But not now with her. As if her opinion counted for naught. Annoyed, she entered the room with him where her mother and father sat waiting. Mama rose from the cream brocade sofa and hurried to them across the flowery carpet, apprehension clouding her eyes. “Mercy! Father tells me you and Lord Northcliffe are to marry!” She turned to Northcliffe. “Please accept my felicitations, my lord.”
In that moment, Mercy realized her mother blamed herself for this. “Mama, I’m so very, very happy,” She threw her arms around her beloved parent.
“Well, it’s wonderful news,” Mama murmured with obvious relief. “You could not find a sweeter bride than my daughter, Lord Northcliffe.”
Northcliffe kissed Mama’s hand. “I consider myself extremely fortunate. I know that my father and my grandfather will be very pleased.”
“Does His Grace still travel?” Mama asked as they sat on the matching sofas before the hearth.
“He seldom leaves Yorkshire these days. In fact, he hasn’t come to London for the best part of a year. I know he will want to attend my wedding, but I’m not sure his doctor would permit such a journey.”
Mama frowned. “Oh, that is most unfortunate. We had a London wedding in mind. None of my daughters have indulged me, and Mercy is of course my last…” She brightened. “York Minster is a fine church.”
“The Duke would be delighted should you choose York. Our family have married in that church for generations.”
“Then let us agree on York Minster,” her father said. “I’ll have my secretary write Venables-Vernon. The Archbishop would be an acquaintance of your grandfather’s I imagine.”
“He is, sir. Because of my Grandfather’s health, I would prefer a short engagement,” Grant said with a glance at Mercy.
Mama’s brow creased. “Of course, if you wish it, Lord Northcliffe.”
“Shouldn’t we delay until Hope and Daniel come from France?” Mercy glanced at the serious profile of her betrothed. She was being rushed headlong into marriage with this man whom she doubted even liked her.
“That is some months away. The duke will not allow Hope to travel until his heir is safely delivered, and his wife fully recovered,” her father said, refusing to be drawn. “And nor he should.”
Two footmen entered the room carrying fragrant trays. They unloaded cups and saucers, plates of sandwiches, scones, pots of jam and cream, along with the tea things, onto a low table.
Mama opened the tea canister and spooned tea into the silver pot and poured hot water into the brew. “Milk or lemon, my lord?”
“Milk, thank you.”
Seated beside Grant, Mercy sensed his tension as he stirred his tea. She’d have to think how to stop this mad dash to the altar. Her father was set on it, and she knew she had only herself to blame. She had not always been an amenable daughter, and poor Father had weathered marrying off four strong-willed daughters before her. He would see this as a tidy end to the prospect of facing another exhausting Season, and perhaps he even liked this man. Well she couldn’t say the same. Northcliffe was too…too unknowable, she decided. It was as if they rushed inexorably toward disaster.
Chapter Eight
AFTER THE TEA things were removed, Grant stood to take his leave.
“Please escort Lord Northcliffe to the door, Mercy,” Lady Baxendale said with a smile. “Shall we see you at dinner, my lord?”
Grant bowed. “Delighted.”
Lady Mercy rose from her chair and led him from the room. In the hall, the butler handed him his hat, cane and gloves, then disappeared discreetly through the servant’s door.
Grant and Mercy paused together on the black-and-white marble floor before the front door. His gaze took her in, from her serious expression to her hands clasped together at her waist. There was something about those small hands which drew him, the slender fingers entwined that made her appear tense and vulnerable. He remembered her sweet, flowery perfume, the touch of her soft lips, and wanted to reassure her that he would take care of everything. But he doubted she’d believe him, or even welcome such a declaration. And he feared he would sound less than sincere.
“Goodbye, Lord Northcliffe,” Mercy said stiffly.
“The Marchants’ final ball this Season is held on Saturday,” Grant said. “Shall you attend it?”
She raised her fine brows. “Of course.”
“May I escort you?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, exhibiting a woeful lack of excitement at the prospect.
“I shall see you tonight at dinner.” He wondered if he should kiss her cheek and took a step toward her.
Mercy retreated a fraction. “Goodbye.”
