Chapter 27

Nicholas was still in the drawing room twenty minutes after Mercy left him when the first guest arrived. The first few minutes Nicholas waited for Mercy and her parents to return had been filled with a jittery hope. He'd clumsily retied his cravat with shaking fingers, cursed himself for being a fool, pulled it off, and after a long, slow breath, finally got it right on the second try. His mind had bounded to the future—his future. He'd thought Mercy and her parents would return at any moment, and if all went well, they could announce their engagement at supper.

It wasn't until Mercy had been gone for a full ten minutes that his first doubts began creeping in. If neither Mercy nor her father came to speak with him before the ball, what would that mean? Mercy's broad smile had been answer enough only a few minutes earlier, but as the mantle clock ticked incessantly, a sneaking uncertainty started clouding his thinking. She hadn't agreed to marry him. She had only told him she might.

An oversight he would remedy the moment he saw her.

But now, with the first guests' voices trailing into the drawing room from the entry hall, he was no longer certain of anything.

Why was he still here? Mercy or one of her parents would fetch him, wouldn't they? They wouldn't have a duke skulk about the house and enter the ballroom on his own, without being announced.

More and more guests arrived, and Nicholas paced. A steady stream of people was arriving, and he didn't want to leave the room while anyone was in the entrance hall. He pulled a book from a side table and sat in an armchair. It was a history of Ireland, and a ribbon marked a page with a drawing of the rolling hills of Wicklow County. Mercy had mentioned that being the home county of her family's new scullery maid. Who had been reading this? Mercy? Or the maid? He ran his fingers down the drawing. Perhaps both of them. Mercy would want to show the young girl something of her homeland, and she would mark the page for her so she could come see it whenever she was feeling homesick. He ran a finger over the largest hill, and a smile crept over his face.

He continued to riffle through the book, looking for any mentions of locations some of his friends had come from. It wasn't long until the raps at the door became less frequent. He stood. If the ball was well underway, then it was time he made an appearance.

The moment his fingers touched the doorknob, some of his worries softened. Mercy had shut the door solidly behind him not forty-five minutes ago, in order for him to kiss her more thoroughly. How much could have changed in forty-five minutes? Preparing for a ball would be a huge undertaking, and the family could have easily gotten swept up in urgent matters of puddings and musical choices.

He cracked open the door. A footman standing near the front door immediately caught sight of him. He was not the one who had let him in, nor did Nicholas recognize him from his other visits. Nicholas straightened his back, crossed the hall, and handed him his card. Whatever surprise had registered on the footman's face when he stepped out of the room was schooled as he read his name. He gave Nicholas a bow and led him to the ballroom, handing his card to the master of ceremonies. Nicholas was announced just as well as if he had come in through the front door.

Mercy's parents' heads whipped around at the sound of his name. He wasn't certain exactly what expression he had expected to see in their eyes, but their quick glances between each other and schooled expressions made a knot form at the base of his neck. They did not look happy to see him.

And he didn't see Mercy anywhere.

He swallowed and marched forward, as if this were a typical evening ball. The ballroom was a small one, lined with grand paintings of biblical scenes. He hadn't been in the room before, but he suspected it was typically used as a large gathering hall or walking room and the furniture had been removed for the event.

Patience and Ottersby immediately excused themselves from the conversation they were having and wove their way through the crowd to meet with him.

"What's wrong?" Patience asked as soon as she reached him.

Nicholas furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?" Nothing was wrong. In fact, this could possibly be one of the happiest evenings of his life. He opened his mouth to say as much but stopped.

He couldn't share any information about his time with Mercy until he had a clear understanding from both her and her parents.

Patience took his arm. "You look as though a ghost is going to come sneaking about the corner at any moment."

"Have you seen Lady Mercy?"

Ottersby nodded. "I've arranged to dance a set with her later."

Patience pulled on Nicholas's sleeve. "She looked as though she was expecting a ghost as well. What has happened between the two of you?"

He had kissed her soundly in the drawing room, and her touch had healed things that had been broken since he was seventeen. That was what had happened. "What do you mean, she looks like she is expecting a ghost?"

Patience frowned and glanced around them for prying eyes. No one was especially close, but they couldn't exactly get away from everyone either. "I don't know exactly. She was pale and skittish, glancing around as if something frightening was around the corner. If I didn't know better, I would think she was some sad maiden dragged from a dungeon and pressed into playing mistress of the ball. Her parents were cordial, but even they seemed less enthusiastic than the last time we met."

"Where is she?" He needed to see her himself. Mercy didn't need to be pressed into balls. Balls were where she came alive.

"I believe she is dancing with Lord Dowdle at the moment," Ottersby said. "But I agree with Patience. Something is wrong. Did you do something to upset the family?"

The light in the ballroom faded, and the niggling worry that had gnawed at the back of his mind since Mercy hadn't returned to the drawing tore through him. He shook his head slightly and blinked. Had he done something to upset the family? He put a hand to the back of his neck and inhaled deeply. He'd thought... Well, Mercy had led him to believe she'd wanted that kiss...

But that wasn't the problem, was it? She was young, almost as young as he'd been when Lady Plymton had entered his life. He, of all people, should have protected her innocence at all costs. He searched the ballroom once again. Where was she? Just as he was about to give up and ask Patience where she had seen Mercy last, the crowd of dancers parted, and there she was.

Lord Dowdle had his hand on her back, and she smiled up at him, but he could see in the stiffness of her shoulders and the redness around her eyes that something had upset her. Patience had explained Mercy's appearance perfectly. Like she had been dragged out of a dungeon.

Those few minutes of bliss had him dreaming of a future with Mercy, but less than an hour later, Mercy looked as if she were ill. He glanced at her neck. It was bare. No emeralds, no pearls, and even from here, he could tell, no silver chain.

He had his answer.

Nicholas had made enough plans in his life to know when one wasn't going to work out. There would be no engagement announced at supper. Not at this ball, and to Mercy? Perhaps never. The room darkened further, as if each chandelier had been replaced by a single candle. What had he done? For weeks, he'd managed to court Lacy Mercy in a controlled, public manner. But in the end, he had succumbed to his same, disgraceful self. He had kissed her. Kissed her thoroughly. And his intent in that kiss was very different from the kisses he had shared with Lady Plymton. His kisses at seventeen had been young and inexperienced. They were experimental, curious, and had more to do with the fact that he wanted to kiss someone, anyone, than the fact that he wanted to kiss a particular person .

His time in the army had taught him restraint and loss. One of the keys to having restraint was not to surround yourself with temptation. He had known the risks going into this courtship, and he had still chosen a woman who enticed him, instead of one he could have more easily resisted. He had made all of the mistakes, and look where it had brought him.

When Mercy told the story of her life, Nicholas would be her villain. She would no longer be the trusting and optimistic woman who'd enchanted him at every turn. Nicholas had wounded her, and he should have known better.

Patience put an arm on his shoulder. "Nicholas, what's wrong? What happened?"

"I need to speak to her."

"And you shall." Ottersby stepped slightly in front of the two of them, effectively blocking Nicholas's view of the ballroom. His shoulders broadened, as if to protect Nicholas from the sight of what was happening behind them. "The night is still young. But for this set, let's find a quiet place to regroup."

Understanding eked its way into Nicholas's brain. Ottersby was not blocking his view of the ballroom. He was blocking the ballroom from viewing Nicholas. What must he look like? Not like a man who had been dragged away from a dungeon, for no part of him felt as though he'd escaped something. No. He was headed in the opposite direction—toward the dungeon—and he had no possibility of ever being freed.

Ottersby was right. It was time to retreat.

"Most likely," Nicholas said, "servants will be the only ones in the entrance hall."

Ottersby nodded and took him by the elbow, steering him out of the ballroom. The path to the entrance hall was simple and familiar. He knew this house almost as well as some of his less-used estates. Still, he managed to stumble, and Ottersby tightened his grip.

There was no one in the hall, other than the hired servant he had seen earlier. The young man caught their eye and quickly looked away. The only thing he knew about Nicholas was that he was a duke. He wouldn't bother them.

The entrance hall was bare of any furniture, so Ottersby led him to a window that looked out on the street and propped him on the thick sill. "Sit for a moment."

Nicholas nodded and dropped to the narrow piece of wood. He sank his head back against the cool glass of the window, then closed his eyes and inhaled.

"You look unwell," Patience said, her voice a floating cloud of concern somewhere above his head. "Perhaps we should go."

Nicholas cracked open one eye. "Give me a moment to think."

Leaving would, perhaps, be the best answer. He could return to speak with Mercy and her parents tomorrow, without all the eyes of London on them. He had acted wrongly, but he was willing to do whatever her family asked to right that wrong. Marriage seemed the best choice, but if Mercy were willing to marry him, wouldn't she have sought him out and worn the necklace? She wouldn't have that look of dejection on her face.

Had the brashness of the moment overtaken her, and now she felt as though she no longer had a choice in the matter? She'd asked him not to propose to her. Was he so confident in himself that after a rejection, he thought she would want to be kissed?

But she had . . . hadn't she?

Nicholas shook his head. "I don't want to leave. Not yet."

"Would you like to dance my set with her?" Ottersby offered.

"No. I will ask her. If she doesn't want to dance with me, I won't force her."

Patience had already asked several times what had happened between them, and he could see that she wanted to ask again.

The music slowed, and if he wanted a chance to speak with Mercy before her next dance, he needed to return to the ballroom. He stood and took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders back, as General Woodsworth had taught him. He had been trained for battle. Surely he could speak to a woman. "I'll ask her now."

Each step that brought him closer to Mercy hardened something inside him. He didn't need to get married. He'd wanted to—it had seemed like a good plan—but plans must remain flexible. If Mercy didn't want him, she didn't want him. He would move on with his life and, in a few years, find a woman who would be grateful for all he had to offer. A wife might have helped him gain favor in the House of Lords, but had he really thought being married would suddenly make him influential enough to make a difference?

It had been a terrible plan, and he had executed it poorly.

He shook off Ottersby's offer to hold his elbow again as something hot and angry took root in his chest. If he were going to choose a woman to court, he should have chosen one that had some interest in him.

The ballrooms were literally filled with them.

The moment he set foot in the room, his eyes found Mercy, but he was too late to speak to her. She was already on the arm of another man. Mr. Beauford, the best dancer in London, by her own admission. He turned to the first lovely face that brightened at his presence. Lady Marion. The woman had intrigued him once. Nothing about her interested him now, but he'd made eye contact, and she was without a dance partner. He'd have to dance with her.

Lady Marion's eyes brightened even further when he asked her to dance. This was the type of woman he should have pursued. It could have been so easy. Instead, he'd had to chase after a woman who didn't want him, simply because she had interesting freckles and he'd seen her cry outside Donald's funeral.

Lady Marion asked him a question, but he didn't hear it. He leaned closer to her and asked her to repeat herself.

"Will you be spending time at Brushbend this Season? Or staying in London?"

Would he? He wasn't certain. London was the place to be in order to find a bride, but if he had given up on that venture, he might as well return to Hampshire and see to the affairs of the estate. "That remains to be seen."

"I've heard how lovely it is. It would be an amazing sight to see."

"Perhaps I should host a house party later in the year."

Lady Marion's mouth split into a grin. "That is the most wonderful of ideas. I imagine it's breathtaking in the spring."

Brushbend was. In fact, he had been hoping to take Mercy. He gritted his teeth, banning the image of her smile from his mind. Lady Marion smiled easily. The smiles and teasing he had received only this afternoon from Mercy had been hard fought.

And useless. The lack of adornment around her neck was the final nail in his coffin.

"I will speak to my sister about the idea. It has been a long time since we had guests at Brushbend. I suppose a house party is long overdue."

The dance finished, and he escorted Lady Marion back to her mother. Mercy's family was on the other side of the ballroom. If he wanted a chance to speak with Mercy before the music started again, he would have to rush there. Lady Marion mentioned the idea of a house party to her mother, and he nodded politely before excusing himself and turning toward the closest door.

It had been a noble idea, to speak to Mercy, but he couldn't, not here, with hundreds of eyes watching. He needed air.

He marched through the crowd, unaware of the people he passed. It wasn't until his shoulder slammed into the side of a woman that he blinked and took in his surroundings.

"Your Grace!" the woman said. He blinked again. He knew her. Her hands went to his shoulders, and she looked him in the eye. "Are you all right?"

Lady Yolten.

In the short time he had known Lady Yolten, she had never seemed one to be overly concerned about propriety, and even less so now, as she kept her hands on him, then patted his side as if to make certain nothing was wrong.

He stepped aside. "I am perfectly all right." He gave her a short nod and proceeded toward the door. If he could get out of door and turn right, there was an exit to the back garden. It was a cold night, but cold night air was exactly what he needed. He managed to make it the rest of the way out of the house without another incident.

Once outside, he strode to the back of the garden, shielded himself behind a large knotted oak, and pressed his forehead against the rough bark. He closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He reached into the pocket of his jacket for his handkerchief, and his knuckles brushed up against something thin and stiff there as well.

He pulled it out.

It was a note. How had a note ended up in his pocket?

There was no seal—only a piece of paper folded in half. He opened it. It was not addressed to him, nor was it signed. The type of note that would incriminate no one if found.

I must speak to you. I cannot leave things the way we left them. I have not given up hope for a future together. Meet me in the library at ten o'clock.

What the devil? Had Mercy given him this note? When would she have had the chance? In the drawing room, her hands had roamed his person freely. She could have slipped the note inside his pocket, but what would have been the point? They'd been speaking then. No, she must have written this note after she'd left him. But how had it gotten into his jacket pocket?

Lady Yolten.

As informal as she was, she had never laid her hands on him as intimately as she had moments ago. He had chalked that up to how terrible he must have looked, but he was wrong. She was a close friend of Mercy and would not be the type to faint at the prospect of delivering a clandestine correspondence. No wonder her hands had lingered on him longer than he thought necessary. It wasn't because she had been worried about him. She had simply wanted to deliver this message.

He pulled out his pocket watch. It was half past nine.

I have not given up hope for a future together.

He dug his fingers into the bark of the dark oak in front of him. From despair to hope. How quickly could one body handle the change of such emotions? He needed to be cautious. He'd practically invited Lady Marion to his estate, for heaven's sake.

But that was not the same as an engagement. Or even a courtship. He was still free to pursue Mercy if she wanted him.

Why the library? And why another meeting alone? The last one had proven to be a disaster. He'd taken advantage of Mercy's innocence when he should have protected her instead. If she wanted a repeat of what happened in the drawing room, it wouldn't happen without an official engagement first. The smart thing to do would be to deliver a card after the ball asking to call in the morning. It was the only logical answer.

But as much as he tried to talk himself out of meeting with Mercy, he knew he would be in that library at ten. Years of training himself to think with his head and not with his heart had come to nothing where Mercy was concerned.

He had to find out what was wrong.