A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1) Page 17

  “You could hardly have stopped me.” He folded his arms to retain the heat and suddenly wished that he was still wearing his coat. The air prickled at the exposed skin on his chest. He reached his hands up to do the button at his throat, but his fingers fumbled with it. It seemed impossibly large and the hole impossibly small.

  “I certainly could have,” Mercy said with a teasing smile as she sat beside him. She took his shirt collar in hand and worked at the button.

  Either his shirt had shrunk to the point of constricting his throat, or else the air between them had become too thick to breathe. Mercy was almost as near to him as she had been in the flash of dream he’d just seen. There was an intimacy to her assistance that felt greater even than a kiss, though. It was a gesture redolent of domestic bliss.

  “You cannot even stand without my assistance,” she said.

  Perhaps not, but it seemed he could either stand with her assistance—or breathe. Having her near did not permit him to do both.

  As their eyes met, her hands lingered at his button for a moment. His shivering had stopped, as if her mere proximity had warmed him. Or perhaps the tenseness in his body had simply overpowered the trembling.

  She looked at him with a question in her eyes. It was the question he’d had a firm answer to ever since she had walked away from him, but suddenly he didn’t know the answer.

  It had been easy enough not to forgive Mercy when he had been thousands of miles away, when he didn’t have to smell her, look into her soft blue eyes, or rely on her for help buttoning his shirt.

  It was something else entirely to shut himself off to her when she was inches away, wearing his aunt’s hideous puce dress because he had retched all over her, and doing his shirt button because he couldn’t perform even the simplest of tasks.

  It was not so easy to hold a grudge against the woman before him. It would have been terribly easy to hold her, though, and he had to fight off the natural impulse to reach his arms around her and pull her closer still.

  Against his will, his heart seemed to be opening itself to her again—or just as likely, his heart had never closed itself off to her in the first place—and that thought sent a pulse of terror through him; a terror equaled by the desire to wrap her in an embrace and forget that anything had ever come between them.

  He shifted subtly away from her, and her hands dropped to her sides.

  He smiled wryly. “That short walk down the corridor has left me weak as a cat.”

  She blinked and nodded quickly. “I am sure you are wishing for some undisturbed rest. I shall leave you.”

  He knew a flash of disappointment. But what had he expected? That she would stay with him while he slept?

  She took the pillow, crushed where his head had lain for so long, and fluffed it, then walked around the bed to the window, pulling the curtains together to shut out the light of the late morning.

  He watched her movements with his brow drawn, every act of kindness twisting his heart a bit more, making him regret every inch of space that stood between them.

  Looking around the room and noticing the empty bowl, she took it from the table, then drew in a breath and smiled hesitantly at him.

  “Thank you,” he said softly, rubbing his thumbs together in his lap. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind, and he wanted her to stay. But if she stayed, he feared he wouldn’t be able to resist her.

  No, he needed some time alone to sort through this muddle of thoughts and feelings. If he acted too quickly and then realized he had made the wrong decision, he would be no better than she when she had ended their engagement.

  She held the bowl tightly against her. “I am terribly sorry for all you have been put through. I am sure you rue the day you met my family.”

  He chuckled. “Certainly a few of you have left your mark.”

  Her brows drew together for a moment, as though his words had hurt her. “Well,” she said, looking down at the bowl in her hands, “you shall be free of us again soon enough.” She looked up, and the smile she wore struck him with its sadness. “When shall you leave for Jamaica?”

  Jamaica. He loved so much about the place—looking out over a bay of glistening water in the morning; deep blue skies at midday; and the spectacular palette of pinks, purples, blues, yellows, and oranges that painted nearly every evening sky. The heat was oppressive, of course, but it was so often punctuated by a refreshing breeze that Solomon had come not to mind it so very much.

  But the thought of setting sail, so soon after his arrival in England, and the prospect of leaving Mercy behind yet again…it ached somewhere deep within him.

  “I am not certain,” he said. “My mother is anxious to see me”—he dipped his head and tried to keep from smiling ruefully—“though perhaps she will be less so when she discovers that my marriage is no closer now than it was when I first left for the West Indies.”

  Mercy’s lips pinched together in a line, and her fingers, which had been tracing the lip of the bowl, stilled, though her gaze didn’t rise to his.

  When she finally looked up, her eyes were still sad, but there was a humorous twinkle there. “If my uncle has his way,” she said, “you may well find yourself both wedded to Deborah and persuaded to return to Jamaica. I think that would be his notion of the ideal ending to all of this.”

  Solomon let out a snort of laughter. “I am afraid there is nothing that could persuade me to plight her my troth at this point. For, saving your presence, a more bacon-brained, ridiculous woman I have yet to meet.”

  Mercy put a hand to her mouth to cover her smile. “Deborah is not so bad as that. But you have certainly not seen her at her best.”

  “I find it hard to imagine what that would be like—or how often her supposed best makes an appearance.”

  Mercy’s shoulders rose as she took in a breath. “As aggravating as she can be, I feel for her. She is experiencing the desperation of loving someone her family is set against.” Her smile faltered. “But I am keeping you from your rest.” She dipped into a curtsy and moved to the door. “Rest well,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mercy gripped the ceramic bowl tightly in her hands, looking at the dregs of crushed ginger that floated in the remnants of Viola’s restorative. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she moved down the wide staircase.

  She seemed to be losing her ability to keep a hold of her feelings in front of Solomon. She was bound to betray herself if she continued spending time with him, and that could only mean rejection.

  She hit something solid, and the bowl flew from her hands. She shot a hand out toward the banister to keep from falling, and the high-pitched sound of shattering ceramic filled the room. Flecks of ginger and restorative flew into the air, and a hand grasped Mercy’s wrist.

  “Miss Marcotte,” said Mr. Coburn. “Are you unwell?”

  She blinked, looking at the destruction she had caused, and shook her head. “No,” she said with a shaky smile. “Merely not watching where I am walking.”

  He lowered his head to meet her gaze, as if unsure whether to believe she was well, and gave her hand a small squeeze. A sound from upstairs brought their heads around, but no one was in sight.

  Mercy was keenly aware of her hand still in his. “I shall ring for a servant to come.” She pulled her hand away gently but firmly.

  “Is everything all right?” Viola came rushing down the corridor, her eyes flitting from Mercy to Mr. Coburn, then down to the countless pieces, large and small, of ceramic which littered the floor. “Oh dear,” she said.

  “Yes, I was just going to ring for someone to come clean it,” Mercy said, moving toward the nearest bell.

  “Did he drink it, then?” Viola asked in a hopeful voice.

  Mercy pulled the bell, smiling. “Yes, and it did him much good.” She thought of how Solomon had experienced a mild return of some symptoms shortly after drinking it, but since Mercy had also drunk it and was feeling well, she determined no
t to mention that to Viola.

  Viola beamed. “I am very pleased to hear that! I think I do have some talent for such things, but I was afraid that Mr. Kennett would be too angry with me to try it—and not without reason. Oh, Mercy,” she cried, walking to the silver platter that rested upon the side table in the entryway. “You have received a letter from Uncle Richard, I think.”

  Mercy’s heart stuttered as she took it. What would it say this time? She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was furious—in fact, she would be very surprised if he wasn’t furious. The larger question would be what his expectations were now for Deborah.

  She opened it, too anxious to wait for the opportunity to read it alone. Her eyes rapidly scanned the precise, slanting script.

  “Well?” said Viola, glancing at Frederick. “What does he say?”

  Mercy sighed. “He says that if I cannot persuade Deborah to return home today, he will come here himself and, in his words, ‘string her up by the wrists behind the coach like the hoyden she is.’”

  She glanced at Frederick, who wore a stricken expression.

  “What have I done?” he said.

  “Don’t despair, Mr. Coburn,” said Mercy. “I am persuaded that my uncle may be brought around if he can be made to see that Deborah is steady in her desire to marry you.”

  “But she is not,” he said blankly. “She no longer desires us to wed. And perhaps she is right to abandon me, for we seem not to understand one another.”

  Viola shook her head violently. “She is only in need of reassurance of your regard for her—an unmistakable pledge of your never-ending love.”

  “Viola is right,” Mercy said. “Somehow in the chaos of everything that has happened over the past few days, you have both come to doubt one another. It all began when she discovered that you had written that note. Of course, it was done out of a regard for her. But in Deborah’s mind…”

  He heaved a sigh. “It was confirmation that I didn’t wish to wed her at all.”

  “You must talk with one another,” Viola said. “Explain what your true intentions were. And I think you will then find that Deborah is just as much in love with you now as she was when you left Westwood together. It is only her pride that keeps her from admitting as much.”

  Mercy stared at Viola, finding it difficult to swallow.

  If only words were enough to mend things between her and Solomon as well. She could have sworn that he, too, had felt the pull between them. She knew, though, that it was too easy to see what she wished to see. And she wished so very terribly for them to be reconciled.

  Whatever Solomon’s feelings, it seemed impossible that mere words could change anything. Too much had happened, too long had passed.

  And yet…

  Would she always wonder if she didn’t at least try?

  Solomon sat motionless on the edge of the bed long after Mercy had left, reviewing their interaction in his mind.

  A quick knock sounded on the door. Apparently resting was not in the cards, and it was just as well, for his mind was too occupied to let him sleep. He knew a hope that it might be Mercy at the door again.

  “Come in.” He straightened himself on the bed.

  It was Miss Lanaway, a strange glint in her eyes and a clipped way about her movements. “Mr. Kennett,” she said with a brief curtsy. “And how are you?”

  “Well enough,” he said. “And you? Not afflicted as I have been?”

  She let out a scoff. “Perhaps not in the same way—I think I might have been if I had remained in this room any longer than I did—but I would certainly not say that I have not been afflicted!” She walked over to the chair, sitting on the seat and folding her arms.

  Solomon stifled a sigh. Apparently he was to be treated to an enumeration of Miss Lanaway’s complaints. It was hardly an enjoyable prospect, but at least it might distract him from his own woes.

  “What has the scoundrel Mr. Coburn done now?” he asked, rubbing at his eyes with his palms.

  “Fallen in love with my own cousin!”

  “Ah.” He knew Miss Lanaway well enough now to believe her prone to exaggeration, particularly where it concerned Mr. Coburn.

  “Just now, I witnessed him holding her hand in his, as if just two days ago he hadn’t been declaring his love for me.” Her nostrils flared, but Solomon saw the hurt in her overbright eyes. His own heart clenched at the thought of Mercy sharing any intimate moment, however minor, with someone else.

  For once, he felt a certain degree of sympathy for Miss Lanaway.

  “And for Mercy to allow him to treat her with such familiarity!” she exclaimed. “I never thought that my own cousin would serve me so.” She sat back in her seat, arms still folded, and looked at Solomon. “She has treated us both very ill.”

  Solomon tipped his head to the side, thinking of the care Mercy had provided to him all morning. Had she even partaken of breakfast?

  “Don’t be deceived,” Miss Lanaway said, as if reading his thoughts. “She always has an ulterior motive.” Her words were bitter, infused with history.

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled at him, but it was almost pitying. “Have you not wondered why she has been so attentive to you? Now that you are home from the West Indies and quite disgustingly rich?”

  He said nothing, but the blood pulsed through his veins.

  “Oh, certainly she can be quite kind,” Miss Lanaway said, anticipating any arguments he might bring forward, “but at the end of the day, Mercy seems to think of one thing only: money.”

  Solomon’s jaw shifted. Part of him refused to believe Miss Lanaway’s words—she was not precisely the most stable or rational of women.

  But the other part of him—the fearful part that had been looking for a reason to mistrust Mercy—needed to pursue what she was saying. “You mean,” he said slowly, “that her caring for me during all of this is, beneath the surface, merely an effort to—”

  “Get back in your good graces,” she said, as though it were the most natural conclusion in the world. “How can you doubt it after your history together? She has not changed a jot. People do not change. Not really.”

  Solomon’s teeth clamped together again. Miss Lanaway’s words brought on a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with Miss Pawnce’s elixir.

  Miss Lanway absently spun the vase of flowers around and around on the table beside the bed. “I have little doubt at all that, were you to lose your fortune tomorrow, Mercy would abandon you to your illness, much as she wishes for me to abandon Frederick, simply because he hasn’t a grand fortune.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Lanaway,” said Solomon. “My stomach is suddenly feeling queasy.”

  She hopped up from the chair as though someone had lit a fire beneath her. “Oh dear,” she said. “Well, I am afraid I am quite useless in such a situation.” She backed away, wringing her hands and watching him warily, as though he might spew forth like a volcano any second. “Shall I call for someone to come?”

  He shook his head firmly. He didn’t want any company. In fact, he had no intention of staying in the bedchamber once Miss Lanaway left him alone. “Thank you, but no.”

  She shuffled backwards and disappeared through the door.

  Solomon slammed his open palm down on the bed, then rubbed his mouth harshly. He wasn’t fool enough to put stock in everything Miss Lanaway said. But was there some truth beneath her exaggeration?

  What made him think that anything had changed? Mercy had made her decision two years ago. She had not been willing to wait and see him through his difficulties. And now that he had returned, pockets overflowing with money, did she think that they could simply act as if nothing had happened? As if Solomon hadn’t spent the last two years trying to rebuild the confidence she had nearly destroyed?

  No. He could not risk that again. He could not put his heart back into the hands that had shown themselves to have so little care for it.

  If forgiveness meant pretending nothing had happened between
them, he could not forgive.

  And he could certainly not forget.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mercy, Mr. Coburn, and Viola all looked up to the top of the staircase, where Deborah stood, chin held high, skirts gathered in one hand, and her eyes trained on some unidentifiable spot on the wall opposite her.

  Mercy glanced at Mr. Coburn, seeing his apprehension and sympathizing with it. Deborah was never more dangerous than when she donned her persona of hauteur.

  His eyes shifted to Mercy and then Viola, who gave him an encouraging smile. “‘I know no ways to mince it in love than directly to say “I love you.”’”

  “Deborah.” Mr. Coburn put out a hand as she reached the bottom stair.

  She glanced at his outstretched hand. “Mr. Coburn,” she said with a rigid and shallow dip of the head.

  “I have become Mr. Coburn, then?” he asked, letting his hand drop but moving toward her.

  She didn’t answer him, and Mercy and Viola exchanged tense glances.

  “You may call me any name you wish, Deb,” he continued, taking her hand in his and kneeling before her, “but to me you shall always be my cherished love.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a long, fervent kiss upon it.

  Viola’s hands came together, clasping in front of her mouth, unable to hide the beaming, close-lipped smile upon her face.

  Deborah lowered her eyes reluctantly to Mr. Coburn’s, and Mercy saw in them the battling desire between resistance and surrender. Deborah needed to know she was loved by this man, but she also needed to protect her pride, which had been hurt grievously.

  Mercy’s heart throbbed as she watched Mr. Coburn declare his love. He had no idea whether his suit would be successful, and yet he was risking his heart all the same.

  Mercy’s heart stirred.

  Could she be so courageous? Could she tell Solomon how she felt for him, whether he rejected her or not?

  If she didn’t do it now, she might never have the opportunity, and she didn’t think she could bear going through life with yet another regret—another missed chance to tell Solomon how she felt.