The Duke of Harrington muttered something that sounded a lot likelucky devil.
“What was that?” Mercy asked, wide-eyed, as if she hadn’t heard.
“Donald was one lucky devil, and he didn’t even know it.”
“Yes, very lucky. All until that bullet—” Mercy stopped. The duke’s face had gone pale. Donald had been a fantasy for her, but he had been very real to the man sitting in front of her and to Richard. “Your Grace, I’m sorry.”
The duke shook head as if to say it was nothing, but she knew better. “I’m all right. And I’m sorry for your loss. Donald would’ve been a much better man for you.”
Mercy scoffed. “I’m not quite as delusional as I was at fourteen.He would have seen me as a child.”
“I didn’t. It was as if I saw a bit of your soul that day.”
“You saw my soul?” Mercy had been a mess, a deluded young woman who had built up fantasies around a man whom she had never laid eyes on. “I’m afraid my soul was very naive.”
“It was beautiful. And I’m glad Donald had someone to cry for him like that. Even if the two of you never met.” The duke set up his last chess piece, and without thinking, Mercy placed her hand over his.
There was more to his interest in her than simply that one strange meeting in the corridor. He’d seen her once years ago and still remembered her. It wasn’t the same as being whisked away for stolen kisses, but it was something more than political aspirations, at least. Harrington went still. All the connection of the past few minutes dissolved in an instant. His eyes went to hers, then to her parents at the other side of the room, and he slowly withdrew his hand.
Any warmth Mercy had felt was gone. Didn’t he want her to touch him?
The duke cleared his throat and motioned for her to make the first move. As if she could concentrate on chess after what had just happened. How could the man want to court her but not be willing to let her touch him? She blinked a few times and picked up a random pawn, moving it forward two spaces.
The Duke of Harrington made a similar move.
Then he leaned forward, his hands folded into his lap. “I want you to know I take this courtship very seriously.”
She almost laughed, but he might not take that laughter well. However, there was absolutely nothing surprising about the duke taking anything seriously. “I know.”
His words were low and steady. “I will always treat you with respect.”
Mercy did chuckle at that one. She couldn’t imagine the stiffduke treating her with anythingbutrespect. “I would be shocked if you didn’t.”
And in that moment, she knew what her future would look like if she didn’t do something to change it. The Duke of Harrington would spend the next month or two playing chess with her and dancing sterile but faultless polkas and waltzes with her at balls. They would have conversations that were interesting enough for him to think the courtship was going swimmingly, and then when whatever time he determined was the proper amount to spend courting was accomplished, he would propose. Just as he had told her, he set a course and stuck with it. Everything would be orderly and controlled, and she would have no idea if she had left another life, a better life, with a man she hadn’t met yet—but who would bring her excitement instead of comfort and control—behind her, unlived.
The Duke of Harrington was dashing and ranked above anyone but royalty. He was hers for the taking—he had made that abundantly clear. His mind had connected the dots from introduction to courtship to marriage in one straight, unwavering line. He didn’t expect anything to change that course.
And it was the least romantic thing she had ever heard.
Where was his passion? Where was his zest for life... for her? Why didn’t he want to touch her?
As much as she admired the duke, she couldn’t live the rest of her life in such controlled circumstances. She didn’t need a courtship period to understand that. She shouldn’t have listened to Mama and Papa. They were too enamored of his title to allow her to snub him or even not smile at him enough. It would break their hearts if she simply told him she was breaking off the courtship.
But she needed out of the courtship somehow. Social connections aside, Mercy was not the right woman for the duke.
He took one of her bishops. She should have seen that coming, even as bad as she was at chess. He smiled at her as he tucked away her piece, and she was struck again by how young and handsome he was when he wasn’t so focused on being proper. Almost any other woman would be in love with him for his eyelashes alone. Why did the man have to choose her?
The Duke of Harrington should have found a more expedient woman for his plans.
Mercy’s hand was midair reaching for her rook when the idea came to her.
It was a terrible idea.
But a terrible idea with the best of intentions. She quickly reached for the rook and slid it forward three spaces, completely unaware of whether the motion was strategic or not. Based on the way the duke raised his eyebrow, it was not.
But she didn’t care. Mercy was already several steps ahead of him, just not on the chessboard.
There were plenty of women who would be a perfect match for the duke. Dozens with equal or better social standing than Mercy. The duke had made it painfully obvious he didn’t entertain any deep feelings toward Mercy. She had simply been the best fit for his purposes on the night he’d decided marriage could help his political causes. It would be an easy matter to have him find another woman he liked better than her.
