Page 35 of Mercy Fletcher Meets Her Match
Mercy managed a grim sort of smile. “At least until I forget the note.” Until it had stopped being novel, until her eyes glazed right over it, her brain dismissing it entirely.
Thomas shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s merely a first attempt. If it should fail, then we shall find something else.” With a gesture of one hand, he indicated the stairs. “Go on, then. Mother and the girls won’t be too terribly far behind us, and I shouldn’t like for anyone else to witness my inevitable humiliation when you beat me once again.”
A laugh bubbled up in her throat. Of course he wouldn’t—not perfect, infallible Thomas. “I’ll just put my shoes back in my bed chamber, where they’re meant to be, first,” she said as she followed. “It seems the least I ought to do.”
And she had something to retrieve, besides.
∞∞∞
Thou shalt not lust after thy neighbor’s daughter.
Perhaps that particular commandment in its specificity had never made it into the Bible, but Thomas felt reasonably certain he ought to be honoring it anyway. A task made all the more burdensome by the fact that while Mercy had been in her bed chamber, she had also elected to rid herself of her ball gown in favor of a dressing gown, and to remove the pins from her hair, leaving the whole mass of it to tumble down her back in a cascading fall of wild curls.
They smelled like cinnamon. Just occasionally, when she had meandered round the table to take her own shot, he’d caught just the faintest whiff of it. Spicy and warm, like Chelsea buns fresh from the oven.
She leaned over the table opposite him as he bent to line up his next shot, and he prayed to whichever god happened to be listening that she was wearing something beneath that crimson velvet dressing gown, for it was belted none too tightly at the waist with little else to secure it. He adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose—a somewhat futile endeavor, since the slight bend in the frame made the lenses distort his vision regardless.
He missed. Of course he’d missed. He’d been focused more upon the swell of her breasts beneath the rich fabric of her dressing gown than he had the shot that might have won him the game.
“Too bad,” she said with a mock-sigh, as she eagerly lined up her next shot and sunk the ball without much effort, securing her victory. “You’ll win one of these days.”
Not if he couldn’t keep his eyes away from her breasts. Or her bum. Or her damned pretty, cinnamon-scented hair. “You took down your hair,” he said. “It was distracting.”
Her brows lifted in interest. “Was it? I’m sorry. It’s just that pins make my head ache after a while.”
“You never wore your hair up like that in the countryside,” he said as he poured her a glass of brandy—and then a larger one for himself. “I suppose I’ve been accustomed to seeing it all wind-blown and frizzy. Or else only plaited.” His fingers twitched around his glass as he envisioned himself running them through her hair.
A quiver of amusement slid across her mouth. “I had no idea you had even noticed.”
“I noticed.” Of course he’d noticed. It would have been impossible not to. But he hadn’t beenmeantto notice her. Father had clapped him upside the head more than a few times, for letting his eyes linger upon her too long on those rare occasions they’d encountered her. “But the ball gowns, the pinned-up hair—I don’t think I care for them.”
Her head canted to the right, and she set her glass aside to fold her arms across her chest. Not quite offended; not yet. But curious. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not how you’re meant to look.” Another sip of brandy, and the liquor warmed a path toward his stomach. “You don’t look like yourself with your hair up.”
“You mean I look like a lady.”
“No. I mean you don’t look likeyourself. You’re prettiest when your hair is frizzy and wild and you’ve got dirt on your face and grass stains on your dress.” Good God, he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. He hadn’t truly meant to say it at all.
A burst of startled laughter wreathed itself about the room, and there it was—that dimple shining in her cheek. And all he’d had to do was make a fool of himself to get it. “You think I’mpretty?” she asked, and her fingers came up to rub at the smile upon her lips, as if even she had surprised herself with it.
“I don’tthinkyou’re pretty,” he said, and swallowed down the sulkiness in his voice with another sip of brandy. “Youarepretty.” To his mind this was simply an objective truth, incontrovertible and undeniable.
“Youdothink I’m pretty.” Another laugh, bright and vivid and visible in the sparkle of her dark eyes, in that damned adorable dimple. “You think I’m pretty!”
His face felt suddenly and unaccountably warm. “You needn’t make such a fuss about it.”
“I don’t know; I feel as if a fuss is warranted, at least a little,” she said, and still there was a warm shimmer of delight in her voice. “Perhaps you simply have not seen me clearly of late. Have you considered that perhaps it is the fault of your spectacles? They are still bent,” she said, creeping closer, the hint of a smirk lingering just at the corner of her mouth.
“That would make it your fault, would it not?” he asked, casting back the last of his brandy.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, and her hands stretched out toward him, fingers landing gently upon the earpieces. Slowly, carefully, she pulled the spectacles off of his face. The room entire went blurry, indistinct blots of color merging and blending with one another in the dim candlelight. “Try these instead.”
There was a flash of light across something silver, and then—cool metal touched his face as a new set of spectacles settled upon the bridge of his nose and the earpieces slid around the sides of his head. The world came into focus once more, no longer lopsided and distorted, but perfectly crisp and clear and visible through new lenses unmarred by even the tiniest of scratches or flecks of dust.
Thomas blinked, startled. “You—you bought me a new pair ofspectacles?”
“It seemed the least I could do,” Mercy said softly, reaching once more for her glass. “Since you went to the trouble of purchasing a new sketchbook for me. You can’t deny it; I’ve asked everyone else.”
