Chapter Five
Keep your composure at alltimes.
“M elinda Smithson!” Ronnie exclaimed and probably not for the first time. Trevor barely restrained his irritation. The idiot thought taking a parental tone would endear him to Mellie. Sadly, the tone did have an effect on Trevor. It cooled his ardor just enough for him to realize they were kissing in the mud in full view of the entire county.
Romantic? Yes. Appropriate behavior for a gentleman of good breeding? Decidedly not.
So with a reluctant sigh, he drew back, taking the time to stroke her cheek and admire the silky texture of her skin. Damn, she was a beautiful woman. Especially since their ardor had pulled the pins from her hair and tumbled her mahogany curls down her back. The sunlight brought out the red highlights and turned her mink eyes golden. And her lips—her wet, red, plump—
“Melinda Smithson!” Ronnie cried again. “You forget yourself!”
“Yes,” she said, her expression still gratifyingly dazed. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
Trevor grinned. “Love will do that, you know,” he said as he stroked his thumb across her plump lower lip. “Makes one forget everything else…” He stretched toward her, and she brought herself in reach. But then there was Ronnie, grabbing hold of Trevor’s shoulder and muscling him back.
If the idiot had touched Mellie, Trevor would have punched him hard in the knee. It would cripple the man, potentially for life. But since the bastard hauled on Trevor, his knee was spared. The same could not be said for his own ankle.
Now that he wasn’t kissing Mellie, other painful sensations pushed to the fore. His ankle was swelling. His jaw was already three times as large as it should be, or at least it felt that way.
He dropped his head forward, touching his forehead to hers. All around them, the audience cheered, jeered, or made ribald comments that were getting more and more obscene.
“We need to get you home,” he said to her softly.
Her eyes widened at some of the things being said. No more sexual daze. Just a growing pinkness in her cheeks and not from his attentions. “Can you walk?” she asked.
He nodded. “It’ll hurt like the devil, but I can manage it.”
“Should I send for the carriage?”
“Heavens, no!” The last thing he wanted to do was sit in here in the muck waiting. “If you support me—”
“Of course. Lean on me, Mr. Anaedsley. I’m a lot stronger than I look.”
He squeezed her fingers, only now realizing that he held her hand. “I see that, Mellie. Indeed, I wonder at how blind I’ve been.”
Her mouth opened in surprise, and this time the pink in her cheeks was because of him. He meant to keep it that way. The more he distracted her from everyone else, the less mortified she would feel.
“Yes, cousin,” pressed Ronnie. “Do get up. This is unseemly.”
She shot the man an irritated look. “You wouldn’t say that if I’d been kissing you.”
Trevor didn’t think it was possible for Ronnie to look like an offended princess. The buffoon was too big to pull off the dainty, nose-in-the-air look. His mistake. Ronnie pranced backward, stepping on his tippy toes as he gasped at the insult.
“You wound me, cousin. I have thought nothing but for your happiness. I want to know what this roué has said to sway you from your normal common sense—”
“Oh, owwwww!” Trevor groaned loudly as he pushed to his feet. In truth, it wasn’t that bad, but he would play up the injury if it shut up Ronnie.
Mellie scrambled to help. “I’m right here. Lean on me.”
“Oh, for goodness sake—” Ronnie exclaimed.
“No, no!” he cried. “I can manage it.” He’d made it to his feet, then shifted his weight to the bad ankle. He didn’t fake his gasp when pain shot fire up his spine.
“Don’t be foolish!” she snapped as she pulled his arm around her shoulders to bolster him. Damn, she wasn’t lying. She was strong. He didn’t fear he’d break her, and better yet, it brought to mind all sorts of delicious things that could be done with a vigorous woman.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m getting my stink all over you.”
She chuckled. “I’ve been in worse, I assure you.”
He glanced at her, wondering how that was possible.
“When you’re not here, who do you suppose helps my father with his experiments? Who holds the sheep while he applies his tick cream? Who—”
“Good God,” he exclaimed, truly appalled. “I’d assumed it was the servants.”
“Only sometimes. He says I have the keener eye for detail—”
“But—”
“And a scientific mind to help analyze the work.”
She sounded proud of that, and well she should. Praise from her father was rare. As a boy, he’d beamed for weeks after receiving one of those compliments. “He still should hire someone to hold the sheep.”
She chuckled. “He shall have to now, if I head to London with you.”
Trevor liked the idea of her in London with him. He wanted to see her in silks and jewels. And he would enjoy introducing her to the many entertainments in London. “I shall take you to the Royal Theater. You will love—”
“London!” squeaked Ronnie from a step behind them. “Whyever would you go there?”
Trevor grinned, relishing the idea of putting the man in his place. With his most arrogant expression, he shot Ronnie a glare. “She is my fiancée, man. Did you think I would hide such a jewel in this backward county? We are off to London where she will learn how to be a duchess.”
“A duchess!” Ronnie squawked.
Did the man know nothing? “I am grandson to the Duke of Timby.” He barely held back the “you idiot.” A second later, he realized that Ronnie knew exactly who he was, but he wanted to be sure everyone else knew. It implied Mellie had chosen a title over her cousin.
True to the drama in the man’s head, Ronnie’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line. “How could you, Mellie?” he asked in a loud hiss. “How could you betray everything—destiny, love, everything—for a title? You are nothing but a money-grubbing—”
His hurt ankle be damned. Trevor moved away from Mellie and punched Ronnie right in the mouth. The crowd had started to disburse, but now they all turned back. If Ronnie wanted a passion play, then by all means, he’d let him have it.
“I am Trevor Harrison Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby,” he said in ringing tones. “And after my father, I will be the duke. Miss Melinda Smithson is to be my bride and in good time, a duchess. If any man dare insult her again, be assured I shall do more than toss them into the shite. I shall run them through with my sword.” He lifted his gaze and looked all around. “Do you all hear and understand?”
One by one, he saw people dip their chin and nod. A few even said, “Yes, Yer Grace,” as if he had already inherited. His last heavy stare was for Ronnie, who had just regained his equilibrium.
With the sun at his back and his fists bunched, their differences were shockingly clear. Ronnie was two stone heavier and had impressive skill with his fists—a skill that came from size and intelligence. Plus—and this was the dangerous part—a stubborn adherence to his own idiotic ideas. The brute had decided he and Mellie were destined to marry, and he wasn’t going to give that up without a fight.
It didn’t matter. Mellie was never, ever going to marry this man. Trevor swore it on everything he held dear.
“Do you understand?” he repeated, his gaze locked on Ronnie’s. “She is my affianced—”
“I understand.” Ronnie’s gaze slid with angry disdain to Mellie. “And I am disgusted.”
Beside him, Mellie sighed. “Ronnie—”
Ever the dramatist, the man spun on his heels and stalked away. Just as well. The less they saw of that idiot, the better. But after a few hobbling steps, Trevor realized his fiancée was indeed bothered by what her cousin said. Her eyes were downcast, and her mouth had tightened into her own straight, quiet line.
“Don’t be concerned about Ronnie’s nonsense,” he said. “I promise, everyone will think you have done enormously well for yourself.”
She jerked beneath his arm as if she wished to throw him off but had stopped herself at the last moment. She twisted to face him. “That man is my cousin,” she said in an undertone. “And quite possibly my future husband.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am being practical. There is no assurance that I will find a husband in London, and then what? I will have to marry Ronnie…after publicly throwing him over. Imagine a lifetime spent apologizing to that man.”
“You will find a husband in London,” he said, irritated beyond measure with her anger. She thought nothing of the sacrifice to his reputation. That he—grandson to the Duke of Timby—had just declared a grand passion for her. He liked her well enough. Lord knows a certain part of his anatomy couldn’t get enough of her, but she was a cit. A woman from commerce with no pretense to good breeding. His family would have a collective fit when they heard. In fact, it might very well put his grandfather in the grave.
He understood that she was not used to this type of manipulation or deviousness. It was awkward enough for him, and he had been swimming in society’s viper-strewn waters all his life. Did she truly not understand what their pretend engagement would cost him? And gain for her?
“You will be sponsored by a ducal family, you will be fêted as my fiancée, you will be society’s newest morsel to be met and entertained. Everyone from the Prince Regent down to the smallest bootblack will be discussing you.”
She looked horrified, which only went to prove how very green she was about society.
He sighed and tried to make it plainer. “Debutantes strive all their lives for that kind of introduction into society. Women have been known to proffer bribes and promises for the reach you will have, merely because you are my fiancée. Mellie, don’t you see? It will be the easiest thing in the world to find you a husband.”
“But—”
“Enough!” he snapped. He did his best to keep his voice low despite the way he’d just wrenched his damned ankle again. “If you do not trust me in this, then our endeavor is doomed from the start.”
She blinked, her expression clearly troubled. He waited, his ankle and jaw a throbbing annoyance, but it was nothing compared to the pain of having his word questioned by a green chit who knew nothing about anything. In the end, though, she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I trust you,” she whispered.
“Good. Then trust this. I swear upon my honor, upon my family name, and upon that stupid sword my grandfather keeps perched above the mantle: I will find you a good husband. A man who is decidedly not Ronnie!”
She looked at him a long time, obviously unaware of what it meant for him to swear by his family’s sword. He was about to curse her for her stupidity when she again dipped her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered again.
“You’re welcome,” he managed, doing his best not to sound surly.
“And now, perhaps we should get you home to a bath.”
Yes, because—as he was now very aware—the future Duke of Timby stank of shite.
*
“This is so unlike you.”
“You’ve never done anything like this before.”
Melinda didn’t respond to her father or her uncle. They were pacing the room, shooting furious comments at her every second step, but her mind was far, far away. Normally, she would wander about in her chemical recipes, mentally playing with ingredients and speculating on the results. It was her favorite game—or it had been—for as long as she could remember.
But this time, her thoughts were locked on kisses. A thousand kisses in an infinite variety but all from one, mischievous aristocrat.
“Your mother, of course—”
“But you don’t want to be like that.”
“No. Not like your mother.”
“I’m just so concerned, my dear.”
“This is so unlike you.”
Then he walked in. His hair was wet and slicked back, but as his curls dried, they sprang about his head in a casual wildness she adored. His expression was guarded, but his smile was as wide as the morning sun. She focused there—on his mouth—because he was infinitely more interesting than anything else at the moment.
“Well, I feel much better,” he said. “And I wager that I smell infinitely more appealing.” He crossed to her side, drawing her lax hand to his mouth for a kiss. “How about you? Are you recovered from my stench?”
She smiled because he seemed to want her to. “Of course, Mr. Anaedsley. It was only a little bit of shite.”
He chuckled. “It was a great deal more than a little. Your cousin aimed me exactly.”
She nodded. “And you let him do it. Did you know what he intended?”
He shrugged. “I did. And I thought a single blow that landed me there was adequate recompense for his wounded pride.”
If only Ronnie thought the same. “I did warn you,” she said softly.
“So you did. And I have learned my lesson.”
“Not to underestimate Ronnie?”
He chucked her under the chin. “No, silly. To heed what you say. You have an uncommonly level-headed nature.”
She winced, knowing what was coming. After all, her level-headed nature was exactly what was in question here. And her uncle lost no time as he pounced on Trevor’s words.
“And just what have you done, you whoremonger, to turn her head so? Good God, do you routinely make a spectacle of the women of your acquaintance?”
Far from being insulted, Mr. Anaedsley appeared amused. “Only to those who enjoy the spectacle, sir.”
“Well, I assure you,” inserted her father, “she did not enjoy it. She did not enjoy it one bit.”
Her fiancé arched his brows as he turned to her. “Is that so, my dear? Not even a little?”
She felt her body heat under his gaze, warming from the frozen place she’d existed before he’d walked into the room.
Meanwhile, her uncle was making disgusted noises. He was rather good at them. He combined outrage and a snort into a loud sound that never failed to draw everyone’s attention. Well, everyone, it seemed, except Trevor. He was busy teasing her knuckles with his thumb while his eyes sparkled with a mesmerizing dark mischief. Better yet, his lips curved upward in a secret promise.
“I think we should be away to London,” he said. “Immediately. Have you directed your maid to pack?”
She nodded. He had reminded her twice of this plan before heading to his bath. But she had not had a chance to tell her father, who was right now sputtering with rage.
“L-London? What? Good God, Mellie! But I have my experiments, and you must help. And—and—London? Why?”
It was Mr. Anaedsley who answered with a cordial tone laced heavily with aristocratic arrogance. “Because she is my promised bride, sir. She must be introduced to society with all haste. The Season is barely a week away.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” her father said. He stopped walking to drop into a chair by the fire. His entire spirit seemed to diffuse, as if he hadn’t the strength to support his own body.
Mellie’s uncle put a comforting—or a condescending—hand on his brother’s shoulder then shot a glare at Mr. Anaedsley. “What is there to understand, Gregory? He seduced her. He came into your house, crept into her bedroom—”
“Have a care, sir. You are speaking of my future wife.”
“I am speaking of you, sir. How could you abuse—”
“Enough!” Trevor had been standing, but somehow, the man appeared to grow taller. She watched as he drew the mantle of his heritage about him. His shoulders straightened, his chin grew hard, and his words became clipped and cold.
“I will answer this once because you are her family. She is as pure as the day I arrived. I have neither seduced nor debased anyone here, and you do her no credit to think such a thing.” Then he turned to her father, and his body softened a bit. “Sir, I know I should have spoken with you first. In truth, this…connection with your daughter has caught me by surprise. But I hope you wish us happy.”
Her father slumped even further in his chair. “It’s just so unlike her.”
And there it was. The words that had damned her from the beginning. She could tell that Trevor had no understanding of what those words meant in this family. He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “A woman’s heart is a mysterious thing, sir. I can barely fathom my own actions except to say that your daughter is a prize among women.”
His words heated her enough that the final frozen part of her began to move. She spoke for the first time in over an hour, her voice filling the room for all that she spoke in a whisper. “What he means, Mr. Anaedsley, is that such an impetuous action is something my mother would do.”
Trevor frowned, obviously trying to remember her parent. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Isn’t it the most natural thing in the world for a daughter to resemble her mother?”
Three exclamations of shock greeted his words. And no wonder, as he’d just voiced everyone’s secret fear. With a sad smile, Mellie finally found the strength to get up. A moment later, she crossed to Trevor’s side to stand before her distraught father.
“Mama was somewhat impulsive,” she said neutrally.
“Somewhat!” her father exclaimed. At least he didn’t snort like her uncle.
Trevor cocked his head to one side as he looked upon the three of them. “Impulsive? Or prone to dramatics like Ronnie?”
“How dare you, sir!” Ronnie’s father exploded. “My son is entirely sane!”
Trevor drew back in surprise. “I didn’t suggest otherwise. Just that he’s prone—”
“Mama killed herself,” Mellie said softly. “I believe my family fears I may have inherited her madness.” There. She’d said the words. Would he end this scheme for fear of her mother’s taint. “I should have told you earlier, but…”
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps I already knew. Something about a bridge?”
“Yes—”
“This is outside of enough!” bellowed her uncle. And looking at her father, Mellie knew the man was at the last of his strength. She hadn’t realized how much of a blow her engagement would be to him. She sank down on her knees to be level with his eyes.
“Papa, is it all so very odd? You have been singing Mr. Anaedsley’s praises since the first time you tutored him.”
Her father shook his head. “And you have had nothing but disdain for him.”
It was true. “Perhaps I have changed, Papa. Maybe I finally opened my eyes and truly looked at him.”
Her uncle made an ugly sound. “What you saw was a title, my girl. And a—”
“An alternative to Ronnie?” she said, shooting him a heavy glare.
Her father took her hands. “But Ronald makes sense. He’s only your half cousin, you know. And if you two marry, we will keep the mill in the family.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know, Papa. But perhaps I can look higher.”
“Don’t be foolish, girl,” interrupted her uncle. “You won’t be accepted into his world. You’ll be reviled by everyone you meet, called an encroaching mushroom, and criticized everywhere.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Trevor stiffen. “I will see that she is not.”
“As if you could promise that,” her uncle said with a sneer. “No man is that powerful, not even a duke. She belongs with us.”
“She belongs where she chooses to be.” He lifted his chin. “And where I have invited her. Mr. Smithson, we have declared our intentions. Do you choose to accept it or fight—”
“No,” she interrupted in a low tone. She could tell he meant well, but Mr. Anaedsley was still a man and had little understanding of how to ease her father into this situation. Some things required a woman’s touch. She took her father’s hands and kissed them. “Papa, I wish to go. Will you truly stop me?”
His eyes grew watery, and his hands trembled. “This is so sudden.”
“Even so, Papa.”
“Gregory—” her uncle protested, but she shot him an angry look. It was seconded by Trevor who made a growl akin to her uncle’s, except that it was lower and more threatening. It worked. He stomped to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
Meanwhile, she laid her cheek against her father’s thin hands. When had they gotten so frail?
“Papa, do not toss me aside.”
“As if I could, Mellie.”
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “You will let me go?”
“If you are truly engaged, I cannot stop you.”
“Papa,” she whispered, cut to the quick by the defeat in his eyes.
“You have been scheming for this for years. Always London this, London that. You have finally found a way I cannot fight.”
She swallowed. She should have known he wouldn’t understand. “I have to grow up, Papa. I cannot be at your beck and call forever. I am a woman grown.”
His eyes grew watery, and he looked away. The fire grate was cold, and she thought to light it despite the warmth in the room. But when she moved to do just that, her father clutched her hand. “Mellie,” he said, his voice cracking on his words. “Do not…don’t do anything impulsive.”
What he meant was: don’t do anything mad. Do not act crazy. Except this whole escapade was insane, and so she wavered, abruptly unsure of what she should do. Were they right? Was this her mother’s illness coming to the fore?
Then Trevor was beside her, his hand warm on her back as he supported her. She would not topple with him beside her. And when he spoke, his voice was pitched low, soothing to her father. “This is not insanity, sir. You know me. You have admired my mind and my sense since I was a boy. Do you think I would affiance myself to a madwoman?”
Her father lifted his gaze slowly—not to her, but to Trevor. It rose until the men looked each other in the eye, and then finally, her father nodded. “Very well. Go to London, Mellie. But just the Season, yes?”
“Yes.” She had to work to push the word out of her mouth. If all went according to plan, she’d return with a husband and would never live here again.
“You’ll write me, won’t you?”
“You could join me,” she offered, all the while wondering if that were even possible.
“No, no. I have my experiments, you know.”
She knew.
“And your uncle has some excellent ideas about your formula.”
Her uncle spoke from behind his brandy glass. “You still need to give that to me.”
She looked to her uncle, noting that his expression was as bland as possible. But what was more interesting was the way Trevor took a step back, his narrowed eyes jumping from her to her uncle in rapid succession.
“Of course,” she said as she rose to her feet. “I can write it down—”
“No need to bother with that now, my dear,” interrupted Trevor. “You should get your valise. The day is rapidly escaping, and we have a long ride to London.”
She didn’t suggest they wait until tomorrow. It would only increase her father’s agony. He did not adjust well to change, and the anticipation of an event was often worse than the adjustment itself.
“Papa,” she said softly. “May we take the carriage?”
“And what of a chaperone?” her uncle demanded.
“My maid will do fine,” she said, hoping it was true.
Finally, her father released a long sigh. He deflated even more in his seat, but when he looked at her, his eyes were clear and strong. “You may take the carriage, my dear. But if you ask me to bless this marriage…” He shook his head. “I cannot.”
“What? But Papa—”
“No, my dear.” He stood then, his movements bizarrely normal. He had his normal strength, his usual crispness in speech. “Go if you must, but I do not approve.”
Then he turned and headed for his laboratory.