Page 33 of Mercy Fletcher Meets Her Match
“I’m not certain. American, I suppose, given that Mr. Earnshaw seems to have spent a good deal of time there,” Marina said. “I can only assume that his connections to the aristocracy through his father are sufficient to see him in invitations. He and Mercy talked a great deal at the garden party last week. Mostly business, I think. The vast majority of it was well beyond my grasp.”
And yet Mercy had not mentioned any Mr. Earnshaw to him. Thomas adjusted his crooked spectacles upon the bridge of his nose and squinted through the lenses at the man. A businessman, then. Connected to the aristocracy, even if he did not expect to inherit a title himself. Mercy whirled by once again, and for a fleeting instant Thomas caught another glimpse of the smile upon her face, a laugh caught in the dimple of her cheek.
“He is a fine dancer,” Marina said. “And they look well together, do they not?”
Yes, they did, damn it all. Thomas wasn’t certain why it irritated him so to see it, what, precisely had evoked that restless sensation just beneath his breastbone. Butsomethingwas there, clawing to get out. “Well enough,” he said tersely. And then, “I shall have to tell Mother not to let her go off with just anyone.”
“What!” Marina gave a choked little laugh. “Thomas, it is only a dance. They rubbed along well enough at the garden party.”
Which he had not attended, and no one had thought to inform him that Mercy had gained an admirer. “We don’t know his intentions,” he said. If Mr. Fletcher disapproved of amere baron, probably an untitled businessman would also fail to meet his exacting standards, no matter his connections to an earldom. “She is her father’s only child. Of course we must be on guard for fortune hunters and the like.”
“Thomas, if I did not know better, I would say you soundedvery nearly jealous,” Marina chided, with a slow, rueful shake of her head.
The accusation slid down his spine along with a frisson of shock.Jealous. Of course he was not jealous. He was just…protective, as was only right, given the nature of his obligation to her father. Concerned, as anyone would rightly be at the sudden interest of an unknown quantity, a man whose background and intentions he had not thoroughly vetted.
He opened his mouth to refute the charge, and: “Th—th—that—” Ah, hell. His cravat had grown too tight around his throat, his tongue entirely too thick in his mouth. Clumsy and tangled, as if it sought to prevent him from speaking an untruth.
Washe jealous? It was true enough he’d expected to find her waiting against the wall, where she always had been. Had been counting upon a short stay, a dance, and then—
Billiards, he’d assumed. Perhaps brandy. It had been a damned miserable day thus far, and he’d been looking forward to it. Only now—now some other gentleman had commanded Mercy’s attention. And here he was, relegated to a position against the wall, waiting upon her to be done with her dance. To stop smilingat the damned man as if he had hung the moon in the sky only for her, when she had never—
When she had never looked athimquite like that.
Would she have, had he not set them at odds at every possible opportunity, until just recently? Would she ever?
“I am not jealous,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, though Marina had long since ceased to pay him any attention. Which was a damned good thing, as the words had rung false even to his own ears.Good God. He had been engaged to find Mercy an aristocratic husband, and her father had already made it clear that a baron would never do.
He had expected to find the task onerous, burdensome. He had not expected to find it disagreeable in this particular sense.But just now, as the dance at last came to its conclusion and Mr. Earnshaw—whatever manner of man he was—held out his arm to Mercy to conduct her back, Thomas was forced to consider that this was not likely the last he would see of the man.
And there was a part of him, somewhere deep down—the part of him that had been oddly touched that Mercy had always known of his stammer and had never once cast it up before him; the part of him that enjoyed her proficiency at billiards; the part of him that had begun to find the accessories and objects she tended to leave strewn indiscriminately about the house more endearing than exasperating—that desperately wished it was.
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“Don’t look now,” Mr. Earnshaw whispered to Mercy as he conducted her back toward the place that the baroness had carved out for them against a wall, “but I believe your guardian is scowling at me.”
“He’s not my guardian,” Mercy corrected blithely. “His mother is sponsoring me for the Season. And if he’s scowling at anyone, it is most assuredly at me.”
“Far be it from me to argue with a lady,” Mr. Earnshaw said, a touch of cheek in his voice, “but I swear it to you. It’s me he’s scowling at. Is he of a disagreeable disposition?”
“Generally? Yes.” Mercy smothered a laugh beneath her fingers at the slight apprehension that drifted over Mr. Earnshaw’s face. “Don’t concern yourself. I don’t believe he can help it, and he’s far too well-mannered to make anything that might even remotely constitute a scene.”
“Nevertheless, I think I shall take my leave swiftly, if youdon’t mind.” At last they arrived near enough that he could not be accused of having abandoned her halfway, and Mercy let her hand fall from the crook of his elbow. “It was a pleasure, Miss Fletcher,” he said, as he took her hand and bowed over it. “I do hope you’ll save a dance for me, should we meet again at another ball.”
“I would be delighted. And I shall write to my father with all haste,” Mercy said, charmed. He had been a more amiable companion in a dance partner than she’d expected to find, but then she’d enjoyed his company at last week’s garden party as well.
As Mr. Earnshaw made a clean escape, Mercy saw Thomas closing in upon her—still scowling.
“It’s my dance, I believe,” he said as he reached her side, though he hardly sounded pleased about it.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ve had my dance for the evening. Mr. Earnshaw sacrificed himself in your place, so you may consider yourself absolved of the obligation.”
“I’m not certain he considered it much of a sacrifice. You looked to be getting on well.”
And so they had—but the evening had been interminably boring until Mr. Earnshaw had arrived. “He was a pleasant dance partner,” she said. “But I am ready to leave, if you would be so kind as to bring round the carriage.”
“Mercy,” he said, pitching his voice low as he bent near her ear, and a strange little shiver slid down her spine as she realized that he had used her given name in a public place. “I am asking you to dance with me.”
“Oh,” she said. “Not…out of obligation?”
