Beethoven’s sublime notes drifted from the ballroom’s upper tier as Mercy’s breath caught. Her father had chosen Percival Montague, the Marquess of Grimwood’s heir, as the man who would become her husband. She’d held out for three arduous seasons until her rejections of proposals—seven in total with a variety of creative reasoning behind the refusals—had become a sensation in itself. Percival had yet to ask, but the increased intensity of his visits meant her time was limited. He’d yet to hold her hand but his ungloved pinkie has brushed hers during their last tea.
Mercy had felt naught, even been slightly repulsed, but her father’s patience had ended after rejection number five.
Her heart sank to imagine hiding acquaintances from her husband. However, her match, like the rest in society, wouldn’t be born from love. Her father was holding her at the end of the matrimonial plank, the point of a saber pressed to her neck.
Powerless, Mercy glanced at Damien to find a circle of ladies now surrounding him. Miss Kimple, Miss Geddings, Miss Horton-Belford. Women of inferior circumstance who’d be thrilled with the attention of a lowly third son. She almost smiled at his beleaguered expression. He didn’t seem to understand that the less an attractive man talked, the less he tried, the more they would.
Unfortunately, Mercy feared she found Damien DeWitt as appealing now as she had then. This man and her artwork were the only passionate remnants left from a lonely childhood. She’d suppressed everything else in an effort to be left to do as she wished, so much so that she’d lost herself a bit.
Yet, she couldn’t hide the flutter of her heart nor the warmth settling beneath her skin.
Not from herself.
Sadly, it wasn’t the second glass of champagne making her dizzy.
Damien wasn’t close enough for Mercy to confirm Lady Baumbach’s declaration about the everchanging color of his eyes or for her determine if the scar cutting through his top lip was still noticeable. And she had no plans to move closer to see, when a duke’s mysterious son, mildest member of the Troublesome Trio, would only bring notice the once incorrigible Lady Mercy Ainsworth didn’t need.
She couldn’t risk it—not when she’d gone to such incredible lengths to conceal the only exceptional thing about her. The most dangerous thing about her.
Prickly Percival, as Mercy had come to covertly call him, wasn’t interesting enough to incite consideration of any kind in mind or matter, making him the ideal husband for a woman with a secret life.
Damien departed the ballroom when a chit wearing a gown the color of horse dung got close enough to fog the lenses of his spectacles. In his haste to flee the lemon verbena-scented horde, he lost sight of the only reason he’d attended this bloody event in the first place.
Mercy Ainsworth.
Markedly stunning, all-grown-up Mercy Ainsworth.
If the pearls looped through her ginger tresses weren’t enough to dazzle a fellow, the creamy silk molded to her slender body would do it. He wasn’t close enough to see the color of her eyes, but he recalled a bright splash not unlike the inner circle of those archery targets. He could imagine the thought running through her mind if she’d recognized him—thank you, but no, he’s just like his brothers. Surrounded by simpering society belles, his reputation taking on water like a sinking ship.
Damien growled and shouldered the veranda door wide, jostling the champagne in his flute. He wasn’t trouble; he’d never allowed himself to be. When his brothers had done such a brilliant job of carousing, who wanted to compete? It was that silly moniker. Both silly monikers. His family had earned the first, and he’d been included merely because of shared lineage. A pity nickname for the scholarly sibling.
The Devil of Drury Lane, well, that one he’d earned on his own.
Two performances. Five rehearsals. A few inane questions asked of the backstage crew with what Damien now understood should have been asked with a smile. He did have a tendency to unnerve people with a flat stare his brother, Cort, called distinctively punitive. Although, it wasn’t diabolic in nature in the least.
His effort to locate an artist who didn’t wish to be found had bitten him in the arse.
When he knew who’d drawn the theatrical poster. As an academic, he’d simply wanted his hypothesis proven. Even if he could hardly believe it was the composed chit he’d seen across the ballroom or that feral girl from his past, he knew the sketch burning a hole in his trouser pocket had been created by the same artist who’d drawn the Drury placard.
When he turned to take the staircase to the garden, his heartbeat skipped. Mercy stood on the shadowed terrace, moonlight setting fire to her glorious hair, and he figured his luck might be changing.
Perhaps it was time to start living life instead of reading about it.
Impressively, she barely flinched when he settled his hip on the balustrade next to her, his gaze going to the pitch sky she was searching. “Did you decide to escape the orchestra currently butchering Beethoven, Lady Mercy? A first-rate election if you did.”
She fiddled with the circlet of marigolds surrounding her wrist, then did a languid half-turn to face him. Her eyes were such a deep shade of blue that they glittered in the moonlight. She was coltishly slender but tall, the top of her head nearly reaching his shoulder. Incredibly, that slip of a girl had grown into a stunning woman. Seeing her for the first time in years yanked his breath and, for the only time in his life, his wits away from him.
With a knowing smile that grasped more than he did, she boldly trailed her gloved fingertip beneath his jaw. “Your valet missed a spot.”
He captured her hand against his cheek, her touch unabashedly erotic when he’d forever denied himself the pleasure. “I don’t employ a valet,” he whispered. “Third sons of impoverished titles who’ve chosen academia have to make dire choices in life.”
Her throat pulled, but otherwise, she concealed her surprise at his cheek. Stepping back, she took his flute, and shifted her attention back to the stars. “Ah, that explains it,” she murmured after a slow sip.
“You’ve changed.” He sighed, grimacing as the words slipped free. That hadn’t come out right when what he wanted to say was: the charming girl has turned into a beautiful woman.
She laughed, the most delightful sound he’d ever heard. Her gaze burned a path from his brow to his boots as she took him in before looking back to the inky clouds that promised rainfall before the evening ended. “So have you, DeWitt.”
Retrieving his glass, he polished off the champagne, then nodded to the ballroom, where the fractured sounds of Strauss flowed past them. “You’ve fooled them all. Well done, Ainsworth.”
