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A governess who, since he’d held her in his arms in Masterson’s study, had managed to wheedle her way into his thoughts far more frequently than Ronan liked. Most assuredly, far more often than was appropriate.

He could still remember the sensation of her lush feminine form in his arms as she wept. The tantalizing softness and tempting warmth. Her slightly spicy fragrance—cloves, perhaps—and the texture of her silky hair, which smelled of spring and wildflowers, against his cheek.

Regardless, Mercy had all but given him the frozen shoulder since the night in the nursery. Oh, she remained impeccably polite, but no smiles were sent his way. No curious looks from her spectacular green eyes. No swiftly tossed glares or eyes softening with approval.

Ronan would even take her rancor and dislike over this cool-as-a-cucumber, aloof civility. He hadn't even kissed her as he’d yearned to do and felt like quite the chivalrous gentleman for abstaining. She’d likely have slapped his face, or at the very least, rang him a peal if she had any notion just how much restraint he’d dredged up the other night.

His powerful attraction to Mercy also scared the hair off his head. He’d be as bald as Mother’s three brothers—bare as eggs, the lot—if he didn’t get his ardor under control.

Ronan knew his fascination with Mercy was inappropriate. Unlike many of the upper ten thousand, Brockman men did not chase after servants. To do so was an abuse of their power and position.

One has a responsibility to respect and protect one’s employees. To be an example and, above all, to act honorably toward them at all times.

Hadn’t he heard that mantra from first his grandfather and then his father too many times to count? Sanford was also wont to raise an imperial brow and rattle off the same diatribe.

Besides, his parents—Sanford too, for that matter—would be appalled. The Trentholms might be more forward-thinking than a significant number of their peers. Nonetheless, leopards belonged with leopards, zebras with zebras, flamingos with flamingos, and so on and so on.

Never in the history of the illustrious Brockman lineage had a single Brockman married outside of their social class.

Marriage?

No, Ronan wasn’t considering marrying Mercy.

But Benjamin?

A private grin edged Ronan’s mouth upward.

Aye, Ben’s little secret might not be a secret much longer. The scandal would be deliciously monumental. In point of fact, Ronan would finagle a way to be present when Sanford learned of the entanglement. That ought to provide enough entertainment to last for a month, at the very least.

While the marquess and marchioness of Trentholm were loving and supportive, aristocrats and commoners were from two utterly different and incompatible worlds in their superior minds.

It was wrong to lust after Mercy.

Ronan knew that.

The problem was, Ronan’s healthy male body didn’t quite agree. When he’d requested his fourth cold bath last week, Sturges had given him a decidedly peculiar look. As if he wasn’t sure if Ronan was in his right mind.

His bloody mind was perfectly fine. It was the rest of him that was aflame.

“It’s something I picked up in America,” Ronan fabricated last evening when making another request for cold bathwater. “Great for the constitution—very rejuvenating. Prevents illness, increases my energy, and even helps me sleep.”

Ronan had no idea if any of that manufactured twaddle was true, but Sturges appeared suitably convinced and impressed.

“Helps one sleep, you say?” the butler mused, his gaze aglow with keen interest. “Mrs. Sturges suffers from frequent insomnia, which regrettably, keeps me awake too.”

He suddenly smiled widely. The occurrence was so rare that Ronan blinked twice. Sturges’ resemblance to a grinning hound was quite extraordinary. And most disturbing in a macabre way.

“I’ll suggest she take a cold bath tonight,” Sturges said, his eyes alight with anticipation.

Poor Mrs. Sturges. Pray to God, she could forgive Ronan, and there’d be no irreparable harm to the Sturges’ decades-old marriage.

Once inside the fashionable shop, Ronan blinked, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the interior.

Neat bolts of fabric of every imaginable color and texture were exhibited along the far wall according to hue. Another wall held ribbons, lace, braiding, and all sorts of other haberdashery items. A long black velvet curtain blocked the view to the back of the shop where he presumed fittings took place.

A counter displaying a variety of other wares occupied the fourth wall. Throughout the shop, bonnets, fallalls, fripperies, and other accoutrements were shown to their best advantage on tables and hat stands. A particularly garish pink and olive-green bonnet with a froth of flowers and feathers snagged Ronan’s attention.

The thing was positively hideous.