Chapter 3
T he Duke of Westleigh had kissed her.
Twice.
Despite the duke’s lengthy protestations, Mercy could not take the duke’s proposal seriously.
No. She could take very little about the Duke of Westleigh seriously after that absolutely mad meeting she’d had with him, his family, and her brother.
And then… Oh then! Those kisses. His argument of enjoyment! She could not take a man ruled by impulse and hedonism seriously. She was already making her list of pros and cons, and the cons were winning.
Truly. They were.
But there was one thing she most certainly could take seriously about the good duke. His library. The library at Heron House was the most remarkable thing she had seen in her life, and the truth was Mercy had seen many remarkable things.
After escaping New York City when the English army invaded, she had run off to find her brother, who was fighting in the Continental Army. Yes, she had made bold choices and wild ones throughout her life. She had seen men ripped apart, she had seen men wasting away from the illness that followed men in close quarters, and she had seen families torn apart by conflicting alliances.
London was something else entirely.
It was a cacophony, a city that was as mad as an ant colony. People bustling everywhere. Mercy had no interest in English society or aristocrats, unless her interest was purely as a study. Yet she found herself swallowed up in it.
She still could not quite understand how her brother Tobias had gotten himself so entwined with the Duke of Westleigh, but he had.
The duke was a force. There was no denying that.
And her brother was happy. Very happy. It was the first time she could truly recall seeing him thus. It was a mystery how he could have found such happiness while deep in the territory of their former enemy.
But the Briarwoods were…odd.
And then there was the library. The library here was magnificent.
As she had every day since she’d arrived, Mercy crossed through the beautiful room and stroked her fingers along the edges of the books as if they were her dearest friends.
How she loved them.
The number of volumes she had read in the last days was quite intimidating, but she had not been able to extract herself from the room whenever she was free.
She had no real desire to go out except for long walks.
So she chose a book, then wandered to her favorite nook by the soaring windows overlooking the garden, sat down, and began reading. She had gone through book after book after book, stacks of them, and much to her surprise, she had found that the novels here in England were really quite something.
She had spent her entire life in her family’s printing shop in New York, and she had helped her brother run their printing company until things had become impossible. She did not wish to think of Silas Norris, who had made it impossible for her to live a peaceful existence in New York City.
One day she was going to go back, and she was going to shove his face in the mud, that bastard. But for now? Now she would gather her strength and support her brother as he married the love of his life.
But Mercy truly struggled to understand the family he’d chosen to marry into. They were all so loving. They liked each other so well that she found herself highly suspicious.
She and her brother had been abandoned by their Royalist parents. One might argue that they were traitors to the United States, but the English would argue that she and her brothers had been the traitors, of course. It had been a source of pain for many families.
But their books? Those she could understand.
“Excuse me, my dear,” a voice called.
Mercy jolted, snapped her book closed, and looked in the direction of the voice. The duchess stood not ten feet away. Mercy must have been so entirely absorbed in her novel that she had not noticed the lady come in. Either that or the lady had the makings of a spy.
“Yes, Your Grace?” she queried, straightening even as she tried to make sense of the fact that she was now living in a land of titles and aristocrats. She had no wish to cause offense in a home that had welcomed her and her brother so entirely.
“My son,” the duchess began gently, her eyes bright and kind.
“Yes?” Mercy prompted, her hands tensing on the leather binding.
“He asked you to marry him,” the duchess said as if it was the only thing in the world to discuss.
Mercy tried not to squirm. Was his mother about to warn her off? “Indeed, he did, Your Grace. Just recently, and I think it was a very strange jest.”
She still could not entirely believe it. Surely, he would tell her that he was performing some sort of trick.
“I do not think it was a jest,” the duchess said, stepping forward.
The duchess was a remarkable woman with corn-blonde hair shot through with silver. Her gown was magnificent, laced with silver embroidery and covered with embroidered red peonies on an ivory sea of striped silk. Lace dripped from her elbows, and jewels dripped from her fingers. She was the epitome of everything that most Americans, including Mercy, found excessive.
Mercy had always been a remarkably practical person, but she could not deny that she did have some admiration for the duchess.
The duchess was a woman of many parts and clearly intelligent.
Mercy cleared her throat. “Never you fear, Your Grace. I have no intention of accepting his offer. He made it with little thought.”
“That is true,” the duchess agreed, “but I think he means it. He does not do such things in jest.”
Mercy’s throat tightened as she prepared for the duchess to tell her all the reasons she was not worthy of a duke. “And you? What do you think of such a proposal?”
“If my son has chosen you?” The duchess took another step towards Mercy and said with utter conviction, “Then you are the right choice.”
“Have you come here to convince me to marry your son?” Mercy gasped.
The duchess smiled slowly. “Possibly,” she said.
Mercy stood slowly, holding the book before her like one of Achilles’ shields. “Then you should turn about and go. I see absolutely no reason why I should marry into this family. My brother has already done so. Another connection would do no good and would surely be a superfluity of Americans in your scope.”
The duchess threw back her head and laughed. “And I think this argument is exactly why you would be a suitable wife for my son.”
Mercy frowned. “Because I call myself and my brother a superfluity for your family?”
“Exactly. You are not like…”
“Oh dear,” Mercy cut in. “Please do not say I am not like the other girls.”
“Well, you are not,” the duchess said with an elegant shrug. “To begin with, you’re American and you work. None of the young ladies that my son typically would ask to marry him fall into either of those categories.”
Mercy frowned, truly curious now. “Why do you think I would be good for him?”
“Because he is not like anyone else either,” the duchess stated quite seriously.
“Oh dear. That unique, is he?” Mercy quipped.
“Yes,” the duchess said without apology.
Mercy drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I understand you wishing to plead his case, and I think you a wonderful mother for it. But surely it is up to him to persuade me, not you.”
And the truth was the duke had begun his campaign with admirable skill.
A strange smile quirked the duchess’s lips. “Oh, I think he shall. But you must understand my son is… Odd.”
“Odd?” Mercy chirped. “Of course he is. I deduced that from the moment I met him.”
“And could you like odd?” the duchess asked with surprising force.
“I am odd,” Mercy said, “as I’m sure you already know. The oddity does not bother me at all. It is the rest.”
“The rest?” the duchess challenged.
“All of this,” Mercy said, looking about the sunlit room, which housed books that had clearly been on these shelves for hundreds of years. “I have never wished to be a duchess. I appreciate a republic and all that it brings.” Mercy shook her head then added, “And this, well, this is very far from the republic, Duchess.”
“So there’s no hope?” the duchess asked, her eyes shining with some sort of unseen knowledge. “My son asked you to marry him, and you will decline entirely?”
“He has asked me to consider it logically. And so I will. But I imagine my answer will be no because it makes little sense. It is mad.”
“Little sense? Mad?” the duchess sighed. “Things that come from little sense and madness can be utterly wonderful.”
“Perhaps,” Mercy allowed, though she was nowhere near convinced. “In a book or in a play, but never, Duchess, in real life.”
“How I pity you then, my dear Mercy,” the duchess tsked, “if that is what you truly believe. I think your brother has come around to our family’s way of seeing the world.”
“Perhaps he has,” Mercy agreed. “I shall have to look out for him then. But I shall not be caught by this plague of pleasure. I shall stay sensible, practical, and on my own.”
The duchess nodded before she pursed her lips. “I understand. I understand. If I had been a young lady of vast amounts of wealth, perhaps I would’ve felt the same.”
“And you were not?” she prompted, surprised.
“I was the most famous actress on the London stage, my dear.”
Mercy smiled, refusing to be more shocked. “You were your own oddity,” she said softly.
“Indeed I was,” the duchess said, inclining her head. “But I wanted more. I wanted power to improve my life and the lives of others, and so here I am and I have it.”
Mercy hesitated but then rushed, “And has that made you happy?”
The duchess’s face lit up with a light so pure, so full, so beautiful that it transformed her face. “My family has made me happy, my dear. My children have made me happy, and the number of lives that I can affect? That has filled me with pure joy.”
Mercy could not deny the strength of the duchess’s argument or the way she appeared so entirely enthralled.
“I don’t belong here,” Mercy whispered.
“So you say,” the duchess began, “but something suggests to me that you do. I shall leave you to your book and your thoughts. But know this. Whatever you decide, you’re very welcome here, Mercy.”
The duchess then slipped out of the room.
Mercy stared at the retreating form of the duchess and wondered if she had just been overtaken like an invading army coming into a city.
Only this? It didn’t feel like an attack. This had been a full-fledged campaign to win her over.
And she had a strange feeling that was entirely how this family operated. By convincing people rather than forcing them. But did she wish to be convinced? She’d already been betrayed by people she loved.
She couldn’t face such a thing again.