“Then I offer my heartfelt congratulations, my friend.” Northcliffe shook his hand.
Gunn stepped back to better view their carriage. “I like your sportin’ curricle. New, is it?”
A brisk conversation on the merits of the curricle for the city as opposed to the phaeton, ended with a polite difference of opinion. Mercy then made her appeal to meet Gunn’s fiancée. With a promise to arrange it, Gunn returned to his party.
“Was it you Gunn spoke of?” Northcliffe’s gaze roamed over her from her bonnet to her boots, then returned to rest for too long on her chest. Something in that look made her tingle and wriggle on the seat. Her sisters called her the bosomy one. She considered herself too short for such curves, but thankfully, the fashions had begun to favor the waist, and hers measured twenty inches so said their dressmaker.
“Mercy?”
She started at his impatience. “Yes?”
“Gunn said he had hoped to marry a Baxendale girl.”
She thought him unreasonable to question her. She disliked betraying a confidence for Charity’s sake. As far as she knew society had never learned of it. “Why do you wish to know?”
As they were still jammed behind another carriage, Northcliffe turned on the seat to face her, making her aware of his broad shoulders and lithe body. He reached across and fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. “If you recall, I did ask you if there was another gentleman you might wish to marry. You said there wasn’t.”
“Gunn has never pursued me for my hand.”
“Which sister did he want to marry?”
She sighed and pulled at her kid gloves. “Charity. I’d be obliged if you didn’t speak of it to anyone.”
He frowned and flicked the reins as the carriage ahead of them began to move. “As if I would. You must learn to trust me.”
One might say the same of you.He did not trust her enough to share his true self with her.
With some skill, Northcliffe guided the curricle through a narrow space that appeared when the carriage in front pulled over to the side.
As he trotted the horses along the drive, Mercy angled her parasol to block the sun from her face while studying him. He might not love her, but he was not entirely indifferent to her. When learning how Northcliffe had objected to her dancing with Bellamy, her mother had expressed the firm opinion that if a man felt nothing for a lady, he would not care about who she danced with.
Might Northcliffe have begun to warm to her? Or was she clutching at rainbows? Her gaze dwelt on him while he was absorbed in his horses, trotting in perfect tandem along the avenue. His lightly tanned skin gave the impression that he spent a good deal of time outdoors, unlike so many pale-skinned gentlemen who slept past noon during the Season. If in time he came to love her, he must confess it first. After all, she had her pride.
Chapter Thirteen
“YOU DID NOT advise me of your engagement, Northcliffe,” Alethea said in a hurt tone. “I had to hear it from Margery Wheatcroft, and she positively gloated.”
She’d waylaid him in the corridor leading to the Neville’s reception rooms where tables had been set up for the evening card games.
Grant had no intention of seeking Alethea’s approval. He resisted reminding her that it had never been his practice. She’d brought scandal down on their heads by being indiscreet, but neither did he wish to point that out. He’d heard she’d suffered another slight, when a wealthy baron had rebuffed her. She was hurt and he was sorry for it. “You must get on with your life, my dear.”
She pouted. “Mercy Baxendale is a mere chit of a girl, Northcliffe. I expected better of you.”
“Alethea, I don’t intend to discuss this.”
After Mercy arrived, he wished to speak to her before the card games began. He put his hands on his former mistress’ arms and moved her gently aside.
Three young women entered the corridor leading from the entry. Mercy, with two debutantes, giggling at something, looked up and saw him. Grant dropped his arms as they came to a halt, watching Alethea disappear into the drawing room.
Mercy advanced toward him followed by the other two young ladies. “Good evening, my lord.” She sank into a curtsey. Her companions followed suit, their cheeks flushed and eyelashes lowered.
“Good evening, ladies. Are you playing cards tonight?”
The brunette whose name escaped him, tittered. “I do not have a head for cards, my lord.”
“There might be something on offer to temp you, silver-loo, perhaps.” Grant bowed. “You must excuse me; I’m promised for a game of faro. I shall seek your company a little later, Lady Mercy.”
“I shall look forward to it, my lord.”
