“Mercy!”
She recognized Nash’s voice, but did not want to look up, did not want him to see her in her present state.
Mercy rose to her feet and stumbled away, hoping to go to the other side of the circular colonnade, even though she knew it was a fruitless endeavor. But she was not feeling quite logical at the moment.
“Mercy.” She felt his hands at her back, taking hold of her shoulders and turning her around. He took one look at her face and pulled her to him, holding her tightly as she wept. “Hush, sweetheart. I saw the diary. I know what she wrote, but it’s not true. None of it.”
She’d left the journal on her bed—anyone could have read it, and obviously, Nash had, at least some of it. She could have disputed his words—that it wasn’t the contents of Susanna’s journal that mattered—just the sentiments. But she had not the wherewithal to speak, not when her throat burned and her tears flowed so freely. She kept her face buried in his chest and drew on the strength of his arms around her.
“Come inside,” he said. “It’ll be warmer there. And dry.”
She heard the click of a latch, and a section of the exterior wall suddenly swung open, and then they were inside. He closed the door behind him, and with the few small windows in the dome overhead, Mercy got a sense of the interior of the pavilion, a circular room with covered furniture inside. In other circumstances, it would be a lovely summerhouse. But Mercy had little appreciation for such things now.
Nash pulled a dusty Holland cover from a cushioned chaise, and when he came back to her, he kissed her tearstained face, and then gave her mouth a gentle brush with his lips. He led her to the chair and sat down in it, pulling her onto his lap.
He loosened her cloak and drew it over them both, leaning back in the reclining chair as he cocooned them in its warmth.
“You should have left me to my misery,” she said, though she did not mean it. His embrace touched her heart deeply, giving her comfort where there’d been emptiness only a few moments ago.
“Not after I found that diary on your bed. I couldn’t leave you alone.” He rubbed her back, creating a soothing warmth. She blinked away her tears and wiped her cheeks with the handkerchief he handed her. “Feel better now?”
She swallowed. How could she possibly feel better? Her world had shifted beneath her feet in every possible way. She barely knew who she was. The only thing certain was how much she cared for this man who held her close.
All Nash wanted was to hold Mercy in his arms and give her some solace. That diary was brutal. No one should have to read such revolting drivel. She was trembling, but at least her tears had abated.
“You’d never read the diary before?”
“No,” she whispered. “I found it after my mother died, but I . . . I didn’t want to look inside.”
“You didn’t know?”
She didn’t speak for a moment, and Nash just held her trembling body. “Just before she died, my mother . . . told me I was not really her daughter. She didn’t explain.”
“Callous of her.”
“She was very ill . . . barely capable of speech.”
“You are far too generous, sweetheart. She had years to tell you.”
“She had a vow to keep.”
“And a great deal of money, it would seem.”
“Yes. I . . . It must be gone now. We had little enough to live on after my father died, and there was nothing left of that after Susanna . . .”
He gathered her close. “Don’t think of it now.”
She pressed her cheek to his chest and he felt an unfamiliar tenderness invade his heart. The thought of five thousand pounds should have stirred him, but it held far less importance than Mercy’s sorrow. He kissed the top of her head and held her close.
“I know I should not,” she said, looking up at him. “It doesn’t matter who my true parents are. Or who I am.”
He shifted them so that they lay on their sides, facing each other. Her eyes were in shadows, their pale green much darker now, but full of her bright intelligence and utterly appealing. “You know who you are, Mercy, sweet.”
He cupped her face in his hand and leaned in to touch her soft lips with his. He’d meant it to be a comforting gesture, but his pulse began a mad clatter as soon as their lips met, seeking an end to this unending craving he felt for her. He loved the feeling of her full mouth pressed against his, and the scent of her skin. But he withdrew, feeling like an unscrupulous rogue for wanting her so desperately now, when she was so vulnerable.
He struggled to cool his excessive passion, but Mercy softened against him, moving her head to seek contact. Like the novice she was, she gave a tentative touch of her lips against his.
Nash groaned.
All his senses came alive. She beguiled him, fascinated him, made him laugh and made him burn. He wanted her desperately.
He opened his mouth over hers, and her response was incendiary. She made a low sound as she wrapped her arms around his neck, slipping her fingers through his hair, angling her head to give him greater contact, shifting her legs so that his hard erection was pressed against her.
Nash ravished her mouth while his hands wandered to her back and then lower, relishing her warm, curving flesh, pulling her lovely softness against him.
“Mercy . . .”
He moved down, pressing kisses to her jaw, then the base of her throat, moving against her as her low whimpers of arousal ignited him. He pulled at her gown, raising it up her legs and past her hips, until he touched her bare skin.
“I want you.”
He explored her feminine cleft with his fingers and teased her until she moaned and moved against him in a demanding rhythm.
But Nash was not about to accommodate her. He wanted to be inside her when she reached her peak, wanted to feel her hot sheath tighten around him, squeezing every possible ounce of pleasure from his body.
Chapter 24
He circled his hand around to the front of her body and found her feminine center. He slipped his fingers into the soft triangle there, and nearly came apart when he touched the silken flesh, already moist for him.
She pulled at his shirt, fumbling with his buttons, and he lifted up long enough to pull off his jacket and whip off his shirt. “You, too, sweet.”
Soon they were nearly naked, his chest against her breasts. She slid her hand between them to touch his nipples, bringing them to tight, sensitive peaks. She bent slightly and licked one.
Nash groaned, the sensation impossibly erotic, but his heart stopped when she moved her hands down his body and slid one inside the placket of his trews. Still licking his nipple, she circled his cock with her fingers and found him hard and ready. Far too ready.
“Mercy.” It was a plea.
He moved her onto him, and he cupped her breasts as she straddled one of his legs. She brought his nipple to a hard peak with her tongue, then moved her mouth to the center of his chest and pressed a softly sensuous kiss there.
His cock surged when she moved lower.
She met his eyes and gave him a quizzical glance before moving farther down. “Aye, love. Just as I did to you.” He groaned as she stroked him, bringing her mouth closer to his straining shaft.
“Sweetheart. Yes. There.”
She touched her mouth to its tip, and Nash nearly lost control. He fisted his hands in the cushion beneath him and hoped he could last long enough to enjoy her inexperienced ministrations. She flicked her tongue over him, and he gave her encouraging words until she took him fully into her mouth.
Nash let out a growl of pleasure as she swirled over him and around him, performing the incredibly intimate act so innocently and yet so deliciously. He could not imagine a more erotic sight than his sweet Mercy pleasuring him with her mouth.
He relished the wild sensations she created, but when he could take no more, he took her by the shoulders and moved them both, slipping her beneath him.
Nash covered her with his body as he shoved down his trews. He spread open her legs
with his own and entered her slowly, unsure how much she could take, or how fast, for she had been virginal only last night. He worried that it might be too soon for her, but then she reached down and took his erection in her hand, and placed its tip at her entrance.
“Please, Nash,” came her breathless appeal.
She sounded as desperate as he felt.
He entered her in one deep slide and then stilled. Tried to steel himself from going too fast, from reaching his own climax too quickly. He wanted her to find the same pleasure they’d shared before. But doubled.
When he started to move, he went slowly, then built a faster rhythm as he rocked against her, all to heighten her pleasure. He kept his eyes on hers, their connection deep and all-consuming. It touched a part of Nash that he’d kept buried for so long he no longer thought he possessed it.
Her nails raked his back and she bracketed his hips with her legs, cradling him and urging him on, building the pressure, increasing the tension, like water boiling in a closed pot. He was ready to explode. He took her mouth in a fervent kiss, angling his body to increase the pressure against her sensitive cleft. He plunged deeper and deeper with every stroke until he felt like a madman, on fire, and crazed with longing.
She came first, crying out as she clenched around him. Her orgasm came in a liquid rush; her spasms drove him on to completion. He buried himself deeply one last time, and then burst within her, his body pulsing with pure pleasure.
Mercy shuddered with a profound feeling of loss when he withdrew from her. She feared she would never feel whole without him, but understood what he had to do to salvage his estate.
And yet it was so very peaceful lying against him on the chaise, listening to his breathing and watching the rain pelt the windows so high above them.
He kept his arms around her, and pressed tender kisses to her forehead and temple, and then her lips.
They lay quietly, neither one willing—or perhaps able—to speak. All Mercy wanted was to stay in his arms forever, but she knew that what had just transpired should never have occurred. Nor should it have happened the previous night.
“Come to my bed tonight,” he said, lightly brushing his hand over her hip.
“I cannot.” Not when he was on the verge of pledging himself to another woman. If not Miss Carew, then some other dowry-rich lady in the district.
Mercy knew very well that earls did not marry their children’s penniless governesses. She was a fool to allow herself to become so attached.
“Then I’ll come to yours,” he said, his whisper shuddering through her in a sensuous promise.
“Nash, no. Wh-what about . . .” Mercy skirted the real issue. “What if Emmy needs me?”
“That’s why she has a nurse.”
“But Ruthie is hardly older than Emmaline. What can she—”
“I am sure she is competent beyond her years if Lady Metcalf sent her.”
Mercy gave a shake of her head. Her throat burned. She would like nothing better than to spend the night—every night—in his bed. But it was impossible, and they both knew it.
They lay quietly for a moment, neither one capable of broaching that subject.
“Have you thought of going to Lancaster to look for your family?” he asked.
Mercy swallowed. “No. You saw why I was given to the Franklins.”
“Perhaps they were wrong. Or the situation has changed.”
Mercy supposed that was possible. Her funds were limited, but she believed she had enough for her passage to Lancaster. Susanna had mentioned a Mr. Newcomb . . . But the idea of traveling to the city was daunting. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
She could almost feel him sorting through the facts he knew, trying to come up with a viable solution for her. But there was nothing he could do. He could not take her to Lancaster himself. He had no funds, either, and he had responsibilities here.
She pressed her cheek to his chest. “I resent them for calling me Mercy. It was as though they believed I had done something wrong, requiring an extra plea for leniency every time my name was spoken.”
“You were an innocent child, sweet.”
“They believed my mother was not. And that her sin . . . I do not understand the logic.”
Nash held her close for a moment, then tipped up her chin and spoke quietly. “I’m sure your real mother named you something altogether different. Something pretty and feminine. A name as beautiful as you are.”
He kissed her softly and eased her body closer to his.
Mercy appreciated his attempt to comfort her, but they were both aware that she would never find out her true name.
Nash paced the floor of the library while Mercy made her retreat to the schoolroom and resumed Emmaline’s lessons, he presumed, though how she could concentrate on anything at all was a mystery to him. It wasn’t just the explosive interlude they’d shared in the pavilion. He did not see how the mean-spirited words and phrases her mother had written in her diary could fail to weigh on her.
He hated seeing her so distraught.
Nash knew a few good men whose homes and families were in Lancaster. Perhaps he could prevail on them to make inquiries—he knew the name of the man who’d taken her to the Franklins; perhaps they could find him.
But if Mercy’s true mother had not wanted anyone to know about her child, she would not welcome questions.
Nash thought it through. Susanna Franklin wrote that Mercy had not been an infant when Newcomb had brought her to them. She’d been about three years old. That meant someone had kept her until then. Her mother? Grandparents?
For some reason, her family had not been able to keep her, and they’d wanted her origins kept secret.
Nash muttered a curse of frustration. He didn’t care who her mother was. The woman could have been the lowest of harlots, but she’d borne an incredibly intelligent, lively, compassionate—
“My lord?”
It took Nash a moment to realize the old butler had come into the room. “What is it, Grainger?”
“Mr. Carew to see you, my lord.”
“Carew? What does he want?”
“A few moments of your time, he said.”
“Send him in.”
He greeted the man with a handshake, then gestured to a chair before the fireplace. The same chair in which Mercy had sat and answered his questions when she’d first arrived at Ashby Hall.
Nash was going to get her to agree to come to his bed later, after Emmaline and her nurse had retired for the night. After spending the previous night and the better part of that afternoon curled around her adorable body, Nash wanted more.
“Lord Ashby, ’tis good to see you again.”
“Mr. Carew, to what do I owe the pleasure . . . ?”
“I felt like a ride, and decided to pay you a call . . . have a little chat.”
“A chat?” On a day like this, Carew felt like riding?
“You and my daughter seemed to get on well during your visit the other night.”
Right, Nash thought, about as well as a spring lamb being led away by the butcher.
Carew did not seem to notice Nash’s reserve, and he continued, “You are planning to attend the Keswick ball tomorrow night?”
Nash raised a brow.
“Word travels fast in these parts, my lord. Surely you remember that from your youth.”
“Yes, I purchased tickets for all of us—my entire staff—to go.”
“My daughter and I will be present, of course.”
“I look forward to seeing you there.” But he had no interest in sharing a dance with his daughter, not when the memory of Mercy’s touch was so fresh in his mind and on his skin.
Carew leaned forward in his chair. “My lord, I thought it would be advantageous for us to come to an understanding.”
Nash’s brows came together. “Regarding . . . ?”
“Regarding the commitment I am prepared to make, regarding my daughter’s marriage.”
Nash was not n
aïve enough to think a marriage commitment existed solely between a husband and his wife. Unless the wife was a woman like Mercy, with no family, no attachments in the world. “Go on.”
“Helene’s dowry is substantial, my lord. And, without mincing words, you have need of money.”
“So I do,” Nash said, with no intention of making it any easier on the man. And he could speak plainly, too. “Exactly how substantial is Miss Carew’s dowry?”
The direct question seemed to ruffle Carew’s feathers, but he recovered himself quickly. He cleared his throat. “I would rather not discuss specifics, my lord. Not until there is an offer on the table.”
“I know it is crass of me,” Nash said, though not as crass as discussing his daughter’s marriage as though she were a ewe on the auction block. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over his opposite knee. “But there will be no offer without specifics.”
Carew stood and turned, rubbing the back of his neck. Nash was accustomed to dealing in a straightforward manner with his men and fellow officers, neither hedging nor dissembling, but giving direct orders. He knew this was not the time for it, but he wondered how far Carew was willing to go in order to wrest a title for his daughter.
“Very well, then. Helene will have upward of twenty thousand pounds when she weds.”
The sum made Nash’s skin prickle. It was a veritable fortune, at least three times what he’d assumed it would be. But he masked his shock and said naught.
“My lord?”
“The bargain seems rather too one-sided, Carew. What’s in it for you?”
“The happiness and security of my daughter.”
“And the title, of course.”
“Which goes without saying. Becoming a countess would suit my daughter well.”
Nash nodded thoughtfully. “Is your daughter not happy and secure now? You are well able to provide for her, is that not correct?”
Something seemed off, but Nash had not been approached very often by wealthy fathers wanting to give him their daughters. Perhaps he was too inexperienced in the ways of fashionable Englishmen to understand the transaction, but he had always recognized that bargains should be two-sided. Each party had to reap some reward. He wondered what Carew’s was. The countess title she would gain if Nash married her?
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