Chapter Nine
When opportunity appears, do not hesitate. Strikeswiftly.
M elinda trailed in behind the group, feeling like a small child. She hadn’t been the last to go into dinner since…well, since ever. Her mother had passed when she was young, so on her very first formal dinner—at the age of eight—her father had extended his arm, and they had walked in together like the king and queen of England.
It was that memory—and not the sight of her fiancée leading Lady Eleanor to her seat—that brought her emotions to heel. She was not a woman who felt small. And she was definitely not a child to be overcome by feelings best left in the nursery. Therefore, she would do as she had been taught. She would analyze the situation like a scientist and come to a logical conclusion.
She began with the easiest. She would observe her environment. The ducal London home was well apportioned, had an excellent staff, and a first-rate cook. She had not yet been served, but the scent was tempting enough, even for her stomach, which was currently tied up in knots.
She’d already formed her opinion of the duke and duchess. They were warm and welcoming people, and Lady Eleanor was definitely not. Especially now that the woman relayed a funny tale about Lord Somebody and Lady Other while speaking only to Trevor. Clearly Lady Eleanor would not allow a low-class usurper to be part of her circle with Trevor. The woman barely tolerated the duke and duchess. A cit like Melinda couldn’t possibly compete.
For his part, Trevor chuckled in the exact same manner, though he kept darting worried frowns at her. Melinda concluded that he was either concerned about her silent demeanor or disappointed by her lack of polish.
And therein ended her conclusions based on observations. Not very useful after all, until Lady Eleanor paused in yet another anecdote to glance at her. “I do hope you’re listening, Melinda. These are names you should memorize and information you should keep in your pocket.”
She looked at the woman, acute dislike welling up. She forced it down even as she curved her lips into a vague smile. “I have come to a decision,” she said. In her experience, nothing exasperated an egoist more than having their comments completely ignored.
“Oh, excellent,” crowed the duchess. “I do so enjoy decisions made at the dinner table.”
Mellie took a moment to study Her Grace, unsure whether this was a criticism or a statement of fact. “Duchess?”
“Goodness, call me Wendy. After all, you shall be with us for the whole Season.”
“Your Grace!” Lady Eleanor cried.
“Of course, Wendy,” Mellie responded.
“Now, what have you decided?”
“That if I am to have a Season, everyone will be talking about the gross mésalliance between myself and Mr. Anaedsley.”
Trevor cast her a soft smile. “It’s not so gross nor so unusual.”
“Truly?” Mellie challenged. “Then your family coffers need an infusion of my dowry?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The title is very well heeled.”
“Exactly,” Lady Eleanor inserted. “Mésalliance.”
Mellie didn’t wish to be supported by that woman at all, but she couldn’t disagree. “Therefore, if we wish to distract everyone from that story, we must provide a different one.”
The duke snorted. “I shouldn’t worry about that. Something else will come along. Someone will have a scandalous affair. Someone else will drop dead of an interesting illness.”
His wife shook her head. “No, no, she’s right. She’s talking about the story around her . And that won’t be replaced by the usual tidbits.”
Lady Eleanor nodded. “Not unless we do something to change it.”
Good. They were all smart. Meanwhile the duke finished off his soup. “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense. What do you mean to do?”
“I believe we should talk about my unusual scientific abilities. I’m quite accomplished. I discovered a formula to bleach muslin white. And I’ve developed a new cosmetic. That should appeal to the women.”
Total silence greeted her words, and Mellie had a moment of satisfaction. Perhaps she could manage this task after all. But it was a brief silence before an explosion of sound.
Laughter. Chuckles, actually, but to her, it sounded like a cacophony. They clearly thought her life’s work was funny. That was insulting enough, but then the secondary expression came. Pity. The same look that appeared when someone mentioned her dead mother, her odd father, and now her life’s work.
Pity. Damn them all. Her breath cut off as she felt fury rise—
“By Jove, that’s incredible!” Trevor exclaimed. “You must have been a child. Were you doing chemistry back when your father was tutoring me?”
Mellie nodded, thrown by his clear enthusiasm. She wasn’t used to hearing praise. “Y-yes. I was nine and had grass stains on my dress. I didn’t want to tell Papa, so I thought of a way to use chemicals to lift it out.”
“And did it?”
She shrugged. “Dissolved the thing into dust. And I burned my fingers trying to stop it.” She held up her hand as if the mark was still there, but she’d been young, not stupid. As soon as the pain had hit her fingertips, she’d plunged them into cold water. And then stood by in misery as her favorite dress dissolved in front of her eyes.
“You don’t bear scars from it, do you?” he asked.
She put her hand down. “No. Fingertips grow back quickly.”
“Lucky that,” Trevor laughed, “or I’d have to stuff cotton in my gloves to fill them out. I did love exploding things when I was a boy.”
She smiled, her humiliation easing, but apparently everything moved faster in London, including conversations. She had just smiled at Trevor when Lady Eleanor destroyed her peace.
“That story won’t serve. Really Trevor, you know better than to encourage that kind of talk. Stuffed gloves. Science—”
“Wait now,” interrupted the duchess. “I know about your mill’s muslin. Whitest in England.”
“Thank you—”
“Which is all very well and good inside a dress shop,” Eleanor corrected. “But we’re planning her come-out. Adding ‘bluestocking’ to the story will not distract from the mésalliance. In fact, it makes everything worse.”
Mellie looked to Trevor, waiting for his support. After all, he understood what she’d accomplished. But he shrugged and gave her that look. Pity, damn it, from the one man who understood.
“She’s right, I’m afraid,” he said. “We need something better. How about the duel I fought for her?”
Lady Eleanor gasped in horror. “You fought a duel for her?” She might as well have said, you had dinner in a pig wallow?
“Fisticuffs. But the entire county was there as witness,” continued Trevor.
But Mellie had no desire to discuss that again. “I’ve already told the tale. It won’t serve.”
“But not to me,” said Eleanor as she smiled at Trevor. Obviously, she wanted him to tell it, but a second later, she waved it off. “I’ll get full details later, but again…it only makes the problem worse. Who fights a duel with fists? That’s a bout, not a duel, and it emphasizes the low-class nature—”
“Very well, Eleanor,” interrupted Trevor. “Though the man was a giant, and he had fists like granite.”
Ronnie was big, but not a giant. “It’s a wonder you survived at all,” Mellie said, her tone sarcastic.
Trevor flashed her a grin. “Allow me a little exaggeration. It is my jaw that he pummeled.”
“And yet you are eating and talking with no ill effects.”
He barked out a laugh, and she felt her tensions ease. But she knew by now that a moment later things would be bad again. Oddly enough, the next suggestion came from the duchess who had been mostly content with her food until now.
“Dress her outrageously.”
The duchess was soft spoken, but her words seemed to carry, and again there was a moment’s silence in response. Mellie tensed, waiting for more humiliating laughter, this time directed to the highest-ranking woman in the room. But instead, Lady Eleanor paused in the act of reaching for her wine.
“Pray go on.”
“Helaine can manage it. Something outré without being déclassé.” She flashed her husband a smile at her French words.
Her husband frowned, then grinned as he translated. “Something wild without being vulgar. But would that work?”
“That all depends,” said Eleanor as she frowned at Melinda. “Do you have any Russian heritage?”
“Russian?” Mellie asked.
“We can’t do German,” she returned. “There’s nothing outrageous in the entire stodgy lot. French is out, of course, and you don’t really look Spanish.”
“What about Turkish?” asked Trevor.
“With a hookah pipe? Hmmm.” Then Eleanor waved it away. “Too dirty with the smoke and all. And not very outrageous either. I think it shall have to be Russian.”
Mellie set her hands tightly in her lap. “But I don’t know any Russian.” She didn’t even know anyone Russian. “Perhaps we should return to my scientific work.”
“No, no, I told you. Bluestockings are boring, not outrageous. We need to make you fun.” She suddenly snapped her fingers. “I know! You must sing badly.”
“What?”
“Very, very badly. Such that we all laugh.”
Trevor was being served the mutton when he shook his head. “But she has a lovely singing voice.”
No, she didn’t. “Why would you think that?” Mellie asked.
He shrugged and gave her a mischievous smile. “Your father told me that once.”
Mellie shot him an irritated look. “Papa meant that I have perfected his cricket calls.”
“Cricket?” the duke asked, using his fork to gesture. “As in with a ball and a bat?”
“Er, no, the insect. My father studies them.”
“Bird calls, then. Only for insects?” the man pressed.
“Yes, exactly,” she said, only belatedly realizing how odd this must sound to anyone outside her father’s circle of friends.
The duchess set down her fork, apparently not liking the mutton. “But why would anyone want to call crickets?”
Good question. She’d asked her father the same thing at the time. “He believed the cricket’s chirp was indicative of a mating ritual. He wanted to test the theory with calls, but he hadn’t the knack for it.”
Lady Eleanor beamed at her. “But you did. Can you do one now?”
“Er—”
“Can you, perhaps, make it into a song of sorts?”
“What?”
Eleanor suddenly brightened. “I know, make it like ‘Greensleeves,’ but for crickets. You know the tune, don’t you?” Then she proceeded to hum a bit of the song.
“What are you about?” That was from Trevor, his voice a mix of outrage and laughter.
The humming stopped, and Eleanor turned wide eyes on Trevor. “It’s perfect. We’ll call her a poor Russian princess, so lonely she had crickets as playmates.”
Mellie set her fork down with a click. “But I am not a poor Russian princess.”
“No one will know that. And besides, you do have an eccentric father, right? We’ll say he got his madness from his Russian side.”
“But we’re not Russian!”
Eleanor huffed. “We’ve been over this. All the other countries won’t suit.”
“Stop, Eleanor,” Trevor said. “I won’t have my fiancée made into a laughingstock.”
“But that’s the point, don’t you see? To make her outrageous in a fun way.” And when Trevor stared her down, she added in a tiny pout. “You needn’t frown at me. It was her idea. I was simply making it work.”
Meanwhile, the duchess waved the footman to withdraw her plate. “We still need a story for her.”
Trevor finished off his mutton with a last large bite. “Love match won’t do it?”
Both society women spoke at once. “No.” And, “Certainly not.”
Which is when Melinda made her decision. Right there, between the mutton and the pheasant courses, she looked at the white gloves of the footmen who were trying to hide the gravy stains, the impassive expression of the butler who was nonetheless listening to every word spoken, and most of all, to the flirtatious glances of Lady Eleanor as she systematically made Mellie an object of fun.
She saw the silly pageantry of it all and realized Ronnie wasn’t the only one obsessed with creating a Cheltenham tragedy out of everything. Everyone wanted a pageant—tragedy or farce, it made no difference. It was the game of society, and if she wanted to be part of it, she needed to play a role.
“Very well,” she said. “I shall be the Cricket Princess.”
“The what?” Trevor gaped.
“Well, it’s somewhat true, isn’t it? My father is an eccentric entomologist. We are rich beyond Croesus—” Not true, but this was a play. She might as well exaggerate. “And he has taught me some very odd things.”
Trevor reared back. “He has taught you science.”
“No, no,” pressed Eleanor. “She has the right of it. Science is only interesting if it’s bizarre.”
Trust the woman to call her “right” and “bizarre” in the same sentence. Meanwhile, she continued to speak to Trevor. “Your love of bugs is well established—”
“Science,” he reiterated, a heavy note to his voice. “And you know damned well that I believe there is a link between insects and disease.”
“Well, what is that to the point?” Melinda said, in exactly the tones that Eleanor had used. “We shall make you the Buggy Duke and me the Cricket Princess. Everyone will believe a love match then because it’s a perfect pairing.”
“It is no such thing!” Trevor cried.
“Oh yes, it is,” she said, her voice dropping to a low threat. She had no idea where such a venomous sound came from, but it held all the frustration and embarrassment of the last twenty-four hours, and laid it all at his feet. “Because if you think I will become an object of fun alone, then you are sadly out. This was your mad idea, Mr. Anaedsley, and I shall not be pranced about like a dancing bear without you by my side as a monkey jumping to the same tune.”
For the third time that evening, the room descended into silence. She could not tell if the reason was shock, horror, or appreciation. It didn’t matter. Her gaze was on Trevor, as his was the only opinion that mattered. His expression was tight, but it slowly eased as he stared at her.
In the end, he puffed out a breath. “How will this work? I am not the least bit buggy.”
She picked up her fork and gestured, much as the duke had done. “Be sure to open your eyes very wide.”
“Mellie!” he cried, the sound conveying both outrage and laughter.
“And no more of that,” she said coldly. “I am a princess from now on.”
Eleanor chose that moment to insert herself. “Can we at least make you Printzessa? That’s Russian for—”
“No.” This time Trevor and Mellie spoke together in perfect agreement.
*
It was past midnight when he knocked on Mellie’s door, half hoping that she wouldn’t answer. Trevor had spent most of the evening in congenial drink with the duke. The man was wise in a practical way and pleasant in a best-drinking-companion way. So the two had stayed up late, and then—thankfully—the duke had extended his hospitality enough to give Trevor a room for the night. Good thing, as there were likely creditors sleeping outside his usual rooms. Fortunately, he wouldn’t need to live with a straightened purse anymore. His grandfather would settle a nice sum on him the minute the engagement was announced.
But even pleasant masculine evenings had to end, and so when the duke went to his lady wife, Trevor turned his mind to Mellie. In truth, he’d been thinking of her for much of the evening—or avoiding thoughts of her—but it was time to face her fury. Or her gratefulness. Or her logic.
Truth be told, he had no idea what she was feeling. He knew better than to walk blindly into a woman’s parlor—two sisters and a petulant mother had taught him that—and yet he still felt the urgent need to see her. So he scratched at her door and tried not to fidget in anxiety.
“Come in,” came her soft reply.
Awake then. Steeling himself for whatever waited on the other side, he slipped inside her room and shut the door behind him.
She’d rearranged the furniture. The duchess certainly wouldn’t have placed the chair facing the window. But she’d put it and herself there, looking out the darkened panes while an empty brandy snifter rested by her elbow. He had a moment’s pang that there was no bottle nearby. He suspected she was as affable a companion as the duke had been.
“Mellie?” he asked.
“Don’t you mean princess ?”
She spoke lightly, humor in her tone, so he smiled as he approached. “Princess, then. I came to see how you fared.”
She glanced at him, and he saw the moonlight caress her skin to a pearly glow. “So you haven’t come to your senses?”
He was lost for a time in her beauty. God, the moon loved her face. But then he shook himself out of his reverie enough to blink at her. “What senses?”
“I have been thinking of writing down a fairy tale. The Cricket Princess and the Mad, Bad Buggy Duke. What do you think?”
“I think it a marvelous tale.”
“It is a ridiculous tale, and you know it.” She adjusted her seat so that she faced him directly. “I thought you’d stayed away because you were steeling your resolve to tell me such.”
“I have no need to steel myself to talk to you,” he said with vehemence. And as the words left his mouth, he realized it was true. She was not an emotional woman, thank God. The fact that she could speak rationally, today of all days, told him that. So he dropped on the nearest seat—the edge of her bed—and breathed a sigh of relief. “Mellie, it will all work out. You just need—”
“If you say, ‘Trust me,’ one more time, I will knock you flat.”
“But…um…oh.” He had no counter to that because in his experience, it always did work out. Maybe not perfectly, but well enough.
She cast him an arch look while he felt like an errant schoolboy. “Mellie,” he began, then she cut him off.
“Do you imagine that I have grown to adulthood in my father’s house, managed servants and Ronnie, plus stopped my uncle’s interference, by leaving it to someone else to bring things right?”
“Of course not. I’m sure you were the most responsible soul in the house within a year of your mother’s passing.” He gripped his thighs as he said his next words, knowing that she would hate him for them. “But that is in the country, and this is London. You have to rely on someone. You’re an outsider here.”
“I can rely on advice, Mr. Anaedsley, without surrendering my reason.”
She had a point, but rather than allow her that, he quietly chided her. “We are alone and affianced. You must call me Trevor.”
“Are we?” she challenged. “Are we still engaged? Trevor”—she stressed his Christian name, and not in a nice way—“this whole plan is ludicrous.”
“It will work,” he said firmly, though in truth, she had echoed his thoughts exactly. It was a delicate line to tweak the ton ’s interest without crossing over into total revulsion. The mood of the aristocracy was capricious at the best of times.
“It works for you,” she stressed. “With our engagement, your grandfather releases your money, and you are saved from the duns. I, on the other hand, must find a suitable alternative to Ronnie while acting as your fiancée and being hailed as the Cricket Princess.”
He tilted his head, seeing for the first time how careful she was. It made sense. She’d spent her life around people who never thought about her. She expected to be overlooked and so believed him equally guilty.
“You are far out on that, Mellie. Far, far out.”
“I don’t think so.”
He rocked back in his seat. “Then I shall make it clear. Let’s begin with the simplest thing. Our engagement isn’t real until it is published in the papers.”
She brightened. “Then there is still time to stop this nonsense.”
“No,” he lied, “there is not. Second, I made a bargain with you to see you wed, and I shall stick to it. You insult my word as a gentleman to suggest anything different.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you suggest that no gentleman has ever gone back on his word? That no bargain was actually a cheat or—”
“I say I am a gentleman, and I would never do such a thing.” He was insulted that she could think it of him. But then she had grown up in the country, and they had all sorts of ridiculous notions. “Besides, I am the one at risk here. I have proposed. You have accepted. What if you suddenly post the banns at your church? If you set a date, we must perforce wed. A neat way to trap a future duke, don’t you think?”
Her lips narrowed to a flat line. She didn’t like being called a cheat any more than he did. Except her words were entirely unexpected.
“You cannot convince me that you would marry me in such a circumstance.”
“Of course I would. Or face the rest of my life as the man who stood you up at the altar for no reason whatsoever. There are some things a gentleman doesn’t do. I have pushed for this engagement, ruse though it is. You have accepted. Unless you murder someone or make me a cuckold before the vows, I cannot in honor refuse to appear on the day you choose.”
She blinked at him, obviously mulling over his words. Good Lord, why did he put that idea in her head? No, she wouldn’t take advantage of him. She was Mellie. She didn’t think that way. But it didn’t stop him from hastily adding, “I am relying on you to not change your mind, to not put my honor to the test in such a malicious way.”
She snorted. “I find your gentlemanly code as ridiculous as Ronnie’s romantic one.”
He reared back as if struck, though his reason couldn’t deny her point. “I am insulted to my core.”
She arched her brow. “Truly? To your core?”
He shrugged. “Well, I should be.”
“Then you understand my point.”
“Of course I do. But you must acknowledge mine. I adhere to my code as firmly as Ronnie holds to his. I promised to find you a husband, and I shall stick to that no matter what.”
She shook her head, not in denial, but in apparent awe of his stubbornness. “You would attach your honor to finding the Cricket Princess a husband. Don’t you see how ridiculous that is?”
“I do acknowledge the challenge. But never fear. With Eleanor’s sponsorship we will find a way.”
She studied him again, her expression serious even though the discussion had hit unprecedented heights of silliness. “Your code—Ronnie’s code—both set me as an object of fun.”
“I disagree. Our codes have very little to do with you except that you are affected by our behavior. Codes are meant to manage oneself, not others. And before you poke another accusing finger, recall that you have a code of your own.”
“I do not,” she said haughtily. “Unless it is science. The rule of logic.”
“You need to toss that aside, Mellie. You are in society now.”
She snorted again, and he liked the indelicate sound. “I realized that at dinner, Mr. Buggy Duke.”
He laughed, but he could see she was resigned to their charade. And for that, he was enormously grateful. “It will come out all right, Mellie. I have sworn it.”
She looked up at him, and at this angle, the light fell upon the creamy skin of her bosom. Her night rail had come untied, so he saw beautiful skin and the swell of her very lovely breasts. “You are daft, Mr. Anaedsley. But I have given you my promise, and so…”
“And so?” he prompted when she fell silent.
“Must I really be a Cricket Princess?”
“Yes,” he said in mock seriousness. “Much more a compliment than it sounds. Men go mad for crickets. Just look at your father.”
“Do not hold him up as an example.”
“The Beetle Queen made a spectacular match last season.”
“I lived in the country, Mr. Anaedsley, not Siberia.”
He frowned, searching through his memory for his geography lessons. He’d been terrible in that subject, his interest much more in the construction of canals.
“It’s part of Russia,” she supplied.
“Ah yes, of course it is,” he said. He couldn’t stop himself. He touched her chin. “You are a very clever girl. Much more clever than I, it seems, in matters of geography.”
“You are better in entomology.”
“And you in chemical recipes.” He stroked his thumb across her lower lip, pleased when the flesh heated and swelled beneath his caress. “But in this—in society, and what attracts a gentleman—allow me to be the wiser one.”
“I have gambled my future on that.”
He smiled. “So you have.” Then his smile broadened. “There is only one thing left to do.”
Her lips had parted, the heat of her moist breath flowing over his thumb like a beaconing wave. “What?”
“We must seal this bargain with a kiss.”
Her eyes told him she’d expected such a thing. The way her breath caught told him she’d hoped for such a thing. But it was her lips that he was most interested in as she formed these words.
“We have already sealed it with a kiss,” she whispered.
A great many of them, in fact—kisses that burned in his memory as splendid events, the best damn bargains he’d ever made because her kisses had made him feel alive, happy, and desperate to kiss again.
“I feel the need to make you promise again,” he said as he leaned closer.
“I promise.”
He took it: her promise, her mouth, and a great deal more besides.