“I’d be delighted, thank you. Whiskey will do nicely.” He’d be glad of it. His throat was as tight as a drum. How had this happened? He felt as if he’d hurtled over Gaping Gill Falls in a tub. How could he continue his covert investigation while squiring Lady Mercy to every ball, soirée, theatre party, and dance in town? Not to mention that the parson’s mousetrap was looming, and with a lady not of his choosing, who’d exhibited a tendency to behave in a reckless, thoughtless fashion. He had little enough wish to tie the knot with any lady. And even though he had to admit Mercy was one of the loveliest debutantes out this Season, he did not want to be shackled to a silly girl barely out of the schoolroom with foolish ideas about running some kind of business. It was beyond the pale! Not only would he have to give up his freedom, he suspected she would make his life hell.
And what did Mercy feel about it? he mused. She’d expressed little gratitude for his assistance at Vauxhall. He allowed the smoky liquor Baxendale gave him to slide down his throat, with the hope it would revive him enough to inject some enthusiasm for his situation.
“You wished to see me, Father?”
Lady Mercy slipped into the room and her startled deep blue eyes gazed into Grant’s. Her pale gold hair was pulled neatly into a knot and the morning gown she wore of a pink flowered material with an embroidered white muslin collar at the neck, failed to disguise a pleasing figure and soft curves he’d taken note of the first night they’d met. Creases formed on her smooth brow and she licked her full bottom lip.
Grant quickly crossed his legs, attempting to ignore a flash of lust, annoyed by the turn his thoughts had taken. The lady was clearly not happy to see him.
“How is your ankle today, Lady Mercy?” He hoped she’d forgive him for not rising to greet her.
She gazed at him askance. “Very much better thank you, sir. And thank you for coming to my aid last night. It was kind of you to call. But not necessary. I have written to thank you.”
“Sit down, my dear,” Lord Baxendale said. “I have very good news. Lord Northcliffe has asked for your hand.”
“Oh no!” Looking stricken, Mercy sank onto the cream-and-bronze striped sofa.
Her father scowled. “That is not a graceful reply. I would expect better manners from you, daughter.”
“But Lord Northcliffe cannot mean it,” Mercy said, her voice choked.
Grant felt something from him was required. There was no going back on it now. “But I do mean it, Lady Mercy. I would be greatly honored if you agree to become my wife.”
Mercy merely raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
“Excellent.” Lord Baxendale stood. “I shall leave you two together for a few minutes to settle things between you.” He strode to the door with surprising confidence. It closed behind him with a final click.
A moment’s silence followed.
Grant sat on the sofa beside Mercy. He took her hands in his and cleared his throat. “Lady Mercy, will you do me the honor…”
She pulled her hands away and jumped up. “You are honor bound to do this because I was compromised. It’s too silly. You do not wish to marry me. I shan’t agree.”
Grant glanced up at her suddenly annoyed. Did she find him such a poor prospect? “At this moment, I have less to offer you when compared to your other suitors, but…”
She planted her hands on her hips and scowled fiercely. “You think I am mercenary?”
“We really don’t know each other that well as yet, do we?” he observed raising a single eyebrow. “But given time I trust we will. I’m afraid your father has decided we will marry. The die is cast.”
“Fear not, Lord Northcliffe, I shall find a way out of it.”
“Well, until you do, let us proceed with some civility,” Grant said stiffly, rising to gaze down at her. “Will you accept my proposal?” A quick marriage would be ideal after which she could live with his grandfather and he continue with his investigation.
She pressed her hands together. “Yes. I suppose we must then, for now.”
Hardly an encouraging or flattering reply. Grant forgot for a moment that he had been unfairly ensnared as he gazed down at her. He took her by the shoulders. “I am overcome with joy,” he said impassively and brought his mouth down on hers.
* * *
Mercy pushed herself away from Lord Northcliffe, but the imprint of his mouth on hers and his touch on her spine remained. She wanted to scold him, but didn’t have the breath, and she supposed he had every right to seal the engagement, although that kiss seemed less than polite. Unable to decipher the expression in his amber eyes, she frowned. Did he really wish for them to be married? She had no idea what went on in his head. He had not fallen in love with her, that was certain. And she feared that he blamed her for trapping him. A horrible thought struck her. Did he think she’d contrived it, hoping to snare him, and then fallen foul of the rogue?
“Let’s join the family,” she said unable to stand the tension between them a moment longer. As they left the room, she glanced up at him. She needed time to find a way out of this. “I would prefer a long engagement.”
His dark brows drew down. “Why? I see no sense in that.”
She paused in the hall, wishing desperately for time to put a stop to this before it got out of hand. “It will take Mama some time to arrange a wedding. She wishes me to be married at St. George’s in Hanover Square.”
He took her arm and drew her toward the double doors leading into the drawing room. “I see we shall have to discuss it further.”
