They approached the house, entered, and found Grant’s grandfather in his favorite chair in the drawing room. “Grant! Good to have you home!”
“How are you, Grandfather?”
“Fair to middling.” He smiled at Mercy. “I have enjoyed excellent company in your absence.”
The footman had cleaned Wolf’s muddy feet and released him into the drawing room. Wolf rushed to rouse the two spaniels from their baskets and the three danced across the carpet.
“Would you like your shawl, Your Grace?” Mercy asked. “The day grows cool.”
“Thank you my dear.”
She picked up the cashmere throw and placed it over his shoulders.
He patted her hand. “A glass of that burgundy Charles has decanted.”
As she went to the table, the duke turned to Grant. “You will note that I have been dreadfully spoilt.”
Grant laughed. “So I see.”
Mercy returned with a crystal glass of wine. “I’ll take the dogs to the kitchen for their dinner.”
Half an hour later, she hesitated at the drawing room door, not liking to interrupt an intense conversation between Grant and the duke.
“So, you learned nothing new in Harrogate?” His Grace asked.
“A waste of my time. Haighton’s secretary wasn’t there. However, I am still suspicious of Ambrose Fury. Something’s amiss in that household, which may or may not be connected to Haighton. What do you make of these?” She heard a rustle of paper. “Could they be written by the same hand?”
“Mm. Certainly possible. But I doubt a neighbor’s dispute over land would end in cold-blooded murder.”
“I agree…” Grant began. “Grandfather, there’s something else I must ask of you…” He turned as Mercy, disliking to eavesdrop, entered the room.
Their conversation turned to horses and the Marquess of Strathairn’s new crop of thoroughbreds bound for Newmarket.
* * *
When Grant entered Mercy’s bedchamber, he hauled in a breath at her welcoming smile as she rose from the chair. He sensed that she wanted to ask about his travels, but was relieved that she did not. Perhaps soon he could tell her. He knew not why she had forgiven him. He would learn the reason at some other time. Now, he only cared that her soft lips welcomed his with heart stopping tenderness, and her silky locks spilling over her shoulders brushed against his face as he kissed her neck. He had thought of little but this on the way home this morning, eager to see her. He cupped her face with his hands, and she returned his kisses with unrestrained passion. Beneath her dressing gown, the dips and curves of her lush body welcomed his touch.
“Mercy.” He kissed her delicate collarbone and the silky skin of her throat, then picked her up and walked to the bed. He would make sure this evening was memorable for them both. Who knew how long they would have together, before he was called to London?
On Saturday evening, smoothing her lilac gloves, Mercy descended the staircase dressed in a lilac silk taffeta dress with fragile gauze sleeves. Grant was familiar with every feature of this gown. She had described it in some detail, while they lay in bed a few hours previously, after a long, delicious afternoon of lovemaking, which still had not quenched his need for her. Even now, remembering how she’d touched him, and begged him, and cried out, he wanted to return with her to the bedchamber. But he’d promised an evening of socializing and dancing, and he would not disappoint her.
“My love,” he settled her evening cloak on her shoulders. “You were right. This gown suits you perfectly. How beautiful you look.”
Her blue eyes danced. “You were listening to me then.”
“But of course,” he insisted, fabricating indignation. “I listen to your every word, even when exhausted and half-asleep.”
A rosy blush covered her cheeks and she glanced at the butler who hovered in the entry.
Grant grinned as he escorted her to the carriage.
The assembly was crowded at 8 pm. In the heated, overly-scented ballroom, local musicians played the last strains as a quadrille finished, the dancers gracefully separating. Mercy’s relative by marriage, Lady Sibella, Marchioness of Strathairn, beckoned to her.
Sibella’s blue-green eyes sparkled. “Mercy. How charming you look.”
They were joined on the chairs around the dance floor by Sibella’s husband. Grant was soon discussing horseflesh with the marquess, who was one of the most knowledgeable men he knew on the subject. Strathairn had bred Ares, the best gelding Grant had ever owned.
The Master of Ceremonies called a country dance, and couples soon took their places. When Mercy was claimed for a dance, Grant left the ballroom in search of Black, who’d sent word that he would attend tonight. Grant looked in on the card room, the supper room, and soon found Black in the billiard room, puffing on a cheroot. Black nodded to Grant when he came through the door. Moments later, they strolled to the end of the room in conversation.
