Page 81

It was too early in the season.

What color were the roses when they bloomed?

Mercy thought her ladyship had a fondness for pink and yellow. Perhaps even peach or coral.

Would Mercy still be here to see if her guesses were correct?

What was becoming a familiar pang twinged near her heart.

Stretching her legs out before her, she braced her arms on either side and lifted her face to the sun. Freckles be dashed. She rarely had a chance to enjoy the sunshine. The weather had cooled significantly from the other day, but it was still very pleasant outdoors.

Not as pleasant as Rochester, but quite tolerable, nonetheless.

One of the things Mercy missed the most about country life was the lack of roosters crowing to announce a new day. That and cattle bawling and sheep bleating. She supposed, at heart, she would always be a country girl.

Pulling her legs onto the bench, she laid on her side, her head on a bent elbow. She couldn't recall any other time in her life when she’d had the luxury of resting on a garden bench with no responsibilities.

A few birds—she didn’t know what kind except they had redbreasts—darted about the branches of the single cherry blossom tree in the center of a circular mosaic. Their sweet calls carried through the garden, making her smile.

This reminded her of Rochester. Mercy doubted she'd ever prefer the city to the country for all of the amenities London had to offer.

Blinking sleepily, she yawned behind her hand. Goodness, the sun made her drowsy.

She still couldn’t believe she’d fainted last night. Mercy had never swooned in her life and to collapse in Ronan’s arms in front of his family… She supposed that was better than striking the floor, but humiliation still burned in her veins.

She’d awoken shortly afterward in her chamber, Corinna on one side of the bed and her ladyship on the other, holding a vial of smelling salts beneath Mercy’s nose.

Nasty, nasty stuff that.

Mercy promised herself this was the one and only time she would swoon. The fumes of that vile concoction were not to be borne. She vowed she could still smell the ammonia, and her nostrils twitched in remembered affront.

Once she’d come to herself, she realized Ronan stood at the end of the bed, keenly watching her, his arms folded. Concern and speculation glinted in his eyes, as well as something undefinable. An expression deep within his chocolatey brown gaze made her stomach wobbly and her blood hum.

Most discomfiting with his mother and sister watching every nuance on her face.

A blush, very much like the one that had heated her face yesterday evening, bloomed across her cheeks once more.

What must Ronan think of her?

Having a fit of the vapors over a little upset. Well, perhaps more than a little upset. A noblewoman believed that Mercy was her daughter. After all of this time, was it possible?

Ronan had bid her good evening once assured she was fine. Unable to help herself, she’d watched as he left the room, leaving the door open behind him until he’d disappeared from sight.

Coming to herself, she’d caught both Corinna and her ladyship regarding her with speculative expressions.

Lady Trentholm had sent her lady’s maid to assist Mercy into her plain night rail. Another maid had brought her dinner up a short while later. She’d all but been forbidden to leave her bed until the morning.

Marissa had brought the girls in to say goodnight. They’d refused to go to sleep until they had seen Mercy and were assured she wasn’t about to perish. Many hugs and kisses later, they’d been led away, and she’d been left alone to contemplate her fate.

The Trentholms had been inordinately kind…except for the earl. But that didn’t mean they weren’t bothered by the undesirable attention that was sure to come their way.

The question that had plagued her since yesterday raised its barbed head.

“What am I to do now?” Shutting her eyes, she whispered, “Do I stay or do I go?”

Mercy, I hope you shall permit me to call you Mercy.

I am sure this situation is every bit as astounding and bewildering