Chapter 11

The Duke of Harrington sent flowers to Mercy the next morning, but this time, instead of an enormous bouquet, he sent only three delicate white roses with a note. Kate brought them to the breakfast table. After Papa read the duke's note, he smiled and handed it to her. Her eyes were still blurry from the late night of dancing, but the Duke of Harrington's script was clear and easy to read: I may have overdone the flowers last time. My instinct tells me Lady Mercy will enjoy this simple bouquet more than the first. Or, at the very least, that she would appreciate both.

His first bouquet had been stunning. She hadn't minded the mountain of flowers at all, and she adored the wildflowers in it. However, the three white roses were perfection, as if he had stood in the florist shop and handled each and every rose until he found only the most perfect ones.

She scoffed at the thought of a duke agonizing over his choice in a flower shop and handed the note to Mama. She'd been hovering closer and closer to her, in obvious hopes of getting a glimpse of His Grace's words. Mama snatched the note and read it like she'd never had any correspondence before.

Mercy ignored Mama's reaction to the note, instead inspecting the long stems and tightly coiled buds of the roses. The duke wouldn't have visited a florist, especially so early in the morning after a late night. More than likely, the florist always made certain a duke's roses were perfect. Still, for a duke, one would think the florist would send the largest and most impressive flowers. These were not only modest in size, but their blooms were still curled tightly together—rosebuds, waiting to bloom.

Was the Duke of Harrington being romantic?

For the first time since she had come out two Seasons ago, Mercy had no callers after the ball. And the duke's flowers were the only ones to arrive. It was as if the world had noticed His Grace's attentions, and now everyone, including some of her closest male friends, were waiting to see exactly what would happen.

Three days of quiet later, she woke to three roses blooming on her bedside table. The sight of them made her pull her coverlet up to her chest and sigh. They were just as beautiful as she had imagined they would be. When she joined Mama and Papa at breakfast, a note arrived from the duke.

He would be calling this afternoon.

First on her father and then her.

Mercy didn't get to examine his neat handwriting, as Papa had simply read it aloud. Mama made a sound not unlike a squealing pig, and Mercy snorted. "I'm sure it is nothing, Mama."

Papa tapped his fingers on the table, something he did when deep in thought. "It could be a proposal."

"Certainly not." The words were out of Mercy's mouth before Mama's second squeal ended. Since when did Mama squeal? "We have had almost no chance to speak or get to know each other. Why, it has been barely over two weeks since we were introduced."

"Sometimes that is how these things work," Mama said.

Any pleasant thoughts she had had about the Duke of Harrington when she saw those blossoming roses flew out the window. "Not with me, they don't."

"But perhaps with the Duke of Harrington they do." Papa met her gaze. "I believe his father's courtship of his mother was, indeed, short. And if I know anything about the duke, he respects and tries to live up to who his father was."

Mercy groaned. Papa wouldn't understand. He wasn't the kind of man who needed excitement in his life. Mercy turned her attention to Mama. "The man dances perfectly, not a step out of place, not a single movement missed."

Papa's forehead furrowed. "I should think that would recommend him."

"No." Mercy threw her hands above her head. "He makes no mistakes, but he has no soul for it. How can I marry a man who treats dancing like a formula to be memorized and mastered?"

"That would make him a better dancer than me."

"No, Papa, it doesn't, for at least you can enjoy dancing. There is no room for enjoyment in perfection." Papa didn't seem convinced. Rosalind would understand, but she wasn't here. Mercy tried to think of something, anything else, to say. Neither of her parents seemed appalled by the idea that a man she hardly knew might be coming to ask for her hand in marriage. And while his roses were beautiful, that did not make up for the fact that he knew nothing about her. "I cannot marry a man I have only spoken to a few times, no matter what his father did. Do you know if that marriage was even a happy one?"

Papa paused at that. "I do not."

Mercy raised her chin. "I won't settle for a marriage I'm not certain will be happy. And I definitely won't settle for a man who proposes without being in love with me."

"Oh, Mercy." Mama shook her head like she was speaking to a child. "You can never be certain you will be happy with someone. And you will never know them fully until you are married. Perhaps not even then."

"But you and Papa were different. You loved each other deeply when you married."

"That is true," Mama said. "But—"

"And Rosalind was practically mad over Richard."

Mama took a deep breath. "I did love your father, but that didn't mean I wasn't scared about what I was getting myself into. I knew happiness wasn't guaranteed simply because we loved each other."

"Why did you marry him, then?"

"Young lady..." Papa's eyes were furrowed, but his disapproval was playful.

Mama rose, stepped behind Papa's chair, and placed both of her hands on his shoulders, then kissed him on the top of his head. "That is easy to answer. As scared as I was, I couldn't imagine living my life without him."

Papa reached up and squeezed her hand. Normally, Mercy would be moved by such displays, but not this morning. Not when the life she had made for herself, as well as the future she had planned, were being threatened by a small scrap of thickly embossed paper. "Well, I can most certainly imagine my life without the duke. He only entered it a moment ago."

Papa handed her the note. Just as before, the handwriting was careful, straight, and without flourish. Even the way he wrote was proper and uninspiring. How could her parents be so blinded by the man's title that they didn't see how unsuitable he was for her? She needed more than straight lines and perfect flowers that blossomed exactly on schedule.

Papa cleared his throat. "So, if he asks for your hand, would you like me to say no?"

Mama sucked in a breath and looked as though she might faint, but a wave of relief washed over Mercy. Papa was Papa again. She reached across the table and grasped his hand. "I hardly care what you say to him. If I don't want to marry him, I will tell him myself. But thank you, Papa, for being willing."

Papa tipped his head to one side and squeezed her hand in return. "Of course. Your mother and I would like to see you settled down. But more importantly, we want you to be happy. We are excited about His Grace's interest in you. I know him to be a good man, he is proper to a fault and would never dream of doing you harm, and as much as your mother and I have talked about love and happiness in our marriage, goodness is at the root of all of those things."

She couldn't deny that. She had never heard a bad word said about the duke. And every interaction with him thus far had been decent and good. But even though she knew Papa was correct, goodness wasn't the easiest thing to get excited about. A man who didn't leave a blot or a smudge on his letters certainly was not the kind to seek a stolen moment during a party and pull her out of sight and kiss her. "I suppose we will simply have to find out what he has to say this afternoon."

The air in the house felt different all morning. If she didn't know better, she would say it was humming. Mama was in and out of Mercy's room while Kate pinned her hair and helped her dress. At first Mama had insisted Mercy wear the only short-sleeved, low-bodice afternoon dress she had, but then she changed her mind, and Mercy had to start the dressing process all over again.

Kate fastened the last button high on Mercy's neck, and Mama gave them both a nod. The deep-blue dress only had a bit of lace at each sleeve and covered nearly every inch of Mercy, but the cut and quality of the dress were masterful, with pieced diagonal fabric on both sides of her waist, creating a figure where she barely had one.

"You always look stunning in this dress." Mama nodded and put her fingers to her lips. "I'm only debating what necklace will look good over the high neck."

"None, Mama. It isn't as though we are going to a ball or the theater. Who wears large pieces of jewelry at home?"

"Typically, no one. But the Duke of Harrington isn't a typical visitor."

Mama unlocked the jewelry case she had brought. The three of them peered inside. The emeralds were obviously not correct. And while the pearls might work, she had already worn them. Truly, any necklace would look out of place. Kate tentatively pointed to a pair of earrings at the back of the box. The earrings were a perfect compromise of excess and class. Mercy had always loved wearing them. Grandfather had brought the stones home from a voyage to Russia. They were a unique stone of glossy yellow, found only in the Ural Mountains. The large stones were polished but still had some of their natural curves and edges, and when worn, they hung from her ears like two rough-shaped stars.

Mama nodded at Kate, and after the earrings were put into place, Mama finally left the room to finish her own preparations for the evening.

Kate laid rejected ribbons and trimmings neatly back into Mercy's dresser. Every few seconds, she would look up at Mercy as if she wanted to say something, but then she would wince and go back to her work.

"Do you need something, Kate?" Mercy asked.

"I hate to ask." Kate's voice was soft and careful, as if she were trying to cover her Irish accent. "I spoke to Mrs. Brooksby, but she said I should speak to Lady Driarwood, but I thought perhaps speaking to you first would be the best idea."

"Speaking to me about what?"

Kate dropped the last of the ribbons into the drawer and turned to Mercy completely. "I've a cousin—her ma and pa just died. The family is planning to send her to Canada in hopes that she can find work there."

Mercy stilled. To hear Kate, whom she saw every day speak of death so stoically, made her heart sputter. "Does she want to go to Canada?"

"What she wants is work. But, ma'am, she'd be going on a coffin ship. They're affordable, but not safe." Kate shuddered. "Bridget is good and strong. I know she is a hard worker. I thought perhaps your family could use another scullery maid."

Mercy's shoulders lifted. This, at least, was something she could do. The coffin ships were built to bring lumber from the New World and were never meant to be passenger ships, especially not to passengers who couldn't afford to bring enough food for the long ocean voyage. The thought of any family member of Kate's making such a journey made Mercy's stomach queasy. Mama would feel the same. "Of course we could use a scullery maid. I'll speak to Mama about it tonight."

Kate put her hands to her chest. "Truly?"

"Truly."

"You'll be employing half of Ireland if word gets out you are taking more servants than you need."

"Kate, I just told you we do need a scullery maid. And if your cousin is anything like you, well, then, we can't afford to pass her up."

After Kate left, Mercy lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Everything seemed out of her control. Ireland, Mama and Papa, and now she had a duke to worry about. She wanted nothing more than to write to Rosalind. No, she wanted nothing more than for her sister to come and visit. She loved her brother-in-law, Richard, but he did have one extreme flaw: he lived in Northampton. And he couldn't live without Rosalind. Though not being able to live without Rosalind wasn't a flaw; their devotion to each other was a beacon of hope. Proof that somewhere out there Mercy had a Richard waiting for her.

She had never once thought that perhaps her Richard would be a duke. His visit had all of the whirlwind and excitement of Rosalind and Richard's romance, but none of the actual romance. If Mercy were going to fall madly in love with the man, shouldn't she feel a bit more... well, shouldn't she just feel a bit more of... anything ?

Mercy sighed, pushed herself up with both hands, and went to her writing desk to start a letter. But before she could even begin to explain her situation to Rosalind, a knock sounded at the front door downstairs. Her pen wavered. She bit her lip and forced herself to continue. The duke wanted to speak with Papa first. Not her.

How long would their meeting take? And what in heaven's name would they be talking about? Papa would probably ask him to sit, and he would choose the large, leather chair across from Papa's desk. How many times had Mercy sat at that same chair and listened to Papa speak of his plans for the day or the month or the year? Now he would be discussing plans with one of the most powerful men of England, and those plans might include her.

No, not might. They did. The Duke of Harrington had plans for her. For them.

A blot of ink dropped onto her forgotten letter. She rubbed her forehead, then slowly and carefully put away her writing utensils. She couldn't write with the duke in her house. Her room was suddenly stuffy. She needed to escape, but she had no reason to rush downstairs.

But she also didn't have a pressing need to remain in her room. This was her home, after all. She could go where she wanted. Mercy tucked her unfinished letter into her desk and quietly padded across the room. The doorknob was cold in her hand, which made her pause. So many things could happen before she returned to this room. The conversation happening downstairs could change the course of her life forever. When she finally stopped studying the wood grain in front of her and yanked the door open, the knob had warmed to her body temperature.

Papa's study was at the bottom of the stairs on the left, but as soon as her foot touched the landing, she turned right. It wasn't ladylike to listen at doors. She would simply sit and wait in the drawing room.

She opened the door, but her thoughts and feet skidded to a halt just as she was about to step in. Hadn't she first met the Duke of Harrington outside of a door? He'd been listening to the conversation happening in the cardroom before she'd arrived. If the mighty Duke of Harrington could listen at doors, then why couldn't she?

She placed her hand against the door casing and eyed the thick, dark wood door to Papa's study. She shouldn't eavesdrop. She wouldn't. With a door like that, even if she wanted to listen in, she would be lucky to catch anything more than a murmur. But since that was the case, it wouldn't hurt to simply stand nearby. If she happened to overhear a word or two, well, then, it would be an accident.

Besides, the drawing room wasn't much better than her room. Either way, she would be stuck waiting. She stepped toward the study, but just as she did, the door cracked open. Mercy jumped backward and dashed inside the drawing room. She shook her head and took a deep breath as her heart pounded in her ears. Calm... she must be calm. This was her home. She could be wherever she wanted to be. She scurried over to the small chess table that sat on one side of the fireplace and stood behind one of the chairs. A moment later, the door opened, and Mrs. Brooksby led in the Duke of Harrington.

Mrs. Brooksby made a small noise at the sight of Mercy. The duke furrowed his brows in confusion.

Mercy raised her eyebrows in what was certain to be a terrible impression of surprise. "Oh, hello," she said in a voice that was anything but convincing. "I was... here... um... in-inspecting the table." She made an equally bad impression of someone running a finger on top of a table to search for dust. Never, in all of Mercy's lifetime had she critiqued the staff's work. Still, the Duke of Harrington didn't know that.

Mrs. Brooksby did, but she had already packed away her surprise, and Mercy's strange behavior went blessedly ignored. "Shall I have His Grace wait in the small parlor?"

"No, no." Mercy made a show of rubbing her finger and thumb together as if she might feel dust between them, then she strode straight toward the door. "I will go fetch Mama and return in a moment."

The only problem with leaving the room was that the Duke of Harrington still stood just outside the doorway. She would have to pass within a few inches of him. Mercy kept her head down and marched forward, but when she stepped through the doorway, her eyes shot up to his for the briefest of moments. His eyes roamed her face, asking questions she didn't have the answers to; she didn't even know what the questions were. She paused her death march and gave him a quick bob, which he answered with a slow bow of his head. He was so proper, so commanding and rigid but—also—so blasted good-looking. Michelangelo should carve this man and call the resulting piece Untouchable .

He looked away first and followed Mrs. Brooksby's outstretched arm into the drawing room. Mrs. Brooksby shut the door behind him and raised an eyebrow at Mercy. What? Mercy wasn't allowed to inspect the table in the drawing room? Simply because she had never done so before? Mercy grimaced. It was strange. But then again, none of them were used to a duke coming to visit. Mrs. Brooksby couldn't possibly feel as calm and collected as she seemed. Mercy threw a smile and a shrug at Mrs. Brooksby before dashing up the stairs to find Mama.

Mercy muttered to herself as she walked down the corridor to Mama's room. What had she been thinking? Why hadn't she simply stayed in her room? And why the drawing room? Of all the places she could have gone, that was the worst. The look on His Grace's face was unreadable. It wasn't as though she had garnered any more information by snooping around downstairs. She knocked halfheartedly on Mama's door, then opened it without waiting for an answer. Mama stood in front of the mirror, and Papa sat on the bed. He jumped up when she walked in the room.

"Where were you?" Papa asked.

"I was downstairs."

"The duke is here." Papa's hands were clenched together, his eyes wide.

"I know." She didn't mention that she had seen him. "What does he want?"

Papa leaned forward, his mouth almost a smile, but a cautious one, as if he wasn't certain what Mercy would think of his answer. "He asked to court you." Caution lost its battle to excitement, and Papa grinned. "The Duke of Harrington has come here to court you."

Courtship.

Of course he was here to ask about courting. Why hadn't she thought of that? Her mind had jumped immediately to marriage, but of course he would court her first. It would be preposterous to ask for her hand in marriage so soon. But his determination in their few meetings had her skipping logical steps. Still... being courted by a duke would change everything. Would her regular dance partners dare to ask her to dance? Would other high-ranking men she had no interest in, whom she had managed to avoid thus far, seek her out? That was what had happened to Penelope when Lord Bryant had started showing marked attention in her. "What did you say to him?"

Papa schooled his features, his smile lines receding back into his face. "I said I would ask you."

Mercy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Mama and Papa hadn't planned her whole life without her, then. They were still the kind of parents who had allowed Rosalind to marry the man she had found most desirable, and they would do the same for her. Despite feeling as though her life was spiraling out of control since her conversation with the Duke of Harrington outside the cardroom, she would still have a choice in the matter.

She opened her eyes to find Mama standing directly in front of her, her hands fidgeting with the large opal ring on her finger. "You said you wanted to get to know His Grace better. Courtship is the perfect opportunity to do so."

Mercy was slow to answer. "I suppose that's true."

"Of course it is true," Papa answered. "And he was extremely respectful when I spoke to him. If it were only his title recommending him, we might not be quite so hopeful. But it isn't only his title. He is an upstanding young man, and I'm certain I haven't met his equal."

He was upstanding. That was the problem with being courted by such a perfect suitor. She could find no fault in him, and neither could her parents. But she hadn't ever imagined marrying someone simply because there wasn't a better candidate. He was untouchable, and it just so happened that Mercy very much wanted to feel free to touch the man she would marry.

"I hate to leave His Grace waiting downstairs. I'm certain he would like to hear your answer sooner rather than later." Papa stepped toward the door. "Do you have an answer for him?"

Mercy swallowed. It was just courtship. She had been pursued by several men in the past; none of those experiences had amounted to anything serious. She had always been a distracted companion. Never willing to give only one man the attention he craved. But courtship with a duke would be different—other men would step aside. For the first time since her coming-out, she could be facing a decided lack of dance partners.

But her parents' eyes said everything. They'd given her a choice, but they weren't impartial in the matter. The duke was an opportunity not to take lightly. Why couldn't Rosalind be here? Perhaps the duke could be exciting, and perhaps she could fall in love with him. Stranger things had happened. He was extremely good-looking, better looking even than Richard. But his eyes didn't spark like Richard's. Harrington's eyes were shuttered, as if he didn't actually want Mercy to come to know him. Still, her parents were right about courtship. Mercy wouldn't be able to get to know the man behind those shuttered eyes unless the two of them spent more time together.

Mercy allowed herself one long steady breath, and then she met Papa's eyes. "My answer will be yes."

The relief on her parents' faces almost made up for the unrest in her stomach.

Mercy followed her parents downstairs and into the drawing room. The Duke of Harrington was standing in front of the fireplace, and he turned as they entered. His eyes went to her parents for the briefest moment, and then to her. For the first time since she met him, he seemed unsure. He stepped forward, then stopped, put his hands behind his back, and stilled. The room felt heavy, as if everyone was waiting on word from her. She waited as well. Waited for him to turn to look back at Papa for his approval, but he didn't. Harrington looked only at her. And he looked... worried.

He was the most eligible man in London, but he wasn't certain of her answer. And that uncertainty seemed to be burning him from the inside. "Did your father explain why I came?" His voice was quiet and hesitant. Not assuming and bold. He could have been assuming—most people in his position would be.

Mercy nodded. "Yes."

The Duke of Harrington tipped his head to one side and looked as though he would like to step forward again but didn't. "Yes, he told you? Or yes..." He paused as if hesitant how to finish the sentence.

She smiled. This was a side of the duke she hadn't seen before. He might not quite be touchable, but with that look on his face, he was, at the very least, approachable. It was a start. "Yes, to both."

The Duke of Harrington's shoulders relaxed, and a slow, boyish grin arose on his face. "Thank you."

The Duke of Harrington with a grin was very different from the Duke of Harrington without one. Whatever heaviness was in the room lifted. He was blazing with that grin, actually. How had she even thought to compare his looks to Richard's? It was unfair on an epic scale. She blinked slowly and wished for a chair to lean against. What exactly had she gotten herself into?

Mama stepped toward Harrington and motioned to the chess table Mercy had been pretending to inspect earlier. "Would you like to stay and play cards or chess with Mercy? Lord Driarwood and I have some reading to do, but we could keep you company."

His grin was still there, distracting her. Making her feel like all he had to do was smile at her and she would be the one pulling him around corners. He nodded. "I should like that very much."

The duke pulled out one of the chairs for Mercy, and she sat, his arm just missing her shoulder. He waited for Mama to take a seat in one of the club chairs near the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, and then he came around to the other side of the table and sat across from Mercy.

It was silent for a moment, and Papa coughed. An obvious hint to Mercy to start some kind of conversation. But Mercy was still processing the strange sensations fluttering through her. One little smile shouldn't change everything. She needed to keep her wits about her. And she needed to think of something to say, or this courtship would be over before it even started. "Thank goodness I inspected this table earlier..." She pursed her lips together. That was not at all the right way to start a conversation. The duke simply tipped his head to one side in curiosity. She shook her head and tried again. "What type of cards do you prefer?" she finally asked. "Piquet?" The dark and light inlaid squares on the table inspired her. "Or we could play chess."

Brilliant speech. They would be married in no time at all. He wouldn't be able to keep his hands off such a conversationalist.

But the duke didn't seem to mind her uninspired suggestions. "Something tells me you would beat me at both."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Unless you are quite inept, you're wrong."

"You aren't skilled at games?"

"I play, but in general, I would rather be moving about. My sister was always so much better at cards and chess than I was. I gave up on them quite early."

Harrington leaned forward, as if he had a secret. "Because you like to win?"

"Because I hate to lose."

He laughed, and his laugh was not helping Mercy remember why she wasn't at all certain about this courtship. His laugh made his grin look amateur. "Well, we have that in common. Although, I'm not certain I've ever met a person who liked to lose."

Mercy leaned forward. "So, our commonalities can be categorized by things that are extremely ordinary. Do you prefer a cold room or a comfortable one?"

"A comfortable one."

"And would you rather your inkpot be full or empty?"

"Full."

"No wonder you asked to court me." Mercy flicked an imaginary piece of lint of her hand. "We are practically the same person."

"If that were the case, we would be a very dull pair indeed. Asking to court you had nothing to do with the fact that we both hate to lose at cards or chess."

"It didn't?"

"No. You have other qualities that drew me to you."

First his grin, then his laugh, and now... was he flirting? Mercy tipped her head to the side. "What other qualities?"

The duke's eyes traced her face, then slid down her neck and landed on the spot where Mama's emeralds had sat during their first meeting. Had Mama been right? Was it the jewelry that had caught the duke's eye?

He blinked and jerked his gaze back to hers. Any trace of his earlier smile was gone. He'd schooled his face into bland propriety. "I think you and I can both agree that our stations in life are quite compatible. Your family is well respected, and your father has similar political leanings. I've worked tirelessly to try to bring aid to Ireland, and I simply don't have the kind of sway my father had. I think having a..." He paused as if not certain what he was about to say was appropriate. "An ally such as yourself would help improve my reputation in the House of Lords."

Whatever mirth Mercy had felt at the duke's grin left her. He wanted her to help him politically? Is that why he'd been looking for a wife? Not that he could even bring himself to say the word. Did he think he would be obligated to marry her if he spoke of marriage in such clear terms? For heaven's sake, did he even like her at all?

If the duke noticed her distress, he didn't show it. Instead, he looked down at the chess table. "Perhaps we can both get better at chess." His Grace raised his eyes, his thick lashes making him appear younger than he was. "Together."

"Today?" Mercy asked, still struggling to come to grips with the fact that the only reason he was here was because of her family's position in Society.

"Not only today. I imagine I will be here often now. We can work on improving regularly."

Weeks of playing chess and drinking tea with the duke flashed before her eyes. Definitely not the most romantic of courtships. She grimaced. "I suppose we can do that. But I think you are going to trounce me in chess."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because you don't strike me as the type of person to give up easily. I, on the other hand, tend to give up as soon as trouble arises."

"How do you ever win like that?"

"As I told you, it isn't that I like to win; I simply I hate to lose. And I cannot lose if I stop playing the game." She shrugged and pulled out the box of chess pieces stored under the table. She opened it and motioned for the duke to start setting up his side of the table. "Thus, the giving up easily."

The duke eyed her carefully. "I do like to set a course and stay steady on it. And now that I know you don't like trouble, I will try to not to give you any." He spoke of chess, but certainly not only about chess. He'd set out on a course when he'd met with Father earlier, and now he was going to use her words to make even more certain their courtship was as uneventful as possible. This courtship was a mistake. She'd been blinded by the duke's good looks and her parents' words of encouragement, but there was no possible way she was going to fall in love with the man in front of her while they spent several weeks playing chess.

But it was too late now. Mercy started laying out her pawns. She would play chess with him, and then hopefully he would leave.

"Did you know that the first time I saw you was not at the Stafford ball?" The duke's voice was low.

Mercy had a hand on her queen and was about to set it into position. She paused. "What?"

"I saw you once before. Outside of Donald Young's funeral."

Mercy's heart went as still as her hand. She'd only ever talked about Donald with Rosalind. "You knew Donald?" How would Donald have known the duke? Her family was by far the best connection the Young family had, at least as far as she knew.

"I did." His eyes softened. "He was a very dear friend. How well did you know him?"

"I..." Oh dear. This was one of the most embarrassing chapters of her life. She'd never met Donald, but she had set him up as the most likely of men to run off with her. "I didn't. His brother, Richard, is married to my sister."

The duke nodded as if he had known. "You were... inconsolable. But I don't remember Donald mentioning you."

She had been heartbroken. At fourteen, she had known that when she and Donald met, the two of them would have a whirlwind romance just as her sister had had. It was the ridiculous fancy of a young mind. She would have seemed like a child to Donald, if he had made it home. Still, Donald, despite being more fantasy than reality, had been an important part of her childhood, and she wouldn't hide it. "I was fairly certain I was going to marry him."

The duke made a choking sound in his throat and knocked the rook he had been laying out on its side. "I thought you hadn't ever met him."

"Oh, I hadn't. But he was a soldier—sure to be handsome like his brother—and I just knew when we did meet, it would be fire and torchwood for the two of us."

The Duke of Harrington muttered something that sounded a lot like lucky devil.

"What was that?" Mercy asked, wide-eyed, as if she hadn't heard.

"Donald was one lucky devil, and he didn't even know it."

"Yes, very lucky. All until that bullet—" Mercy stopped. The duke's face had gone pale. Donald had been a fantasy for her, but he had been very real to the man sitting in front of her and to Richard. "Your Grace, I'm sorry."

The duke shook head as if to say it was nothing, but she knew better. "I'm all right. And I'm sorry for your loss. Donald would've been a much better man for you."

Mercy scoffed. "I'm not quite as delusional as I was at fourteen. He would have seen me as a child."

"I didn't. It was as if I saw a bit of your soul that day."

"You saw my soul?" Mercy had been a mess, a deluded young woman who had built up fantasies around a man whom she had never laid eyes on. "I'm afraid my soul was very naive."

"It was beautiful. And I'm glad Donald had someone to cry for him like that. Even if the two of you never met." The duke set up his last chess piece, and without thinking, Mercy placed her hand over his.

There was more to his interest in her than simply that one strange meeting in the corridor. He'd seen her once years ago and still remembered her. It wasn't the same as being whisked away for stolen kisses, but it was something more than political aspirations, at least. Harrington went still. All the connection of the past few minutes dissolved in an instant. His eyes went to hers, then to her parents at the other side of the room, and he slowly withdrew his hand.

Any warmth Mercy had felt was gone. Didn't he want her to touch him?

The duke cleared his throat and motioned for her to make the first move. As if she could concentrate on chess after what had just happened. How could the man want to court her but not be willing to let her touch him? She blinked a few times and picked up a random pawn, moving it forward two spaces.

The Duke of Harrington made a similar move.

Then he leaned forward, his hands folded into his lap. "I want you to know I take this courtship very seriously."

She almost laughed, but he might not take that laughter well. However, there was absolutely nothing surprising about the duke taking anything seriously. "I know."

His words were low and steady. "I will always treat you with respect."

Mercy did chuckle at that one. She couldn't imagine the stiff duke treating her with anything but respect. "I would be shocked if you didn't."

And in that moment, she knew what her future would look like if she didn't do something to change it. The Duke of Harrington would spend the next month or two playing chess with her and dancing sterile but faultless polkas and waltzes with her at balls. They would have conversations that were interesting enough for him to think the courtship was going swimmingly, and then when whatever time he determined was the proper amount to spend courting was accomplished, he would propose. Just as he had told her, he set a course and stuck with it. Everything would be orderly and controlled, and she would have no idea if she had left another life, a better life, with a man she hadn't met yet—but who would bring her excitement instead of comfort and control—behind her, unlived.

The Duke of Harrington was dashing and ranked above anyone but royalty. He was hers for the taking—he had made that abundantly clear. His mind had connected the dots from introduction to courtship to marriage in one straight, unwavering line. He didn't expect anything to change that course.

And it was the least romantic thing she had ever heard.

Where was his passion? Where was his zest for life... for her? Why didn't he want to touch her?

As much as she admired the duke, she couldn't live the rest of her life in such controlled circumstances. She didn't need a courtship period to understand that. She shouldn't have listened to Mama and Papa. They were too enamored of his title to allow her to snub him or even not smile at him enough. It would break their hearts if she simply told him she was breaking off the courtship.

But she needed out of the courtship somehow. Social connections aside, Mercy was not the right woman for the duke.

He took one of her bishops. She should have seen that coming, even as bad as she was at chess. He smiled at her as he tucked away her piece, and she was struck again by how young and handsome he was when he wasn't so focused on being proper. Almost any other woman would be in love with him for his eyelashes alone. Why did the man have to choose her?

The Duke of Harrington should have found a more expedient woman for his plans.

Mercy's hand was midair reaching for her rook when the idea came to her.

It was a terrible idea.

But a terrible idea with the best of intentions. She quickly reached for the rook and slid it forward three spaces, completely unaware of whether the motion was strategic or not. Based on the way the duke raised his eyebrow, it was not.

But she didn't care. Mercy was already several steps ahead of him, just not on the chessboard.

There were plenty of women who would be a perfect match for the duke. Dozens with equal or better social standing than Mercy. The duke had made it painfully obvious he didn't entertain any deep feelings toward Mercy. She had simply been the best fit for his purposes on the night he'd decided marriage could help his political causes. It would be an easy matter to have him find another woman he liked better than her.

Mercy would merely have to arrange it.

She started paying attention to her pieces after that. The excitement of having a plan to remove herself from this courtship adding fire to her movements. She and the Duke of Harrington were going to play a game, but not a game of chess. The most dangerous game of all: a game of courtship. And if she played it correctly, she might not win, but hopefully, neither of them would lose.