Читать онлайн книгу «Betraying Mercy» автора Amber Lin
Betraying Mercy
Amber Lin
Can she be more than a mistress?With a tarnished reputation, Mercy Lyndhurst expected to become the Earl of Rochford's mistress, not his wife. Immediately abandoned by her husband after their wedding, Mercy transformed herself from commoner to countess, vowing to protect the lands and people her husband was forced to leave.Over the past six years, William has restored the family fortune all the while tortured by his memories of Mercy…and the dark night he killed a man. When a threat draws him home, William learns just how much has changed–including his wife. While the passion still flares between them, he fears he has wounded her too badly to regain her trust. But as the danger grows they must unite to save the estate…and possibly their marriage.
Can she be more than a mistress?
With a tarnished reputation, Mercy Lyndhurst expected to become the Earl of Rochford’s mistress, not his wife. Immediately abandoned by her husband after their wedding, Mercy transformed herself from commoner to countess, vowing to protect the lands and people her husband was forced to leave.
Over the past six years, William has restored the family fortune all the while tortured by his memories of Mercy…and the dark night he killed a man. When a threat draws him home, William learns just how much has changed—including his wife. While the passion still flares between them, he fears he has wounded her too badly to regain her trust. But as the danger grows they must unite to save the estate…and possibly their marriage.
Betraying Mercy
Amber Lin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For D, because you said so
Many thanks to Malle Vallik, my editor, Leslie Molnar, and everyone at M&B E who supported this book. My fondest thanks to the original critique group, including Kate Meader and Anna Geletka. And special thanks to Tiffany Reisz, who encouraged me to keep going even though the book is so dark. Or maybe because of it.
Table of Contents
Chapter One (#u795ec695-3eb7-572e-9e87-c9458642d099)
Chapter Two (#u6f5a60b9-1c92-512a-8ca3-e8ad1ad42d5b)
Chapter Three (#u128617f1-6492-5ad2-b9ec-fb92ceafb20b)
Chapter Four (#u2d0e6bf9-34cb-5372-8ba1-95c30ad895b2)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
England, 1780
Drenched through, William banged the knocker. The heavy door creaked open under his hand. Unease slid through him. Where was everyone? Even old and cantankerous, the butler usually kept his post when William came home. He spared a glance for the flashing sky and then stepped into his home.
Flames flickered in their sconces, throwing shadows on red walls. The door shut behind him with a thud, throwing the hall into eerie silence.
Where was that damn butler? “Gerald?”
Memories rose to the surface, unbidden, of him as a younger man—a boy, really—returning home on a night like this. A very bad night. The similarities meant nothing. England was perpetually damp, and only seemed to get wetter north of Epping Forest. His family seat hadn’t changed in the ten years since his parents’ death, either. Of course everything was the same. But still, wariness unfurled within him.
He lifted his chin like an animal scenting danger.
The heel of William’s boots clacked through the thin rug. “Mr. Beck?”
His annoyance had leveled into a burning resentment in his gut during the rattling coach ride from Cambridge, but it flared again, brighter now. Of all people, his steward should have greeted him. He had no excuse after sending what could only be described as a summons. A very strange, very unwelcome summons.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
Though cryptic, he knew what it meant: come home. A message only someone raised in the village would understand. Even though he’d been raised in the manor, set apart, he understood.
He crumpled the note in his fist. Ridiculous. The ghosts had never been real. Just an old, poorly maintained abbey on an even older, more poorly maintained estate. It was a child’s rhyme. William couldn’t even remember the rest.
He preferred to forget.
Forgetting was easy enough to do in London. For years he had worked toward this goal, pooling the earldom’s dwindling resources into a shipping venture that would depart next week. If the investments weren’t successful, if he wasn’t on that ship, the unentailed land surrounding the manor would be lost.
So he had almost ignored the missive. In fact, he might have—but for the use of that child’s rhyme. Someone had sent for him. Someone who knew him. It called to some long-dormant sense of responsibility. He must return home, to this almost abandoned house, and settle any trouble. Despite his lack of tact, he must soothe any concerns. He smiled faintly. If nothing else, it would be practice for his time on the ship.
His years scrambling and gambling and fighting for enough cash to keep his family’s land intact hadn’t imbued him with any diplomacy. He wasn’t always proud of what he’d done, but his father had cared about the title. His grandfather had cared about the people who lived on it. The least he could do was keep them from penury.
Silence shrouded the house, the unnatural stillness a wan version of his memories. His mother could always be heard in one of her spells. Ever ineffectual, his father would beg and plead for her to stop. He’d always seemed so helpless in front of his wife. He’d never been helpless locked in his office with William, taking out his anger with his fists or a belt.
It had always been loud in the house, drowning any preternatural creatures that were said to inhabit the area. Now a strange current ran through the damp air, causing gooseflesh to rise on his frozen skin.
The butler probably thought it was a great joke to allow William to wander around the house. Gerald was stalwart and staid, as old retainers were wont to be, but he always took a secret glee in tormenting William. For his part, William had fought back with frogs and other boyhood pranks. A pretense of independence as they had both been trapped under the pious thumb of his father.
The implacable tick of the hall clock grew louder in the stillness. Worry sparked inside him, but he refused to let it breathe. Floorboards above him creaked, and he lifted his gaze. Shadows lay heavy across the landing. For a moment, William reached for the pistol he kept in his coat when he traveled.
He frowned. “Who’s there?”
A man emerged from the darkness, and the unsteady light drew his face in sharp relief. Beck, his steward. William distantly recalled their last meeting. Beck had seemed deferential at the time, though now his posture seemed almost like a challenge.
“Lord William.” Beck’s voice held surprise, and possibly…fear?
The surprised was uncalled for, considering he’d written the note to bring William home. And Beck should not be on the upper levels. He had no business there. Anger broke free of the concern that gripped him, a welcome distraction.
William climbed the stairs. “What the devil are you about?”
Beck moved to intercept. “My lord, perhaps you should wait—”
“I think not.”
William brushed past him, feeling chills down his spine as old memories merged with the present. He was halfway down the hallway when a woman’s soft sobs floated to him from his mother’s bedroom. There. There was the proof that everything was as it should be. Not that he wanted his mother to cry, but after years of consoling her, there was a constancy to her tears.
Except his mother had died ten years ago.
Firelight flickered through the slim opening of the door. He pushed inside.
Deep red spray marred a snowy white counterpane. A maid knelt on the floor, sobbing quietly. He went to her.
“Are you hurt? What happened?”
Her eyes widened as he approached. She backed up. Helplessly he turned back.
Beck stood in the doorway. He shook his head. “It’s not hers. Not anyone’s.”
The unspoken words rang in the silence. The ghosts. Ridiculous. He’d thought Beck a more rational man than that. Although the vision before him was chilling. And familiar.
The view before him swayed, as if he were underwater, looking up. It was exactly like one of his mother’s visions of her death. He clung to that thought: this was a dream, not reality. Maybe her condition was contagious and now William had it, and that was why he saw such a false thing as blood where it shouldn’t be. With no body nearby.
A prank. It must be.
The sickly sweet smell of his mother’s lavender perfume still permeated the air, not tainted with the tang of copper. A wave of nausea swept over him. On leaden feat, he pressed forward to the side of the bed. He touched the fabric. Dry but not hardened, not black. How long ago had the blood been spilled? And from what source? A poor animal, most likely.
“Who is allowed in here?” The words came out hollow, like his insides.
“Any of us, milord.” The maid’s voice quavered. “The house maids or a manservant. We don’t keep it locked.”
“Well, keep it locked,” he said too sharply.
With a nod and indistinct mumble, she fled the room.
He sighed. So much for diplomacy.
Beck stood in the door frame, solemn, watchful.
“Is this why you sent for me?” William asked.
Beck shook his head slowly, his eyes haunted. “No, my lord. I did not. Though it’s good you’ve come. There’s trouble.”
William frowned. If Beck didn’t write the note, then who did? He couldn’t worry about that now—more important, what the hell else had gone wrong?
“Trouble?” he prompted. “At the abbey?”
Beck raised an eyebrow. “No, but nearby.”
William blinked. “There’s nothing nearby.” Except the manor. And…
“The crypt,” Beck confirmed grimly.
A curious calm descended over William. “What’s happened?”
“It’s your mother. The seal was broken, so the gardener went inside. Her coffin was missing.”
“Missing?”
Beck swallowed audibly. “Indeed.”
A chill ran over his skin. The blood he could dismiss as a prank. His mother’s body missing? No, the entire coffin. He couldn’t quite believe it. He had to see for himself.
“We’ll go there. Now. Tonight.”
William pushed past Beck into the hall. He thudded down the stairs, almost barreling into the butler. Gerald always had a scold or a criticism at the ready. William arrived so late. William tracked rainwater into the house. That was years ago, a lifetime and a childhood ago, but the past had caught up to him now, bleeding into the present. He’d thought he’d escaped.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Gerald said, his eyes pitying.
Hell. He must look worse off than he thought. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” he said. Even though he wasn’t sure of that, unless he was the one misunderstanding. Everything was mixed up. Everyone was sorry. And all he wanted to do was leave.
Leave Essex, leave England. Leave behind the past of failure and tragedy. His father had died when he turned fourteen. His mother, a year later, a year poorer. William had inherited the title, all right, just not the legal stature to control the purse. The appointed solicitors had drained the already small accounts dry with poor investments. William suspected they were guilty of more than incompetence. Theft. But he’d never be able to prove it. All he could do was try to fix their error, far too late.
Gerald put a hand on William’s shoulder. Gerald, who had chased him away from the cupboards with a cane. Gerald, who had finked on him at every opportunity, earning William a whipping from his father. Once his nemesis and erstwhile caretaker, now he looked at William with solemn understanding.
For a brief moment, the veil of servant-to-master fell from between them. Their shared grief connected them, exposed them. The butler was just an old man, and William just a boy.
The awkward touch of comfort burned into his skin. His eyes burned, too, and he pushed away from the butler and his unearned caring. Footsteps sounded from deep inside the house, and William flashed back in time, expecting to see the tall, lean form of his father.
A large, robed figure emerged from the study. It was Vicar Charles. Not his father.
Of course not. The long ride must be affecting him. Or maybe the long absence. He was torn between the idea that he should have come home more often—or not at all.
The vicar frowned, his jowls quivering. “Suicide is a grievous sin and as such—”
“No.” William clenched his fists and moderated his voice, speaking evenly. “No, goddamn you. She didn’t kill herself. And that has nothing to do with what’s happening now.”
At the time, the vicar had been sure his mother had killed herself. William had silently wondered, doubted, as well. Too much laudanum could be an accident. Or a grievous sin. But even as an underage, newly appointed earl, he’d had clout, and he’d demanded his mother be buried in the family crypt regardless. He wouldn’t let the vicar denigrate his mother. She had died grief-stricken and practically bankrupt. He hadn’t been able to do anything about that. But in death, she sure as hell would not be shamed, not then or now.
The vicar muttered his sermon to the ground. “A willful act against God…”
William unclenched his jaw and turned to Beck. “Take me to them.”
Beck left to ready the horses while the vicar continued muttering supposed holy words, those damnable holy words. Everyone falling down around him, dying, bleeding, but the vicar remained standing. Thriving, judging by his bulk and the embroidered trim on his robe. Favored by God, then? It was almost enough to make William believe. Just not enough to make him care.
William leashed his old sorrow, his ever present guilt, and strode out to meet Beck at the stables. He took a fresh horse and rode into the sheets of rain toward the cemetery, leaving Beck behind to cart the vicar.
The water in his face and the jolt of the horse’s stride tried to ground William, to make this real. None of it could touch him now, nothing could. He had only his memories to warm him, and little they did. His mother had cried when he left for school last time. He’d promised he’d see her again soon. Lies. Self-disgust roiled within him, but there was nothing left to expel.
Chapter Two
The cemetery gates were propped open, so he rode through. He slid off his horse and then draped the reins over the head of a Madonna. Spongy grass sucked at his boots. The entrance to the crypt yawned into the night air, and William forced himself inside.
As he crossed the threshold, the hush wrapped around him like a vice. The air was stale and the storm muzzled—even Mother Nature did not dare intrude here. He hated dark places. Closed, tight, suffocating places. They had always reminded him of graves, and this time, they were. Turning the corner, he entered the main chamber.
One body-sized pedestal stood in the center to display the deceased. Empty. Wiped clean. He found the marker for his father, intact. And beside it, cracked open, gaping, the place where his mother should be resting in peace. He knelt and reached gingerly for the granite pieces, feeling like he was disturbing the dead. Not him, though. Someone else had done this. Someone real.
Not a ghost.
“At least this place would have been locked, correct?” he asked Beck when he and the vicar arrived.
Beck nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Broken. Though not everyone is stopped by locks.”
Despite his unease, William gave a wry twist of his lips. “But the casket. And the body. Those would be stopped by a lock.”
A shrug was his answer.
William turned to examine the remaining engraving. His father had been a pious man, if not a strong-willed or cunning one. Through a lifetime listening to his mother’s wailing, he had never raised a hand to her. He had whipped William on occasion, but William had deserved it. Besides, his father had practically begged forgiveness each time after. It was a cycle William had ended by leaving permanently—and his family’s death had only reinforced his decision to live elsewhere. Anywhere else.
He would have been horrified to know his countess’s rest had been disturbed. He would have been horrified to hear how she died.
“It is that place,” came the throaty whisper of the vicar. “It called to the evil in their hearts.”
“The abbey,” Beck explained, as if it were reasonable.
William turned away to hide his expression. He wasn’t even sure what it would say. Annoyance, that the damned village insisted on this tale. Fear, too. Not of ghosts, but that old fear that the stories had led his mother to her grave. She’d always heard voices. What had they told her to do?
After a moment, Beck’s sure hand landed on his shoulder. “Someone will be here on the morrow to clean this up and fix the locks.”
Yes, of course. Wipe it away, like the pedestal in the center of the room. Clean and dusty until the next person in the family died.
Him.
He was the last of the line. As far as he knew, there wasn’t even a distant cousin to inherit his place. Sometimes he couldn’t figure out why he worked so damn hard. Just let the land, and the debts, be sucked back into the crown. The king could have the damned land.
But would he care for the people here, too? William couldn’t be sure. Not that he had been an excellent caretaker, but at least his tenants ate and worked and survived here. Even that could be taken away if the less scrupulous businessmen were given free rein. He’d heard about evictions happening farther north. No. He would stay. He would manage.
“It’s for the best,” the vicar muttered. “She didn’t belong here.”
William stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “And I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”
“This is holy ground and your mother—”
“Be very careful what you say next,” William said quietly. He didn’t believe the vicar would disturb sacred ground this way. His rigid moral compass would hold him in check even if respect for his master did not. Still, he wouldn’t allow her to be slandered.
Even if it might be true.
“She…” Vicar Charles’s throat worked but produced only unintelligible sounds. His eyes flitted to Beck and then back.
“My mother suffered an unfortunate accident with her sleeping draft.”
“An accident?” the vicar mumbled. “I do not think—”
“Precisely. Do not think. Just listen. I declared her death an accident ten years ago. If I find out that you had anything to do with this, you will regret it.”
The vicar understood the threat perfectly. His beady eyes glittered. “I’m a man of God.”
“I don’t particularly like him, either. You do not want to cross me, Vicar.” He turned to Beck. “Take him.”
Muttering fiercely, the vicar left. No doubt Beck would get an earful on the return ride to the parish. When the rustle from the brougham faded away, William knelt beside his father’s casket and prayed.
* * *
William had no desire to return to the house and deal with the mysterious bloodstain. The word duty rolled sour in his gut. He’d spent his entire life under the weight of his destitute title, and this felt like the pebble to break his back. He was half-tempted to ride back to London. He needn’t even get on the damn ship. Let the chips—and muddy, barely profitable lands—fall where they may.
Beck found him on a bench inside the crypt.
William stood. “We ride to the abbey.”
Without a word, Beck led him out. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, worn out and ignorant of its sins. Beck unhitched the mare from the brougham and mounted bareback. William followed on his bay. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go there.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
They rode to the patch of trees past the abbey, where a pool of water rippled innocently. William circled the ditch, finding nothing but damp earth. He did not know what he was looking for, only that he could not rest until he found it.
He wandered nearer the abbey. From here he could see the entire cemetery, and to the side, the top spires of the manor. In the old days, children had sometimes played in the old crumbling structure. He had, too, games of gallant knights and evil sorcerers, if he’d managed to sneak outside after his lessons. Bravery. Honor. The domain of children, not men.
The building had been condemned ten years ago, deemed unsafe and barred to entry. The rotting wood slats were easily kicked in. Inside, moonlight barely penetrated the darkness. Following the broken wall, he trailed his fingers along the soft moss. A light glinted from the gatehouse, like a wink of moonlight off glass.
Quickening his pace, he stepped inside the hollow tower. Bottles were piled in a corner, ale tankards and stronger liquor. He knelt and nudged a damp coat that stank of piss. A drunkard had been here. There was only one in the village, at least one dedicated enough to his craft to imbibe all these bottles. A man known for his rampages and, occasionally, violence.
William met Beck at the horses. “Jasper was here.”
Beck’s eyes widened as he passed him his reins. “Are you sure?”
“Let’s ask him and find out.”
They rode in silence, with only the storm to distract them. A curious rage stirred within him, that his mother had been disturbed, his home violated. The anger poured through his veins, burning and flaming until all he could see was red.
He hadn’t known this violence lived within him. He had been an obedient child. Had to be, for sometimes that was the only peace to be found. Rarely disrespectful, never rebellious.
Now anger threatened to consume him, and he was glad of it. Staid, responsible William could only mourn and lament and make the fucking arrangements for repair. This William could fight back.
The small hut came into view, and they both dismounted. William rapped on the knotted door. It opened to reveal a girl with long dark hair that shone streaks of silver in the moonlight. Jasper’s daughter, he recalled. The memory jarred him. He’d forgotten her.
He preferred to forget.
Her doe eyes widened. “My lord. How may I serve you?”
“Your father,” William said.
She glanced back then licked her lips. “I think he’s in the barn, but—”
William strode to the slanted building. Beck followed, a silent observer. He hoped the girl didn’t follow. The barn smelled of manure and moldy hay. He kicked open a stall, empty, and then pushed open the next. A snoring heap of man huddled on the straw.
He hauled Jasper up by his grimy shirtfront.
After a few startled snorts, Jasper peered at him from under sagging eyelids. “What be the meaning of this?”
William’s hands tightened before he pushed Jasper to his feet. He wasn’t sure how he knew Jasper was connected, but he did. Or maybe he just needed Jasper to be connected, because he had nothing else to look for, no one else to blame.
“Were you at the abbey?”
“No,” he said with belligerence. “When?”
“Last night. The one before. Were you there?”
Jasper frowned, seeming confused now. “Mayhap I was. What’s it to you? A man’s got to have some peace.”
“What about the manor? Were you there, as well? Did you pour pig’s blood on our bed?”
Soft gasps of shock came from behind him, punctuated by a long wail. Apparently the girl had brought her mother and younger sister, as well. Mercy, that was the girl’s name. It came to him with a flash of warmth. The women shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t protect them from this. He couldn’t protect anyone.
Jasper’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Finally, he said, “I didn’t do nothing, sir. I swear it.”
“My lord,” Beck corrected mildly.
Jasper seemed to rouse from his stupor of sleep and alcohol. “No, no, sir. I didn’t touch the crypt, sir. I wouldn’t have—”
“I said nothing about the crypt.”
“I didn’t… I don’t…” The man’s words slurred. One of his eyes slid to the right, while the other remained centered, like a painting melting in the sun.
How would Jasper know about the crypt unless he’d seen something? From the ridge of the abbey, he would have had the perfect view. Or he might have done it. For the jewelry? Then he would have been disappointed. A few pearls and a handsomely embroidered dress had been all that remained for her at the end. Still a bounty for a commoner like Jasper, but hardly what he would have expected from a noble. It wouldn’t have taken a great deal of cunning, just brute strength to hammer through the granite. And most damning of all, the hint of guilt in Jasper’s slack expression.
“Tell me what you did with her.”
“I’m no grave robber! And it ain’t as if she’s alive to feel it.”
William’s stomach lurched. Jasper didn’t even seem to realize how he betrayed himself. He yanked himself out of reach with more agility than William could credit.
Eyes bulging, Jasper grasped the neck of a broken bottle from the heap. “Stay away! You won’t be pinning this on me!”
Worry streaked through him for the women, his own thoughts ringing in his head: can’t protect them, can’t save them. He stepped forward to disarm him but was dragged back. Jasper’s wife clung to his back, momentarily anchoring him in place. By the time he shook her off and drew his pistol, Jasper had the youngest child in his grip, the spike of glass held to her face.
William froze, unable to fire without risking the girl.
“Tell them,” Jasper spat into her face. “Tell them I couldn’t have done it. I was here, with you.”
The girl whimpered, a little-girl sound of fear and shock.
“I never meant to hurt no one. She couldn’t feel the fire.”
For a moment William thought he was referring to the little girl he held—that she couldn’t feel the pain from his makeshift weapon. But then he realized who he meant. And it ain’t as if she’s alive to feel it. Jasper had burned the body. Burned. She could never rest in peace, not ever.
A low sound vibrated from William’s chest, something between grief and rage. “You bastard.”
Jasper tightened his grip and hauled the girl closer, holding the shard at her neck. Mercy screamed. Fury and fear clawed at William; he raised his arm, found his aim, and took the shot. Jasper recoiled with a look of shock. Thick hands released their grip on the child, and she scampered away to her mother.
He stared in shock at the smoking pistol he held. He’d had his share of fights in the gambling houses of London, but he’d never shot a man. The report still echoed in his head, followed by the thud of a limp body. A dead one.
He’d truly become a monster now, and yet he felt strangely detached. The women cried behind him, the child and the mother. Not Mercy, though. She stared at him with something akin to shock. Naturally, she would be horrified. He would be horrified, too, if he didn’t feel so damn hollow. So cheated. This man had taken buckets of blood, bodies of it, and barely paid him back at all. His vision was blurry and his morality in tatters.
William turned to the group, and a huddled mass of white nightdresses shrank back. Regret churned his stomach. He would never hurt them; didn’t they know that? But neither could he protect them.
A small, pale hand touched his arm and lowered it. He hadn’t even realized he’d still been pointing it toward a blank space.
“It’s over,” she said, and he heard relief in her voice. If she had any fear, she refused to show it. Her innocent eyes, her graceful neck, her tattered gown, they were all a facade. A feint, to confuse her opponent. She was not weak. She was stronger than he.
He stared at her, bemused. Even though her calmness was directed against him, he drew strength from it, as if she might hold the key. As if she could save him from himself. The idea was lunacy but only fitting, considering he was mad. Definitely mad, when he felt a stirring attraction to the slim body in a too-large nightgown. The breasts and hips, clear beneath the thin, damp cloth, formed the body of a young woman. Of course she was. If they had played together, she couldn’t be much younger than he. The town hadn’t stopped growing, stopped changing, just because he’d left.
“You aren’t going to cry, then? Or scream at me?” Like her mother was doing. He could barely hear her. All his senses were attuned to Mercy.
“No,” she said simply.
“Why not? Don’t you grieve him?”
“You were just trying to protect my sister,” she said, and he knew it wasn’t an answer to his question. He could see that from her eyes. She didn’t grieve her father, and considering the man’s treatment of the child, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He wished he could have felt nothing when his parents died. He wished he could feel nothing now.
“What will you do?” he asked curiously.
“The same thing we have always done. He brought in some money, but he spent more of it on drink.”
Yes, William understood that. His family had once prospered, under his grandfather’s reign. He remembered a kind, wrinkled face. He remembered shouting behind closed doors with his father. And he remembered a startling change in lifestyle when his grandfather died. Where had the money gone? What had his father done with it? By the time William had inherited, the accounts hovered just above zero. And after the so-called solicitors had run through them, he’d found nothing but debts.
Strange to think they weren’t so different, the lord of the realm and the daughter of the town drunk. Although they hadn’t been so different as children. She’d played the princess at the highest point in the abbey while he had fought through dragons to rescue her.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
He could rescue her now, the way he’d imagined on the old turrets of the abbey. A life of penury awaited her, or worse. He could change that, though his motives were the opposite of pure. The violence of this night should have quelled any desire, but instead he felt it raging back, the lust he’d felt for her as an adolescent youth. And now? He wanted her body, yes, but also her courage, her strength. He wanted her softness, too, and comfort and family and all the things he no longer deserved. An honorable man would leave her here, but hadn’t he given that up when he killed a man?
“Come with me.” It should have been a plea, but it came out a command. He wasn’t strong enough to retract it, not when he wanted her acquiescence. This wasn’t a test for her, but him, to find out exactly how low he would sink in his fall from grace. If his body had any say in the matter, he thought grimly, it would be very far indeed.
Beck followed as wails came from the barn. “My lord.”
William stopped beside his horse, staring into the gray hills.
“Back there,” Beck said. “My lord, it was murder.”
His heart squeezed tight. Murder. “He was going to hurt her. You saw it.”
“He was drunk and unarmed but for a piece of glass. You came to the house with a pistol. It will look like revenge. There are limits to what the law will accept, even for a peer.”
William paused, swallowed. “No. There aren’t.”
A part of him wished Beck was right, that someone would punish William for what he had done, that someone would protect this young woman from his misuse. But that part of him was very small and William spoke the truth. That was the problem with being an earl, even a poor one—there was no one to stop him.
The young woman crossed the marshy grass in her thin nightgown—already halfway to translucence in the rain. She faced him with a blankness he recognized in himself. Shock at what had happened. Acceptance of what was to come.
Sweet little Mercy Lyndhurst, and here he was to defile her.
The last time he’d seen her she’d been a waif of a girl. Now she was all woman. And why shouldn’t he take her? He could have her and help her at the same time.
A poor excuse.
He examined her, struggling for detachment. Already the rain was clearing some of the fog from his mind, allowing rays of sanity to peek through. The thought of going home alone to the empty cavern of a house chilled him. He might as well be a stranger in his own lands for all that he knew anyone here.
He was selfish to take her this way, but concern whispered, too.
What would she do here? Jasper may have been a poor excuse for a caretaker, but a young woman with no means could starve in the next cruel winter. She deserved better than him for a rescuer, but he was all she had.
Another excuse. The simple truth was, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave her here, in a place that reeked of death.
“Did you send the note?” he asked suddenly. He didn’t know where the idea had come from, but he knew the answer even before she nodded.
She’d sent the note, because she knew there was trouble. She’d used code from their childhood, so that he would understand. And that was as good a reason to take her as any—there were very few people he could trust.
Just her, perhaps.
As he knelt, she placed her slim foot in his hands. She weighed almost nothing as he lifted her up. He mounted behind her and they set off. A soft, slim girl in white backed by a bedraggled man. Traced from the pages of a picture book, a lady and her savior. Except the woman was a sacrifice and the man had just killed her father, casting William into the role of the dragon.
They rode through the mist with Beck following behind. William didn’t give a damn about Beck’s disapproval, but the girl’s fear gave him pause. She was beautiful and brave and everything he wasn’t. He wanted her with an intensity that stole his breath. He wanted to join with her, to sink into her softness and never come out.
He swiped the rainwater from his eyes. “Go.”
“My lord?” she asked.
Damn her, didn’t she understand how close he was to breaking?
“Leave!” He turned to Beck, who rode up beside them. “Take her home.”
Lacking the willpower to watch them go, William stalked up the slick hill. The house was as forbidding as he remembered it, but relief warmed him. Thank God she was safe. From him.
He’d always been so damn careful to leave her alone when they were young. Not to even look at her, when she was sixteen and shy and so lovely it hurt to breathe. It had been a relief when he could finally move to London and never see her. Never be tempted. Mercy. She wasn’t his class. He couldn’t touch her, couldn’t be with her. The only thing he could do was ruin her. The temptation had always been there, through the years. And in that dark moment, in the barn, he had given in to it.
But now that would not happen.
He went to his room upstairs, where a fire heated the hearth and water sat on his dresser. No servants appeared, though apparently they still did their duty.
William peeled the wet clothes from his body and kicked them into a pile in the corner. He would burn them once they dried. Despite the fire, the night air pebbled his skin. He used the lukewarm water to bathe all over. Over and over he washed and rinsed, until the water had turned murky. His skin still felt gritty, soiled.
He looked to the bed, draped by a coverlet, so white, so innocent. A red spray of blood. He blinked and the vision changed again, to thin wet cloth draped over slim curves.
Hell.
He flung back the counterpane and climbed beneath the cool sheets. His mind was as blank as the ceiling. Maybe it would be like this for the rest of his life, going through the motions. A mechanical body and an empty mind. Maybe he’d died along with his parents, in every way that mattered.
A solitary thought pierced the veil of regret—the girl. Even now, he wanted to use her in the most abominable way. She would be somewhere far, far away from him by now.
God. So beautiful, so sweet. Sacrificing herself on the altar of her family, when he hadn’t even been able to save his own.
Chapter Three
Mercy Lyndhurst shivered in her nightgown, the threadbare fabric proving little protection against the chilling winds. Cold rain slashed her skin and wet grass froze her bare toes, but none of it could dampen the raging furnace within.
Inside she burned with fear. And guilt.
She watched the corner where Rochford had disappeared. He told her to leave, but it couldn’t be that easy. Nothing in her life had been easy. Hardship and betrayal, those were things she could count on.
And if her family was supported in the process, all the better. Her body was worth that price. Who would blame her? The entire village would. They would shun her—and Hannah—but maybe that was worth the price, too.
Owen Beck blocked her path. “I’ll take you home.”
She wanted nothing more than to be home with her family, almost safe and not quite warm. Only an hour ago, her father banged on the door, screaming to be let inside. Even Mama didn’t dare let him inside when he was so deep in his cups. So he’d gone to sleep in the barn, but Mercy kept her vigil, in a silent battle of wills with the moon.
Only when it relented to the pale wash of morning would her sister be safe for one more night. When the knocking came again, she assumed her father had returned. She peeked out the window. Horses. A feeling of dread settled in her stomach, and relief and hope and gratitude.
She was wicked for wishing her father dead. She couldn’t stop wishing her feather dead, even though he was. Mercy had devoted so many hours, so many years to protecting Hannah. If it were taken away, what would she have left?
She straightened her spine. “Let me pass, Mr. Beck.”
“Mr. Beck,” he mocked. “As if we weren’t in the same schoolroom and you didn’t follow me around with your thumb in your mouth.”
She’d been lucky in that regard. The pastor had allowed girls to attend the church-run school room. More importantly, he’d allowed her to attend, even though she hadn’t always had proper clothes or shoes to do so. She had sat near the back—at first, with her thumb in her mouth—and learned.
She tightened her grip on her nightgown, the last threads of her supposed propriety. Truthfully, she had lost any rights to virtue years ago. “We aren’t children anymore.”
His hair had escaped its queue, framing his face in wet tendrils. “I’m not letting you do this.”
She never had an older brother, but it appeared Owen wanted to act as one. Why had he not done so at her home, when her father had threatened her sister? Or for the years before that when she desperately needed help? No one in the village had intervened, though her father’s nightly rages were almost as legendary as the countess’s.
Only one man would have helped her, who had enough power to. Enough goodness. And it wasn’t the man in front of her.
“I intend to honor my word, Owen.” She used his name as a jab, since he insisted.
Let him pretend to be her friend when just weeks before he had barely troubled himself to acknowledge her. “Even us lowly villagers understand a simple trade.”
Though the thought of actually following through with it choked in her throat. She’d had no doubt of the earl’s intentions when he’d asked her to come with him. The look in his eye had explained intentions for her more clearly than watching the sheep breed in spring. And so, she would do it. Out of gratitude, out of desperation. What did it matter? He wouldn’t mistreat her, of that she was sure. He wouldn’t leave her empty-handed, and her sister Hannah needed to eat.
Owen scowled. Even marred such, his face was smooth, almost pretty. The girls swooned when he walked by, but Mercy had never been moved. He had grown up in the village but had been sent off to boarding school when his family could afford to do so. When he came back, he had lived in the steward’s house, drinking tea in the afternoons like a regular gentleman, only nodding to Mercy at church and then looking quickly away.
“I never thought that about you.” Owen’s eyes, deep wells of brown, pleaded things she did not understand. “You’re not like them. That’s why you cannot do this.”
Pretty words, but Owen could not save her now. Even through the rain she could see the thin silhouettes in the attic windows, witnessing her ruin. She could not return home without spreading the disgrace to her sister. Her inner shame would be known by everyone, and she could not help but feel a little relieved.
“Everyone will know that I’ve come here before dawn. They’ll know why I’ve come.” To fall. To be ruined. Too late. Her only choice was to earn the protection of Rochford. “I’m a fallen woman now.”
“Then let me help,” Owen said grimly. “I’ll marry you.”
Her breath caught. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever offered her. Far more than she deserved.
Owen had teased her endlessly and licked her apple before she got to eat it, but that was practically a statement of everlasting friendship from a young boy to a girl. Which was why she couldn’t marry him.
She retained her virginity, but she was far from innocent. Her father’s hands marked her soul, even as the bruises faded from her body. She refused to taint Owen with her wickedness. He deserved someone whole of heart and pure of body.
The earl, though. He was like her.
So she ensured Owen would let her go, and be glad of it. “There are some women who prefer to be the whore of a lord than the wife of a steward,” she said, and stomped up the hill to the servants’ entrance, her cruel words ringing in her ears. He didn’t try to stop her.
Which was for the best.
The kitchen bubbled and sizzled its welcome like the hell she would surely be sent to. Instead of smelling of brimstone, the savory aroma of meat and spices suffused the air, reminding her that the ordinary world carried on.
A maid barely glanced up from her cleaning, but Cookie looked up from her papers as she approached. The cook’s face was mottled and apron streaked with blood, at the end of a long day. She peered at Mercy from beneath thick lids. “What, more trouble? A beggar?”
Mercy recoiled. When Cookie reached her, she clasped Mercy’s hands between her thicker ones and rubbed furiously. Pinpricks turned into knives and Mercy swallowed a cry.
“Oh, dearie. This ain’t the night,” Cookie said. “But I suppose a bit of soup won’t go noticed, then.”
In her bedraggled state, she had been mistaken for a beggar. The truth was much worse.
“That’s not why I am here.” Mercy fought the urge to shut her eyes for the telling. “That is, Lord Rochford is expecting me.”
A small lie, since he’d told her to leave. Come, go. He didn’t know what he wanted, but she needed this.
The callused hands covering hers froze. Cookie’s face swallowed her eyes as she squinted. “Mercy? Mercy Lyndhurst, that be you?”
She looked down. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cookie flinched away. “And you say the young lord is expecting you. Tonight.”
Mercy stared at the flour-covered floor. There could only be one reason for a half-dressed village girl to attend upon a young lord. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cookie stepped back. “I see.”
The disgust in Cookie’s voice slapped the breath from her. Mayhap she would grow accustomed to it.
“You’re a right mess, then.” The sympathy she had granted a beggar now evaporated. The woman spoke with the superiority she was due as a cook to a whore. “There’s a washroom back that way where you’ll find water to clean yourself.”
Cookie looked over her too-large nightgown, surely taking in its tattered hem and the way it sloped off her slim shoulder. Perhaps it was even transparent. Mercy’s face burned.
“I’ll have something brought for you to wear,” Cookie finally said, then pointed to the washroom.
Mercy hurried inside and began to wash with the cold, soapy water.
Her friend Jennie worked as a housemaid here. Maybe she had even seen her from her attic room. Even if she hadn’t, she would know soon enough. Would she speak to Mercy or cut her on the street?
The freezing water branded shameful words of dishonor into her skin. Considering how numerous her sins were, soon there wouldn’t be any more room left.
“Don’t you grieve him?”
“You were just trying to protect my sister.”
It had been true. He had protected her sister, not just that night but every night hereafter. She had entertained her own thoughts of vengeance, in the dark of night and under the weight of evil. It was not moral superiority that had stayed her hand, but fear.
Rochford had been strong enough to carry out the act. That was enough reason to give herself to him. For that debt, she owed him everything, and this was all she had.
A young maidservant shyly thrust a dress into the room, which Mercy accepted gratefully. Her fingers fumbled on the ties, but she slipped it on then stepped back into the enveloping warmth of the kitchen.
Cookie was gone, but a man was there, one Mercy recognized. Nathaniel Jones wore footman’s livery, though he slouched at the table with a steaming mug. He cast a long, slow look from her head to exposed toes. His eyes lit with a wicked intent she recognized too well.
“Little Mercy.” He smirked. “Not so high-and-mighty anymore, are we?”
Humiliation, thick and lumpy, slid through her. “I was never high-and-mighty, just because I didn’t want to go behind the church with you.”
“You’ll do a lot more than that now. Yes, and when the gent’s done with you, I’ll have my turn.”
Her skin crawled at the thought. “Never.”
He laughed. “Whores can’t be choosy, can they? Heard all about your pa. When you’re sleeping out in the barn of the tavern with no money or man to warm you, you’ll be grateful to service me.”
Her nostrils flared, but she said nothing. She very much feared he might be correct.
Cookie came back into the kitchen. “Let’s go, then. What’re you waiting for?”
Eager to be away from Nathaniel’s knowing leer, Mercy followed her down a plain hall, through a door, and into another world. Slick marble floors topped with white statues. Ceilings taller than trees with a crystal chandelier hanging like flowered boughs.
Jennie had described it all to her, but it was a different thing seeing it for herself. Mercy would have been out of place in her best clothes. Wearing a borrowed dress with no petticoats or shoes was blasphemous. She crossed her arms tight over her chest.
The butler appeared, his approach silent. He said not a word to her, but Cookie nudged her to follow him. Where below stairs teemed, busy as a beehive, the upper rooms were beautiful but unnaturally still, like a naturalist’s bug display case.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped and nodded to the side. “Third door on your right.”
The hallway wavered before her eyes, but she forced the ugly pictures from her mind and continued on. Maybe God would strike her dead for her sins; then she would not have to go through with it. Or then again, maybe this was all she deserved.
Chapter Four
The closed white door mocked her brave intentions. Glancing back at the stairs, she tightened her arms around herself. The hall was empty.
The floorboards creaked, and Mercy jumped. A maid bustled out of the room down the hall, carrying a pile of white laundry, her eyes red and puffy. She passed Mercy without acknowledgment. Invisible, as servants should be, unlike Mercy, who stood in the hallway like a beacon of shame.
Her curiosity poked and prodded until she took tentative steps to the open door. An opulent bedroom, fine furniture and lace doilies cast in shadows.
Then Mercy noticed the bed and gasped.
A black puddle stained the bare mattress. Mercy had witnessed enough slaughters of sheep and cows to know what it was. Blood.
Had her father done that, too? It seemed…impossible. But then, she knew how violent he became in his cups. And she’d done nothing. That dried blood was on her hands, too.
She returned to the third door. Rochford was hurting. She might not understand his grief, but she understood solace. This much she could do for him. In this way, she could begin to pay penance.
She took a deep breath, turned the knob and slipped inside.
This room was smaller than the last. Mercy blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Rochford slumbered peacefully on the bed. She took a step closer. Though with his face relaxed in sleep and his slender shoulders showing above the sheet, he looked closer to a boy.
He had looked fearsome in the barn, invincible, but he was just a young man. Only a few years older than herself, maybe one and twenty. And handsome. She had never let herself notice before. She could have dreamed of him, if she’d had any will left to dream. She could have loved him, if she’d had the strength to hope. As it was, she had always been beneath him, a village girl to the landed lord.
It had been easier not to think of him at all, than imagine what could have been.
Well, she was still far beneath him, warming his bed. Or supposed to. He was sound asleep. No matter her determination to carry this through, or to get it over with quickly, she was not bold enough to climb in while he slept.
She considered returning downstairs to wait, but she didn’t want to risk running into Nathaniel again. Besides, the tall chairs in front of the hearth looked so inviting.
Rochford flung an arm above his head. Mercy froze. He turned and then blinked at the ceiling. With a sigh, his gaze lowered until it met hers.
“You,” he breathed. He sounded accusatory, but he had been the one to bring her here.
She shivered. “I wasn’t sure if I should knock.”
“Get out.”
Her courage fled. She turned to leave, but a rustle and a rush of air warned her of his approach. Breath escaped her lungs in a quiet burst of shock. She didn’t move a muscle, barely breathed, waiting for him to touch her.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he whispered against her temple.
Soft pressure drifted down the side of her body. She swallowed hard.
“You don’t belong here.”
It was true. She was sorry. She wanted to tell him but the words would not form. A breath blew across the back of her neck, raising the hairs there.
Hardness pushed against her behind. She knew what it was. His lips danced down her neck. Her fingernails scraped the door.
“Tell me no,” he said. “Tell me I’m a brute, not to touch you.”
Her hands curled into fists, impotent against wood panels. And go where?
This whole night lined up before her like some sort of a test, but she didn’t understand the rules. She feared there were none at all, just that she would lose.
“Please,” she said.
The hand on her breast fell away. “Get on the bed, then.”
Mercy scrambled onto the bed and huddled in the center, wrapping the dress tight around her. He was naked, and she looked quickly away. The bed creaked under his weight. He pushed her back onto the sheets.
It had been two years since she’d barred the door to her father. Two years since she had threatened to poison his food if he ever touched her sister.
Endure, she told herself, and live. She was out of practice.
Air brushed her thighs as her nightgown lifted. She clenched her eyes and fists tight. Warm weight pressed along her body.
“Mercy,” he whispered, but it did not sound like something that needed a response.
The gentlest of touches feathered her face, so light she was not even sure whether it was his fingers or just his breath. Soft caresses trailed down her neck.
They stopped, probing. Sharp pain lanced her shoulder. Her bruise, and not a pretty sight. She had the most inappropriate urge to laugh. She doubted whatever women he had seen in London were marked like this.
“What is this?” he asked.
It is a bruise, she wanted to say, but her smart mouth had gotten her in trouble in the first place, so all she said was, “Doesn’t hurt.”
“Who hit you?”
Her father, of course, but she was loath to bring up the man he had just killed when she lay so helplessly under him. His tone demanded an answer—he was the lord here and her master of the moment. She tensed, waiting for reprimand, wondering if her disobedience would earn her another bruise.
He might have read the answer from her body, for a choked sound came from above her, then the weight lifted. Footsteps stumbled across the room and then silence fell, amplified by the quiet crackle of the fire.
Was he finished, then? He had only touched her, not taken her virginity. But then, that was all her father had ever done. Maybe that was all they ever wanted with her.
She opened her eyes and sat up. Rochford hunched over in a chair by the hearth, head in his hands. Spasms shook his naked body, though he was completely silent. He wasn’t weeping but she almost wished he would. It would be easier to bear than these deep, wrenching jerks of his whole body, as if it could not even express the grief, as if it would tear itself apart trying.
Though surely he would not want it, she felt sorry for him. It was like looking into a deep well, black and endless. Some part of her still hoped this night was a dream—a nightmare—but her mind could not have conjured up his genuine despair.
A cleverer girl might take the reprieve and run, but she could not leave him this way. He had this whole house full of servants and an earldom, every advantage a young man could hope for, but she had never seen someone so desolate except maybe herself. And for all the trappings, he was so very alone.
She crossed the room and knelt beside him. The deliberations of her ruined future clattered to the floor, eclipsed by his grief. His need for solace gaped like an open wound. If her body could be an instrument of healing, she would not regret its use.
The light touch of her hand to his knee seemed to send a shock through him. In a flash, he grasped her body between his legs, within his arms, bundling her up like a babe.
His shudders rocked both of them, adrift in the sea of his grief. But neither of them were alone anymore. Tentatively, she stroked his back.
Seconds stretched into minutes, maybe even hours, and he slowly stilled. She was exhausted, as if she had been the one to cry, even though she had not shed a tear. He shivered, and she ran her fingers over his neck, his shoulders.
The air thickened with expectation. She understood what it meant: the member that hardened beneath her, the way his breathing turned harsh and heavy. His hold on her body turned from a greedy clutch to a firm hold of intention. Her body awoke with anticipation, while her mind muted the world with its protective cloak.
He tangled his fingers in her hair, tugging her head back. His mouth met her neck in an open-mouthed kiss, then moved up behind her ear. She heard him breathe in the scent of her, as if he were suffocating and she were air. He settled her over his hardness, rocking gently.
“I can’t stop,” he muttered.
She made a decision, then, but it had never really been in question. He was her lord, her master, her everything. This was her fault, more than he could ever know. The use of her body, the loss of her maidenhead, was all the recompense she had to give. She proffered herself with a gentle nudge of her hips.
He froze, taut muscle imprisoning her against his hardness. “No.”
No? “You don’t want me?”
“You’re innocent,” he said on a groan.
Misplaced honor. She swallowed against the thickness. “I’m not.”
He paused, his indecision swirling around their locked embrace.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You need this.”
He moved quickly, pushing up the thin fabric of her nightclothes and nudging her entrance with his thickness. It was too large, wouldn’t fit. The pressure burned, and she withheld a whimper, but his grip inexorably pulled her down. He impaled her, and she cried out.
“Mercy?” he asked.
Her hips raised and lowered, the motion instinctive. She knew the rhythm, and now her body learned its dance.
“Yes,” he said. “Please.”
She would have done it anyway, but to hear him beg spurred her on faster. Her movements were rewarded with a low moan. Always, she had been the one at a disadvantage. This time she set the pace. His hands rested on her hips, his head fell back.
Dark memories nipped at her heels, but she grounded herself in the moment with his reactions. A curve of her hips had him gasping. A clenching of her muscles drew a groan out of him.
She ruled him with every undulation of her body. He was the supplicant now, pleading from heavy-lidded eyes. A pinch of pain marked each invasion, but there was perverse pleasure, too. His needy sounds, his helpless shudders brought her a sort of internal satisfaction.
His face contorted into a mask of fury: his eyes glinted, unseeing, his teeth bared. A low growl erupted from him as his body bowed upward. The force of his crisis tossed her body, but the weight of his hands anchored her.
It was violent and desperate, in harmony with the rest of this night, but she could not be frightened. He had left himself vulnerable to her, and so tied a small string of trust between them. She had seen the weakest part of him, and his desire wasn’t it.
He fell back onto the chair, wrapping her against his chest. His peace cocooned them both, a brief respite from the storm. Then he stood, pulling her up with him. She was drained, with no strength left to protest when he carried her across the room.
He tucked her into bed, like a parent to a child, then he donned layer after layer of clothing, until his lanky limbs and slim torso were puffed up into the proper image of his lordship. Without a word, he left the room and shut the door behind him.
The tiredness crashed over her in waves, until finally, sleep dragged her under.
* * *
The sound of voices woke Mercy—low pitched, male. One muttered incessantly, broken briefly by Rochford’s crisp accent and Owen’s familiar timbre.
She opened her eyes. A dim glow through the window heralded the approach of dawn. The door swung open. She caught a glimpse of Rochford before she shut her eyes again.
“Wake up, Mercy,” he said.
He would have her leave his room, his house. Perhaps she would even have to leave the village, so as not to corrupt it. There were large problems to face, but as long as she huddled in the bed, she could put them off. Just for a moment, she wanted her life free from the whims of men.
She said in a small voice, “I’m tired.”
And she did feel tired, but more than that, she felt afraid.
Owen came in, followed by the vicar. She gasped and stumbled from the bed, fussing futilely with the rumpled dress. It was one thing for Rochford or Owen to see her in such a state, with her hair falling around her shoulders and feet bare, but it was another thing entirely for a man of the cloth to witness her shame.
Owen pulled the vicar over to stand between the chairs by the hearth. Rochford grabbed her hand and pulled her to stand beside him.
“Begin,” Rochford said.
The vicar simpered. “The banns.”
Rochford made a sound suspiciously like a growl.
“Marriage is a covenant of faith and discipline between a man and a woman…” the vicar intoned.
“What?” she whispered, digging her fingernails into the hand that held hers. “Marriage?”
His hand tightened back. “It’s the only thing to do,” he said. “You are ruined.”
“You ruined me,” she whispered. “And you didn’t seem overly concerned about it at the time.”
The vicar did not pause his recitation. “Today, before us and the eyes of God, they are declaring their eternal commitment, both on Earth and in the hereafter.”
“Make her see reason,” Rochford said over her head to Owen.
Owen shifted, not meeting her eyes. “Seems like the thing to do. After all…” He trailed off while his eyes flitted to the unmade bed where they had found her.
“That makes me his mistress, not a wife.”
“Why are you arguing?” Rochford whispered. “You’re going to be a countess.”
Why was she arguing?
She had not wanted her darkness to touch anyone else, but she had already joined with Rochford. She had not wanted to live beholden to a man’s fists, as her mother, but the life of a mistress was no better.
All of that paled against the thought of how this would help her sister. No matter how her marriage turned out, her position as a countess would secure Hannah’s future.
The vicar said, “If anyone knows any cause why these two may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
The room was silent as the vicar hesitated just a beat too long.
The vicar turned his beady eyes on her. “Mercy James Lyndhurst, do you come freely, and without reservation, desiring to commit yourself to this man in the covenant of marriage?”
Her first try came out as a croak. She cleared her throat. “I do.”
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Amber Lin
Can she be more than a mistress?With a tarnished reputation, Mercy Lyndhurst expected to become the Earl of Rochford's mistress, not his wife. Immediately abandoned by her husband after their wedding, Mercy transformed herself from commoner to countess, vowing to protect the lands and people her husband was forced to leave.Over the past six years, William has restored the family fortune all the while tortured by his memories of Mercy…and the dark night he killed a man. When a threat draws him home, William learns just how much has changed–including his wife. While the passion still flares between them, he fears he has wounded her too badly to regain her trust. But as the danger grows they must unite to save the estate…and possibly their marriage.
Can she be more than a mistress?
With a tarnished reputation, Mercy Lyndhurst expected to become the Earl of Rochford’s mistress, not his wife. Immediately abandoned by her husband after their wedding, Mercy transformed herself from commoner to countess, vowing to protect the lands and people her husband was forced to leave.
Over the past six years, William has restored the family fortune all the while tortured by his memories of Mercy…and the dark night he killed a man. When a threat draws him home, William learns just how much has changed—including his wife. While the passion still flares between them, he fears he has wounded her too badly to regain her trust. But as the danger grows they must unite to save the estate…and possibly their marriage.
Betraying Mercy
Amber Lin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For D, because you said so
Many thanks to Malle Vallik, my editor, Leslie Molnar, and everyone at M&B E who supported this book. My fondest thanks to the original critique group, including Kate Meader and Anna Geletka. And special thanks to Tiffany Reisz, who encouraged me to keep going even though the book is so dark. Or maybe because of it.
Table of Contents
Chapter One (#u795ec695-3eb7-572e-9e87-c9458642d099)
Chapter Two (#u6f5a60b9-1c92-512a-8ca3-e8ad1ad42d5b)
Chapter Three (#u128617f1-6492-5ad2-b9ec-fb92ceafb20b)
Chapter Four (#u2d0e6bf9-34cb-5372-8ba1-95c30ad895b2)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
England, 1780
Drenched through, William banged the knocker. The heavy door creaked open under his hand. Unease slid through him. Where was everyone? Even old and cantankerous, the butler usually kept his post when William came home. He spared a glance for the flashing sky and then stepped into his home.
Flames flickered in their sconces, throwing shadows on red walls. The door shut behind him with a thud, throwing the hall into eerie silence.
Where was that damn butler? “Gerald?”
Memories rose to the surface, unbidden, of him as a younger man—a boy, really—returning home on a night like this. A very bad night. The similarities meant nothing. England was perpetually damp, and only seemed to get wetter north of Epping Forest. His family seat hadn’t changed in the ten years since his parents’ death, either. Of course everything was the same. But still, wariness unfurled within him.
He lifted his chin like an animal scenting danger.
The heel of William’s boots clacked through the thin rug. “Mr. Beck?”
His annoyance had leveled into a burning resentment in his gut during the rattling coach ride from Cambridge, but it flared again, brighter now. Of all people, his steward should have greeted him. He had no excuse after sending what could only be described as a summons. A very strange, very unwelcome summons.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
Though cryptic, he knew what it meant: come home. A message only someone raised in the village would understand. Even though he’d been raised in the manor, set apart, he understood.
He crumpled the note in his fist. Ridiculous. The ghosts had never been real. Just an old, poorly maintained abbey on an even older, more poorly maintained estate. It was a child’s rhyme. William couldn’t even remember the rest.
He preferred to forget.
Forgetting was easy enough to do in London. For years he had worked toward this goal, pooling the earldom’s dwindling resources into a shipping venture that would depart next week. If the investments weren’t successful, if he wasn’t on that ship, the unentailed land surrounding the manor would be lost.
So he had almost ignored the missive. In fact, he might have—but for the use of that child’s rhyme. Someone had sent for him. Someone who knew him. It called to some long-dormant sense of responsibility. He must return home, to this almost abandoned house, and settle any trouble. Despite his lack of tact, he must soothe any concerns. He smiled faintly. If nothing else, it would be practice for his time on the ship.
His years scrambling and gambling and fighting for enough cash to keep his family’s land intact hadn’t imbued him with any diplomacy. He wasn’t always proud of what he’d done, but his father had cared about the title. His grandfather had cared about the people who lived on it. The least he could do was keep them from penury.
Silence shrouded the house, the unnatural stillness a wan version of his memories. His mother could always be heard in one of her spells. Ever ineffectual, his father would beg and plead for her to stop. He’d always seemed so helpless in front of his wife. He’d never been helpless locked in his office with William, taking out his anger with his fists or a belt.
It had always been loud in the house, drowning any preternatural creatures that were said to inhabit the area. Now a strange current ran through the damp air, causing gooseflesh to rise on his frozen skin.
The butler probably thought it was a great joke to allow William to wander around the house. Gerald was stalwart and staid, as old retainers were wont to be, but he always took a secret glee in tormenting William. For his part, William had fought back with frogs and other boyhood pranks. A pretense of independence as they had both been trapped under the pious thumb of his father.
The implacable tick of the hall clock grew louder in the stillness. Worry sparked inside him, but he refused to let it breathe. Floorboards above him creaked, and he lifted his gaze. Shadows lay heavy across the landing. For a moment, William reached for the pistol he kept in his coat when he traveled.
He frowned. “Who’s there?”
A man emerged from the darkness, and the unsteady light drew his face in sharp relief. Beck, his steward. William distantly recalled their last meeting. Beck had seemed deferential at the time, though now his posture seemed almost like a challenge.
“Lord William.” Beck’s voice held surprise, and possibly…fear?
The surprised was uncalled for, considering he’d written the note to bring William home. And Beck should not be on the upper levels. He had no business there. Anger broke free of the concern that gripped him, a welcome distraction.
William climbed the stairs. “What the devil are you about?”
Beck moved to intercept. “My lord, perhaps you should wait—”
“I think not.”
William brushed past him, feeling chills down his spine as old memories merged with the present. He was halfway down the hallway when a woman’s soft sobs floated to him from his mother’s bedroom. There. There was the proof that everything was as it should be. Not that he wanted his mother to cry, but after years of consoling her, there was a constancy to her tears.
Except his mother had died ten years ago.
Firelight flickered through the slim opening of the door. He pushed inside.
Deep red spray marred a snowy white counterpane. A maid knelt on the floor, sobbing quietly. He went to her.
“Are you hurt? What happened?”
Her eyes widened as he approached. She backed up. Helplessly he turned back.
Beck stood in the doorway. He shook his head. “It’s not hers. Not anyone’s.”
The unspoken words rang in the silence. The ghosts. Ridiculous. He’d thought Beck a more rational man than that. Although the vision before him was chilling. And familiar.
The view before him swayed, as if he were underwater, looking up. It was exactly like one of his mother’s visions of her death. He clung to that thought: this was a dream, not reality. Maybe her condition was contagious and now William had it, and that was why he saw such a false thing as blood where it shouldn’t be. With no body nearby.
A prank. It must be.
The sickly sweet smell of his mother’s lavender perfume still permeated the air, not tainted with the tang of copper. A wave of nausea swept over him. On leaden feat, he pressed forward to the side of the bed. He touched the fabric. Dry but not hardened, not black. How long ago had the blood been spilled? And from what source? A poor animal, most likely.
“Who is allowed in here?” The words came out hollow, like his insides.
“Any of us, milord.” The maid’s voice quavered. “The house maids or a manservant. We don’t keep it locked.”
“Well, keep it locked,” he said too sharply.
With a nod and indistinct mumble, she fled the room.
He sighed. So much for diplomacy.
Beck stood in the door frame, solemn, watchful.
“Is this why you sent for me?” William asked.
Beck shook his head slowly, his eyes haunted. “No, my lord. I did not. Though it’s good you’ve come. There’s trouble.”
William frowned. If Beck didn’t write the note, then who did? He couldn’t worry about that now—more important, what the hell else had gone wrong?
“Trouble?” he prompted. “At the abbey?”
Beck raised an eyebrow. “No, but nearby.”
William blinked. “There’s nothing nearby.” Except the manor. And…
“The crypt,” Beck confirmed grimly.
A curious calm descended over William. “What’s happened?”
“It’s your mother. The seal was broken, so the gardener went inside. Her coffin was missing.”
“Missing?”
Beck swallowed audibly. “Indeed.”
A chill ran over his skin. The blood he could dismiss as a prank. His mother’s body missing? No, the entire coffin. He couldn’t quite believe it. He had to see for himself.
“We’ll go there. Now. Tonight.”
William pushed past Beck into the hall. He thudded down the stairs, almost barreling into the butler. Gerald always had a scold or a criticism at the ready. William arrived so late. William tracked rainwater into the house. That was years ago, a lifetime and a childhood ago, but the past had caught up to him now, bleeding into the present. He’d thought he’d escaped.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Gerald said, his eyes pitying.
Hell. He must look worse off than he thought. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” he said. Even though he wasn’t sure of that, unless he was the one misunderstanding. Everything was mixed up. Everyone was sorry. And all he wanted to do was leave.
Leave Essex, leave England. Leave behind the past of failure and tragedy. His father had died when he turned fourteen. His mother, a year later, a year poorer. William had inherited the title, all right, just not the legal stature to control the purse. The appointed solicitors had drained the already small accounts dry with poor investments. William suspected they were guilty of more than incompetence. Theft. But he’d never be able to prove it. All he could do was try to fix their error, far too late.
Gerald put a hand on William’s shoulder. Gerald, who had chased him away from the cupboards with a cane. Gerald, who had finked on him at every opportunity, earning William a whipping from his father. Once his nemesis and erstwhile caretaker, now he looked at William with solemn understanding.
For a brief moment, the veil of servant-to-master fell from between them. Their shared grief connected them, exposed them. The butler was just an old man, and William just a boy.
The awkward touch of comfort burned into his skin. His eyes burned, too, and he pushed away from the butler and his unearned caring. Footsteps sounded from deep inside the house, and William flashed back in time, expecting to see the tall, lean form of his father.
A large, robed figure emerged from the study. It was Vicar Charles. Not his father.
Of course not. The long ride must be affecting him. Or maybe the long absence. He was torn between the idea that he should have come home more often—or not at all.
The vicar frowned, his jowls quivering. “Suicide is a grievous sin and as such—”
“No.” William clenched his fists and moderated his voice, speaking evenly. “No, goddamn you. She didn’t kill herself. And that has nothing to do with what’s happening now.”
At the time, the vicar had been sure his mother had killed herself. William had silently wondered, doubted, as well. Too much laudanum could be an accident. Or a grievous sin. But even as an underage, newly appointed earl, he’d had clout, and he’d demanded his mother be buried in the family crypt regardless. He wouldn’t let the vicar denigrate his mother. She had died grief-stricken and practically bankrupt. He hadn’t been able to do anything about that. But in death, she sure as hell would not be shamed, not then or now.
The vicar muttered his sermon to the ground. “A willful act against God…”
William unclenched his jaw and turned to Beck. “Take me to them.”
Beck left to ready the horses while the vicar continued muttering supposed holy words, those damnable holy words. Everyone falling down around him, dying, bleeding, but the vicar remained standing. Thriving, judging by his bulk and the embroidered trim on his robe. Favored by God, then? It was almost enough to make William believe. Just not enough to make him care.
William leashed his old sorrow, his ever present guilt, and strode out to meet Beck at the stables. He took a fresh horse and rode into the sheets of rain toward the cemetery, leaving Beck behind to cart the vicar.
The water in his face and the jolt of the horse’s stride tried to ground William, to make this real. None of it could touch him now, nothing could. He had only his memories to warm him, and little they did. His mother had cried when he left for school last time. He’d promised he’d see her again soon. Lies. Self-disgust roiled within him, but there was nothing left to expel.
Chapter Two
The cemetery gates were propped open, so he rode through. He slid off his horse and then draped the reins over the head of a Madonna. Spongy grass sucked at his boots. The entrance to the crypt yawned into the night air, and William forced himself inside.
As he crossed the threshold, the hush wrapped around him like a vice. The air was stale and the storm muzzled—even Mother Nature did not dare intrude here. He hated dark places. Closed, tight, suffocating places. They had always reminded him of graves, and this time, they were. Turning the corner, he entered the main chamber.
One body-sized pedestal stood in the center to display the deceased. Empty. Wiped clean. He found the marker for his father, intact. And beside it, cracked open, gaping, the place where his mother should be resting in peace. He knelt and reached gingerly for the granite pieces, feeling like he was disturbing the dead. Not him, though. Someone else had done this. Someone real.
Not a ghost.
“At least this place would have been locked, correct?” he asked Beck when he and the vicar arrived.
Beck nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Broken. Though not everyone is stopped by locks.”
Despite his unease, William gave a wry twist of his lips. “But the casket. And the body. Those would be stopped by a lock.”
A shrug was his answer.
William turned to examine the remaining engraving. His father had been a pious man, if not a strong-willed or cunning one. Through a lifetime listening to his mother’s wailing, he had never raised a hand to her. He had whipped William on occasion, but William had deserved it. Besides, his father had practically begged forgiveness each time after. It was a cycle William had ended by leaving permanently—and his family’s death had only reinforced his decision to live elsewhere. Anywhere else.
He would have been horrified to know his countess’s rest had been disturbed. He would have been horrified to hear how she died.
“It is that place,” came the throaty whisper of the vicar. “It called to the evil in their hearts.”
“The abbey,” Beck explained, as if it were reasonable.
William turned away to hide his expression. He wasn’t even sure what it would say. Annoyance, that the damned village insisted on this tale. Fear, too. Not of ghosts, but that old fear that the stories had led his mother to her grave. She’d always heard voices. What had they told her to do?
After a moment, Beck’s sure hand landed on his shoulder. “Someone will be here on the morrow to clean this up and fix the locks.”
Yes, of course. Wipe it away, like the pedestal in the center of the room. Clean and dusty until the next person in the family died.
Him.
He was the last of the line. As far as he knew, there wasn’t even a distant cousin to inherit his place. Sometimes he couldn’t figure out why he worked so damn hard. Just let the land, and the debts, be sucked back into the crown. The king could have the damned land.
But would he care for the people here, too? William couldn’t be sure. Not that he had been an excellent caretaker, but at least his tenants ate and worked and survived here. Even that could be taken away if the less scrupulous businessmen were given free rein. He’d heard about evictions happening farther north. No. He would stay. He would manage.
“It’s for the best,” the vicar muttered. “She didn’t belong here.”
William stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “And I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”
“This is holy ground and your mother—”
“Be very careful what you say next,” William said quietly. He didn’t believe the vicar would disturb sacred ground this way. His rigid moral compass would hold him in check even if respect for his master did not. Still, he wouldn’t allow her to be slandered.
Even if it might be true.
“She…” Vicar Charles’s throat worked but produced only unintelligible sounds. His eyes flitted to Beck and then back.
“My mother suffered an unfortunate accident with her sleeping draft.”
“An accident?” the vicar mumbled. “I do not think—”
“Precisely. Do not think. Just listen. I declared her death an accident ten years ago. If I find out that you had anything to do with this, you will regret it.”
The vicar understood the threat perfectly. His beady eyes glittered. “I’m a man of God.”
“I don’t particularly like him, either. You do not want to cross me, Vicar.” He turned to Beck. “Take him.”
Muttering fiercely, the vicar left. No doubt Beck would get an earful on the return ride to the parish. When the rustle from the brougham faded away, William knelt beside his father’s casket and prayed.
* * *
William had no desire to return to the house and deal with the mysterious bloodstain. The word duty rolled sour in his gut. He’d spent his entire life under the weight of his destitute title, and this felt like the pebble to break his back. He was half-tempted to ride back to London. He needn’t even get on the damn ship. Let the chips—and muddy, barely profitable lands—fall where they may.
Beck found him on a bench inside the crypt.
William stood. “We ride to the abbey.”
Without a word, Beck led him out. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, worn out and ignorant of its sins. Beck unhitched the mare from the brougham and mounted bareback. William followed on his bay. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go there.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
They rode to the patch of trees past the abbey, where a pool of water rippled innocently. William circled the ditch, finding nothing but damp earth. He did not know what he was looking for, only that he could not rest until he found it.
He wandered nearer the abbey. From here he could see the entire cemetery, and to the side, the top spires of the manor. In the old days, children had sometimes played in the old crumbling structure. He had, too, games of gallant knights and evil sorcerers, if he’d managed to sneak outside after his lessons. Bravery. Honor. The domain of children, not men.
The building had been condemned ten years ago, deemed unsafe and barred to entry. The rotting wood slats were easily kicked in. Inside, moonlight barely penetrated the darkness. Following the broken wall, he trailed his fingers along the soft moss. A light glinted from the gatehouse, like a wink of moonlight off glass.
Quickening his pace, he stepped inside the hollow tower. Bottles were piled in a corner, ale tankards and stronger liquor. He knelt and nudged a damp coat that stank of piss. A drunkard had been here. There was only one in the village, at least one dedicated enough to his craft to imbibe all these bottles. A man known for his rampages and, occasionally, violence.
William met Beck at the horses. “Jasper was here.”
Beck’s eyes widened as he passed him his reins. “Are you sure?”
“Let’s ask him and find out.”
They rode in silence, with only the storm to distract them. A curious rage stirred within him, that his mother had been disturbed, his home violated. The anger poured through his veins, burning and flaming until all he could see was red.
He hadn’t known this violence lived within him. He had been an obedient child. Had to be, for sometimes that was the only peace to be found. Rarely disrespectful, never rebellious.
Now anger threatened to consume him, and he was glad of it. Staid, responsible William could only mourn and lament and make the fucking arrangements for repair. This William could fight back.
The small hut came into view, and they both dismounted. William rapped on the knotted door. It opened to reveal a girl with long dark hair that shone streaks of silver in the moonlight. Jasper’s daughter, he recalled. The memory jarred him. He’d forgotten her.
He preferred to forget.
Her doe eyes widened. “My lord. How may I serve you?”
“Your father,” William said.
She glanced back then licked her lips. “I think he’s in the barn, but—”
William strode to the slanted building. Beck followed, a silent observer. He hoped the girl didn’t follow. The barn smelled of manure and moldy hay. He kicked open a stall, empty, and then pushed open the next. A snoring heap of man huddled on the straw.
He hauled Jasper up by his grimy shirtfront.
After a few startled snorts, Jasper peered at him from under sagging eyelids. “What be the meaning of this?”
William’s hands tightened before he pushed Jasper to his feet. He wasn’t sure how he knew Jasper was connected, but he did. Or maybe he just needed Jasper to be connected, because he had nothing else to look for, no one else to blame.
“Were you at the abbey?”
“No,” he said with belligerence. “When?”
“Last night. The one before. Were you there?”
Jasper frowned, seeming confused now. “Mayhap I was. What’s it to you? A man’s got to have some peace.”
“What about the manor? Were you there, as well? Did you pour pig’s blood on our bed?”
Soft gasps of shock came from behind him, punctuated by a long wail. Apparently the girl had brought her mother and younger sister, as well. Mercy, that was the girl’s name. It came to him with a flash of warmth. The women shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t protect them from this. He couldn’t protect anyone.
Jasper’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Finally, he said, “I didn’t do nothing, sir. I swear it.”
“My lord,” Beck corrected mildly.
Jasper seemed to rouse from his stupor of sleep and alcohol. “No, no, sir. I didn’t touch the crypt, sir. I wouldn’t have—”
“I said nothing about the crypt.”
“I didn’t… I don’t…” The man’s words slurred. One of his eyes slid to the right, while the other remained centered, like a painting melting in the sun.
How would Jasper know about the crypt unless he’d seen something? From the ridge of the abbey, he would have had the perfect view. Or he might have done it. For the jewelry? Then he would have been disappointed. A few pearls and a handsomely embroidered dress had been all that remained for her at the end. Still a bounty for a commoner like Jasper, but hardly what he would have expected from a noble. It wouldn’t have taken a great deal of cunning, just brute strength to hammer through the granite. And most damning of all, the hint of guilt in Jasper’s slack expression.
“Tell me what you did with her.”
“I’m no grave robber! And it ain’t as if she’s alive to feel it.”
William’s stomach lurched. Jasper didn’t even seem to realize how he betrayed himself. He yanked himself out of reach with more agility than William could credit.
Eyes bulging, Jasper grasped the neck of a broken bottle from the heap. “Stay away! You won’t be pinning this on me!”
Worry streaked through him for the women, his own thoughts ringing in his head: can’t protect them, can’t save them. He stepped forward to disarm him but was dragged back. Jasper’s wife clung to his back, momentarily anchoring him in place. By the time he shook her off and drew his pistol, Jasper had the youngest child in his grip, the spike of glass held to her face.
William froze, unable to fire without risking the girl.
“Tell them,” Jasper spat into her face. “Tell them I couldn’t have done it. I was here, with you.”
The girl whimpered, a little-girl sound of fear and shock.
“I never meant to hurt no one. She couldn’t feel the fire.”
For a moment William thought he was referring to the little girl he held—that she couldn’t feel the pain from his makeshift weapon. But then he realized who he meant. And it ain’t as if she’s alive to feel it. Jasper had burned the body. Burned. She could never rest in peace, not ever.
A low sound vibrated from William’s chest, something between grief and rage. “You bastard.”
Jasper tightened his grip and hauled the girl closer, holding the shard at her neck. Mercy screamed. Fury and fear clawed at William; he raised his arm, found his aim, and took the shot. Jasper recoiled with a look of shock. Thick hands released their grip on the child, and she scampered away to her mother.
He stared in shock at the smoking pistol he held. He’d had his share of fights in the gambling houses of London, but he’d never shot a man. The report still echoed in his head, followed by the thud of a limp body. A dead one.
He’d truly become a monster now, and yet he felt strangely detached. The women cried behind him, the child and the mother. Not Mercy, though. She stared at him with something akin to shock. Naturally, she would be horrified. He would be horrified, too, if he didn’t feel so damn hollow. So cheated. This man had taken buckets of blood, bodies of it, and barely paid him back at all. His vision was blurry and his morality in tatters.
William turned to the group, and a huddled mass of white nightdresses shrank back. Regret churned his stomach. He would never hurt them; didn’t they know that? But neither could he protect them.
A small, pale hand touched his arm and lowered it. He hadn’t even realized he’d still been pointing it toward a blank space.
“It’s over,” she said, and he heard relief in her voice. If she had any fear, she refused to show it. Her innocent eyes, her graceful neck, her tattered gown, they were all a facade. A feint, to confuse her opponent. She was not weak. She was stronger than he.
He stared at her, bemused. Even though her calmness was directed against him, he drew strength from it, as if she might hold the key. As if she could save him from himself. The idea was lunacy but only fitting, considering he was mad. Definitely mad, when he felt a stirring attraction to the slim body in a too-large nightgown. The breasts and hips, clear beneath the thin, damp cloth, formed the body of a young woman. Of course she was. If they had played together, she couldn’t be much younger than he. The town hadn’t stopped growing, stopped changing, just because he’d left.
“You aren’t going to cry, then? Or scream at me?” Like her mother was doing. He could barely hear her. All his senses were attuned to Mercy.
“No,” she said simply.
“Why not? Don’t you grieve him?”
“You were just trying to protect my sister,” she said, and he knew it wasn’t an answer to his question. He could see that from her eyes. She didn’t grieve her father, and considering the man’s treatment of the child, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He wished he could have felt nothing when his parents died. He wished he could feel nothing now.
“What will you do?” he asked curiously.
“The same thing we have always done. He brought in some money, but he spent more of it on drink.”
Yes, William understood that. His family had once prospered, under his grandfather’s reign. He remembered a kind, wrinkled face. He remembered shouting behind closed doors with his father. And he remembered a startling change in lifestyle when his grandfather died. Where had the money gone? What had his father done with it? By the time William had inherited, the accounts hovered just above zero. And after the so-called solicitors had run through them, he’d found nothing but debts.
Strange to think they weren’t so different, the lord of the realm and the daughter of the town drunk. Although they hadn’t been so different as children. She’d played the princess at the highest point in the abbey while he had fought through dragons to rescue her.
A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.
He could rescue her now, the way he’d imagined on the old turrets of the abbey. A life of penury awaited her, or worse. He could change that, though his motives were the opposite of pure. The violence of this night should have quelled any desire, but instead he felt it raging back, the lust he’d felt for her as an adolescent youth. And now? He wanted her body, yes, but also her courage, her strength. He wanted her softness, too, and comfort and family and all the things he no longer deserved. An honorable man would leave her here, but hadn’t he given that up when he killed a man?
“Come with me.” It should have been a plea, but it came out a command. He wasn’t strong enough to retract it, not when he wanted her acquiescence. This wasn’t a test for her, but him, to find out exactly how low he would sink in his fall from grace. If his body had any say in the matter, he thought grimly, it would be very far indeed.
Beck followed as wails came from the barn. “My lord.”
William stopped beside his horse, staring into the gray hills.
“Back there,” Beck said. “My lord, it was murder.”
His heart squeezed tight. Murder. “He was going to hurt her. You saw it.”
“He was drunk and unarmed but for a piece of glass. You came to the house with a pistol. It will look like revenge. There are limits to what the law will accept, even for a peer.”
William paused, swallowed. “No. There aren’t.”
A part of him wished Beck was right, that someone would punish William for what he had done, that someone would protect this young woman from his misuse. But that part of him was very small and William spoke the truth. That was the problem with being an earl, even a poor one—there was no one to stop him.
The young woman crossed the marshy grass in her thin nightgown—already halfway to translucence in the rain. She faced him with a blankness he recognized in himself. Shock at what had happened. Acceptance of what was to come.
Sweet little Mercy Lyndhurst, and here he was to defile her.
The last time he’d seen her she’d been a waif of a girl. Now she was all woman. And why shouldn’t he take her? He could have her and help her at the same time.
A poor excuse.
He examined her, struggling for detachment. Already the rain was clearing some of the fog from his mind, allowing rays of sanity to peek through. The thought of going home alone to the empty cavern of a house chilled him. He might as well be a stranger in his own lands for all that he knew anyone here.
He was selfish to take her this way, but concern whispered, too.
What would she do here? Jasper may have been a poor excuse for a caretaker, but a young woman with no means could starve in the next cruel winter. She deserved better than him for a rescuer, but he was all she had.
Another excuse. The simple truth was, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave her here, in a place that reeked of death.
“Did you send the note?” he asked suddenly. He didn’t know where the idea had come from, but he knew the answer even before she nodded.
She’d sent the note, because she knew there was trouble. She’d used code from their childhood, so that he would understand. And that was as good a reason to take her as any—there were very few people he could trust.
Just her, perhaps.
As he knelt, she placed her slim foot in his hands. She weighed almost nothing as he lifted her up. He mounted behind her and they set off. A soft, slim girl in white backed by a bedraggled man. Traced from the pages of a picture book, a lady and her savior. Except the woman was a sacrifice and the man had just killed her father, casting William into the role of the dragon.
They rode through the mist with Beck following behind. William didn’t give a damn about Beck’s disapproval, but the girl’s fear gave him pause. She was beautiful and brave and everything he wasn’t. He wanted her with an intensity that stole his breath. He wanted to join with her, to sink into her softness and never come out.
He swiped the rainwater from his eyes. “Go.”
“My lord?” she asked.
Damn her, didn’t she understand how close he was to breaking?
“Leave!” He turned to Beck, who rode up beside them. “Take her home.”
Lacking the willpower to watch them go, William stalked up the slick hill. The house was as forbidding as he remembered it, but relief warmed him. Thank God she was safe. From him.
He’d always been so damn careful to leave her alone when they were young. Not to even look at her, when she was sixteen and shy and so lovely it hurt to breathe. It had been a relief when he could finally move to London and never see her. Never be tempted. Mercy. She wasn’t his class. He couldn’t touch her, couldn’t be with her. The only thing he could do was ruin her. The temptation had always been there, through the years. And in that dark moment, in the barn, he had given in to it.
But now that would not happen.
He went to his room upstairs, where a fire heated the hearth and water sat on his dresser. No servants appeared, though apparently they still did their duty.
William peeled the wet clothes from his body and kicked them into a pile in the corner. He would burn them once they dried. Despite the fire, the night air pebbled his skin. He used the lukewarm water to bathe all over. Over and over he washed and rinsed, until the water had turned murky. His skin still felt gritty, soiled.
He looked to the bed, draped by a coverlet, so white, so innocent. A red spray of blood. He blinked and the vision changed again, to thin wet cloth draped over slim curves.
Hell.
He flung back the counterpane and climbed beneath the cool sheets. His mind was as blank as the ceiling. Maybe it would be like this for the rest of his life, going through the motions. A mechanical body and an empty mind. Maybe he’d died along with his parents, in every way that mattered.
A solitary thought pierced the veil of regret—the girl. Even now, he wanted to use her in the most abominable way. She would be somewhere far, far away from him by now.
God. So beautiful, so sweet. Sacrificing herself on the altar of her family, when he hadn’t even been able to save his own.
Chapter Three
Mercy Lyndhurst shivered in her nightgown, the threadbare fabric proving little protection against the chilling winds. Cold rain slashed her skin and wet grass froze her bare toes, but none of it could dampen the raging furnace within.
Inside she burned with fear. And guilt.
She watched the corner where Rochford had disappeared. He told her to leave, but it couldn’t be that easy. Nothing in her life had been easy. Hardship and betrayal, those were things she could count on.
And if her family was supported in the process, all the better. Her body was worth that price. Who would blame her? The entire village would. They would shun her—and Hannah—but maybe that was worth the price, too.
Owen Beck blocked her path. “I’ll take you home.”
She wanted nothing more than to be home with her family, almost safe and not quite warm. Only an hour ago, her father banged on the door, screaming to be let inside. Even Mama didn’t dare let him inside when he was so deep in his cups. So he’d gone to sleep in the barn, but Mercy kept her vigil, in a silent battle of wills with the moon.
Only when it relented to the pale wash of morning would her sister be safe for one more night. When the knocking came again, she assumed her father had returned. She peeked out the window. Horses. A feeling of dread settled in her stomach, and relief and hope and gratitude.
She was wicked for wishing her father dead. She couldn’t stop wishing her feather dead, even though he was. Mercy had devoted so many hours, so many years to protecting Hannah. If it were taken away, what would she have left?
She straightened her spine. “Let me pass, Mr. Beck.”
“Mr. Beck,” he mocked. “As if we weren’t in the same schoolroom and you didn’t follow me around with your thumb in your mouth.”
She’d been lucky in that regard. The pastor had allowed girls to attend the church-run school room. More importantly, he’d allowed her to attend, even though she hadn’t always had proper clothes or shoes to do so. She had sat near the back—at first, with her thumb in her mouth—and learned.
She tightened her grip on her nightgown, the last threads of her supposed propriety. Truthfully, she had lost any rights to virtue years ago. “We aren’t children anymore.”
His hair had escaped its queue, framing his face in wet tendrils. “I’m not letting you do this.”
She never had an older brother, but it appeared Owen wanted to act as one. Why had he not done so at her home, when her father had threatened her sister? Or for the years before that when she desperately needed help? No one in the village had intervened, though her father’s nightly rages were almost as legendary as the countess’s.
Only one man would have helped her, who had enough power to. Enough goodness. And it wasn’t the man in front of her.
“I intend to honor my word, Owen.” She used his name as a jab, since he insisted.
Let him pretend to be her friend when just weeks before he had barely troubled himself to acknowledge her. “Even us lowly villagers understand a simple trade.”
Though the thought of actually following through with it choked in her throat. She’d had no doubt of the earl’s intentions when he’d asked her to come with him. The look in his eye had explained intentions for her more clearly than watching the sheep breed in spring. And so, she would do it. Out of gratitude, out of desperation. What did it matter? He wouldn’t mistreat her, of that she was sure. He wouldn’t leave her empty-handed, and her sister Hannah needed to eat.
Owen scowled. Even marred such, his face was smooth, almost pretty. The girls swooned when he walked by, but Mercy had never been moved. He had grown up in the village but had been sent off to boarding school when his family could afford to do so. When he came back, he had lived in the steward’s house, drinking tea in the afternoons like a regular gentleman, only nodding to Mercy at church and then looking quickly away.
“I never thought that about you.” Owen’s eyes, deep wells of brown, pleaded things she did not understand. “You’re not like them. That’s why you cannot do this.”
Pretty words, but Owen could not save her now. Even through the rain she could see the thin silhouettes in the attic windows, witnessing her ruin. She could not return home without spreading the disgrace to her sister. Her inner shame would be known by everyone, and she could not help but feel a little relieved.
“Everyone will know that I’ve come here before dawn. They’ll know why I’ve come.” To fall. To be ruined. Too late. Her only choice was to earn the protection of Rochford. “I’m a fallen woman now.”
“Then let me help,” Owen said grimly. “I’ll marry you.”
Her breath caught. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever offered her. Far more than she deserved.
Owen had teased her endlessly and licked her apple before she got to eat it, but that was practically a statement of everlasting friendship from a young boy to a girl. Which was why she couldn’t marry him.
She retained her virginity, but she was far from innocent. Her father’s hands marked her soul, even as the bruises faded from her body. She refused to taint Owen with her wickedness. He deserved someone whole of heart and pure of body.
The earl, though. He was like her.
So she ensured Owen would let her go, and be glad of it. “There are some women who prefer to be the whore of a lord than the wife of a steward,” she said, and stomped up the hill to the servants’ entrance, her cruel words ringing in her ears. He didn’t try to stop her.
Which was for the best.
The kitchen bubbled and sizzled its welcome like the hell she would surely be sent to. Instead of smelling of brimstone, the savory aroma of meat and spices suffused the air, reminding her that the ordinary world carried on.
A maid barely glanced up from her cleaning, but Cookie looked up from her papers as she approached. The cook’s face was mottled and apron streaked with blood, at the end of a long day. She peered at Mercy from beneath thick lids. “What, more trouble? A beggar?”
Mercy recoiled. When Cookie reached her, she clasped Mercy’s hands between her thicker ones and rubbed furiously. Pinpricks turned into knives and Mercy swallowed a cry.
“Oh, dearie. This ain’t the night,” Cookie said. “But I suppose a bit of soup won’t go noticed, then.”
In her bedraggled state, she had been mistaken for a beggar. The truth was much worse.
“That’s not why I am here.” Mercy fought the urge to shut her eyes for the telling. “That is, Lord Rochford is expecting me.”
A small lie, since he’d told her to leave. Come, go. He didn’t know what he wanted, but she needed this.
The callused hands covering hers froze. Cookie’s face swallowed her eyes as she squinted. “Mercy? Mercy Lyndhurst, that be you?”
She looked down. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cookie flinched away. “And you say the young lord is expecting you. Tonight.”
Mercy stared at the flour-covered floor. There could only be one reason for a half-dressed village girl to attend upon a young lord. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cookie stepped back. “I see.”
The disgust in Cookie’s voice slapped the breath from her. Mayhap she would grow accustomed to it.
“You’re a right mess, then.” The sympathy she had granted a beggar now evaporated. The woman spoke with the superiority she was due as a cook to a whore. “There’s a washroom back that way where you’ll find water to clean yourself.”
Cookie looked over her too-large nightgown, surely taking in its tattered hem and the way it sloped off her slim shoulder. Perhaps it was even transparent. Mercy’s face burned.
“I’ll have something brought for you to wear,” Cookie finally said, then pointed to the washroom.
Mercy hurried inside and began to wash with the cold, soapy water.
Her friend Jennie worked as a housemaid here. Maybe she had even seen her from her attic room. Even if she hadn’t, she would know soon enough. Would she speak to Mercy or cut her on the street?
The freezing water branded shameful words of dishonor into her skin. Considering how numerous her sins were, soon there wouldn’t be any more room left.
“Don’t you grieve him?”
“You were just trying to protect my sister.”
It had been true. He had protected her sister, not just that night but every night hereafter. She had entertained her own thoughts of vengeance, in the dark of night and under the weight of evil. It was not moral superiority that had stayed her hand, but fear.
Rochford had been strong enough to carry out the act. That was enough reason to give herself to him. For that debt, she owed him everything, and this was all she had.
A young maidservant shyly thrust a dress into the room, which Mercy accepted gratefully. Her fingers fumbled on the ties, but she slipped it on then stepped back into the enveloping warmth of the kitchen.
Cookie was gone, but a man was there, one Mercy recognized. Nathaniel Jones wore footman’s livery, though he slouched at the table with a steaming mug. He cast a long, slow look from her head to exposed toes. His eyes lit with a wicked intent she recognized too well.
“Little Mercy.” He smirked. “Not so high-and-mighty anymore, are we?”
Humiliation, thick and lumpy, slid through her. “I was never high-and-mighty, just because I didn’t want to go behind the church with you.”
“You’ll do a lot more than that now. Yes, and when the gent’s done with you, I’ll have my turn.”
Her skin crawled at the thought. “Never.”
He laughed. “Whores can’t be choosy, can they? Heard all about your pa. When you’re sleeping out in the barn of the tavern with no money or man to warm you, you’ll be grateful to service me.”
Her nostrils flared, but she said nothing. She very much feared he might be correct.
Cookie came back into the kitchen. “Let’s go, then. What’re you waiting for?”
Eager to be away from Nathaniel’s knowing leer, Mercy followed her down a plain hall, through a door, and into another world. Slick marble floors topped with white statues. Ceilings taller than trees with a crystal chandelier hanging like flowered boughs.
Jennie had described it all to her, but it was a different thing seeing it for herself. Mercy would have been out of place in her best clothes. Wearing a borrowed dress with no petticoats or shoes was blasphemous. She crossed her arms tight over her chest.
The butler appeared, his approach silent. He said not a word to her, but Cookie nudged her to follow him. Where below stairs teemed, busy as a beehive, the upper rooms were beautiful but unnaturally still, like a naturalist’s bug display case.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped and nodded to the side. “Third door on your right.”
The hallway wavered before her eyes, but she forced the ugly pictures from her mind and continued on. Maybe God would strike her dead for her sins; then she would not have to go through with it. Or then again, maybe this was all she deserved.
Chapter Four
The closed white door mocked her brave intentions. Glancing back at the stairs, she tightened her arms around herself. The hall was empty.
The floorboards creaked, and Mercy jumped. A maid bustled out of the room down the hall, carrying a pile of white laundry, her eyes red and puffy. She passed Mercy without acknowledgment. Invisible, as servants should be, unlike Mercy, who stood in the hallway like a beacon of shame.
Her curiosity poked and prodded until she took tentative steps to the open door. An opulent bedroom, fine furniture and lace doilies cast in shadows.
Then Mercy noticed the bed and gasped.
A black puddle stained the bare mattress. Mercy had witnessed enough slaughters of sheep and cows to know what it was. Blood.
Had her father done that, too? It seemed…impossible. But then, she knew how violent he became in his cups. And she’d done nothing. That dried blood was on her hands, too.
She returned to the third door. Rochford was hurting. She might not understand his grief, but she understood solace. This much she could do for him. In this way, she could begin to pay penance.
She took a deep breath, turned the knob and slipped inside.
This room was smaller than the last. Mercy blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Rochford slumbered peacefully on the bed. She took a step closer. Though with his face relaxed in sleep and his slender shoulders showing above the sheet, he looked closer to a boy.
He had looked fearsome in the barn, invincible, but he was just a young man. Only a few years older than herself, maybe one and twenty. And handsome. She had never let herself notice before. She could have dreamed of him, if she’d had any will left to dream. She could have loved him, if she’d had the strength to hope. As it was, she had always been beneath him, a village girl to the landed lord.
It had been easier not to think of him at all, than imagine what could have been.
Well, she was still far beneath him, warming his bed. Or supposed to. He was sound asleep. No matter her determination to carry this through, or to get it over with quickly, she was not bold enough to climb in while he slept.
She considered returning downstairs to wait, but she didn’t want to risk running into Nathaniel again. Besides, the tall chairs in front of the hearth looked so inviting.
Rochford flung an arm above his head. Mercy froze. He turned and then blinked at the ceiling. With a sigh, his gaze lowered until it met hers.
“You,” he breathed. He sounded accusatory, but he had been the one to bring her here.
She shivered. “I wasn’t sure if I should knock.”
“Get out.”
Her courage fled. She turned to leave, but a rustle and a rush of air warned her of his approach. Breath escaped her lungs in a quiet burst of shock. She didn’t move a muscle, barely breathed, waiting for him to touch her.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he whispered against her temple.
Soft pressure drifted down the side of her body. She swallowed hard.
“You don’t belong here.”
It was true. She was sorry. She wanted to tell him but the words would not form. A breath blew across the back of her neck, raising the hairs there.
Hardness pushed against her behind. She knew what it was. His lips danced down her neck. Her fingernails scraped the door.
“Tell me no,” he said. “Tell me I’m a brute, not to touch you.”
Her hands curled into fists, impotent against wood panels. And go where?
This whole night lined up before her like some sort of a test, but she didn’t understand the rules. She feared there were none at all, just that she would lose.
“Please,” she said.
The hand on her breast fell away. “Get on the bed, then.”
Mercy scrambled onto the bed and huddled in the center, wrapping the dress tight around her. He was naked, and she looked quickly away. The bed creaked under his weight. He pushed her back onto the sheets.
It had been two years since she’d barred the door to her father. Two years since she had threatened to poison his food if he ever touched her sister.
Endure, she told herself, and live. She was out of practice.
Air brushed her thighs as her nightgown lifted. She clenched her eyes and fists tight. Warm weight pressed along her body.
“Mercy,” he whispered, but it did not sound like something that needed a response.
The gentlest of touches feathered her face, so light she was not even sure whether it was his fingers or just his breath. Soft caresses trailed down her neck.
They stopped, probing. Sharp pain lanced her shoulder. Her bruise, and not a pretty sight. She had the most inappropriate urge to laugh. She doubted whatever women he had seen in London were marked like this.
“What is this?” he asked.
It is a bruise, she wanted to say, but her smart mouth had gotten her in trouble in the first place, so all she said was, “Doesn’t hurt.”
“Who hit you?”
Her father, of course, but she was loath to bring up the man he had just killed when she lay so helplessly under him. His tone demanded an answer—he was the lord here and her master of the moment. She tensed, waiting for reprimand, wondering if her disobedience would earn her another bruise.
He might have read the answer from her body, for a choked sound came from above her, then the weight lifted. Footsteps stumbled across the room and then silence fell, amplified by the quiet crackle of the fire.
Was he finished, then? He had only touched her, not taken her virginity. But then, that was all her father had ever done. Maybe that was all they ever wanted with her.
She opened her eyes and sat up. Rochford hunched over in a chair by the hearth, head in his hands. Spasms shook his naked body, though he was completely silent. He wasn’t weeping but she almost wished he would. It would be easier to bear than these deep, wrenching jerks of his whole body, as if it could not even express the grief, as if it would tear itself apart trying.
Though surely he would not want it, she felt sorry for him. It was like looking into a deep well, black and endless. Some part of her still hoped this night was a dream—a nightmare—but her mind could not have conjured up his genuine despair.
A cleverer girl might take the reprieve and run, but she could not leave him this way. He had this whole house full of servants and an earldom, every advantage a young man could hope for, but she had never seen someone so desolate except maybe herself. And for all the trappings, he was so very alone.
She crossed the room and knelt beside him. The deliberations of her ruined future clattered to the floor, eclipsed by his grief. His need for solace gaped like an open wound. If her body could be an instrument of healing, she would not regret its use.
The light touch of her hand to his knee seemed to send a shock through him. In a flash, he grasped her body between his legs, within his arms, bundling her up like a babe.
His shudders rocked both of them, adrift in the sea of his grief. But neither of them were alone anymore. Tentatively, she stroked his back.
Seconds stretched into minutes, maybe even hours, and he slowly stilled. She was exhausted, as if she had been the one to cry, even though she had not shed a tear. He shivered, and she ran her fingers over his neck, his shoulders.
The air thickened with expectation. She understood what it meant: the member that hardened beneath her, the way his breathing turned harsh and heavy. His hold on her body turned from a greedy clutch to a firm hold of intention. Her body awoke with anticipation, while her mind muted the world with its protective cloak.
He tangled his fingers in her hair, tugging her head back. His mouth met her neck in an open-mouthed kiss, then moved up behind her ear. She heard him breathe in the scent of her, as if he were suffocating and she were air. He settled her over his hardness, rocking gently.
“I can’t stop,” he muttered.
She made a decision, then, but it had never really been in question. He was her lord, her master, her everything. This was her fault, more than he could ever know. The use of her body, the loss of her maidenhead, was all the recompense she had to give. She proffered herself with a gentle nudge of her hips.
He froze, taut muscle imprisoning her against his hardness. “No.”
No? “You don’t want me?”
“You’re innocent,” he said on a groan.
Misplaced honor. She swallowed against the thickness. “I’m not.”
He paused, his indecision swirling around their locked embrace.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You need this.”
He moved quickly, pushing up the thin fabric of her nightclothes and nudging her entrance with his thickness. It was too large, wouldn’t fit. The pressure burned, and she withheld a whimper, but his grip inexorably pulled her down. He impaled her, and she cried out.
“Mercy?” he asked.
Her hips raised and lowered, the motion instinctive. She knew the rhythm, and now her body learned its dance.
“Yes,” he said. “Please.”
She would have done it anyway, but to hear him beg spurred her on faster. Her movements were rewarded with a low moan. Always, she had been the one at a disadvantage. This time she set the pace. His hands rested on her hips, his head fell back.
Dark memories nipped at her heels, but she grounded herself in the moment with his reactions. A curve of her hips had him gasping. A clenching of her muscles drew a groan out of him.
She ruled him with every undulation of her body. He was the supplicant now, pleading from heavy-lidded eyes. A pinch of pain marked each invasion, but there was perverse pleasure, too. His needy sounds, his helpless shudders brought her a sort of internal satisfaction.
His face contorted into a mask of fury: his eyes glinted, unseeing, his teeth bared. A low growl erupted from him as his body bowed upward. The force of his crisis tossed her body, but the weight of his hands anchored her.
It was violent and desperate, in harmony with the rest of this night, but she could not be frightened. He had left himself vulnerable to her, and so tied a small string of trust between them. She had seen the weakest part of him, and his desire wasn’t it.
He fell back onto the chair, wrapping her against his chest. His peace cocooned them both, a brief respite from the storm. Then he stood, pulling her up with him. She was drained, with no strength left to protest when he carried her across the room.
He tucked her into bed, like a parent to a child, then he donned layer after layer of clothing, until his lanky limbs and slim torso were puffed up into the proper image of his lordship. Without a word, he left the room and shut the door behind him.
The tiredness crashed over her in waves, until finally, sleep dragged her under.
* * *
The sound of voices woke Mercy—low pitched, male. One muttered incessantly, broken briefly by Rochford’s crisp accent and Owen’s familiar timbre.
She opened her eyes. A dim glow through the window heralded the approach of dawn. The door swung open. She caught a glimpse of Rochford before she shut her eyes again.
“Wake up, Mercy,” he said.
He would have her leave his room, his house. Perhaps she would even have to leave the village, so as not to corrupt it. There were large problems to face, but as long as she huddled in the bed, she could put them off. Just for a moment, she wanted her life free from the whims of men.
She said in a small voice, “I’m tired.”
And she did feel tired, but more than that, she felt afraid.
Owen came in, followed by the vicar. She gasped and stumbled from the bed, fussing futilely with the rumpled dress. It was one thing for Rochford or Owen to see her in such a state, with her hair falling around her shoulders and feet bare, but it was another thing entirely for a man of the cloth to witness her shame.
Owen pulled the vicar over to stand between the chairs by the hearth. Rochford grabbed her hand and pulled her to stand beside him.
“Begin,” Rochford said.
The vicar simpered. “The banns.”
Rochford made a sound suspiciously like a growl.
“Marriage is a covenant of faith and discipline between a man and a woman…” the vicar intoned.
“What?” she whispered, digging her fingernails into the hand that held hers. “Marriage?”
His hand tightened back. “It’s the only thing to do,” he said. “You are ruined.”
“You ruined me,” she whispered. “And you didn’t seem overly concerned about it at the time.”
The vicar did not pause his recitation. “Today, before us and the eyes of God, they are declaring their eternal commitment, both on Earth and in the hereafter.”
“Make her see reason,” Rochford said over her head to Owen.
Owen shifted, not meeting her eyes. “Seems like the thing to do. After all…” He trailed off while his eyes flitted to the unmade bed where they had found her.
“That makes me his mistress, not a wife.”
“Why are you arguing?” Rochford whispered. “You’re going to be a countess.”
Why was she arguing?
She had not wanted her darkness to touch anyone else, but she had already joined with Rochford. She had not wanted to live beholden to a man’s fists, as her mother, but the life of a mistress was no better.
All of that paled against the thought of how this would help her sister. No matter how her marriage turned out, her position as a countess would secure Hannah’s future.
The vicar said, “If anyone knows any cause why these two may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
The room was silent as the vicar hesitated just a beat too long.
The vicar turned his beady eyes on her. “Mercy James Lyndhurst, do you come freely, and without reservation, desiring to commit yourself to this man in the covenant of marriage?”
Her first try came out as a croak. She cleared her throat. “I do.”
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