“He is smaller than I imagined.” His breath whispered across her cheek, sending a thrill along her spine despite the criticism in his words.
“Come now, he is only four years of age. He will grow into the title.” Perhaps she responded a trifle defensively. Blythe always seemed to offer suggestions for Edwin’s upbringing that were not quite sympathetic to Mercy’s ideals. But she would not hear disapproval of her son from Leopold Randall.
“I thought he was older than four,” he said. “When exactly was the duke born?”
She looked up into Mr. Randall’s face and smiled. “May seventh, eighteen hundred and ten.”
“Eighteen ten.” Randall’s eyes widened. His fingers fell away from her arm as he glanced at Edwin again. He shook his head as if surprised, but then smiled apologetically. “It’s been so long since I’ve been around a small child. I’d quite confused how big he’d be.”
Mercy glanced to where her son played happily with his toys and let her tension slip away. He hadn’t meant to criticize. He’d obviously heard some wrong information regarding her son’s age and she could forgive him easily enough for his confusion. But he had let slip another small insight into his life that Mercy was curious about. “When were you near a young child last?”
Randall’s harsh exhalation sent her pulse racing again. She glanced up at him, his expression weary.
“My younger brother, Tobias,” he said softly.
“Are you close?”
“We were once.” A flicker of a dimple appeared on Randall’s cheek as his gaze sharpened on Edwin. “I was the eldest. He was my responsibility. I spoiled him.”
Mercy laughed. “Then you are a better brother than most. Mine was quite joyful to be rid of me when I married.”
“I imagine having one’s sister become a duchess is cause for celebration.”
“That wasn’t what he celebrated,” Mercy grumbled. “He celebrated getting me out from under his feet so he might return to his debauchery without facing my disapproval over breakfast.”
There, finally, a dimple.
“Ah, I believe most men would experience a similar feeling.” Randall’s dimple deepened.
Mercy set her hands to her hips. “What is it about men and wenching? Can you not do without?”
When he didn’t respond, Mercy decided her blunt question had flummoxed him. She waved her hands. “Ignore my question.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said hastily.
Randall’s speedy response didn’t surprise her. Since she’d become a duchess, people rarely contradicted her, except for Blythe. But she’d hoped Randall would be different. Disappointed to be faced with another person prepared to let her gaffs pass unchallenged, Mercy moved to sit by the window, closer to her son.
Her companion cleared his throat. “Most men are influenced by their peers. To be seen as an accomplished seducer is to be accepted without question by your fellow man. But from all I’ve seen, ladies attempting to satisfy those same desires are not treated so kindly.”
Mercy met his gaze. “You must rank quite high among your acquaintances. The stories you could tell of your travels, and companions, boggles the mind. The ladies must swoon at the sight of you.” Instantly, she regretted her observation. She sounded peevish even to her own ears. She should not be thinking of him in those terms, and she certainly shouldn’t be letting him know that she thought him irresistible. Men tended to think too well of themselves when flattered.
Randall’s face darkened. “Most men chase the ladies, Your Grace. Not all.”
He left her abruptly and moved to the other side of the chamber, passing her son with the barest of glances. What was it about him that made her want to question him, to dig beneath that polite façade and discover his real opinions? Perhaps she’d been too long alone. Her late husband might not have been a perfect man, but they’d rubbed along together well enough, she supposed. However, she’d never needed to see into his soul like this. She’d never wanted to know what her husband had done when they had been apart.
“He has your eyes,” Randall noted, returning to sit across from her.
“But not my temper,” Mercy added with a laugh. “He is a vastly agreeable child.”
Mercy let out a relieved breath at the return to a much safer topic of conversation. She could talk of Edwin for hours and never be discontent. Speaking of her son might even banish her foolish thoughts about the man sitting opposite, and that could only be a good thing.
But then Leopold Randall’s gaze fixed upon hers and she couldn’t look away. He’d not done that before, she realized. He’d not offered more than the briefest of glances. Whatever emotion she’d stirred within him by her talk of his paramours had been conquered and hidden again. Randall puzzled her immensely. Did he not like women? A wild surge of rebellion stirred within her. She wanted to find out exactly what he did like, and damn the consequences of that discovery.
His dark eyed stare provoked an irrational longing to move closer. Hot color stole up her face, and Mercy was the first to break. She looked to her son again. “I am truly lucky to have him.”
“Were there complications?” he asked suddenly.
The blunt question into matters most men wouldn’t think to enquire after pleased her.