Chapter 8

Mercy had assumed the duke's London residence would be in one of the most fashionable parts of Town, but she had been wrong. Apparently there wasn't a brilliant enough neighborhood for the duke. Instead, he lived just outside of Town on an estate. The advantage of his residence being on the outskirts of London was that she had plenty of time to think through her plan for the afternoon.

Her first item of business was to discover whether the man from the corridor was, in fact, the duke or simply a friend of the duke.

It could be accomplished immediately upon their introduction.

And whether the man was the duke or simply the friend of the duke, she assumed the duke's interest in her must have stemmed from that one interaction. Mama insisted that the emeralds were the reason he begged an introduction. While they had caught the man's eye a time or two, Mercy remembered him dragging his eyes away from them, as if in disapproval or disgust. They had been too gaudy, if not for a duke, then at least for the duke's friend. It wasn't the jewels or even her figure that had caught his eye. He had barely glanced at her in that way.

No, something else must have intrigued him, and the only possibility was her strange behavior. Who sneaked about, listening in to men's conversations during a ball? Who had full conversations in hushed tones in corridors with men they hadn't been introduced to? No one proper. Some men seemed attracted to women who didn't behave as they should. She had the sneaking suspicion the Duke of Harrington was just that type.

The man's eyes had sparked when she suggested listening at the wall, even though he had first refused. He definitely enjoyed teasing her about who the duke could be and what a duke would want. Which, in hindsight, made him almost interesting. After he left her, haughty and supposedly indifferent, she had caught him glancing her way several times during the evening, his dark eyes following her as she danced with Lord Dowdle. She had thought he might even ask her to dance, but he left the ballroom after dancing with only a few women.

Mercy had been following Mama's instructions by being her most vibrant while dancing with Lord Dowdle, laughing and listening intently to anything he had said. Once again, that wasn't necessarily the behavior of a demure woman. If her behavior was what had attracted him, it would be easy enough to act the opposite after their introduction. She would be demure, perfectly behaved, timid, and unsure of herself.

And the duke would lose interest.

Mercy could return to her carefree self, and her parents would have one less reason to push her toward the altar before she had the chance to meet the man of her dreams. The carriage pulled to a stop, and Mercy tugged at the three strands of pearls at her neck. Mama had insisted she wear them, and Mercy didn't protest. They wouldn't make a difference.

The carriage was silent as they waited for the servants to announce their arrival at the duke's estate. Mama hadn't taken her eyes away from the window since they'd arrived, but Mercy forced herself not to look.

She wasn't ready to marry, and no estate would change that fact.

A larger home would simply mean more work for her to oversee, and she would much rather dance, sing, or curl up on a sofa with a nice thick book. Those were all activities that could be done in any home.

The door opened. First Mama left the carriage, then Papa. She took a tentative step out and looked up. Her step faltered, and her traitorous breath caught in her throat.

Blast.

The home in front of her was not a home at all. It was a palace. Columns of white rose from the ground, topped with statues of Greek gods and goddesses near the roof line. The tall windows were crowned with arches and framed with the same white of the columns, but the rest of the home was painted in a pale yellow. There were no neighbors to be seen in any direction, and sweeping grounds fell away into a forested patch of land behind the home. Mercy swallowed. One would get lost in such a home. She could begin reading one night, get locked in by some unobservant maid, and never be seen again.

Mama said something under her breath, and Papa's shoulders straightened as if he were already trying to impress the duke. They walked slowly toward the front door, taking in the well-manicured flowers and shrubbery, guessing at which gods adorned the roofline, and at last, admiring the marble steps leading up to the entrance.

Mercy had grown up with wealth, but other than royal palaces, this was unlike anything she had ever seen. The door opened for them, and they stepped into a wide-open entrance hall, covered in a different, lighter marble. A double staircase adorned the entry, along with one of the largest chandeliers she had ever seen. If this is what the entry of the duke's home looked like, how would he furnish the ballroom? What could outshine this brilliance? And all of this for their home in London? What would the duke's country estate look like?

Or estates. He most likely had multiple estates.

They followed a footman to the drawing room, and when he opened the door, she struggled to not bite her lip.

He was there, tall and statuesque, with his dark hair styled as neatly as a man with a bit of curl in his hair could tame it. His clothing was less formal than what he had worn to the ball but was just as impeccable. A perfectly tied cravat made his neck appear long, and his head tipped in the superior manner of a man who always knew he was the highest-ranking man in the room. How had she missed that?

Perhaps he was only this stiff when there were other men around to outrank, and there hadn't been any other men in the corridor. It had been just the two of them. Alone.

He was not alone now. Another man joined him, looking even sterner, but his hair was blond and his shoulders wide enough to make him intimidating. She'd seen the two of them speaking together at the ball.

One of them was the duke, but she still wasn't certain which. She should've at least asked Papa about the color of his hair. Why hadn't she asked someone at the ball to point him out? She had heard him spoken of several times but had wanted to remain disinterested. All she knew of him was that he was young, handsome, and looking for a wife. Both men could fit that description, although her man from the corridor was decidedly the more handsome of the two.

Whichever one he was, it looked as if the whole household had shown up for the introduction. Two beautiful women with dark auburn hair stood as they entered—mother and daughter, she assumed. The daughter stood next to the serious-looking blond man. Corridor-man stood near the heavily adorned fireplace. She had only seen him in a dim lighting and then later across the ballroom from each other. She remembered him to be handsome, with a full head of dark hair. But as their eyes met from across the room, his assessing—examining her clothing, her hair, and her face—she was struck by the fact that her memory had not done the man justice.

Double blast.

Mama curtsied, and Papa bowed his head not to the blond man but to Mercy's dark-haired comrade.

The Duke of Harrington.

Mercy's breathing shortened, but through sheer force of will, she kept her face neutral. The amount of effort she had to put into keeping her face bland probably meant she had the frozen look of a taxidermized deer. Mercy had been harebrained at the ball, trying to listen at a wall for clues as to why her parents had started acting strangely and then discussing the seriousness of marriage with one of the most powerful men in all of England. Not her finest moment.

Much too late, Mercy hastily curtsied, then raised her head. The Duke of Harrington's shoulders, stiff and straight like a soldier's, were nearly as impressive as his home. His eyes flashed with interest, and something else. Amusement? He was enjoying himself. Perhaps she had been too rash in determining to dissuade his interest. She didn't need a large home, but in reality, would she truly get lost in it?

She almost raised a friendly eyebrow at him in response but paused the treacherous muscle mid-lift. The duke lived in a perfect house with perfect manners, and there was absolutely no circumstance in which Mercy could belong here. Not because of her station. As the daughter of an earl, she was in a better position to "catch" the duke than most of the women whom she had overheard discussing him at the ball. But her parents had raised her to marry for love, to choose her own path, and to live life free of the most restricting parts of Society.

The most restricting part of Society stood next to the mantle.

She had two choices. She could do as Mama would choose and be her most beguiling. She had caught the interest of a duke, but it would take an overabundance of smiling and laughing to reel him in. She could do that. It wasn't that she didn't like laughing and smiling; she simply resented the fact that her mother felt compelled to tell her she must do it.

Or she could become the opposite of the woman she had been at the ball and cause him to lose interest. That would be the easiest plan by far. After all, what were the chances that out of all the men in England, he was her soulmate? If she encouraged him, she would have no other chances. Her parents' happiness about her catching the interest of a duke was as boundless as would be their disappointment if she rejected his advances.

She tried to picture the upright duke pulling her around a corner and kissing her just out of sight from a large picnic party. She had only two meetings to judge him by, but she couldn't. The man had practically run away from her in the corridor after admonishing her for not being tied to her chaperone. How many times had Richard and Rosalind escaped chaperones? Easily over a hundred.

She needed a man capable of passion. Someone to make her feel like she was the only woman in the world. Someone who would let her know that he couldn't live without her. And this man, with his ramrod-straight back and perfectly tied cravat, didn't seem the type who would kiss her knuckles, let alone her mouth, unless her father and the Queen had given him permission.

She pulled her eyes away from him. She shouldn't show interest. Not yet. Not until she had decided how to proceed. She was not ready to give up on having the type of mad devotion her sister had found with Richard, and she had no idea if the man in front of her was capable of such a thing. She pasted a bland smile on her face and walked forward.

Introductions were made. The red-haired women were, indeed, his mother and sister. The serious blond man was his brother-in-law, Lord Ottersby.

Everyone was so solemn and serious, her ears screamed for any sound other than the ticking of the mantel clock. The duchess motioned for them to sit at the tea table, and they all moved wordlessly to do so.

Tea was a tedious thing. Lady Ottersby started several conversations, and Mama and Papa tried to join them, but the two young men seemed unprepared to speak at all.

At one point, the duke leaned toward her and said, "This wouldn't have been a very exciting conversation to hear from the corridor."

She turned. He was looking at his cup as if it were the most interesting piece of ceramic in the world. She opened her mouth to say, "How could we compete with the thrill of a duke finally showing interest in marriage?" But then stopped herself. She couldn't mention marriage to the duke. He might misinterpret her meaning. It was one thing to discuss the duke and his marriage prospects in the corridor with a man she thought was unrelated to the subject. But now? Impossible.

So, instead, she simply nodded her head. "True."

The duke looked up, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to decipher what kind of woman she was. Good luck to him. She didn't even know that herself. It was the one and only time he addressed her personally throughout the visit.

* * *

Nicholas paced in front of his drawing room fireplace. Mother, Ottersby, and Patience sat silently at the card table near the door Lady Mercy and her family had exited just moments ago. Patience coughed, and Mother started to make soft humming noises. He had half a mind to storm out of the room and swear off this blasted idea of getting married. Instead, he stopped and put both of his feet together like he was standing at attention. "That was an unmitigated disaster."

Mother's humming stopped, and her head shot up. "What do you mean? I thought Lady Mercy was lovely."

Nicholas scoffed. She was lovely. He had seen her be lovely to nearly every man at the Stafford ball. But the person she had become inside his home was a pale comparison. She'd barely spoken to him. His title, his home, and the pressure of meeting his family had turned her into a version of herself he didn't recognize. Lady Marion, in her white dress, had been more interesting than the Lady Mercy who had arrived at his home this afternoon. "Lady Mercy is lovely. But she clearly has no interest in me."

Ottersby frowned. "You have no proof of that. Besides, you are a duke."

Patience shook her head and laid a hand on Ottersby's shoulder. "Not everyone is a social climber, my dear, even if you were."

Ottersby tipped his head toward his wife. "And what a rotten one I turned out to be. In the end, I ended up proposing to my bewitching maid."

Patience smiled, and her eyes lit up as she leaned toward Ottersby. Nicholas knocked a knuckle against the fireplace mantle. This was not the time for him to watch his sister go moon-eyed over Ottersby. Nicholas went back to the figurative drawing board. Lady Mercy, despite her parents' encouragement, had been incredibly bored or disinterested during her introduction to him. He would have to find someone else. He wouldn't spend the rest of his life with someone who would rather be elsewhere.

"I think she was simply nervous," Mother said. "The first time I met your father, I barely spoke three words to him. Perhaps meeting her here was a mistake. The home is a lot to take in."

That it was, but he had thought to impress her. Instead, he had scared her off. She had almost, almost connected to him when he had spoken about listening at corridors. He could see it, sitting at the tip of her tongue, but then she changed her mind.

The Lady Mercy he had seen dancing with Lord Dowdle, and even the Lady Mercy he had met in the corridor, would never have stopped to think about what she was saying. She would have simply said it.

Patience sighed deeply, bringing his attention back to her. "I thought she was extremely well-mannered. Isn't that what you are looking for?"

Ottersby nodded in agreement. They both looked undisturbed by Lady Mercy's obvious lack of interest in him. Perhaps because they hadn't seen her like he had. Ottersby tipped his head to one side. "She seems rather perfect for you, really. Demure, careful, attentive. A woman like that could make a fine wife. She would be an asset, to be sure."

Nicholas narrowed his eyes, and the spaces surrounding Ottersby grew dark. How long had his friend been such a blackguard and so... right? The Lady Mercy who had arrived today had been exactly the type of woman he had thought he was looking for. If he hadn't seen her broad smiles and sparkling eyes at the Stafford ball, he would still be interested in her.

He was still interested in her.

But she had given him no reason to believe she was interested in him . And he knew she was capable of showing interest. Had she, perhaps, an attachment to one of the men she had danced with?

He stepped backward and rested his back against the wall. Leaning his head so he looked at the ceiling, he tried to picture Lady Mercy smiling and encouraging him as she had Lord Dowdle, her lips turned up and eyes sparking with unspoken words. For a moment it felt as if he were falling, and he put his hand on the wall to make certain he wasn't. Perhaps thinking of how vibrant Lady Mercy could be was not the best of plans. Maybe it would be better for him to find a woman who didn't excel at showing emotion. Lady Mercy had been dispassionate at tea, but if her ballroom fervor reappeared? How would he handle one of her smiles? Would he be able to control himself? He didn't spend two years in the army learning self-discipline and control only to lose himself at the sight of someone like Lady Mercy beaming at him.

"I like her," Mother said. Nicholas jerked his head away from the wall. "I like her family as well. It might not have been a perfect meeting, but these things seldom are. Patience met Ottersby after climbing through his hedges. At least it wasn't as terrible as that."

Patience snickered and smiled at Ottersby. Then she turned to Nicholas. "I like her too. Why don't I invite her to the opera? There is room in our box for both of you, as well as her mother."

The opera? If they sat near each other, it could be an opportunity for the two of them to speak. If she spent more time in his company, perhaps he could meet the woman from the ball instead of this stiff, empty version of her. But sitting together in Ottersby's box would also lead to speculation about their relationship. He had seen what one dance at a ball had done to set tongues wagging, and he would not subject either of them to that at this early stage of courtship. "No. Not the opera. It is too public. I don't want all of London gossiping about her. And you all know that's exactly what would happen. For now, I'll wait."

Patience didn't seem happy with his answer, but she never thought things through completely. That was Nicholas's job. And he was good at it. He wouldn't show more interest in Lady Mercy until he saw some evidence that she welcomed it, and if today's tea was any indication, his wait would either be very long or, more likely, infinite.