Chapter 23

Nicholas tapped his fingers idly on the chess table where he and Lady Mercy had played the past several weeks. Their pieces were still in place, waiting for the two of them to be in the room together so they could finish their game. He was early for the ball, and with all the preparations the family was certain to be busy with, today would not be the day they finished. He should have made an appointment. He was bullocks at courting. He simply wanted to be engaged and have the whole thing settled. He'd nearly kissed Lady Mercy in the Zoological Garden, and the feel of her in his arms had haunted him ever since.

The sooner he was engaged, the better. Lady Mercy would walk through the door with her parents. He would ask to speak to Lord Driarwood, and after he was given permission, he would return here, give Lady Mercy the present he'd brought her and ask her to be his wife.

Wife.

His fingers drummed faster, then stopped.

Wife. He closed his eyes. When Ottersby had suggested the idea of marriage, Nicholas had been quite certain his brother-in-law was delusional. Now no other course in life made any sense to him. Nothing in the past few years had made him more excited than sitting with Mother sorting through all of the family jewelry until he'd found the perfect piece to bring Lady Mercy today.

Mother had raised an eyebrow at his choice but hadn't said anything. She trusted him to know what would best suit Lady Mercy, and Nicholas had no doubt he'd chosen well.

The door crept open slowly, and he jumped to his feet in order to greet Lord and Lady Driarwood. But only Lady Mercy set foot in the room. Her eyes were wary and downcast, her hands together at her waist, with her fingers playing each other like a harp.

He looked behind her, but she was alone.

"Your parents?" he asked.

She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes nearly shut. "They are seeing to some last-minute preparations for tonight's ball and asked me to come speak with you."

"Alone."

She shrugged. "It would seem so."

Lord and Lady Driarwood had sent Lady Mercy to speak with him? Alone? Did Lord Driarwood think he would propose without speaking to him first? Lady Mercy still hadn't completely entered the room. One foot was on the carpeting of the drawing room while the other still stood in the entrance hall.

"I was hoping to speak with your father tonight."

"Tonight?" Lady Mercy's voice had a high-pitched quality he wasn't used to. She must be uncomfortable with the two of them being alone. He had no answer to that. He could reach behind her and shut the door, but that would make the situation worse, and although her father must know the two of them were alone at the moment, it wasn't quite the same thing as asking for permission to propose marriage. Was it? Were her parents upstairs, hoping that was exactly what he was planning on doing, and because of the stress of the ball, they decided to forgo formalities?

But formalities were formalities for a reason. And the reason for this one was obvious in Lady Mercy's wide eyes and the uncomfortable way she held her hands together at her waist.

"Lady Mercy, please come in. Your father must know what I am about or he wouldn't have sent you here."

She raised an eyebrow but did not bring her foot into the room. "What, exactly, are you about?"

He strode toward her—one of them needed to have confidence—and placed his hand on the doorknob. She swallowed but stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

A quiet settled over the room, and he stepped in front of Lady Mercy. "What I am about is—" This wasn't how it was supposed to work. He should confess his love and devotion to her or at least let her know how much he had missed her whenever they spent time apart. Somewhere over the course of the past few weeks, being near Lady Mercy had become a habit, like filling his lungs with air or falling into bed at night. She'd become a part of his life, and proposing marriage to her felt like a formality. He had no idea if she felt the same way, but he was ready to find out. And if he let her know his intentions first, then he could speak to her of love without restraint. "Frankly, I came here to speak to you about marriage."

Her jaw clenched, and her hands stopped fidgeting. "In general? As in, you would like my opinion on the practice on the whole?"

"No," Nicholas answered. Had she really no idea what he meant? The two of them were courting. Where else would a successful courtship lead? "Specifically. As in, two of us."

She blinked up at him in surprise. "Why?"

Why? Nicholas opened his mouth and then snapped it closed again. He hadn't expected her to ask that. He wasn't even certain how to answer it. He took in her face, those freckles across the bridge of her nose... Someday he would count them. She was constantly surprising him, and it had been too long since his life had held surprises. "Because I think we suit each other, don't you?"

"Is that all?"

What else could he say? He hadn't realized he needed to prepare an argument for the case of their marriage. She must have known he was planning to propose soon. He hadn't been subtle about his interest.

He couldn't exactly tell her that ever since he had started courting her, ghosts of past relationships had come out in full force. Everywhere he turned, there was Miss Morgan, trying to get him alone. Or Lady Plymton, with her pitying eyes and touches that belonged in less suitable establishments than ballrooms. He was floundering—he had been for quite sometime—and somehow, she'd become his anchor. The one solid point, upon which, if he fixed his mark, he would not become lost. His northern star. "Isn't that reason enough?"

She stepped forward, leaving him at the door. When she reached their little table by the fireplace, she turned and faced him once again. She no longer looked nervous. "I must admit I had entertained hopes of a love match."

Nicholas slid his jaw to one side. She didn't love him, then. Had he rushed her? Was she saying she needed more time to fall in love with him, or did she think that would never be possible? He wanted a love match too, and he thought the two of them were well on their way to one. But he had no idea how to make her fall in love with him in the rare snippets of time they had together. Would she want him to keep trying, or was this to be their last conversation? The thought made him wish he could start over or, no, not start over, not start this conversation at all. "You don't think you can love me?" The question was out of his mouth before he could convince himself otherwise.

A faint smile traced her lips, and she examined the chair in front of her. "I don't know," she said softly. "And it seems like a thing a person should know before agreeing to marriage." Her eyes lifted to his. "Do you love me? Because I don't believe I've seen evidence of it."

Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. He knew the correct answer to this. If he wanted a woman to marry him, the correct thing to do would be to pull out the necklace he'd brought her and declare his undying love. But what did she mean by the fact that she'd never seen evidence of it? Hadn't courting her been evidence? Seeking her out all the times he did? He wanted her as his wife so excruciatingly, he didn't know what he would do with himself if she rejected him. Was that love? He'd thought it was, but now she had him doubting. What exactly was she looking for?

"Lady Mercy." He leaned forward, resisting the urge to sit down at the chess table. He needed to think. He hadn't done everything properly—he was supposed to get her father's blessing first. But she had come in alone, and that had felt like blessing enough. "The type of relationship I hope to form with my wife will only be possible with prolonged exposure. The kind of exposure that is not truly possible in ballrooms or Zoological Garden, but in time spent together daily—doing the small tasks that husband and wife do together—building a life together. You ask me if I love you? The thought of you haunts me anytime I'm not with you. I measure my days by when I can see you again, and I have a strange fascination with your skin. Am I certain I love you? No, but I'm certain you are the only woman I'm going to love for the rest of my life. I had no plans for a love match, or at least no plans for love to be the mitigating factor of my decision to marry, but somehow now I need it. You've made me need it. But my heart has been foolish before, and I don't think it will let me fall completely in love unless I know you can love me back. What I feel for you is a spark, an ember that somehow burns as hot as any wildfire, and I know it will consume me whole when I give it the chance."

Lady Mercy plopped herself down on her chair and played with her queen, still holding court on the back row. If his speech had moved her, she didn't show it. Why did he blurt all that out? His head and heart were a mess, and no woman wanted to hear that after a marriage proposal. The correct answer was yes. Yes, I love you , would have been simple, direct, and probably the only way he could get Mercy to agree to marry him.

Mercy grabbed her queen in one hand and stilled it. "Why haven't you given it a chance?" Her eyes shot up to him. "You have been frank with me. I will also be frank with you. I haven't seen this spark you speak of." Her eyes went back to her queen. "I'm not even certain I know exactly what love would feel like. I might... I might feel something like that burning you speak of, but I have seen love in the eyes of other couples. I've seen the way they are with each other. We don't have that, and I won't settle for less."

Nicholas sat across from her but kept his hands safe in his lap. He had seen love too. Patience and Ottersby were desperate for each other, and Lady Mercy's parents had a mature version of that—mutual respect and joy in each other's company. But he couldn't find a woman the way Ottersby had found his sister. Their courtship had been ripe with scandal. Ottersby must live in fear for the day Society discovered Patience had lived in his home as a maid for a month before they were married. He didn't want something like that hanging over his marriage. Did he want more love than his parents had shared? Yes. His relationship with Lady Mercy had been a perfect blend of his family's two examples of successful marriage. Proper, like his parents, yet fueled by the yearning he saw between Patience and Ottersby. Their relationship was as sensible as it was desirable. At least, that was what he'd thought.

He had no response for her. He thought he had done everything correctly, and nothing about their relationship had felt like he was settling for less. Lady Mercy and what he felt for her was more than he'd ever dared hoped for.

Lady Mercy sighed and leaned against her chair. She shook her head and motioned between the two of them. "What I have seen from you is calculations and strategy. You live your life like you dance: all the steps in the right order but none of the passion. Doesn't that make for a hollow existence? The few times I thought perhaps you desired me, you would always reel away in irritation. Do you expect me to live like that?"

The room stilled into a silence where even the mantle clock stopped its ticking. That is what Lady Mercy needed from him? Passion? Passion had never been his problem. At least not in the way Lady Mercy was implying. He had more desire than he knew what to do with. He couldn't trust himself. The last time he allowed himself to unleash his fervor for a woman, it had nearly ruined his life and cost him the respect of his father.

For the first time since meeting Lady Mercy in the corridor, the difference in their ages seemed astounding. She hadn't seen what that kind of passion could do to a family and a home when it wasn't controlled. When rules weren't followed. He'd been in her place at one time, and he refused to become her Lady Plymton.

He closed his eyes, unsure how to answer her. "All the examples of wonderful couples you gave me... those are the good stories. The ones with happy endings. For every one of those, there are dozens of unfortunate cases of women's reputations being ruined and men becoming known as rakes. We are always being watched by Society, even if you don't realize it. And everyone in the House of Lords is waiting for me to make another mistake."

"Another mistake?" Her voice was soft, and even though his eyes were still closed, he could sense her moving closer to him.

"Like I made with Lady Plymton."

"Are you certain that was a mistake?"

His eyes flew open. Lady Mercy was directly in front of him, only six inches away. She had leaned forward while his eyes were closed, and now she studied him, her head tipped to one side as if trying to understand him better.

"Of course it was a mistake."

"There is nothing wrong with falling for a woman you want to marry. I know Lady Plymton ended up married to someone else after your father separated you, but you can't spend your whole life worried that you will get hurt again. Nor can you base all of your decisions on whether or not London is watching your every move."

How had their roles switched so completely? Lady Mercy was calm and collected, and he was the one nervous and fidgeting. All it had taken for Lady Mercy to feel in control was to let him know she didn't want to marry him. Now that she had, she was ready to discuss his problems and fears, as if they were two lifelong friends. What kind of irony was this? "London is watching my every move." He leaned in closer. Her freckles were even more hypnotizing, now that he knew he would never get the chance to run his fingers over them or let his lips roam the skin on which they lay. "I won't be seen as a philanderer. I cannot be. If I have been overly proper with you, it is not because I don't—" He stopped. He couldn't say out loud the things he thought about her. How could she not see the wrestle he had every time she walked into a room? How could she need proof? Couldn't she see what was simmering beneath the surface? When that spark he had been so carefully guarding was released from its prison, the two of them would make the city burn.

Lady Mercy pursed her lips together and considered him like she would an unsolvable puzzle. She placed both hands on the chess table and pushed herself up. Nicholas rose as well, his faculties not so far gone that he would stay seated in a lady's presence. On the fireplace mantel sat a vase full of white roses. He had sent them to her only a few days ago. Lady Mercy reached up and broke off the top of one of the flowers. She returned to him and tucked the rose into the breast pocket of his jacket. Her touch was soft and illuminating, like fireflies had landed on his chest. She dropped her right hand slowly, her fingertips grazing his side, then leaned in close and put her mouth to his ear. "You may think me young and naive, but I need proof. I won't agree to marry you without it. You asked me earlier if I loved you, and I'm telling you, I think I could. I think I might already, but I cannot understand how you can claim to almost love me and not want to kiss me and hold me like I want you to."

Nicholas didn't dare breathe. Her scent would awaken something in him that he wasn't certain he would ever be able to tamp down again. Once again, the ticking of the clock on the mantel hushed, and then the ticking returned, growing louder in his ears every second.

He needed to leave.

He needed to thank her for her honesty and revisit the idea of a betrothal after the ball or in another few months, after they'd had more time together. But Lady Mercy hadn't asked for more time. She wanted something else from him. Something he wasn't certain he could give. Not without losing himself.

She reached for the flower again, repositioning it in some infinitesimal way that had to have been nothing more than an excuse to touch him. Her eyes met his, only a breath away from him. "No one," she whispered, her voice slow and deliberately intoxicating, "is watching us now."

Blast this glorious woman in front of him. Nicholas's hand stopped hers from leaving him, covering hers on top of the flower she'd placed there.

His touch brought a smile to her dangerous mouth. "You are a duke, Nicholas. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks of you. You could ruin a hundred women, and still, men would line up to have their daughters marry you. What are you so afraid of?"

Nicholas. His name was like honey on her lips. He couldn't be distracted by it. She was playing a perilous game of chess, and every part of him screamed to let her win. He clenched his jaw. He would not allow himself to lose. "I have no desire to ruin a hundred women."

"That's not what I asked. I asked what you are afraid of."

What was he afraid of? He released her hand and took a step back. Breathing was painful when she was so near. He placed his hands on his temples and rubbed in circles. He hadn't spoken to anyone about this except General Woodsworth. He clenched his teeth together and dropped his hands, locking eyes with her. "I don't want to be a disappointment. Not again."

Lady Mercy had started to inch forward, closing the gap he had just made between them, but at his words, she stopped. Her head leaned back. "Who in the world was ever disappointed by you?"

He smiled, but it was a grim sort of smile. He could feel the desperation of it on his face. "My father."