The Duke's Absolutely Mad Marriage (The Notorious Briarwoods Book 3) by Eva Devon

Author:Eva Devon [Devon, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bard Productions
Published: 2024-07-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Mercy charged into Heron House, barely refraining from doing murder.

No one here deserved to be killed.

So, in truth, the frothing rage was pointless. Gemma followed closely behind as they headed up the steps. She was rather glad that the carriage ride from Fleet Street to Heron House was significant because it had given her an opportunity to reflect on exactly what she wanted to do and how she wished to do it.

Still, she could not quite set her spirit at rest. She had never been talked to so condescendingly before. Of course, she’d had men say incredibly degrading things to her. She’d been surrounded by foot soldiers, after all. And of course, there had been that incident with Norris in New York, but somehow this had made her feel demoralized and infuriated and determined in a way she never had before.

“Goodness, you do look like death,” called out Lady Juliet, her soon-to-be sister-in-law.

“Do I?” Mercy asked, scowling. “There’s a reason for it. London is most fortunate that it is not a sea of dead, infuriating male bodies.”

Juliet’s eyes widened with delight. “Do tell. I love a story like that.”

“Story?” called the duchess from the top of the stairs. “What story? I do love stories as well. Come, come. We are about to have tea.”

Mercy took off her gloves. Gemma took her things and was about to depart when she turned to Gemma and instructed, “You must go down to Cook and ask for a bit of cake. You were wonderful.”

“So were you, miss!” Gemma beamed, gave a quick curtsy, and rushed away.

The duchess and Lady Juliet exchanged a quick, pleased look. Then as one, they headed down one of the halls which led off the large foyer.

Mercy followed Lady Juliet and the duchess into a frothy salon of pink silk walls and elegant furnishings. There was nothing like it in the United States. Things were not quite so gilded, but she found herself actually quite admiring the joyfulness of the colors. She rather imagined that England was a terribly dreary place in the winter, and New York itself could get quite cold and awful. The joy of bright things could lift the spirits. She rather liked that. Mercy loved the paintings on the walls, even the gold gilding, because there was a love of pretty things and art in this house that she could not deny herself.

“Now who are we killing?” the duchess asked. “It does sound as if someone deserves to die.”

Mercy gazed at the woman who could potentially be her mother-in-law one day and found herself smiling. Her fury channeled into amusement that the duchess’s response was not to bear it, not take it on the chin or do her duty as, once upon a time, her mother would have advised. No, the duchess’s response was to want to know who they were going to go and find and shake, and then bury.

She liked it. She liked it very much indeed. How could she not?

“A certain publisher on Fleet Street,” admitted Mercy.

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