As he stomped down the stairs, Mercy slammed the door and slumped against it.
Stubborn, impulsive fool. Self-righteous cad. Idiotic male.
She’d never known Damien to be furious with anyone, even his reckless brothers. He was usually as cool as a scoop of Gunter’s ice cream. And as sweet, too.
However, there were reasons for his rashness.
I fear I’m in love with you.
Suddenly dizzy, Mercy staggered across the room to crouch by the settee.
Damien’s hat smelled of smoke and that tantalizing scent all his own. She hugged the crumpled beaver felt to her chest and wondered how she was going to find a way to secure five thousand pounds.
So she could marry the man of her dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHERE A TRIO TRY TO FIGURE OUT LOVE
“Are you going to tell us what’s wrong any time this century, Dame? You’ve worn a furrow in the Aubusson when it’s not in great shape as it is. Like most of the place. Most of all my places.”
His brothers were lounging in armchairs by the hearth, Knox having sent word to Cort when the youngest of the Trio arrived at the family home in an obvious state of despair. The twins were willing to dole out brotherly advice, whether Damien wanted it or not.
“I’m not sure where to start,” Damien said and placed the figurine he was holding on the mantel, wondering why anyone needed a statuette of a ballerina in the first place. He didn’t have much of a care for useless things or useless people.
He’d ridden Knox’s prized thoroughbred along Rotten Row at a mollifying pace, nodding to a hundred and one chits and their greedy mamas, this providing a hundred and one reminders of why he so disliked the city. Now he was back at Herschel House, debating if he should pour another glass of whisky. The first two had added a gentle glow to the evening he rather appreciated.
Knox cracked his knuckles in impatience. “Is it something to do with this Devil of Drury Lane foolishness?”
“It’s a chit, you dullard. Finally,” Cort murmured with a yawn. He appeared sated and drowsy every time Damien saw him of late. Recalling how he’d spent the past two days, Damien did, finally indeed, understand what lovemaking and hours of it could do to a man. “The brilliant boy is all grown up.”
“Shut it, Cort,” Knox growled when Damien started to cross the room to prove how damned well his boxing lessons were going.
Cort saluted, his lids drooping. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
Damien paced to the sideboard, past the floor-to-ceiling windows, halting by the hearth, his mind buzzing. Dropping to his knees, he jammed the poker in the fire, sending sparks flying. “It is a woman, actually. One with a problem I’m not sure I can solve. Algebra is easier than attraction, I’m finding.”
“When is the babe due?” Knox asked in a paternal tone.
Damien glanced over his shoulder with a grimace. “It’s not that.” Then he found his gaze drawn to the dancing flames. Although it could be. “She calms my mind like nothing ever has,” he murmured. “Except books, and quite better than those even.”
Cort sat up, his attention captured. “You’ve found a woman who means more to you than books?”
Damien scrubbed his hand over his brow. “She can’t marry Montague is what I’m saying. He’s a degenerate.”
“Hold up.” Knox’s Wellingtons hit the floor with a thud. “You’re talking about Lady Mercy Ainsworth and the dolt of an almost-marquess she’s set to marry?”
Cort snorted out a fast laugh. “Tell me it’s not that ginger-haired termagant. Do you recall when she climbed the towering elm near our pond and spied on us swimming? Probably drew scandalous pictures of your ducal backside you’ll find in a market someday selling for three shillings each. Who’d want to get tangled up with that nuisance?”
Knox sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Have you seen her lately, Cort? She’s bloody beautiful.”
Beautiful and mine. Damien gave the hearthfire another jab with the poker. “She’s not marrying that jackanapes. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Cort choked, sitting up so quickly he spilled liquor on his waistcoat. “You’re not joking about this? About her? The chit who lives next to the Hampstead estate?”
“Do you have anything to say about it?” Knox asked in a voice clear of judgment but sibling-judging, nonetheless.
Damien used the poker to stand. “Whitmore owes five thousand pounds and the marriage will clear his debt. Tidy little bit of business, selling one’s daughter, isn’t it?”
