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Furthermore, just who had concocted that repugnant tale?

To what purpose?

Well, two could play at this lengthy silence.

A façade of placid serenity, Mercy silently recited the Beatitudes in her head while waiting for his lordship to come to the point of this meeting he’d requested.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Outwardly, she appeared composed and the model of decorum. Inwardly, she was a riotous mess, and the crescent half-moons carved into her palms with her fingernails gave testament to that inner turmoil.

Impatience thrumming through her, she tapped the toe of one shoe. Once. Then aghast at her show of pique, she pressed the balls of her feet firmly into her shoes, lest her traitorous toes began tapping once more.

A raging tempest billowed around inside her, and no matter how many calming breaths she took or how many scriptures she silently recited, she feared what this man would say.

Or what she might say in response.

Mercy tightened her clammy palms until the knuckles turned white.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

It wasn’t just her life that lay in the balance.

If it were, Mercy would not be nearly as apprehensive.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Brockman smiled, his mouth quirking up in that rakish way it had when he’d stood on the stoop and mocked her.

She supposed he practiced that disarming upward sweep of his mouth to charm the ladies. Lovely ladies who, no doubt, batted their eyelashes and gave him coy glances.

As she’d spent no time whatsoever around eligible young men, she wasn’t exactly immune to such maneuvers, but neither was she affected by them. It was a game played by those who could afford to waste time—those whose flirtations were as common and expected as the sun’s placid journey across the sky each day.

Or so she assured herself.

Blessed are the merciful, for they—

“I shall get straight to the point, Miss Feathers,” his lordship said.

Finally.

He rested his elbows on the desktop, and her focus was drawn to the crisp dark curls covering his knuckles. Odd, she’d never noticed the hair on a man’s hands before. It only served to emphasize this man’s masculine virility.

Stop it, Mercy Augusta Judith Shepard Feathers.

Lord Ronan seemed to peer deep into her soul, a meditative gleam in his keen brown gaze. Not just plain, common brown, but a rich, deep shade like molasses or gingerbread cake.

What?

Molasses? Gingerbread?

Whatever was Mercy thinking?

This stranger held her future in his hands, and she was comparing his eyes to food?

A mortified groan tickled the back of her throat.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet Lord Ronan’s unwavering gaze.