The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (29 page)

As for Mrs. Pyke—her newest project—Mercy had enlisted the aid of Mrs. Kenton, whose figure was similar and who, naturally, was overjoyed to be of some use when asked to donate a gown.

“My friend, Mrs. Pyke, has fallen on hard times,” Mercy told the lady. “In fact, I was hoping you might have a room for her to stay after the ball, while she remains in the county. I’m sure she’ll be no trouble.”

Mrs. Kenton could not comply fast enough, and found a dark blue gown that required only a little adjustment in the bodice. She also offered a chamber in her brother’s house. “Anything we can do to help a friend of yours, Lady Mercy. Think nothing of it.”

She was, in fact, so civil about it that Mercy felt increasingly guilty for thinking ill of Mrs. Kenton in the past. She might have certain oddities of speech, but she was not intentionally malicious. There yet remained the matter of the peacock-feather muff, however. That was harder to overlook.

Mrs. Pyke seemed to enjoy all the fuss being made over her. She was happy to stand for hours while the gown was pinned—as long as she was fed and watered at the same time. She even endured a lesson in applying less face paint, and suffered Mercy tugging at her hair with a brush and arranging it in a more sophisticated style.

The woman had evidently been coached by Rafe to answer none of Mercy’s questions about how she came to be in Morecroft or what their relationship truly was. But Mercy had ways around that. She was confident that if enough marzipan was consumed, enough Madeira wine drunk, she would soon get to the bottom of it.

And thus she did. Having learned of Rafe’s kindness to the Pykes, the commitment he made to his friend, Mercy couldn’t understand why he kept it from her. Fool man. It seemed as if he wanted her to have the worst impression. Did he fear he might one day have to admit he had a sensible, serious side under that blithe, happy-go-lucky exterior?

Her heart warmed to him again, even as she tried to keep her emotions in their locked box.

She’d always known he had a generous spirit. Molly had often complained that he would give the last coin in his pocket to a beggar in the street, that he left himself vulnerable to those who would abuse his easygoing nature.

But it was that very vulnerability that made Mercy fret about him and want to help the man, even when he never appreciated it. Instead, he mocked her, and she kept coming back for more. Annoyed with herself, she stood before the mirror in her room and reminded the woman staring back at her to pull up her garters.

***

On the evening of the assembly room ball, Rafe had been ready to leave for Morecroft, when one of his cows required immediate attention with a difficult calving. By the time he’d seen to the beast, washed, and changed clothes, he knew he was very late. He finally arrived at the Red Lion midway through the dancing and just as cake was served.

He made his way to his father, who was easily found, being a good head taller than most others in the room.

“You took your time, young man. The ladies who bid for a turn about the room with you are not very happy, to put it mildly. I have been forced to stand up in your place five times already, with women I barely know. Hardly a pleasure at my time of life.” He looked Rafe up and down, clearly irritated by the garments he’d thrown on with haste.

Rafe explained about the newborn calf, and then quickly scoured the ballroom for Mercy.

“There you are at last.” Mrs. Kenton was at his elbow, a tall black feather in her hair standing directly upright like a sentinel and twitching just under his nose. “My sister will be exceedingly glad to see you. She won the first set with you and has refused to dance with anyone else until you came.”

Surprised, he looked down at her. “She did?” He had expected Mercy to outbid the other ladies. Disappointment and then crisp anger quickly followed on the footsteps of his surprise.

Mrs. Kenton took his arm and drew him aside in a conspiratorial fashion. “Mr. Hartley, you must excuse me, but I find it necessary, for my sister’s good, to share with you a sad story. I know she would not wish me to tell you of it, but I believe you should be informed.”

He waited. She looked up at him, that tall feather in her hair twitching like the raised tail of an excited hunting hound.

“Isabella is in much the same position as you, Mr. Hartley. She too has been treated abominably and had her heart trampled by a gentleman with whom she thought she had an understanding.”

He waited, putting on his concerned face, not knowing what else might be expected from him. One never knew with women what reaction they required. Frequently he chose the wrong expression, or was accused of not listening. Tonight, he made an effort.

“She is a tenderhearted creature, and it wounds me to see her so depressed,” Mrs. Kenton continued. “But since we came here, her spirits have lightened. I daresay you have much to do with it.”

“Me? But I have barely spoken to your sister.”

The lady laughed, shaking a finger at him. “You have charmed her, you sly thing. Now I do hope you will treat her well and not disappoint as another has done.” She stopped then, seeing Isabella approach, and lowered her voice. “Do not let her heart remain damaged, Mr. Hartley. Of all men here, I believe you can fix it.”

Isabella Milford approached and curtsied, her face shining with hope. He couldn’t very well put her off. As they joined the quadrille just beginning, he apologized for his lateness and explained the reason.

“But do you not have men to help on the farm?” the lady asked.

“Yes. Although I like to do much of the work myself.”

She seemed puzzled by this, her pretty eyes confused.

“There is much satisfaction to be had in it,” he added.

Isabella was looking at his hand, and he realized, belatedly, that in his rush that evening, he’d forgotten his gloves. There was also some dirt visible under his fingernails. His partner graciously tried to pretend it went unseen. “It is most commendable, Mr. Hartley, that you do not rely on your other advantages, but choose to make your own way.”

He thanked her but had no inkling what she meant by his other advantages. Over her head, he’d just spied Mercy Danforthe in rapt conversation with Sir William. There was something different about her, something not immediately obvious. What could that dull fellow be telling her that was so interesting? The man rarely put more than four words together, yet he kept her enthralled tonight.

Miss Milford must have tracked the path of his gaze. “My sister tells me you have known Lady Mercy for many years.”

“Yes,” he replied, terse. “Many.”

Mercy was simply dressed this evening, he realized; none of her usual bright plumage in evidence. The Danforthe Brat almost looked like a normal woman, he mused, when she was not all “done up” and hiding behind her garments. She seemed smaller somehow. More accessible. He watched the little white flowers nodding in her hair as she agreed with something Milford told her.

“And are you acquainted with her fiancé?”

“Never met the man.”

“Oh.”

“I am hardly likely to meet him.” He realized he must have taken a misstep, for his partner was suddenly on his wrong side. In haste to correct his error, he stepped on her gown, and the sound of ripping stitches could be heard even above the music. She assured him it did not matter, when quite plainly it did. He apologized and paid careful attention to the dance after that. Remembering what her sister had told him, he tried to find cheering subjects they might discuss. It was clear that Mrs. Kenton assumed they should have much in common, but he could not find more than a cordial connection to Isabella Milford. She was pleasing to look at, she said all the right things, flattered him constantly, smiled on cue when he tried to be amusing. But something was missing.

As soon as the set was done, he escorted Miss Milford to her brother, so he could interrupt that cozy tête-à-tête.

Mercy’s eyes surveyed him with extra warmth tonight, although he assured himself it must merely be the reflection of all the candles. “I am glad you found the time to join us, Mr. Hartley.”

“Had a calving at home,” he muttered.

“Sir William”—she turned to the stalk swaying at her side—“perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch me a glass of punch and some cake?” He obediently left her side to do just that. Isabella likewise hurried off to mend the tear caused by Rafe’s clumsy boots. The moment he and Mercy were alone, she dropped her gracious manners and took him to severe task.

“Since you arrived late—without gloves and with your waistcoat buttons all in the wrong holes, I might add—it has completely made a mess of the bidding order,” she exclaimed peevishly. Extracting a small folded card from her drawstring reticule, she almost threw it at him. “Here is the card that was made for you after the bachelor auction. As you see, half the dances are now over and done with. Those poor ladies were left to wait in vain. You will apologize to them, or a few may demand refunds.”

Clearly she was in one of
those
moods, he mused. Something made her cross with him again and flustered. He suspected it went deeper than the fact of his lateness and his dress. Rafe calmly took the dance card she’d made and gave it a cursory glance. “My father tells me he stood up in my place.”

“You are fortunate, Hartley, to have such a handsome and obliging father. If he was old and toothless, I daresay no one would have accepted him as a replacement. It was also very good of him to stand in for you, when he told me specifically that he does not like to dance with anyone but his wife. As for your stepmama, you must apologize to her also, for sacrificing the pleasure of her husband’s company for most of the evening.”

It seemed tonight would be one long apology, and he wondered why he bothered coming.

“I had a calving,” he said again. “It was not a circumstance I could avoid. But I will thank my father and his wife, of course.” Studying the card she’d pushed at him, he noted that her name was not among those listed. “You didn’t make a single bid for me?”

“No, I did not. Why would I?”

“I took part in that silly auction only because I thought you would bid for me.”

Her eyes glittered, full of reflected candlelight. “You know I am engaged. It would be improper.”

“But we are friends now.”

“Friends? Like you and Mrs. Pyke of the velvet purse?”

She was fishing to find out more. Good. He liked her curious; he liked to know she was thinking about him. “My relationship with Mrs. Pyke is quite different.”

“You are the very limit, Hartley,” she exclaimed. Rafe couldn’t tell whether she was close to laughter or tears.

Mrs. Kenton passed, chattering away as she danced with a young man whose expression was one of pained politesse.

“There goes your mirror image,” he pointed out.

“That woman is nothing like me.”

“Really? Let’s see.” He counted on his fingers. “She believes firmly that meddling is her duty. She manages her brother’s life to save him the trouble, and fancies herself a matchmaker. The only difference is she doesn’t know she’s annoying. You”—he leaned down to whisper—“do.”

Her expression was quizzical, her lips pouting.

“Underneath it all you both have good intentions,” he added, “just misguided methods sometimes.”

He tried to take her hand, and for just a moment, he succeeded. Must have caught her by surprise. Curled around her slender, white-clad fingers, his own looked enormous, ungainly, the knuckles broad and scarred. Another reminder of their different worlds.

“There is good and bad in everyone, Mercy. No one is perfect. Not even you.”

Her gaze sharpened, emerald sparks cooling. “
Lady
Mercy, to you.” After lending it to him so briefly, she now retrieved her hand.

Rafe sighed. “Lady Mercy. To me.” She seemed determined that this was all she would ever be. The distance remained between them, carefully maintained by her despite his attempts to steer her closer.

“You are so sure I do not fit in your world,” he murmured. “Yet you would be equally out of place in mine.” Not that it mattered to him. He still wanted her there. “If you lived in my world, you might have to enjoy yourself once in a while, let down your hair and stop worrying about what others think.”

She ignored him and looked away, searching the dancers for someone in particular. Someone else to save her from his company. His heart ached when she dismissed him like this.

Rafe shook his head and closed the card in his fist. “What were you talking of with Milford?”

Her left eyebrow curved in a sensuous arch. “He has just informed me that he plans to sell his property. You may soon have a new landlord.”

That was no surprise. Milford evidently took on more than he and his pockets could handle when he purchased that pile of stones on the hill.

“Good riddance to him,” Rafe snapped. “Perhaps we’ll get a squire who takes more interest in the management of the place and doesn’t spend three-quarters of the year away from it.”

“Sir William has a seat in parliament that keeps him in Town so often.”

He glowered at her, not liking the way she was so quick to defend Milford. “Exactly. Why purchase land here if he has no time for it? Men like him collect houses for a hobby. They never view them as homes to be lived in.”

“I daresay he had hoped one day to spend more time here and make it his home. When he retired, perhaps.” She shrugged. “But he has decided to sell up and relinquish the trouble to another.”

“Hmph.”

She looked up at him inquiringly. “And the meaning of that grunt?”

“I reckon Milford has pockets to let. That’s why he’s ready to sell. Mark my words, he’s after your fortune, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s why he’s all over you like spines on a hedgehog.”

“It is indelicate to talk of money,” she reminded him, pert.

“Just the truth. You’re always a strong proponent of the truth.” Except when it didn’t favor her, he thought.

“Well, I believe his sisters’ visit has prompted the decision to sell. Neither lady likes the country much—only the idea of it. Admiring a rustic scene on a willow-pattern plate is perhaps as far as they should have ventured. Sydney Dovedale is a little
too
rural for them. They much prefer the comforts of their brother’s London home, and Mrs. Kenton is extremely fond, she tells me, of the tamer environs of Buckinghamshire.”