Prologue
Melisande had been at Easton Abbey less than three hours and was already bored beyond bearing it. That was perhaps the true danger of house parties thrown by well-bred society. Not scandal or even the possibility of seduction and certainly not the collapse of anyone’s virtue.
No, it was dying inch by inch beneath a mountain of politeness.
She stood with Charlotte, Georgina, and Jaclyn beneath the shade of an elm while one of Havenwood’s chaperones extolled the virtues of fresh air and respectable company as though either were treasures to be cherished.
Melisande only half listened. Her gaze wandered over the lawns, the guests drifting in clusters, the tables set out with lemonade and cakes, and the gentlemen on the far side of the green discussing something with the grave seriousness men always gave to trifles.
“It’s rather humdrum,” she said at last, because someone ought to tell the truth. She sighed and let her head tip back. “Which I suppose is the only reason we were permitted to attend. Not a scandal in sight.”
“Melisande,” Miss Abernathy said in the warning tone she employed at least six times a day. That was no exaggeration either. She had counted once because that alone caused her a fit of ennui.
Melisande smiled sweetly. “Yes, Miss Abernathy?” One of her greatest pleasures was being difficult. Especially with the instructors at Havenwood. Someone had to keep things interesting.
“We are meant to avoid scandals, not seek them.”
She barely restrained from rolling he eyes at the rebuke. “That does seem the general philosophy at Havenwood,” Melisande said. “Though one wonders how anyone is to learn anything at all if life is reduced to embroidery, French verbs, and restraint.”
Jaclyn gave a soft laugh behind her hand. Charlotte did roll her eyes. Georgina, poor dear, stared at the grass with the expression of one praying the earth would open and swallow them all. Miss Abernathy fixed Melisande with a sharp look. “There is nothing wrong with a respectable gathering.”
“So I have been told repeatedly.” Melisande glanced toward the gentlemen again. Could one of them be a bit more interesting? “But if respectability is all society has to recommend it, I confess I do not see how anyone survives it.”
Before Miss Abernathy could deliver the lecture that obviously beckoned, Lord Easton approached them with an easy smile and a bow just shallow enough to be charming. “Ladies,” he said. “I trust the afternoon finds you well.”
“Does it matter what we say?” Melisande asked. “If we confess to mortal tedium, will the gathering improve itself out of shame?”
His mouth twitched. “I cannot promise that, but I might offer a remedy.”
At that, Charlotte glanced in his direction. Jaclyn brightened at once. Georgina shifted, perhaps from nerves.
“My servants have set up a game of lawn billiards,” Lord Easton continued. “Several of us mean to play, and I thought you might join us. We have room for four ladies, and I promise the game is more diverting than standing politely beneath a tree.”
“That depends upon the players,” Melisande said. Though to be fair the game had to be more entertaining then as he stated, standing beneath a tree.
“Then I shall do my best to provide an acceptable lot.” Charm nearly poured off of him and she might be interested, but she didn’t think he would return the favor. Melisande made a point of being an excellent observer of those around her. This man did not spare her a glance, let alone a second one.
Miss Abernathy, to Melisande’s irritation, thought this a splendid notion. Because of course she would. “Some activity would benefit our charges.” She should protest on principle, but she held her tongue.
“For some of them more than others, apparently,” Miss Spencer murmured, though not quite softly enough.
Melisande ignored her. “I am willing,” she said at once, mostly because the alternative was continued stillness. She glanced at Georgina. “Are you?”
Georgina hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yes.”
Lord Easton turned toward Charlotte and Jaclyn, drawing them in with practiced ease. Melisande only half attended his efforts, because movement on the far side of the lawn caught her eye. Three gentlemen were making their way toward them.
One was the Duke of Amberwood, whom she had already marked as handsome in a polished, faintly dangerous way. Another was Mr. Foxmoore, agreeable enough, though he had the look of a man perpetually too charming by far. The third she did not know.
He was taller than the others by a little, broad through the shoulders, and carried himself with a stillness that made the rest of the party seem suddenly overbright and overbusy.
His hair was dark auburn touched by the sun into copper, his features cut too sharply to be called pretty, and his expression suggested he found very little in life amusing.
Interesting. More interesting still, he was looking directly at her. Melisande lifted a brow, but he did not look away.
Well, that would should not excite her. The gentlemen came to a halt before their little group. Introductions began, though Melisande only partly listened until Lord Easton said, “Lady Melisande Burton, may I present Viscount Kendal.”
He was a viscount, and a Scotsman, if his name and bearing were any indication. Melisande dipped into the prettiest curtsy she could manage without it becoming sincere. “My lord.”
“Lady Melisande.” His bow was impeccable. His voice, when it came, was deep and even, touched by the faintest trace of Scotland. His brogue ent shivers down her spine. “I understand ye are tae join the game.”
“I understand I have been rescued from terminal dullness,” she replied in a droll tone.
Something flickered in his eyes. Not amusement nor was it approval. “Then one hopes the game proves equal tae the task,” he said.
“Oh, I never place that burden on a game,” Melisande replied. “It is the players who determine whether an afternoon is wasted.”
A pause followed. Albeit a tiny one. But enough to tell her he knew very well she was baiting him. “Then I trust,” he said, “that the company will conduct itself with sufficient discipline tae satisfy ye.”
There it was. Discipline. The word landed between them like a gauntlet.
Melisande smiled. “How dreadful as I have never taken well to discipline of any sort.”
Lady Jaclyn choked on a laugh. Charlotte shot her a warning glance. Georgina seemed prepared to faint on the grass.
Viscount Kendal, however, merely regarded her with that same maddening composure. “Ye object tae discipline?”
“I do,” she said. “It is not something that should be involved in activities meant to bring levity.”
“For some people,” he said, “games are improved by rules.” He tilted his head to the side. “But ye are the sort that likes tae defy rules, aren’t ye?’”
“Some rules are meant to be broken.” Melisande nodded. “Because for some people, rules are merely an excuse to pretend superiority.”
Amberwood made a sound suspiciously like a muffled laugh. Lord Easton cleared his throat with unnecessary force. Miss Abernathy was staring at Melisande as though calculating which punishment could be imposed fastest.
Melisande ought perhaps to have stopped.
Instead, she looked at Kendal’s face and found herself abruptly unwilling to do anything so sensible.
He had the sort of countenance that invited challenge.
Too controlled by half, far too certain of his own opinion and, entirely too certain the world arranged itself the way he wished it to.
Men like that needed unsettling. She had always possessed a gift for it.
“Come,” Lord Easton said briskly. “Before we all perish where we stand, let us at least do so in motion.”
They moved toward the playing field, where the rings had been set into the lawn and the mallets arranged in a neat stand beside a basket of colored balls.
The gentlemen spread out with the unconscious confidence of men accustomed to their place in society.
The ladies gathered more carefully, though Melisande made no effort to appear hesitant.
Lord Easton began his explanation of the game, but Melisande’s attention wandered almost at once. Kendal had chosen the black mallet. Of course he had. It suited him absurdly well. Severe and unadorned. A choice made either in jest or with such perfect seriousness that it bordered on parody.
“I’ll take the black,” he’d said with confidence.
Melisande glanced up at him. “How ominous.”
“It matches my heart,” he said dryly.
That surprised a laugh out of her before she could stop it. He looked at her then, fully this time, and the air between them shifted. Not softened nor warmed. It had sharpened. As though something invisible had been drawn taut. How odd…
“How refreshingly honest of you, my lord,” she said. She could not keep the humor from her tone as she spoke.
“If honesty shocks ye, Lady Melisande, the fault cannot be mine.”
“There is not much that shocks me,” she admitted. “Though I must admire your honesty.”
One corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Something far more dangerous, because it suggested he was not nearly so insensible as he wished the world to believe.
Lord Easton continued outlining the rules, none of which seemed especially important until he announced they would begin in pairs. Melisande only half listened until she heard, “Black and white go first.”
She looked down. In her hand was the white mallet. For one suspended moment she said nothing at all. Then she looked up and found Kendal watching her. This, she thought, was either very bad luck or very good fortune.
“Shall we be allies, then?” she asked lightly.
“For the moment,” he agreed.
“How reassuringly enthusiastic.” She rolled her eyes. He was far too stern in his countenance.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mallet, then returned to her face. “Do ye know how tae play?”
Melisande straightened and met his gaze. “Do you?”