Chapter Four
Masculine amusements are for men. Under no circumstances should youparticipate.
M ellie wrapped her cloak tight against the morning chill. There was no mist, thank God, but the field was wet and the cow pies pungent. She had hoped the fight would be a quiet affair. That was the whole point of having it at dawn, wasn’t it? Except half the county was here to see a duke’s grandson fight one of their own. It didn’t matter that Ronnie wasn’t technically one of the locals. He’d been knocking about the place since she and her father had come to live here a decade ago. That made him one of the locals, though only in comparison to a lord who had never visited the village.
Ronnie stood in the center of the crowd, enjoying the attention as he pumped his arms back and forth, stamped his feet, and generally milked up all the hubbub. He kept looking at her, standing with her cloak about her face, as if searching for her approval. She wasn’t going to give it, so he might as well look to the tavern maids prancing about. She’d even told him exactly that, in exactly those words, ten minutes ago.
But the man loved the drama of an affaire d’honneur —apparently it was more important when spoken in French—and that made him stubborn. The fight would proceed as planned. If only the opponent would appear.
Ronnie was in his third loud speculation on the cowardice of the aristocracy when Mr. Anaedsley appeared. He looked well turned out as he always did, but the skin beneath his eyes was shadowed, and he shot annoyed glances at the bright sunlight.
Overindulged in her father’s brandy, had he? Well, it served him right. She had told him to go to bed. She had warned him of Ronnie’s intention to beat him insensate. If after all that, he chose to ignore her advice, then she washed her hands of him. Except, of course, she didn’t. Her belly was knotted with anxiety, and her hands gripped the edges of her cloak tight enough to poke holes in the fabric.
“Ho, ho!” Ronnie called when he spotted his opponent. “Is it a little early in the day for you? This is the time when decent folk are up and about their business.”
Loud catcalls greeted that statement, and Mellie watched Trevor wince, even as he grinned with good-natured aplomb. “True enough!” he said. “I’m not one for an early day, never have been. But I’m here now. I acknowledge the grave insult I did to you when I stopped you from proposing to a woman who doesn’t want you. But I was wrong, and so I am here to atone for my sin.”
“Churl!” Ronnie said, thrusting his arm forward to point at Trevor’s face. “You know nothing of us here. You are an interloper and a cad!”
Trevor clutched his chest as if wounded. “Oh sir, I cry guilty to being an interloper. But as for me not knowing women…” He turned and winked broadly at one of the more notorious bawds in the county. “On that mark, I say I am well versed.”
Good God, they were acting as if this were a performance at a theater. Even the bawd—Grace was her name—knew to blush prettily as she dropped into a curtsy. “Lawks, sir, but he does.”
There was a rush of racy comments then, and Trevor played to every one. He acted like a bored roué, and Melinda ground her teeth in annoyance. Ronnie also didn’t like it, so he strutted forward and tried to regain control of the crowd.
“Fie, sir! You speak of the base pleasures of the flesh.”
“That I do!” returned Trevor.
“But I refer to the lofty expression of love. Of man and woman in the pure state of godly adoration.”
“Oh, I adore. I assure you, I adore.”
The crowd roared at that while Melinda’s body tensed for an entirely new reason. These two men were playing a game here. It was a farce of fighting, of Ronnie’s proposal and his godly adoration of her, whatever that was. They acted as if her marriage was a stage play where all the county got to watch and laugh. She hated it, and she hated both men for subjecting her to it.
So with a grunt of disgust, she turned away. But everyone here knew who she was. She might be covered in a dark cloak, but these people had known her for half her life. And they had no interest in letting her escape. The minute she turned away, her path became blocked. She tried weaving around, but she was blocked at every turn.
And the commotion attracted Ronnie’s attention.
“My fair darling, pray don’t abandon me in my hour of triumph!”
She gave up trying to push between the baker’s wife and his three daughters. Damn it, she would have to play her part and damn them both for forcing it on her.
She turned around and threw back the hood of her cloak. She might as well enjoy the sun on her face while she was made a laughingstock. “You clearly have no need of me here, Ronald.”
“Nay, fair maiden, but—”
“Oh shut up,” she snapped. “You weren’t insulted by Mr. Anaedsley. You barely even have a bruise.”
“This is an affaire d’honneur !”
“Then I say, your honor be damned.”
She heard gasps at her language, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t a lady, and she certainly didn’t enjoy this kind of spectacle. Trevor came up beside her and spoke in a gentle undertone.
“It’s just good fun, Mellie. There’s no harm in it.”
Good God, he still didn’t understand! Ronnie was enjoying prancing about now, but in a few minutes, her cousin would turn Trevor black and blue. And then what type of good fun would it be?
She turned to her cousin and spoke earnestly. “He’s the grandson of a duke. You cannot hurt him.”
Ronnie actually grinned. “Oh, I mean to hurt him quite a lot, my love. Quite a lot.”
She bit back a curse, but it was Trevor who kept her from really speaking her mind. “Don’t take this so to heart.” He flashed a sweet smile. “Never mind. Since this upsets you, I’ll end it now.”
“Good Lord…”
“Hush and step back. You have to trust me.” He led her to a spot beneath a tree near enough to see clearly, but far enough away that she couldn’t interfere. Or so she presumed. And the crowd obediently parted to keep her and the combatants in view.
Clearly Ronnie didn’t like Trevor acting the gallant. But given that he never thought to escort her anywhere, Mellie hardly cared, especially as it gave him yet another public jab.
“Play the dandy all you like,” Ronnie taunted. “My lady fair will know her true heart before this morning’s work is done.”
Trevor executed an elaborate bow, pitching his voice to the crowd. “If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.” A nice touch, she thought, quoting Shakespeare’s Macbeth , though the reference was likely lost on most everyone there. Everyone, that is, except herself and her cousin. Ronnie grinned, apparently liking that Trevor had cast himself in the role of betrayer. That put Ronnie in the role of king.
“The love that follows us sometime is our trouble,” quoted Ronnie from the same play. “Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you!” Then he took up a position in the middle of the field.
Trevor stripped off his coat and jacket, ready to set it down in the grass, but Grace stepped up. “I’ll keep it nice and tight for you, me lord.”
Trevor grinned. “I have always felt safe in your arms,” he returned as he delicately set his clothing in her arms. Grace grinned while the rest of the crowd jeered. And then Mr. Anaedsley took up his position before Ronnie, his fists raised.
Except, apparently Ronnie wasn’t satisfied. “A little to your left, if you would, sir.”
Trevor frowned. “What?”
“Just a step, if you would.”
Trevor’s expression flattened into a grimace of distaste. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
With a resigned shrug, Trevor took the requested pace to the left and then readied his fists. The baker stepped forward and raised…good God, had he brought a cowbell? Apparently so, because he lifted it high before striking a single loud clank with a small hammer.
The crowd began to scream, Mellie felt her breath squeeze tight in her lungs, and then she watched in horror as Trevor threw his arms wide and lifted his face to her cousin. It was well timed if he intended to be flattened. Ronnie drew back his ham-like fists and began a slow but obvious blow. Even she could see it coming, and Trevor adroitly put his chin in its direct path.
She gasped, too horrified to speak.
And then it happened. Ronnie’s fist connected, Trevor’s head snapped back, and spittle went flying. Then Mr. Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby, went flying backward to land in a rather large and obvious pile of cow dung.
That was why Ronnie wanted him to step to one side. So Trevor would land there. Of all the dishonorable, despicable—
The crowd roared and surged forward, carrying her with them, but Ronnie didn’t stop. He stepped forward, dropped to one knee in the muck, and raised his fist again. Trevor was just coming back to himself, groaning as he raised a hand to his jaw. He’d barely managed to open his eyes before Ronnie grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into better striking position.
“What?” Trevor asked, but there was no time as Ronnie’s fist landed again with a sickening thud.
Trevor’s head snapped back, and the crowd roared its approval. Mellie saw blood splatter and smelled the stench of the offal. She was furious with Ronnie. She’d known he planned to beat Trevor senseless, but the sight it was sickeningly real. Especially as he lifted Trevor up and readied his fist for another brutal blow.
Thank heaven Trevor managed to rally. He raised his arms and blocked the punch as it descended. But he was slow and clumsy, obviously still reeling. He barely managed to grab hold of Ronnie’s lapels and use his arms to keep his head clear of the blows. In retaliation, Ronnie grabbed Trevor’s arms, gritted his teeth, and tensed his whole body. With a bestial roar, he hauled backward, lifting him off the ground, much to the crowd’s approval.
The audience wanted a long fight.
They made it to their feet, both men staggering, though Trevor looked a great deal worse for wear. Nevertheless, he raised his fists, though his expression was still somewhat confused.
“You have the won the bout,” he said through his bloodied mouth. “There is no need—”
Apparently, there was need because Ronnie swung again, but Trevor was prepared this time. He ducked, he weaved, and he staggered about the field while her much larger cousin pursued.
The crowd started rumbling, disgruntled that no blows were landing. Ronnie was certainly throwing them, but Trevor was lighter on his feet and managed to avoid everything.
“Hit him!” screamed Grace where she still clutched Trevor’s clothing. “Show ’im what for!” The sentiment was echoed all around until Mellie hated them all.
Then Trevor struck. The jab was quick and drew nothing but a surprised grunt from Ronnie, but the crowd thought it wonderful, especially as he followed it with a half dozen more in rapid-fire succession.
Ronnie might have been surprised, but that didn’t last. He started punching, each blow heavy and with increasing speed. The fight was on in earnest, and Mellie watched in horrified fascination. Her cousin had size and power. Trevor had speed, connecting twice as many times as Ronnie. Though his blows were not as powerful, the cumulative effect began to take its toll on her cousin. And what speed! He ducked and twisted all over the field.
After ten more agonizing minutes, Mellie finally began to relax. She was not enjoying the fight. Far from it. But she finally understood what Trevor had said. This was boys fighting in the school yard. Bloody and violent, to be sure. Especially since they were grown men. But no one would die or need a surgeon. The two were well matched. At least that was what she saw with her very limited experience. Which is when things went horribly awry.
Trevor stepped in a hole.
It was Ronnie’s doing, she was sure of it. He probably thought himself clever, but Melinda thought him a beast for it. After all, he knew this field. He’d played here as a boy. He’d no doubt arrange for other pugilist matches on this very location. He likely knew every hole, every rock, every cow pie in a quarter mile and must have maneuvered Trevor to step in exactly that spot.
Trevor cried out in surprise and pain, crumpling quickly—in part from being off balance, in part because he was ducking to avoid Ronnie’s fist. Thank God he was wearing boots, otherwise his leg might have snapped in two. As it was, he was perched precariously, one leg ankle deep in mud while the crowd roared in bloodlust.
Trevor held off Ronnie as best he could, blocking blows aimed at his head. He needed enough space to regain his footing. He found it a moment later, lucky that Ronnie was a big man who tired quickly. Her cousin couldn’t keep up his rain of blows for long, especially with his lungs working like great bellows. Ronnie pulled back his arm for another blow, but the movement was slow.
Trevor took that moment to wrench his leg free, but when he stepped down on it, he continued to fall. Damnation, his leg had given out! He must be hurt in earnest.
Mellie saw the realization hit both men at once. Trevor grimaced in dismay, doing his best to roll with the fall. Ronnie, on the other hand, saw his moment of triumph. His lips pulled back in an ugly grin, and she knew what he intended to do.
Trevor was down. Ronnie was going to finish the fight. But he hadn’t reckoned on Melinda. She’d been an unwilling participant in this whole disgusting display. Well, if her cousin wanted a Cheltenham tragedy, she would bloody well give him one.
She surged forward, having no need to fake the desperation in her voice. “Stop it! Ronnie, stop it now!” And when he didn’t hear her, she said the words she’d never thought she’d utter in her entire life. “My love!”
That got his attention. His fist was raised, but he looked to her, his eyes alight with excitement. “Mellie!”
She flung herself forward. Dropping to her knees, she slid in the mud, coming to a stop just where she’d intended—right beside Trevor’s head. Ronnie reached for her, but she pushed him away as she wrapped herself around the fallen lord.
“Stay away, you brute!” she roared at her cousin. Then she used her cloak to dab at the blood on Trevor’s face. “My love, my love, are you alive? Oh God, someone fetch a doctor! Please, someone!”
Her words were ten times more dramatic than were needed, but she knew the best way to deliver a message to her cousin was in the most theatrical tone possible. So she cradled Trevor in her arms and crooned like a heroine in the most lurid gothic romance.
Trevor’s face was a battered mess, but she could still see the gleam of appreciation in his eyes and the mischievous smile that pulled at his swollen lip.
“Are you an angel?” he asked. “Have I died?”
The man was lying in the mud, his ankle nearly snapped in half. His face oozed from a myriad of cuts, and yet he still had the wherewithal to give the crowd a good show. Oh how she wanted to drop him in the mud. She didn’t, but she hoped her glare would suffice.
Meanwhile, Ronnie stood frozen, his fist still raised. “Mellie?”
She shot a venomous look at his bloody fist. “Do you mean to trounce me as well? Lay me out in the mud and the shite?”
“What?”
She gestured with her chin toward his fist. He abruptly gasped and shook out his hand, dropping it helplessly to his side. “But I won. This was an affaire d’honneur. ”
“Congratulations,” she mocked. “You beat a man half your weight.”
“Hey!” muttered Trevor. “I’m not that small.”
“Shut up. I’m making a point.” She focused her attention on her cousin. Best make the situation absolutely clear. “You were right, Ronnie. You have made everything crystal clear. I could never love a brute like you. It’s him I want. A man of elegance, not violence.”
Her words had to work to get through Ronnie’s thick skull, and no wonder. Certainly, he was an accomplished fighter, but he’d never been called a brute. He was a poet, for God’s sake. And his father often called him a useless fribble with no starch whatsoever. Of course, both appellations were completely wrong, but truth didn’t matter. Not when he wanted drama. And so she stretched the truth—she outright broke it—and felt no remorse.
“I love Trevor,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Since when?” her cousin demanded.
Since never. She had a thorough disgust of them both. Especially as Trevor began to speak in a quavering voice.
“Oh, to finally hear those words, now in the moments before I expire. My life is complete.”
“You’re not dying,” she hissed. Unless he was hurt more than he appeared. The thought shot her with alarm until he started speaking again.
“I am dying!” he cried. “Kiss me, my love. Kiss me, and mayhap your love will keep me tethered to this mortal coil.”
“I will not,” she said between clenched teeth.
He pitched his voice to a plaintive wail. “Then I shall die for sure!”
Damnation on all bloody arrogant, ridiculous men! She glanced at the crowd. Every soul was entranced by the show. She didn’t really care until she looked at Ronnie. He wasn’t stupid. He could see that Trevor wasn’t really hurt. If he’d paid any attention to her at all, he’d know she despised Trevor.
She had to do something quickly. Something that he’d never forget, even if he did suspect the lie.
So she kissed Trevor.
In fact, she more than kissed him. She lifted him in her arms and gave him the kind of scorching kiss that every woman dreamed she’d receive from the grandson of a duke. And he—horrible roué that he was—wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her right back.
And he kept kissing her, with tongue and teeth and a growl of hunger so wonderful that she hated him even more. Even as she lost all thought to propriety in this very public place.