Chapter 24

Mercy blinked. That was not at all what she had been expecting. His father had passed away years ago. "Your father?"

The Duke of Harrington's face darkened. "Yes, my father."

He didn't say anything else, but those three words were hardly an explanation. She folded her arms in front of her chest and waited.

He stumbled away from her and returned to the chess table, pulled out his chair, and sat down. He had never, never sat in her presence unless she had been seated first, and the action made her step back. But he didn't even seem to notice. It was as if the mention of his father had prompted a whole layer of stiffness to fall away from him, and he was left sullen and... young. She tipped her head to one side. His hair had fallen onto his forehead, which rested on one hand. He looked like a schoolboy who had just been reprimanded by a teacher.

Mercy walked to his side and sat as well. For a moment, they were both silent. She waited for him to explain himself further, but he seemed content to simply slump forward and say nothing. With a sigh, she took hold of her queen. She slid the piece slowly forward until it sat directly beside his king on the opposite end of the board.

"Check."

He looked up, his eyes shrouded in mist, then back at the board. "That was an incredibly foolish move."

"As I told you, I'm not good at chess."

He shook his head slightly but didn't smile. Then, instead of taking her queen, he moved his king diagonally and away, just out of check. She laughed softly, and he met her gaze. "Neither am I."

"I would think, in the army, they would have taught you enough about strategy to make a better move than that. My queen was ripe for the taking."

"I didn't join in order to learn strategy."

"Ah, yes. Lady Plymton." She moved her queen forward one space. "Check."

The king moved diagonally backward. "Lady Plymton," he agreed, his voice flat.

She moved her queen. "Check."

He sat there, looking at the board, his king facing her queen as if more things were at stake than their twelfth chess match.

Mercy had to ask. "Did you love her?"

He laughed and dragged a hand through his hair. He would need to fix it before the ball began. Perhaps this time he would let her help him. "I did think I was in love, I suppose. But she was not in love with me."

"How do you know that?" His eyes went heavenward and then she remembered. The woman had been engaged. "She was engaged..."

"Yes."

"And you knew? The whole time, you knew?"

"Yes."

"But then . . . why?"

He moved his king to the left again. There were only a few more squares to the left of his king now. Soon their strategy would play out, and Mercy would either win or move her queen back to her side of the board, giving up the cat-and-mouse game.

His fingers dropped away from the king. "Do you think it is an accident that I follow every rule of propriety? I learned the hard way that there are reasons things are done the way they are. I learned that you don't get involved with an engaged woman—not because Society will scorn you, but because if she is engaged to someone else, her heart will probably never fully be yours. But not only that, I learned how many people you can hurt when you ignore Society's rules." He looked up at her, and the greens and browns in his eyes had become a forest under the onslaught of a thunderstorm. "My father never looked at me the same after that. My mother didn't either, although I think she understood me better than my father did. I'm fairly certain my father had never made a mistake in his life."

She moved her queen right next to his king once again. He was in check, but she didn't bother announcing it. "That can't be true."

"You didn't know him. He single-handedly returned honor to our line. His father had been a philanderer and, at times, a cheat. My great-grandfather had been the same. There is something soul-destroying about having power with no consequences. For generations, the men and women in my family took to heart the idea that they were above reproach, but my father put an end to all of that. He lived each day completely aware of the power and influence he had, but he used that power to help others, never for personal gain. He was faithful to his wife and was an upstanding man before marriage. When he saw me following in my grandfather's footsteps, it nearly broke him. He hadn't lived his whole life following every rule of propriety only to have his son destroy everything he had worked for."

"Are you absolutely certain she didn't love you?" Mercy needed to know. She and Penelope had planned for the two of them to meet alone somewhere at the ball. If there was any chance he still longed for the woman who had scorned him in his youth, then she wanted to help him. Wanted him to have a passionate, loving relationship with a woman he chose. Not one he felt like Society would choose for him. "I see the way you look at her, and it's not the way you look at me. Perhaps what you feel for me is not as strong as—"

The Duke of Harrington's king rushed forward with force and knocked her queen off the board and onto the floor. He held his king in a death grip, fingers straining. "I was seventeen years old, Mercy. Seventeen . She didn't love me. She saw me for what I was. A child with a title, ripe for the taking. All she needed to do was scorn her fiancé and entrap me to the point where my father, who was just the type of man who would make me be honorable to a woman who had no thoughts of being honorable with me, would feel obligated to force us to wed. When my father bought my commission and outwitted her, she pulled the wool over her fiancé's eyes and married him anyway." He shrugged. "He had a title too, after all."

Mercy held his burning gaze as long as she could, then bent down to pick up her queen. Seventeen. The thought of that sleek, harsh beauty she'd seen at the Bensons' ball, pursuing an impressionable seventeen-year-old turned her stomach. She took a moment while her head was down to take a deep breath and close her eyes hard against the tears that threatened to form there.

She'd never seen the man in front of her as anything but powerful. She'd never seen him lose control, but before he'd had any power at all, a woman had invaded his life and manipulated and controlled him. If she'd had any doubt that she might love this man, it evaporated, replaced by a sudden need to gut Lady Plymton.

She took one more steadying breath, then sat up, placed her queen on the table, and took the duke's hand in her own. Rage must have still been seething inside him, for he didn't flinch or pull away at her touch. Instead, he dropped his king and rested his free hand on the table. His eyes met hers, steady and unmovable. "If I don't look at you the way I look at her, it is because I don't hate you for ruining my relationship with my father, disappointing my mother, and nearly bringing a viper into the life of my innocent sister. The last few years of my father's life, I tried to prove myself to him, but I'm not certain he ever trusted me again."

Mercy wanted to fold him into her arms. She'd been a fool. How had she never thought to ask him about how long ago his relationship with Lady Plymton had been?

She squeezed his hand. "So you are still trying to prove yourself to him."

"And to everyone else." He blinked slowly. "His shoes are impossible to fill."

She did not let go of his hand, but with her free hand, she pushed his hair back into place. As she pulled back her hand, he grasped it, held her gaze steady with his own, and pulled her palm with aching slowness to his lips. The contact of his mouth on the delicate skin just above her wrist was like fire. His eyes didn't leave hers, and he slid his mouth to the tip of her thumb, kissing that as well. "If I have not shown you the passion that you deserve, I am sorry. I'm lost at how to go about this in a way that both my father and Society would approve of. But it is not because I don't long for you in the way a man should long for his wife. On the contrary, you, Lady Mercy, terrify me. You make me feel like I have learned nothing from that seventeen-year-old boy who had his world ripped out from underneath him by acting on his feelings. If I have been more careful with you than anyone in my acquaintance, it is because I have to be."

Mercy's hand was burning. She had toyed with him moments ago, putting that flower in his jacket, wondering if she could illicit the kind of response she had spent a long night imagining Miss Morgan had had in the Zoological Garden. Her attempt was pathetic compared to what the Duke of Harrington was doing to her now. She'd asked for passion. She'd thought he would perhaps answer her request by kissing her on her mouth. She'd had no idea he could prove his desire for her with only her hand and a gaze that promised so much more... over a chessboard. The dullest game known to man.

"You don't have to be careful with me." Her voice was shaky. Why wasn't she prepared for this? She'd never felt naive until this moment. How did the slightest motion of his bottom lip dragging from her palm to her index finger make it hard to speak?'

"Oh, I plan to be very"—he kissed her index finger—"very"—he turned her hand and grazed the knuckles of her next two fingers with his lips—"careful with you."

When she next inhaled, it was a gasp.

He winked and placed her hand gently back on the table. For all his blasted confidence, his hand shook ever so slightly when he released her. But he straightened his spine and pulled his face back into the mask of propriety he typically wore. That careful facade of a passionless man stood where a man who burned with desire had just been. He gave her a short bow and walked toward the door. "Tell your parents I was sorry to miss them. But know that I don't mean it. I suppose I will wait until we have time to get to know each other a little better before I broach the subject of engagement again." He stopped and turned back to look at her. What must she look like? Stunned, craning around on the chair to see him, most likely with her mouth agape. Her breath was still coming in short little gasps as if she were a fish that had been tossed out of its bowl. A slow smile tugged at his lips. "That is, unless you have changed your mind already."

Changed her mind? Because he kissed her fingers? She snapped her jaw shut and stood, throwing her shoulders back with pride. She would not let him leave the room with his last view being her gaping at him. "Why? Do you think you have done something worthy of changing my mind?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I haven't?"

"Not hardly." She strode toward him, eye on his perfectly tied cravat. She wanted to pull it away and let it fall so she could see that other duke. The one who kissed her hand and made her breath catch. She wanted to make his breath catch this time. "Perhaps we do have a spark. But before I agree to anything else, I need to see it burn. Just a bit."

His eyes went to the chess table they were just sitting at, and she knew what he was thinking. Hadn't that counted? Perhaps she should leave it at that. But the great Duke of Harrington had let his guard down, and she wasn't certain how long it would be until she got to see that duke again. She already missed him.

She leaned forward, and to his credit, for once, he didn't step back. "Let's consider, for a moment, that perhaps you are not quite as dispassionate as I assumed. That doesn't mean I don't have any other concerns. In fact, I have a few."

"A few?" His eyes, which had flinched slightly at the word dispassionate , furrowed. "Exactly how many is a few?"

"I don't know yet. I'm still coming up with them."

A corner of his mouth lifted, and he eyed the door. "That hardly seems fair. And if you have concerns, I should be allowed some in return." His first concern was extremely apparent. Evidently, he was only comfortable with the door closed when he was on his best behavior.

Mercy smiled. "Crack it open if you're worried."

His shoulders relaxed, and he turned and opened the door a few inches. When he faced her again, it was with more confidence. "Now, tell me your concerns."

This blessed man. How had his propriety seemed so abhorrent to her? It was adorable. "First of all, this whole Your Grace business. It wears on me. How can I truly fall in love with a man if I must call him ‘Your Grace' all the time?"

His eyes lit up, and he smiled. He hadn't seemed to mind at all when she'd called him Nicholas earlier. "That is easy enough to remedy. Don't call me that. Not anymore."

"But if I call you Harrington—or even worse, Nicholas—what will people think?"

"Oh, people be d—" He stopped. "I see what you are doing."

She widened her eyes innocently. "What?"

"You are trying to entrap me."

"Into marriage? You practically asked me to marry you just a moment ago."

"Into admitting that there are some areas of Society that are hard to navigate, that perhaps could even be ignored at times."

"So... what should I call you? If I call you—"

He stepped forward and grasped her fingertips in his own. "Call me Nicholas. If it will help you to see me as someone you could, perhaps, spend your life with, please continue to call me Nicholas."

"Nicholas." She rolled his name around on her tongue, and the way his eyes darkened was a far cry from proper.

He swallowed hard. "But if you call me Nicholas at the ball tonight, you must know that there will be consequences."

"Oh." She leaned forward, widening her eyes and making her mouth form an O, as if she were afraid. "Consequences."

"This isn't a game, Mercy."

She hadn't given him permission to use her Christian name, but in the past half hour something splendid had awoken in him. He had finally understood what she needed between them. For the past few weeks, every interaction, except perhaps those she had engineered to put him together with Miss Morgan, had been spent courting the way he had thought courting should be done. But now... now he was different. Between that awakening and finally understanding what had happened to make him act the way he did, this visit had changed everything. She slid closer to him, her eye on his cravat. The last remaining artifact of the starched man he'd been when she'd walked into the room. "It could be, though. It could be a very enthralling game. Much better than chess." She touched the knot at the center of his throat. "If you let it."

Nicholas eyed the open door, and she felt as if she could see his calculations: What would it look like if her parents came in? What would Society think of this change between them? How would he recover socially if she never agreed to marry him after the two of them were caught alone together?

Before she gave him any more chances to think, she pulled at the knot in his cravat.

Nothing happened.

Nicholas's back had gone ramrod straight again, but he didn't step away or tell her to stop. She pulled again. The silk under her fingers crumpled, but the knot did not come undone. Mercy stepped forward, then with both hands at his neck, she examined the blasted thing closer.

"There is a pin," Nicholas said, his voice quiet. "Thankfully."

"Why thankfully? Don't you get tired of that being tied around your neck?"

"I suppose I do. Which is why I take it off when I am home. Not, however, when I am about to attend a ball. Why do you want it off?"

"I'd like to see your neck." The moment the words came out of her mouth, she could hear how ridiculous she was being. What was she thinking? Telling him she wanted to see his neck? Who thinks of such a thing?

But Nicholas simply tipped his head as if she had said the most rational thing in the world, pulled out the pin, and unfastened the knot.

His collar was still high, but the middle of his throat, and a small v of skin below it was bare. He neck was strong and corded, a testament to the rigid man standing before her. His Adam's apple was still, hovering in the middle of his throat. Swallow , she wanted to demand, but one absolutely preposterous request was, perhaps, all she should allow herself. "You must think I am a complete hoyden."

"Because you wanted to see my neck?"

She nodded.

"I happen to be quite captivated by your neck, so no, I do not think you are a complete hoyden. I do think I should return my cravat once you are done examining me, though. Unless you truly are ready to be engaged, and even then, I believe we are stretching the boundaries of propriety."

"I'm not done."

He would have to swallow, eventually.

His mouth quirked, and he nodded, and in that moment, Mercy knew she was going to marry this man. He was not at all what she thought she wanted, but somehow, he was more—more in every way.

Rosalind could have her Richard who wore his emotions on his sleeve. Mercy would revel in a man who only allowed himself to light on fire when he caught her alone. She motioned to the long, white silken strip falling down his chest on either side of his neck. "May I hold that for a moment?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You aren't going to throw it in the fire, are you?"

"No." She laughed. "Why would I do that?"

"I have no idea. But I wanted to eliminate the possibility. I do have to make myself presentable at some point this evening."

"I will not burn your cravat."

Nicholas raised a hand and pulled on the one side of the cravat, and it slid easily from his neck. He caught the free end of it before it fell to the floor, then held it out to her with both hands. Mercy bit her lip. If she took this next step, there would be no going back. Her eyes met Nicholas's. His were still dark, but curious. He was waiting for her to do... something.

Whether she was completely ready or not, she had no desire to disappoint the man she had only just rejected. What a difference a few minutes made. Her parents could walk through that door at any moment, and if they found them here in this state, Mercy would have to lie and tell them she had accepted his marriage proposal. But if she could perform one simple task before they returned, she could ask him to propose one more time, without feeling like she'd given into him with just a few measly kisses on her hand.

Well, not measly, but still. It was the principal of the thing. She couldn't begin a long-term relationship by immediately caving to all of Nicholas's wishes. It was a bad precedent to set.

Had her sister felt such confidence and power when she had been in the same position? Had her mother? How could all the women in one family be so fortunate?

Mercy smiled, put one hand out, and grasped the cravat where it hung lowest, right between his two hands, and pulled it toward her.