Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman Read online

  He would tell them now, would laugh at the ludicrousness of her claim. That a man such as he would ever desire a woman such as her—

  “Of course, I should do right by her.”

  Mercy’s knees shook and turned into jam. She sank into the chair. Had he just agreed to marry her? Surely not. She’d misheard. The Honorable Stephen Lyons, known rake and seducer of women. Major Stephen Lyons, admired soldier who had managed to make every nurse swoon. He couldn’t possibly be seriously considering marrying her with as much ease as he might snap his fingers.

  “Miss Dawson, will you take a turn about the garden with me?”

  “You can’t possibly think I’m going to leave her alone in your company,” her father barked.

  “Walk along behind us if you like,” Major Lyons said, before glancing back down at John. “Although I daresay there is little I could do at this point that would ruin her reputation any more than it’s already been.” Once again, his gaze leaped across the distance separating them to land on her as powerfully as a touch. “Miss Dawson?”

  She rose on unsteady legs. “Yes, Major. I would very much like to take a stroll with you.”

  It was a lie, of course. She dreaded it with every fiber of her being.

  He didn’t remember her. That truth disturbed Stephen more than he could voice with words, because if there was anything about the past two years that he should have remembered, it should have been her—or at the very least her eyes. An unusual shade, they reminded him of whiskey. But they were haunted, no doubt by things he couldn’t even begin to imagine, but with which he should have been intimately familiar.

  War, blood, death.

  The scars riddling his body and the still healing wounds served as a testament that he’d experienced the worst man had to offer, but his mind couldn’t recall a single detail of what he’d endured. He’d awoken in a regimental hospital on an odorous, thin pallet on a rickety wooden cot, tormented by physical pain that made no sense. Because the very last thing he’d remembered before he became fully conscious was having tea in the garden at Lyons Place with Claire.

  The scent of flowers had been replaced by the pungent stench of oozing and rotting flesh. The sweet song of the meadowlark had been replaced by the moans and cries of dying men. So many calling out for their mothers, needing a familiar bosom upon which to take a final rest. The green of England had been replaced by the gray squalor of the Crimea. Even now he could still taste blood at the back of his throat, and he despaired of ever being free of it. An imperceptible red mist, it had been thick on the air, had saturated what remained of his tattered uniform. His blood, the blood of countless others—men he couldn’t remember. His inability to draw up memories of them dishonored them, disgraced him.

  Lying beside them in the hospital, he’d wallowed in his own filth, his own pain, his own anguish. They would talk to him of battles fought and courage shown. He would pretend that he shared the recollections. They would talk fondly of those who were gone, and he felt he’d betrayed those who had died for his country—who might have died for him. What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t truly appreciate gnawed at his conscience, day and night. He remembered England, his family, his lovers in precise detail. What he couldn’t remember was how he had come to be in that wretched place.

  He’d yearned to escape the reality of his surroundings. He’d longed to feel the silky softness of a woman’s body. He’d craved the solace her soothing hands and warm voice could offer.

  But nothing was as it had been. The joy he’d once taken in women had been replaced by an almost desperate need to rid himself of what he’d become: a man who had lost two years of his life. He had an abbreviated past, had leaped over a chasm of time.

  And now here was this woman who had emerged from that gaping, black nothingness that tormented him. He’d known her, bedded her, filled her with his seed…

  Yet he couldn’t remember the flavor of her kiss, how soft her skin might have felt against his caressing fingers.

  Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy: that she was obviously a lady of good breeding and she’d willingly given herself to him. It would not have been something she’d have done lightly. The way she constantly averted her gaze alerted him that she harbored guilt over their assignation. Yet for the life of him he remembered nothing at all about her.

  He could tell—in spite of the unflattering black dress that might have given an unhandsome woman the appearance of a crow—that she was not easily forgotten. Yet, forget her he had.

  She was tall for a woman. He stood over six feet, and if he tucked her against him while they were standing, he’d have to tilt his chin up to get her as close as possible. Her hair, a burnished copper, more orange than red, was pulled back severely and tucked up neatly beneath her bonnet. She was slender, far too slender for a woman who’d recently given birth. He wondered if she’d had a difficult time of it. Guilt plagued him as he considered the hardships he’d brought upon her. Certainly, they went beyond the shame and mortification of having a child out of wedlock. Why had she not abandoned it somewhere? She could have returned to England with no one the wiser, concerning her indiscretions.

  He ignored the chill in the air and the sharp ache in his leg as they trudged through his younger brother’s gardens. They were bleak now. Not a blossom to be seen, the leaves and stems withered. Still, it was only here, in the quiet and solitude, that he could almost pretend that he was once again normal.

  He looked up at the gray sky. So much seemed without color of late—except for her hair—that he wondered if his vision had been damaged as well. His family and the physician who’d treated him knew of his mental affliction, but otherwise he’d not spoken of it to anyone. Pride forced him to hold his silence on the matter, and to beg of his family to do the same. He’d never begged in his life, but here he was—a man he barely knew. Somehow, he had changed, but he didn’t know what had transpired to change him.

  Sometimes he would have a blink of memory—a bloody arm, an earth-shattering boom, a yell, a scream, the rancid smell of death—but it would flitter away before he could snatch it and hold it close to examine it. Perhaps he was a fool to desperately want to regain such hideous images, but the not knowing, the emptiness of his mind was far worse.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, and she staggered to a stop. Obviously, not the first words she’d expected him to utter. Her dark green cloak was thick and heavy. It was probably doing the job it was intended to do; still the damp could eat through to the bones.

  “It was much colder in the Crimea,” she said. “Although I’ve heard that England had an exceptionally cold winter at the start of this year. I can’t help but wonder if God wanted people to have a taste of what they’d sent their countrymen into.”

  “And their women.”

  She averted her eyes and a blush crept into her hollow cheeks as though she were embarrassed by what certainly must have been good works.

  He considered for the span of a solitary breath telling her of his affliction, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t add insult to the injuries he’d already inflicted upon her, to admit to not knowing who the devil she was or what place she’d held in his life—other than a possible night’s entertainment. But it was more than a desire not to embarrass her or cause her grief. It was his own pride, his own shame. And his paralyzing fear.

  What did it say of a man’s mind when he couldn’t tug at a thread of memory?

  Those who’d served under him lauded his heroic efforts. But he couldn’t recall a single action worthy of praise. A month after returning home to recover from his grievous wounds, he had no memory of how he’d acquired a single scar—except for the tiny one on his cheek, just below his eye. Westcliffe had given him that one when he’d split his skin with his fist after dragging Stephen from the bed he’d been sharing with the wife Westcliffe had acquired only hours before. In truth the encounter had been quite innocent, involving nothing more than holding and comforting her, bu
t Stephen had wanted Westcliffe to believe otherwise. He’d paid for it with a sound beating, but it was nothing compared with what he’d suffered lately. Or so other scars seemed to indicate. They alone knew what he’d endured. Pity they didn’t speak.

  He resumed walking. It was better to keep moving, although toward what destination he hadn’t a clue.

  She hurried to catch up, which wasn’t difficult. He suspected her legs were as long as his, although they were no doubt more shapely and appealing. He tried to remember them wrapped around his waist, and he couldn’t. Had she cried out his name or whispered it? He would have spoken hers numerous times as he murmured sweet words near her ear. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.

  Nothing stirred within him now, nothing at all.

  “How old is the babe?” he asked.

  He couldn’t recall the child’s name. His mother had mentioned it, but he’d paid little attention, assuming at first that the babe was of no importance.

  Again, he’d surprised her. This time it was the deep furrow in her delicate brow that alerted him. Damnation. What exactly had their relationship been? Had they taken quiet moments to converse? Or had they sought to become lost in frenzied lovemaking to escape the horrors that surrounded them?

  While he had no memory of what had come before he awoke in that hospital, he’d witnessed enough while recovering there to know that hell had arrived on earth with a mighty vengeance.

  “A little over three months,” she finally responded.

  He heard the hesitation in her voice, the discomfort over having to reveal what he obviously should have known. Had she told him she was with babe? Or should he have been able to calculate the months since their last tryst? Had he offered to marry her? Dear God, don’t let her realize that I don’t remember her.

  It had never been his way to insult or harm women. They had always been his passion, his raison d’être. He’d appreciated all they had to offer and had made damn sure they were aware of his admiration for them. He’d never knowingly caused one to regret being with him.

  Except possibly for Claire. He’d sought to spare her from his brother, and in so doing, he’d given her years of torment and loneliness, sadness and abject guilt. While he’d gone on to satisfy the ladies of London with his sexual prowess.

  But Claire and Westcliffe had reconciled, and Stephen had never known her to be happier. It was a condition he thought the woman walking beside him might never achieve. He could see she was burdened, and he had little doubt that his actions had only added to the weight she carried on her narrow shoulders. Yet he sensed she was made of stern stuff and would not topple. He suspected that more than the shell of her beauty had attracted him, that she was one of those rare creatures who had the ability to appeal to him on a much deeper level. Yet he’d always avoided them, had not wanted to become entangled with a woman from whom he might desire more than physical release. So why had he been unable to resist becoming involved with her?

  Surely, if he had told her he loved her, she’d be giddy with delight that he was walking beside her instead of lying beneath six feet of dirt.

  “Why did you wait so long to bring him here?” he asked. A safe question because certainly he’d have not known her reasoning.

  She seemed to be searching the barren gardens for her answer. He recalled a time when he’d had the ability to charm a lady into revealing everything, from her deepest secrets to the dimple just above her rounded bottom. He’d lost more than his memory. He’d lost his wicked ways. He should have had Miss Dawson laughing by now, but he’d forgotten how to laugh as well, couldn’t remember the last time he’d made such a wondrous sound. Had even wanted to.

  “I wasn’t … I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to handle the matter,” she confessed. “You weren’t aware that …” Her voice trailed off, and a blush deepened the ruddiness of her cheeks where the cold had begun to chafe them.

  So she hadn’t told him she was with child. Thank God, for that. He’d not abandoned her then, not left her to face it alone. Strange, the comfort he drew from that knowledge. At least the man he’d been in the Crimea had resembled the man he’d been before. While he’d always been cautious, had avoided any by-blows, he’d always wondered how he would respond if faced with the situation. His family had accused him of being a man without character, but he’d hoped it was a façade of his fun-loving youth. Yet he’d never been tested. Until now.

  “John was born in Paris,” she continued, her voice growing a bit stronger, as though she now traveled on firmer ground. “I’d considered raising him there, but then—”

  John. The boy’s name was John. It was a good, strong name. He wondered why she’d selected it, if it held any significance for her.

  She stopped walking, causing him to do the same. His leg welcomed the reprieve. He seldom gave it any, as though he could punish it for its constant ache, for his inability to remember how it had come to be injured.

  “I saw your name on a list of casualties.” A mist formed in her eyes, and she blinked them back. He’d meant something to her, something precious. Had she meant anything to him other than a wild romp?

  What had he felt for her, damn it! He wanted to know. He wanted to ask her what they had done, where they had gone, how long they had been associated with each other. He wanted to know her secrets, wanted to know if he’d shared his. Had he trusted her? Devil take it! Had he loved her?

  “I thought you were dead,” she said hesitantly, as though she feared if she spoke the words with assurance she could cause them to come true.

  No, only a portion of my mind died out there on that godforsaken battlefield. A field that he couldn’t envision no matter how diligently he tried.

  “My family thought so as well,” he told her. “It was the news that was initially given to them.”

  “They must have been devastated.”

  He had no words for the agony they must have suffered. During the first week after he returned home, his mother had barely let him out of her sight, as though he were once again a child to be constantly watched, so he didn’t endanger his existence.

  “I can sympathize with how they must have felt. I knew I couldn’t keep John to myself then. You must understand. I love him more than my own life, but he is yours and I thought he would bring comfort to your family.”

  “And shame to yours.”

  “My father doesn’t understand, but then how can he? He’s not been through what we have been.”

  As far as his mind was concerned, neither had he.

  “Life is so precious, so very precious. I don’t expect you to marry me. I—”

  “Why?” he asked, unable to control his curiosity, to prevent the word from being uttered. “Why do you not expect it? I got you with child.”

  Her eyes widening, her mouth opening slightly, she turned away. He saw the visible tenseness in her shoulders, the way she clutched her hands, as though she were in need of comfort. Was their relationship such that he would have offered it? Should he fold his hand over her shoulder? Should he squeeze it? Should he take her into his arms? Good God, the awkwardness of the moment was almost beyond bearing. He should tell her.

  Forgive me, but I don’t know who the bloody hell you are. I don’t remember what you were to me, what I was to you.

  Staring at the withered garden, Mercy prayed she’d turned away quickly enough that he’d not seen the confusion clouding her eyes. This stroll with him was not at all as she’d anticipated. She’d expected accusation, a demand to know the game she played. And yet it seemed he was the one playing games.

  I got you with child.

  The words had been spoken with conviction, as though he believed them. But how could he? She knew that sometimes a battle could rattle a man’s mind, leave him bewildered, befuddled.

  But Major Lyons seemed to be in complete control of his faculties … and yet, his statement indicated otherwise.

  He had confused her with someone else, someone who could have given birth to his child. />
  Not a woman whom he had merely held and comforted through the night. Not a woman who had fallen in love with him, knowing that she would never possess his heart.

  She couldn’t help but be disappointed that a night that had changed her forever had apparently meant nothing at all to him. He’d been so solicitous, so kind, so tender that long-ago night. What a fool she was to think he’d held her in any sort of special regard. No other man ever had. And Stephen Lyons was far above every other man in existence. Handsome, charming, devoted to women. Not a single nurse had been immune to his charms.

  Mercy had been no exception.

  She wanted to be angry that she’d been no more than a momentary diversion, but she was also acutely aware that his not remembering the details of their association could work to her advantage. And why not make the most of it? From the moment John had come into her life, she’d been more duplicitous than she’d ever thought herself capable of being. Her love of Stephen Lyons and subsequently his son had ruined her reputation, had ensured that no other man would have her.

  She had so much to gain, and Major Lyons had very little to lose. She’d already proven herself an excellent mother. She would excel at being a wife. Marriage would ensure that John remained in her life and she in his.

  Was she truly considering moving forward with this farce?

  And what if he did remember? He would loathe her. Dare she risk it?

  Mercy had never declared to anyone that she had brought John into the world. That honor had been granted another. But the woman who had birthed him had turned away from him. Had abandoned him because his presence was a threat to the prestigious life she’d always envisioned for herself. So Mercy had sheltered him and found a wet nurse to provide the nourishment she could not. He’d been sickly in the beginning, and Mercy had tended to him with an obsessive need to ensure he lived. She’d been so dreadfully weary of watching men die. She’d refused to allow Death to snatch him away. She’d fought vigilantly until her own health suffered.

  But during those difficult and frightening weeks, she’d come to love John as though she had given birth to him. She’d become his mother in every sense of the word. She’d made no plans for his future or hers. She’d simply taken each day as it came.