Chapter 19

The laughter had come from the larger path Mercy had left behind, and it had definitely been Miss Morgan's. Harrington hadn't laughed in returned, but his low, unmistakable, if unintelligible, voice had elicited giggles consistently enough for Mercy to understand the two of them were undoubtedly enjoying a pleasant rendezvous.

Perhaps Mercy should take up giggling.

Mercy gritted her teeth, because no, she was not the type of woman to change herself just to attract a man, even if the man was a duke, and besides, at the moment she had more pressing matters to think about than an unfaithful suitor. She crouched lower, but the effort only made the tiny, injured bird in front of her scoot farther into the small, spiked bushes.

Blast it all. Where was a fellow of the Zoological Society when Mercy needed one? She should have returned to the giraffe house by now. She'd told Miss Morgan to take all the time she needed with the duke before returning to the group, and from the happy sounds that had echoed throughout the garden moments ago, the two of them might still be a while. But the plan was for Mercy to be back before the two of them returned. She didn't want to worry her parents.

She removed her bonnet from her head. What were a few more freckles? Mama had long since given up on any of her daughters having porcelain-smooth skin. It simply wasn't in their nature. If she could scoop the bird into her bonnet, she could find a member of the Zoological Society who would know where the little beasty belonged.

Mercy lifted a branch of the bush with her free hand so she could creep forward. The bird made a tiny squawking noise and scrambled away. She grunted. Why couldn't the poor thing see that she was trying to help?

Perhaps slow and steady was not the way to win this particular fight. The bird was injured, so it wouldn't be able to fly away, and it hadn't run quickly up to this point. But if it creeped any deeper into the brambles, she would never reach it.

She took one slow, steady breath, then pounced forward, shoving her bonnet deep into the underbrush. Her back foot slipped in the soft, pine needle–covered dirt, and she pitched forward. Her chest landed on the ground, but her bonnet plopped down right over the bird.

She'd done it.

"Lady Mercy?" The duke's voice was low and surprised, with a hint of something else... anger?

Mercy jerked her head around, but she couldn't move her arm or the little guy under her bonnet would escape. "Yes?"

"What the devil are you doing? Are you hurt? Hiding from someone? Is someone distressing you?"

She had been hiding from him but was not currently. And while the sounds of him enjoying himself with Miss Morgan had distressed her while listening to them, she was completely past caring now. Or at least, she was determined to act as if she were. "No, I'm all right."

The duke strode to her and bent low. His hair, which was always tamed, now had several tufts of waves sticking out in unnatural ways, as if someone—Miss Morgan no doubt—had been running her fingers through it. His face was red, lips almost swollen, and most incriminating of all, his cravat had come partially undone. The Duke of Harrington she knew would never be caught without a perfectly tied cravat. Something twisted in her stomach. She'd heard from Miss Morgan about the duke's prowess, and she'd even heard evidence of it only a few moments ago, but something about seeing it firsthand made her feel like she'd been doused with lake water.

He'd been courting her for weeks, and not once had his hair been mussed, nor had his cravat been the tiniest bit askew.

"Come out of there." His voice was low and gravelly, still filled with emotion from whatever he and Miss Morgan had been doing. "We need to rejoin the group."

Mercy shook her head. "I can't."

"You can't?"

"No. I've caught something."

The duke's stormy eyes followed the length of her arm down to her bonnet, then he raised an eyebrow. "What, exactly, have you caught?"

"A wee eejit. " Embarrassment from being sprawled out in such a position in front of the duke, who had so obviously been enjoying some time with Miss Morgan—made her voice come out like Bridget's. Jittery nerves made her Irish, apparently.

The duke tipped his head to one side and offered her a hand. She wanted nothing more than to take it and stand up, but the rustling inside her bonnet made her shake her head. "I only just managed to catch the poor thing. It's injured, and it needs to be returned to its enclosure."

"The wee eejit?" The dangerously low and rough quality of the duke's brogue sounded much more authentic than her own had been, and something about his ruffled appearance, plus the Irish tone in his voice, made her face heat.

Why had she called the bird an eejit? Why couldn't she speak like a calm, collected woman, who simply happened to be lying prostrate on the ground, holding a bird in her bonnet while staring up at a devilish duke who enjoyed ravishing pretty much any woman but her? She swallowed. She could do better. "It is a bird. Its wing has been injured, and I thought it needed help."

The duke heaved a deep sigh and strode through the bushes, ignoring the way they caught on his trouser legs. He scooped up her bonnet, bird and all. He folded the edges of the bonnet together in one hand to keep the bird inside, then offered her the other.

This time, she gratefully took it.

As soon as his hand clasped over hers, he pulled her up brusquely. The force lifted her into the air, and she fell forward into him.

He didn't let go of her hand, nor did he step away. His chest rose and fell twice, hard and impenetrable. Her breathing quickened, but somehow it matched his.

"I—" He cleared his throat, and his hand tightened around hers. "I was worried about you." He let go of her fingers only to splay his hand against the small of her back and press her to him. "Out of my mind, actually. I cannot lose another person I..." He didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "Thank the heavens you are all right."

Mercy had been held by men before. Lots of men. Always while dancing, of course, but still, being held by the Duke of Harrington shouldn't be so different, even if his head was pressed against hers. But it was. There was no music, no movement, just the two of them alone in this corner of the world.

She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and considered imitating Miss Morgan's laugh. What would happen between the two of them if she did? Isn't this exactly what she'd wanted from him? For him to hold her and show her that he didn't just want to court and marry her for what she could do for him politically, but because he cherished her and found her desirable as well?

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No, I simply..." She simply what? Wanted to remain in his arms longer? She lifted her head away from his and searched his eyes for anything more than concern. But she couldn't read him. She didn't know what that look of tenderness was, not for certain. Perhaps he'd dreaded telling her parents she'd been lost, or perhaps he worried about her being left alone and her reputation being ruined, making her of no value to him and his pursuits.

If that was what made his face go soft and his eyes darken into burning coals, he must really want to be respected by the members of Parliament. The way he searched her face for any cause of harm was like a magnet, drawing her closer to him, lifting her chin until she was once again only inches from him. Or was his face dipping down toward hers? She wasn't certain which of them was moving, but the six inches between their mouths reduced to four and then two.

The Duke of Harrington was about to kiss her, and she hadn't even tried to giggle. Her breathing was uneven, and he must have noticed, but if anything, it only seemed to spark a fire in the coal of his eyes. She'd never seen a reaction like this from a man before, but it was exactly what she'd been waiting for. Her eyes slid down his face to his mouth and then made the mistake of dipping lower and catching sight of his cravat, still loose and unraveled from his time with Miss Morgan, and her body went rigid.

The duke froze, the fire in his eyes extinguished immediately, gone, as if it had never been there in the first place. His arm dropped to his side, and he stepped away abruptly. With a hard swallow, he glanced at the path behind them, the mouth that had been so soft and inviting only moments ago was now a deep frown etched into his face like it was made of unyielding granite.

The world went cold.

Mercy tried to paste on a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. Much like the grimace on the duke's face. "I'm sorry I worried you. We should return to the others before Penelope sends all of London's constables to find us."

The duke blinked and stepped back again. He was at least four feet from her now. Was she really that repellant to him? He shook his head slightly and managed to break through the stone of his face enough to bring the edges of his lips upward. Whatever look had been in his eyes when he held her tight against him was gone. What she had mistaken as a fire of interest in her must have been something left over from his time with Miss Morgan.

Hopefully Miss Morgan had managed to resurrect whatever needed rekindling with the Duke of Harrington, because Mercy didn't have the stomach to push them together again. She was done trying to sabotage her own courtship. The duke and Miss Morgan needed to commandeer those duties from now on.

They started back down the path, keeping several feet between them as they walked. The duke kept her bonnet lifted and out to the side, careful to not open it up or let the bird out.

Mercy let out a sigh, trying to convince herself it was a natural one. "Mama is going to have a fit when she sees my bonnet."

"I'm sorry." The duke's voice was soft but still raw and low, as if he hadn't used it for too long. "I fear I have damaged it."

Mercy laughed. "I believe I was the one who damaged it. Don't worry, Your Grace. Her concern won't actually be with the bonnet; she will only worry about the fact that I have acted so badly around you."

"Because you removed your bonnet?"

"She will have to pretend that our family cares about our complexions, when in actuality, we don't. There was no chance we won't get Mama's freckles, and her mother was completely insufferable about it, so she was determined not to pester her daughters about their skin. But she may have to pretend in front of you."

"I find those flecks on your skin fascinating. They keep me up at night."

Mercy stopped breathing. Fascinating? She bit her lower lip. Her entire plan was to have the duke find himself alone with Miss Morgan so that he could be overcome with affection for her, and while it seemed as though that plan had worked, Mercy being found by the duke had been an unforeseen oversight. Now she was the one alone with him and... well, she was not unaffected.

Fascinating. She had never minded her freckles, but she had never been under the delusion that a man would find them fascinating.

Harrington cleared his throat as if the sound would perhaps make her forget the words he'd just said. "And were those Irish phrases part of what your lady's maid has taught you?"

"Oh no." Thank the heavens her voice hadn't come out shaky. "I learned those from Bridget."

"Ah," Harrington said, like he'd just found the last piece of a puzzle. "And who is Bridget?"

"Our new scullery maid."

The duke nodded, and a slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "And are all of your servants Irish?"

"No, Mrs. Brooksby isn't. Plus a few others who have been working for us for ages. Does that bother you?"

"That you have a few English servants?"

She snorted. "No, that we have so many who are Irish."

"Lady Mercy, do you think I speak only of helping the Irish without doing what I can to help them in reality? My household workforce is slowly becoming Irish as well. Perhaps between both of our families we can bring Irish workers into fashion, and they won't have as much trouble finding work."

"You really think the two of us could hold that kind of sway on Society."

"I think so. I'm counting on it, actually. I've been a duke for over four years now, and yet, in the House of Lords, I'm still seen as a child. No one wants to take advice from a child."

"I don't think you should underestimate your own power, even if it is taking time to develop."

The duke's lips formed a line, and he nodded, but it looked as though he'd already moved on from their conversation. The giraffe house was about to come into view. He tried his best to smooth his hair and fix his cravat with one hand.

If she had been the one to disturb them, she might have offered to help him. Instead, she reached for her bonnet and its little prisoner so that he could have use of both his hands.

Before they took six more steps, the Duke of Harrington, with his nearly perfect hair and impeccable clothing, had returned.