Chapter 29
ONE WEEK LATER
“It’s cheek, is what it is,” Lady Jenkins declared, loudly enough for anybody to hear. “That girl ought not to be seen in polite society ever again.”
“Well, you did not have to accept Lord Barrington’s invitation,” pointed out Lady Jenkins’ companion, a milder and duller lady by the name of Mrs. Evans. “You could have stayed at home.”
“Not likely. The Boltons never entertain, and it’s fairly clear that Lord Barrington only hosts this ball to try to ease his daughter’s inauspicious return to society. I wasn’t about to miss out on all the gossip, I can promise you.”
“Well, perhaps she really was just visiting her sister, as Lord Barrington said. There were rumors of an engagement, but surely…”
“An engagement to a brute of a Scottish laird will ruin her as much as an elopement,” Lady Jenkins interrupted brusquely.
“You simply don’t understand these things.
Those people are entirely different from us.
Their society, such as it is, cannot possibly be civilized.
I heard that Lord Sinclair announced publicly that he would not proceed with his engagement to Lady Melody, and frankly, I applaud his discretion.
The girl is ruined now, utterly ruined.”
Before Mrs. Evans could venture a reply—or perhaps she was not intending to make one at all—a curtain rustled beside the two ladies. It pulled back to reveal a curtained alcove.
Melody stood there, an abandoned book sitting on a seat behind her. Smiling, she stared down at the two ladies for a long moment.
Mrs. Evans had the grace to blush. Lady Jenkins pretended not to have noticed.
“Goodness, how loudly you speak, Lady Jenkins,” Melody said aloud.
Lady Jenkins flinched, an expression of horror filtering across her face as she realized that Melody was speaking to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You may beg all you like, Lady Jenkins,” Melody responded smoothly, the smile never wavering.
“Perhaps I am ruined, but I might confess that I heard a rather disturbing rumor about you, in fact. Something about a footman, and a library, and Lord Jenkins being in France for months on end. Such a strange and troublesome story. I should hate to hear it repeated, or learn that such vile gossip had been so easily bandied about in town.”
Lady Jenkins turned an interesting shade of puce. “Are you threatening me?”
Melody widened her eyes and placed a hand on her chest. “Threatening you? My dear Lady Jenkins, no! Consider it a promise. The only threat here is your own behavior. Good day to you both, and I’ll be sure to ask Papa to exclude you both from the guest list, going forward.”
Not bothering to wait for a reply, Melody sailed forward into the crowd, leaving the flabbergasted Lady Jenkins and her maudlin friend behind. The crowd did not knock Melody over, as they had in previous balls. She wasn’t crowded or crushed. In fact, a little bubble of space opened up around her.
Papa hadn’t said much to her since her return, except for a flat, annoyed comment that she had ruined herself as much as her sister and that Lord Sinclair wouldn’t have her now.
Really, her papa seemed most annoyed at having his well-laid plans disrupted, rather than the prospect of his daughter being ruined. Perhaps Melody should have cared more about his lack of care, but really, she did not have the energy.
She had just reached the other side of the ballroom when, out of nowhere, a pair of beribboned ladies descended on her, dressed in matching cake-topping dresses of palest lilac. It was the Marzipan Twins, nearly drowning in flounces and frills.
“We shall have to be quick,” gasped Green Eyes. “Mama said that we’re not to talk to you at all at this party, even though your Papa is hosting it.”
“Mama said that you were fast,” Blue Eyes agreed, “and that an engagement to a Scottish lord means that your reputation is ruined.”
“I see,” Melody responded woodenly, sinking down onto a seat. “What is it you want to say to me, ladies?”
The twins glanced at each other.
“Well, we want to know if you got a proper picture of the man, of course,” Green Eyes responded. “That is why you went.”
Melody bit the inside of her cheek until it stung.
She hoped that the pain in her mouth would distract her from the stinging in her eyes and the sensation that her chest was about to crumble inward at any moment.
But then, what did it matter if she burst into tears at a ball? What did any of it matter?
“I’m afraid I have lost the bet, ladies,” she managed to respond. A single tear crawled down her cheek, followed rapidly by a second, and a third.
The Marzipan Twins flinched, visibly shocked by the sight of tears.
“Oh, you mustn’t cry,” Blue Eyes managed lamely. “Here, take this.”
She withdrew a handkerchief that was more lace and frills than anything else, perfumed heavily enough to make Melody’s throat sting. She took the handkerchief anyway.
“What is going on over here? Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two, give her some air!” came a familiar voice. The Marzipan Twins were unceremoniously elbowed aside and then shooed away.
“Emma,” Melody managed, sniffing.
Emma glared at the twins. Blue Eyes assured Melody that she could keep the handkerchief, then they disappeared into the crowd, arm in arm.
“Well,” Emma said at last, her voice becoming a little softer. “I know that you found who you were looking for. Did you say you lost your bet?”
Melody nodded tightly. “Yes, and no. I found him, and he’s no monster. I didn’t bring a painting home, however.”
Emma glowered at a rabbity young man until he paled and scrambled to his feet, offering her his seat. She sank down grandly beside Melody and took her hand.
“Victoria is my closest friend,” she said carefully, after a moment of silence.
“She writes to me frequently, as you know. She… she told me much of what happened between you and Laird MacDean. Not all of it, not by any stretch, but enough for me to draw some conclusions. You were close to him, weren’t you? ”
Melody squeezed her eyes closed and nodded wordlessly.
“Leaving was the right thing for me to do,” she whispered tautly.
“I have no doubt of that. But I did not imagine… I did not imagine how difficult it would be. Oh, Emma, what am I to do? How can I continue with my life? Everything seems so colorless, so drab. I cannot summon up any interest in anything, and already I feel as though my life is over.”
Emma sighed, squeezing Melody’s hand. “Well, I have never been in love, so I cannot say. It is Victoria’s advice you should seek.”
“It takes days, if not weeks, for letters to pass between us,” Melody sniffed, blotting her tears on Blue Eyes’ pungent handkerchief.
“Wait, in love? Is that what this was? That man, Laird MacDean, was no monster. He was just an ordinary man, a man I cannot stop thinking about. I… I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake, Emma. ”
“Oh, my darling girl. But nothing is permanent, you know. With time, your life here will be more palatable. You’ll get used to it again.
You’ll find happiness. I shall be here, and I shall help you.
Your papa will forgive you, society will forget, and soon, it will be as if you never met him at all. ”
Emma spoke confidently, and Melody had no doubt at all that her friend believed her own words.
But I don’t, she thought miserably. Time did indeed heal all wounds, but she had a sneaking suspicion that it would not heal this one. No, it was too late for her now. The poets were right—love was a wretched thing, the sort of thing that left one entirely helpless.
Could I have done better? Perhaps. Will I have another chance? No, I will not.
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard and concentrating on regaining her composure.
Her name would be in every scandal sheet in London, just as it had since the day it was known that she had returned home.
She had no intention of giving the gossips something to talk about.
She would compose herself, soothe her tears, straighten her spine, and then…
“Oh, good Lord,” Emma squawked. “What on earth is he doing here?”
Melody’s eyes flew open. Her head snapped up.
She saw at once what Emma was speaking of. The ballroom crowd had gone quiet, a space forming in the center of the room while whispers shot around the corners, sharp as gunshots.
A man stood in the empty space. He was not dressed for a ball. He wore a loose shirt, tucked into the waistband of a kilt, which hung freely around his knees. Bare knees! Over by the chairs, some matronly lady fainted.
Melody was on her feet before she knew what she was doing.
“Callum,” she breathed.
Callum could not have failed to notice the stir his arrival had made. He glanced around at the gawkers, his eyebrows lifting a fraction.
Behind him, a pair of footmen, led by the butler, came scrambling toward him, red-faced with mortification.
“Sir, sir, this is a private party,” the butler hissed. “Unless you can show your invitation—”
“He is my… friend,” Melody heard herself saying, loudly in the silence. “Leave him be.”
The butler flinched, clearly offended. He glanced uncertainly between Callum’s implacable face and Melody’s unwavering gaze, then glanced around for his employer.
Papa was nowhere to be seen, however, and Melody guessed that he was in the card-room, gambling away his sorrows over his final asset, his daughter, having ruined herself so intensely.
Whispers would reach him soon of a strange and frightening Scotsman in his ballroom, but for now, there was nobody else for the butler to apply to for help.
“Very well, Lady Melody,” the butler said austerely, with an edge to his voice which implied that they had not heard the last of this. He melted off into the crowd, flanked by his confused footmen.
The rest of the guests, however, remained where they were, clearly struck dumb with surprise.
“You… you’re here,” Melody stammered.