Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman by Lorraine Heath

obviously wishing to be elsewhere. She’d avoided his direct gaze, studied her place setting as though she’d never encountered china or cutlery and was striving to unravel the mystery of each.
    He made her uncomfortable with his intrusive staring, but he’d been unable to direct his eyes away from her.
    It didn’t help matters that his leg ached unmercifully, to such an extent that he could barely tolerate his trousers touching it. Riding was excruciating, but he desperately needed to escape. His mother thought he should marry the girl who served as a constant reminder of all he’d lost.
    But he couldn’t marry her without revealing the truth regarding his affliction—it wouldn’t be fair to her not to tell her he was but a partial man—and then she’d look upon him with the same pitying expression that he abhorred. And other doubts would surface. What if his memory loss was not related to the battle but to some deficiency in him, some madness?
    Rain began falling, pattering his greatcoat, beating out a steady staccato that added a haunting element to the thud of the horse’s hooves as they made light work of rapidly distancing him from Grantwood Manor. He couldn’t get far enough away, quickly enough. He knew he’d have to return and face the dilemma before him. Even if they didn’t marry, he’d make arrangements to see after the boy’s welfare as well as hers. What sort of life would she have then? Men would see her as nothing more than a trollop. No man would ever want her as his wife. Stephen would be condemning her to spinsterhood. She deserved better.
    Didn’t she? His conclusions were drawn after only a few hours of visiting with her. What did he truly know about her? What if Ainsley read her better? What if he could see her more clearly? Stephen’s thoughts had been in a fog ever since he awoke in that damned military hospital.
    He urged his horse up the rise. At the top, he drew the gelding to a stop and dismounted. His right leg buckled and his knee hit the ground hard and torturously, shooting pain straight to his hip, before he could catch his balance. He roared out his frustrations, competing in volume with the thunder rumbling across the sky, as the anguish spiked. He tried to rub out the agony, but it only increased with his touch, as though he dug the blade of a knife into it.
    He wouldn’t mind the scars or the discomfort so much if he knew that he’d given as good as he got.
    He’d been making some progress toward letting the mystery of the past two years go. He couldn’t reclaim them. Maybe he didn’t want to. He wanted nothing more than to heal and then get on with his life. But Miss Dawson—Mercy, Mercy —had arrived and suddenly the past two years had become unbearably important. What other mysteries resided within the murky depths? Were there other children, other women he should have remembered? Or had she been the only one?
    Only one night with one woman. Unlikely. Not in the span of two years. Not with his sexual appetites. Before he’d awakened on that damned filthy mattress, he’d barely been able to go a night without playing a game of seduction. Would she expect him to give up his nightly carousing?
    A forced marriage had certainly never been his goal in life. He doubted it had been hers either. She’d probably dreamed of heartfelt declarations and a bended knee. He’d intended to die a bachelor. He had no title, no property, nothing to leave to a son.
    But suddenly he had one. And a woman whose reputation was in shambles because of his actions.
    The rain pouring around him couldn’t wash away his doubts or his burdens. He had to face them. On the morrow, he’d offer to marry Miss Dawson. It would certainly be no hardship. The kiss in the library had proven there was a spark between them that could be ignited into a roaring blaze with only a bit of kindling. Perhaps once she knew his intentions to do right by her, they would regain whatever comfortableness they’d