she added, “If Molly knew, that could be the reason why she left you at the altar. That’s why I asked.” When she finally looked up, Rafe hadn’t moved an inch. Arms folded, he watched her from across the small width of his cottage, making no attempt to correct her.
“Anything else you want to ask about my life in London, Lady Know-all?” Even narrowed, those blue eyes could cause severe damage to their target. “Since you think you’re so entitled to meddle.”
With great effort, she kept her countenance. “No more questions. For now. Come to the table and eat.” Apparently his sustenance for the last few days had consisted solely of the liquid variety. No one else dared approach the house to see that he ate, so it was a very good thing she was there. “You won’t be much use to Molly, or any other woman, if you don’t stay healthy and keep your strength up.”
Rafe sauntered to the table. Drops of water gleamed like diamonds caught in his lashes, made them seem even darker, and that, in turn, made his eyes shockingly blue. He must have noticed the vase of wild flowers and herbs she’d hurriedly picked from the overgrown garden while he washed his hands. A little twitch of censure lifted the right side of his mouth. She remembered he never was one for what he called fancifications. But perhaps it was time he learned to appreciate a few pretty things here and there. Molly might have stayed if she had some little hope left for his improvement.
“Lavender,” he murmured, pointing at the purple stalks.
“Yes. I love the fragrance, but the flowers make me sneeze.”
“Ah.” He scratched the back of his neck as he looked at the table of food.
“Please sit,” she said and gestured at the chair.
“Will you eat with me?”
This offer was unexpected. Cautious, she looked at the food on the table. “I really should return to Morecroft before they send out a search party.”
“But since it’s your fault that I have no companion at my table today, you’d best stay and sup with me. How do you know I won’t take up the ale jug again once you’re gone?”
Although she could have argued again that this was not her fault, he had cleverly tossed the second remark out to distract her from the first. She knew he did it deliberately, but he was right about the ale. In his current swamp of self-pity, the man might let all this food spoil while he dove back into the barrel. What else could she do but stay? Only a while longer. Make sure he ate to line his stomach.
Before she might change her mind, Mercy pulled up a chair and sat, carefully moving the vase of sneeze-inducing flowers away from her. It may not be proper to dine alone with a bachelor, but this was merely a favor for an old friend. Nobody could honestly imagine anything untoward if she stayed another half hour, could they?
She suddenly decided she was hungry after all and reached for a slice of bread and the butter. Rafe filled his mouth quickly with a large bite of pork pie and chewed greedily, his doubting gaze riveted to her face, until she thought he must have counted every freckle. “What did Molly tell you in the vestry? If you didn’t talk her into it, what reasons did she give for running off?”
Finally he was ready to listen sensibly, she thought with relief. “She spoke of her intention to become a modiste and open a dressmaking business in Town.”
He kept chewing and staring at her.
“I know she will have a good clientele in no time. Most of my friends are mad with envy whenever I go out in one of her unique creations.”
His gaze steadily raked her up and down, but he was silent.
“Did she never discuss it with you?”
At last he swallowed. “No.”
“Your brother?” A crumb of pastry flew between them and landed on her sleeve. His eyes burned hot with a quick flame of newly ignited anger and old rivalry.
Oops. Mercy didn’t want to get Carver in trouble. One should be loyal to one’s brother, even if he was an ass who had meddled where he had no right. She could say what she liked of her own brother, but woe betide anyone else who said the same. “Molly has lived with us for a few years now, and we were aware of her ambitions.”
He glowered at her. “What does that have to do with Molly leaving me?”
“She feared you would not support her. That you would want her to raise babies instead.”
Confusion darkened his eyes. Mercy had seen that look before, when too many thoughts crowded into his mind and he didn’t like any of them. “I thought that was what she wanted.”
“For some reason, she was afraid to discuss the matter with you.” She spread butter on her slice of bread, making sure to get it to the very edges, leaving no portion unbuttered. “Did you never talk of plans beyond the wedding?”
“I would have kept that wench happy,” he shouted and banged his fist on the table. “I spent the past few months making this farmhouse comfortable for her to live in it. Now I know I wasted my time, because she didn’t want this. Or me.”
Mercy remained unmoved by his angry gestures, which were, she suspected, all show. He wanted her to tell him he was right and that he’d been treated abominably. Other people in his life would say that, just to alleviate the menacing darkness in his eyes, to comfort and reassure. To remain on his good side. But Mercy knew it was too late for that in her case. She hadn’t been on his good side for years; therefore, she had no fear.
“So the answer is ‘no,’” she said calmly. “Clearly the two of you never discussed the future and what you truly wanted.”
Ignoring her comment, he stared down the table at some invisible foe. Suddenly he burst out, “Where would she get the coin to start her own business venture?”
Now she paid even greater attention to the bread she buttered. “Eat your pie.”
The intense heat of his gaze burned the side of her face. “You gave it to her.”
“No, I did not.” She sneezed. It came upon her too suddenly to prevent it. Angry, she pushed the vase of lavender farther away.
“Then your damnable brother did.” He shoved back his chair and stood. “Of course. I should have realized. Carver bloody Danforthe was always very quick to throw his coin around to get his own way. He threw it at me once too, didn’t he, when he wanted me out of your life?”
“Why would my brother interfere in this—?”
“Because he never liked me. He wants to see me suffer. I stepped beyond my boundaries with you, and he continues to punish me for it.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Oh, it makes a great deal of sense, my lady. Can you look me in the eye and tell me he was in favor of my marriage to your maid?”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he flung his plate and the remnants of pie across the room.
“So much for sitting down together and sharing a peaceable meal.” She set down her butter knife. “Now I understand why Molly was afraid to face you, if you fly into this temper at the slightest provocation.”
“The slightest—?”
“You are reacting quite unreasonably.”
“Unreasonably?” He stood with fists clenched, knuckles resting on the edge of the table. “Unreasonably?” He swore in words that would make most women wince, or perhaps even swoon.
“Apologize to me at once, you uncouth boor.”
“Apologize to you, Fancy-Drawers? Never! You and your brother were in this together, encouraging her to run off and leave me at the altar. Do you enjoy playing chess with simple folks’ lives?”
It hurt that he still blamed her, but of course he couldn’t know what she’d gone through to encourage the marriage to Molly, or how she’d helped him. He didn’t know how much she cared for him. And he could never know. “If it is anyone’s fault,” she said, carefully holding her own temper in check, “perhaps we should all take a share of the blame.”
He snatched her plate up, and she watched that spin away too, parting company with her slice of bread.
“And there goes luncheon.” She stood swiftly. “It seems I outstayed my welcome. I won’t dally here longer.”
But before she took a step, he grabbed her sleeve. “You weren’t welcome in the first place, but you pushed your way in, didn’t you?”
“Let go of me at once!”
He hauled her to his side, and she felt his breath disturb the ringlets by her cheek. “You and your wretched brother filled Molly’s head with fanciful ideas. You pushed your opinions on her, just like always, until she couldn’t bear to stay here with me, couldn’t stand to marry a simple, common fellow like me.”
She stamped hard on his foot, and he released her arm. “You are far from a simple fellow, Rafe Hartley. If you did not know what Molly felt, I suspect you did not want to know it. Like all men, you turn a blind eye to the inconvenient facts while remaining steadfast to those that serve your own purpose.” She reached for her bonnet where she’d set it on the window ledge. “It seems Molly was right, and the two of you were drifting along with the tide. At least she had the gumption to halt the proceedings before it was all too late.”
“You’ve got a nerve, woman, coming here and telling me—”
“Yes, I have a backbone and a head on my shoulders, and I’m not afraid of you. You’re all hot air.” Spinning around on her toes, she poked him in the chest with one sharp finger. “You, Rafe Hartley, are a storm in a teacup. I don’t know why all these usually intelligent women like your aunt and your stepmother are so afraid to tell you the truth. Instead, they spoil you, dote upon you, and tiptoe around you.”
“Spoiled? Me? A fine accusation indeed, coming from you, Brat.”
She poked her finger into his chest again. “You have an uncle who adores you and is always there to advise you, a father who cannot do enough for you and is constantly looking to make amends for past neglect—although, I admit, he does not always know the best way to go about it. As for the women in your life, you have all shapes and sizes at your disposal, it seems. But they let you get away with whatever you want. Spoiled”—poke—“Spoiled”—poke—“Spoiled!”
Mercy had not known, until that moment, how deeply she’d felt the lack of family in her own life. She was envious of those who had relatives around them, people who genuinely cared, and not because they were employed to do so.
“You’re an ungrateful, thickheaded…boy. You don’t need a wife. You need a nanny.”
He was staring at her pointing finger where it still contacted his chest. Then he looked up, his jaw squared, mouth tight, knuckles resting on his hips. “Take that back, wench.”
She tipped her chin up. “Never.”
There was a short, thick silence. Even the hens outside were quiet for once. Mercy turned away and took one step toward the door, but he grabbed her around the waist. He was never one to worry about the rules of propriety, of course—the strict code of behavior that should have prevented such physical contact. The brazen man actually lifted her off her feet to prevent her leaving. When he set her back again, she stumbled against the table, righted herself, and glared at him.
“Prepare yourself for some truths, Master Hartley,” she said. “Since no one else dare lay them before you, I suppose it falls to my lot yet again. I’ll say my piece whether you like it or not.” She raised her chin again. “Then punch me on the jaw and see if I care.”
“As if I’d ever strike a woman!”
“I suppose you’re afraid I might hit back.”
His eyes suddenly lost much of their anger. It was as if someone tossed a bucket of water on the flames, reducing the fire to smoldering sparks. “W
hy don’t you take the first swing then, Frosty-Bottom?” He put his hands back on his hips, set his feet apart, and squared his shoulders.
For a moment she was actually tempted to aim a fist at his taut stomach. She was angry enough after all his unjust accusations.
He taunted her with a cold laugh. “Not so brave after all, eh?”
“Courage, Master Hartley, is not the same thing as stupidity. I see you still confuse the two. Why would I be afraid of you? You’re naught but a pair of breeches and a big mouth.”
“Don’t forget the balls. I’ve a pair of them too, my lady. And a good-sized picklock for that fancy box of jewels you keep under your petticoats. Give me half an hour, and I’ll have you undone. But that’s what you’re afraid of, is it not?”
Mercy flung her arm back, gathered a tight fist.
But as she swung forward, he simply reached out one hand, fingers splayed, and pressed it to her startled face, holding her at arm’s length while she punched the air inches from her target. Before she knew what had happened, he’d picked her up by the waist, spun her around, and trapped her against the stair rail. His angry face loomed over her.
“You’re a thickheaded, cloth-eared oaf,” she exclaimed, breathless. “I wouldn’t let you near my jewels if the alternative was a hanging at Tyburn.”
His arms penned her in, his hands gripping the rails on either side of her shoulders. “Take. That. Back. Wench.”
“Never.” She raised her chin for a third time, meeting his gaze without blinking. “I will not take it back. Not a word of it. Because it’s true—you’re a boy.”
“A boy?”
“One should learn to admit one’s faults,” she added smugly, “or else one might never improve.”
Rafe bowed his head very slightly. She felt his moist, warm breath on her lips. His broad shoulders surrounded her, his thighs brushed up against her skirt, and his hands reached a little higher to rest on the oak banister behind her head.
“You’ll be sorry,” he muttered, his voice low, deep, every breath heaving his shoulders.
“For what? Pointing out the blasted facts, you great, stupid brute?”
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 7
