Chapter Six
Solicitous gentlemen deserve areward.
T revor sat in the most well-appointed carriage he’d ever had the pleasure of traveling inside. The springs were new, the cushions plush, and there were even decorative lamps in case one wished to read after dark. It was the height of modern luxury, and yet he’d never felt more uncomfortable in his life.
He sat alone on his seat. Across from him, Mellie and a sour-faced prune of a maid who obviously took her position as chaperone much too seriously sat. Every time he tried to touch his fiancée—even the accidental brush of knees—the woman glared at him as if he’d tried to lift Mellie’s skirts. Even conversation was stilted as she glowered at all discourse, clearly blaming him for her sudden removal to London.
Well, to hell with it. Mellie was his fiancée, and more important, she was suffering. He would talk to her and do what he could to ease the pain of her father’s defection.
But how to start? How to broach the subject when the lady didn’t wish to converse? She sat as still as stone, her gaze vague, and her hands clenched tightly together in her lap. He’d already tried the normal conversation starters. He’d discussed the weather and the length of the drive. He even noted interesting sights, which frankly were nothing more than, “Oh, there’s another handsome cow.”
In the end, he decided on direct speech. It had always worked best with her anyway.
“Mellie, you no doubt feel unsettled. I know this is sudden—”
“I have made my choice, Mr. Anaedsley, and am well content.”
Her words were spoken in clipped tones, but he could see anxiety in her tightened fingers. “I’m sure you are,” he said trying to be soothing, “but that cannot have been easy with your father.”
For the first time on the ride, her gaze cut to his and held. It was too dark for him to see the glisten of tears, but he knew they were there. It had been just her and her father since she was a child. In many respects, her father was her whole world.
“He will adjust in time,” she said softly. “It is for the best.”
“Yes, it is, but…”
He leaned forward onto his knees. He didn’t dare take her hand because of the damned maid, but at least he could reach toward her without actually connecting. “Mellie, in twenty-four hours, you have become engaged and now left your home.” He didn’t mention the viper’s nest called London society. She’d learn the horrors of that soon enough. “Please, ask me questions about what is to come. Or rail at me. Hit me, if you like. Do something to ease the pain.”
Her lips tightened, but her words came out calm. “Will that help? Will it force my father to forgive me or make the insults to come easier to bear?”
So she did have an idea of what would happen in London. “I have found that women who discuss things find everything easier to bear. Or so they have said.”
He couldn’t shake the memory of how white her skin had gone when her father refused his blessing. Or that she became like stone as her uncle cut at her some more until Trevor put a stop to it. No more tragic a figure had ever appeared on stage than Mellie standing still while her only family voiced their disgust and walked away from her.
Meanwhile, she shook her head, keeping her lips resolutely shut.
“You are thinking,” he guessed, “that to speak about this will break what’s left of your heart. That the pain will cripple you, and you will sob forever. Do I have the right of it?”
Again, her gaze locked on his, holding it without wavering. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She tried twice. He saw her draw breath, but no words broke through.
So he took her hands despite her maid’s angry cough. He could not entwine their fingers because Mellie’s were curled into fists. But he could wrap his two hands around hers.
“You are not alone. I am here, and I have many friends in London. They will stand by you.”
Her mouth was working again, but this time she managed to whisper one question, barely heard. “What if they’re right?”
He frowned. “Who is right? About what?”
She blinked her eyes, clearly fighting the tears. He squeezed her hands and tried to silently reassure her. In the end, she took a deep breath and spoke unsteady words.
“I am never impulsive, and yet here I am. One day has changed everything.”
“You have been looking for an alternative to Ronnie for a very long time. Months, even.”
“Years,” she said.
“That is the opposite of impulsive.”
She did not appear convinced. “My mother…” Her words cut off. This time, he could not get her to start again. Not by squeezing her hands. Not even by touching their knees together.
“I do not remember much of what happened,” he said. “I believe my mother told me, but it was so long ago.”
She looked away. “Mama drowned herself. She was pregnant at the time.”
“Good Lord,” he breathed. “How old were you?”
“Six. It was very confusing.”
“And you—” He stopped. This was absolutely not something to discuss with a servant sitting beside them. Not the question of why her mother would do such a thing or how her father handled the loss. “You were so young.” And now her family lived in terror of her repeating her mother’s madness. “But you are nothing like your mother.” She’d probably been raised to be the opposite of her mercurial parent.
“Not generally, no,” she said. “But—”
“Not at all.” He flashed his most charming smile. “Remember, I am well acquainted with impulsiveness. And given the example of my mother and two younger sisters, I can also state that you are not prone to fits, moods, or even the normal female range of excitation.”
She blinked at him. “Are you saying that I am not a normal female?”
He snorted. “Of course you’re not normal! Good Lord, do you think I would engage myself to a normal female? They are the most impossible, unmanageable, and difficult creatures on Earth. You, my dear, are nothing of the sort, and I revere you for it.”
It was the absolute truth, but he feared she didn’t take it as a compliment. She stared at him in open-mouthed horror and slowly drew her hands back. He sighed. He knew from experience with his sister that some women would take an insult no matter what one said. But he had never counted Mellie as one of those types.
“I meant it as a compliment,” he said.
“Calling a woman unnatural is an insult, no matter how it is intended.”
He sat back down, seeing that she was determined in her mood. “You are worried about what is ahead and grieving what you left behind.” He shrugged, though his belly tightened with frustration. “What I can do to ease your mind.”
She dropped her head against the squabs and stared at the ceiling. “I think I should prefer to…”
“Grieve?”
She shrugged. “Think in silence.”
“As you wish.”
So the three of them sat with their own thoughts. It should have been a peaceful trip, but silence was not his natural habitat. He was so rarely quiet that this silence felt deuced awkward. There was always chatter in his life: with his friends, with the society he was forced to endure, and even in his own mind. To sit without speaking gave his mind free rein to run rampant. His attempts to soothe her had been—partially—a way to distract himself from his own fears.
After all, he was now engaged to a woman far beneath his station. They were about to enter the social fray where he had vowed to protect her when they both knew he couldn’t. Certainly not all the time. And yet he had promised.
He would do his utmost to see the process through, but it was a daunting task. And if he were honest with himself—which in the silence he was forced to be—he feared he wouldn’t be able to do any of what he intended: protect her, gain his own independence, and that other simple task—find her a husband. All herculean tasks.
And in this silent misery, they made their way to London.
*
Mellie was dead inside by the time they made it to Lady Eleanor’s Grosvenor Square residence. It was a curious thing how her thoughts and body stilled to the point of total hibernation. She hadn’t even realized how little life remained inside her until her fiancé had woken her. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d brought her to brilliant life with kisses and caresses, but then it had all died as they rode in silence toward London.
She didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault that she was an unnatural woman. Her mother had been mad, and her father lived only for science. But she blamed him for showing her what feelings were, how life could be expressed in laughter and in lust, such as she’d never thought existed before.
And now, as all that awareness died, she learned about pain. Not physical pain, but an ache, as that brimming understanding slowly quieted. She was once again sitting without moving, watching silently as life passed her by. It was all she could do to muster the strength to stand and face the home of the esteemed Lady Eleanor.
Meanwhile, Trevor stepped out of the carriage, groaning slightly at his stiff muscles. His jaw had swollen to an ugly and no doubt painful degree, as had all his other bruises. And yet he had endured the long carriage ride in silence without a word of complaint. She couldn’t imagine her father doing such a thing. Or Ronnie, for that matter. She hid a small smile. Her uncle was in for a miserable ride back to his home with Ronnie in the carriage.
Meanwhile, Trevor extended his hand to her, and she felt awkward as she alighted. Her own body was stiff from the travel, and she winced as her knee crackled with the movement. She was sure that Lady Eleanor’s knees never made noise.
“No worries now, my dear,” said Trevor as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Everything will be right and tight, you’ll see. By the morrow, you’ll be buried in dress shopping and party invitations. You won’t have a second left to worry.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the life inside her to speak, but the feel of his hand and the heat of his body gave her enough strength to walk to the front door.
“This is the residence of the new Duke and Duchess of Bucklynde,” he said. “My friend, Lady Eleanor, lives with them. She and the duke are cousins of some sort, I don’t remember the exact relationship. They’re unusual, you know, the duke and duchess. Newly minted and all. She used to be a dressmaker, and he was a merchant seaman. I’m making a hash of this, but truly, they’re kind people.”
She said nothing. There was nothing to say as she looked at the impressive house in an impressive neighborhood. She’d never been in Grosvenor Square, though of course she’d heard of it. As it was near dark, there were no other people around, but the ever-present murmur of the city beyond kept the place from being quiet. At least until Trevor banged the huge brass knocker carried in the beak of a fierce eagle. The ducal crest, she presumed, and she felt appropriately intimidated by it.
The door opened on silent hinges by a butler with a large frame and immaculate salt-and-pepper hair. Trevor greeted him warmly.
“Seelye, you’re looking in excellent health.”
“Mr. Anaedsley. A pleasure to see you this evening.” By not even a flicker of an eye did he acknowledge Melinda, but he did step back to gesture them inside. “Please step in out of the damp air. I shall inform His Grace that—”
At that moment, a woman’s low throaty laugh vibrated through the air before they heard the words, “Radley, that’s wicked!”
“Is it?” the man answered, humor lacing through his words. “I thought it would be fun.”
Melinda looked up to see a couple descend the stairs, the woman a bit faster than the gentleman, her eyes alight with laughter as he reached forward and missed her arm. There was nothing untoward in their actions, except that anyone with eyes could see that the two were playing with each other. Nothing so childish as tag, but still a game of run and catch, though neither went faster than a quick walk.
“Slow down, minx,” the man called, but he needn’t have said it. The woman had stopped abruptly on the second to last step, her gaze finally catching the party in their front hallway. Since the man hadn’t noticed yet, Mellie feared a collision, but at the last second, the gentleman stepped nimbly aside, taking a small leap around his companion to land sweetly on the main floor. Which was when Seelye cleared his throat and everyone—the couple included—looked to the butler.
“Your Graces,” Seelye intoned. “Mr. Anaedsley and Miss…”
Mellie remembered at the last second what was required. She hastily dropped into an awkward curtsy. “Miss Melinda Smithson, Your Grace. Er, Your Graces.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Smithson, Mr. Anaedsley,” said the duke as he stepped forward and executed a smooth bow.
Meanwhile, Her Grace frowned, obviously searching her memory. “Mr. Anaedsley. Mr. Trevor Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby. Goodness, I stitched quite a number of gowns for you, sir.”
Beside her, Trevor chuckled as he pulled off his hat and gloves. “For me, Your Grace? I assure you, I have never worn a gown in my life.”
“No, sir, but countless ladies have ordered them just to please you.” She smiled as she joined her husband’s side. “I must know, is yellow truly your favorite color?”
He frowned. “Yellow? No, Your Grace. I favor purple instead.”
“Very royal of you,” she said. “Miss Atterberry was often addled. However, that didn’t stop me from selling a dozen or more yellow gowns last Season.”
“Very clever, Wendy,” her husband said with a smile, “but we shouldn’t keep them standing about in the hallway.” He grinned at Trevor. “Do you know what the best part of being a duke is?”
Trevor laughed. “I can think of a thousand things.”
“Well, other than my lady wife, there is but one: excellent brandy. Would you care for a glass?”
“With pleasure,” he answered as the four of them crossed a pristine marble foyer to enter a lavish parlor. His Grace went directly to the sideboard, and as he poured from a crystal decanter, he glanced at her. “And for you, Miss Smithson?”
“I should love a glass of brandy, if you please.”
The duke’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn’t say anything. Which left it to Trevor to enlighten her.
“As a general rule,” he said in an undertone, “ladies find brandy too strong.”
“Oh,” she whispered back. But she’d always drunk brandy. It was one of her favorite… Well, no matter, she was in society now. “I’m sorry. I suppose I meant…um…”
“Sherry for her, please,” Trevor finished.
The duke was just turning around with a glass of brandy when his duchess lifted it from his hand. “Let her drink what she wants.” She pressed the snifter into Mellie’s hand. “You’ll find we’re not the typical duke and duchess.”
Mellie looked at her drink, unsure what to do now. “Is there a regular type?” she wondered aloud.
“That’s a question for Eleanor,” the duchess replied as her husband passed another brandy to Trevor. “She’s Radley’s cousin and takes great delight in correcting our misguided notions. But for now, you should eat and drink as you like in our home.”
Mellie smiled, feeling her insides ease a little. The duke and his duchess were of a warm sort. They smiled often—usually at each other—and took pains to set her at ease. She hoped that she wouldn’t muck things up so badly.
Meanwhile, the duke leaned back against the sideboard, his brandy glass held out to Trevor. “à votre santé,” he said gravely.
Trevor raised his own glass in salute. “To your health as well.”
The duke flashed a broad grin at his wife who groaned. “Yes, yes, you said it right. But it loses its effect if you grin like that.” She settled on the settee next to Mellie. “He just learned that phrase from Eleanor and thinks he’s the cat’s cream whenever he says it.”
His Grace chuckled. “It’s French, you know. Never had the chance to learn the Frog’s lingo, and I refuse to even try Latin or Greek. But I’ve got Spanish well enough, plus a smattering of Egyptian and Arabic. I’m not bad as languages go, but I knew a ship’s mate who only had to hear something once before he could spit it back like a native. Terrible navigator though, and that more than anything hurt his chances aboard ship.”
Mellie nodded as if his words made complete sense. Oh, his meaning was clear enough, but his general manner and casual speech didn’t fit with her idea of a duke. Didn’t they all speak Latin and converse about politics?
As if sensing her confusion, Trevor gave her a hasty explanation. “His Grace is the newest sensation in London. A seaman elevated to a duke.”
“Gracious,” Mellie breathed. So this really was the man she’d read about in the papers. “That must have been overwhelming.”
The duke chuckled. “Most would call it exciting.”
A woman’s dry voice cut through the air, the words coming from the doorway. “Or tragic.”
The duchess’s expression turned wry. “Good evening, Eleanor. Pray join us.”
A statuesque blonde entered the room. Her gown was of the finest cut and fabric—a blue silk that shimmered as she walked and emphasized the pure color of her crystalline eyes. Her hair was expertly coiled in a design that made Mellie’s eyes hurt as she tried to trace the locks. And the expression on her flawless skin was polite, if not especially warm.
“Seelye mentioned that I had visitors.” Her gaze stumbled for a moment on Melinda who was suddenly aware of the stains on her travel dress and the uneven texture of her skin. But then Trevor stepped forward and executed a deep bow.
“Lady Eleanor, it has been too long.”
Her face suddenly shifted. Her eyes widened, and a polished smile curved her perfect lips. “Trevor! My goodness, when did you get back in town? And what has happened to your face?”
“Just today, as you can see.” He made an expansive gesture at his creased clothing. “And I came directly here to speak with you.”
“To see me?” She pressed a hand to her lips, a gesture that brought even more attention to the flawless color of her skin below those blue, blue eyes.
He reached forward, gently tugging at her hand until he could press a kiss to her knuckles. Mellie watched the whole exchange as she would an opera sung in a foreign language. They were actors on a stage performing perfect roles in their dance. Beautiful in a way, but so distant that she felt no connection to them, or even to the world around her.
“Sweet Eleanor, I have come to beg a boon from you. You did promise me one.”
“I did not. I would never.”
“I rescued your kitten from a tree.”
She frowned a moment, then huffed out a breath. “That was years ago.”
“Nevertheless,” he said as he straightened. “I should like to collect on that promise.”
“I was seven!”
He arched a brow, and she tilted her head, exposing the long column of her white neck.
“You always were a scapegrace, Trevor. Very well, what is it that you’d like?”
His grin broadened, and suddenly Melinda became part of the opera. He swept his arm toward her in a perfect arc. “First, may I introduce you to Miss Melinda Smithson, my fiancée.”
Mellie rose to her feet, knowing at least this part of the performance. She dipped her chin and bent her knees, dropping into a curtsy, such as would be expected when greeting a lady.
But when she straightened, she didn’t see a cool greeting on the lady’s face. No, Lady Eleanor’s jaw was slack with horror. Then she turned to Trevor, her body trembling with the enormity of her revulsion.
“Stop this, you idiot. Stop it now!”