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splashes of color against the paving stones. “Of course, when you were young, you no doubt sought your own share of trouble?”
    â€œNo. Not as a rule.”
    Of course he did not. Lord Norrington was nothing less than a paragon. Which begged the question of how he had ever managed to sire a son outside the holy bonds of matrimony.
    â€œSurely there must have been some devilment?” Ian pressed. Dammit, Dunnington had managed to extort twenty thousand pounds from this man. There had to be some sin the prig was hiding. “We both know you were not a perfect gentleman at all times.”
    Norrington’s hands stilled, his profile tight with some inner emotion.
    â€œI have never claimed to be perfect,” he rasped. “Indeed, I am far from it.”
    Ian narrowed his gaze. Christ, was that actual emotion beneath all that ice?
    â€œAnd yet I have never heard a breath of scandal attached to your name.” Ian was careful to keep his tone casual. “Not even by those hideous tabbies that devote their lives to discovering the sins of others. Rather remarkable.”
    With an obvious effort, Lord Norrington wrapped his icy composure about himself like a cloak of protection.
    â€œReally, Ian, it is rather unseemly to speak of such things.”
    Ian bit his inner lip, knowing better than to try and force his father to speak of anything he did not wish to. He had banged his head against that particular wall on too many occasions.
    â€œAs you wish.” He lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “To be honest, I am simply interested in hearing of your life.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou are my father. It seems strange that I know precious little about you.”
    â€œThere is nothing you need know of me, Ian.” Reaching for a damp cloth, Norrington carefully wiped the clinging soil from his hands, his movements as concise and contained as his manners. “If you wish heartfelt confessions, then seek out Ella. She would no doubt be eager to share any childhood memory you desire. Now if you will excuse me, I believe I shall seek my rooms.”
    Without so much as a glance in his son’s direction, Lord Norrington turned and marched from the conservatory, his back so stiff it was a wonder it did not crack beneath the strain.
    Abandoned yet again by the father who had devoted a lifetime to ignoring his only child, Ian sucked in a raw, painful breath.
    â€œAnd they claim me the bastard,” he muttered.

    Despite the lateness of the hour, Mercy ignored the comforts of her bed and instead remained curled in a wing chair in the library with a large, leather-bound book spread open on her lap.
    The room was her favorite. Although it claimed the same opulent elegance that Rosehill was famous for, with its lofty ceiling and bank of windows overlooking the rose gardens, there was a sense of warmth in the towering shelves crammed with Lord Norrington’s astonishing collection of books and the sturdy English furnishings.
    When Mercy had first arrived she had been speechless as she stepped into the room. Her mouth had actually watered as she stood in the center of the polished parquet floor and allowed her gaze to wander over the endless shelves. To a young maiden starved for the opportunity to widen her mind, it had seemed as if she had been offered a glimpse of paradise.
    A paradise she was determined to savor until she was forced back to the dull reality of her future.
    Lost in the past, Mercy had no notion of how fragile she appeared in the depths of the leather chair, or how the nearby fire flickered over the golden curls that had slipped from the once-tidy knot to brush her ivory cheeks and added a hint of translucency to her sensible muslin gown.
    Not until there was a sharp intake of breath and she glanced up to discover Ian Breckford regarding her with a smoldering appreciation that sent a jolt of awareness down her spine.
    â€œAh, so wood sprites have infested even the