A Match for Melissa

by Susan Karsten

  Mark remained still and silent in the box pew while his misgivings grew. What was occurring? What if his sense of misgiving was inaccurate? He didn’t want to cause a disturbance about a normal event.

  He heard the distinct intonations of a priest. Some kind of ceremony went on, a sort of rite, ritual, or perhaps an unusual service.

  He stared at the chapel entrance as he moved with stealth toward its carved marble doorframe. Within the dim chapel, the group stood facing a white marble altar lit by two guttering candles. Few details stood out in the smoky gloom.

  A fourth person, a man garbed in the distinct dress of a Church of England priest, faced out, head bowed over a small, leather-covered book. Mark heard liturgical droning.

  There was something odd about the woman. Not only were her hands behind her back, but they appeared to be bound by a silk scarf.

  Though muffled and echoing, Mark recognized some of the words, “Do you take this man…?” He clenched the cold stone trim of the opening.

  A stifled female voice made a croaking, angry, protesting sound. Not an ‘I do’ or even a ‘yes’.

  A silk scarf was knotted behind her head. He suddenly understood its position. It created a gag, front-to-back around the woman’s head. The gag was probably across her mouth. Realization dawned. He’d become an inadvertent witness to a forced wedding.

  He moved through the arched chapel doorway and approached the people. “What have we here, gentlemen?” He moved further toward the group.

  The female turned around. With a shock, Mark recognized the captive ‘bride’ as Miss Southwood, and Lord Winstead stood near her. Mark’s masculine reactions were on edge. Every muscle in his body coiled. He curled his hands into fists and fought the immediate urge to pound the man. He must be strategic—it was three against one. But Mark’s drive to protect her propelled him forward.

  Striding over, he faced Winstead and glared into the blackguard’s face. The balance of power changed. The priest sidled along the wall, shuffling toward the exit. The other man, clearly a hired henchman, complete with knobby low forehead, lurched toward Mark and grabbed his forearm, pivoting him away from Winstead.

  Brushing off the underling’s hand and unleashing his fury, Mark landed a quick punch to the man’s nose and sent him staggering, bent over at the waist clutching at his face.

  Mark commanded the bleeding man, “You there, make yourself scarce and forget what you saw here or not only will I give you more of a beating, but I will detain you for the magistrates.”

  The hireling nodded his head, tugged his forelock, and stumbled away from Mark, staggering toward the chapel door and out of the church door.

  “Winstead, I should call you out for this. But since I am a Christian, I cannot murder.”

  “You may as well, for you’ve ruined me. Miss Southwood was promised to me, I’m sure you know.”

  Mark looked over at her, crouched, half hiding behind a chair. She shook her head and made a strangled sound. Her vigorous efforts to get loose told him she wasn’t suffering too ill. He wanted nothing more than to cross the short distance to his love and release her silken bonds, but he had other matters to attend to first. He had an angry would-be groom yet to deal with.

  Lord Winstead put up his fists, ready to vent his frustration. Before he made his move, Mark placed a left to Winstead’s jaw, precipitating a grasping slide to the floor. The erstwhile groom, a now-crumpled figure, stretched out in a merciful blackout.

  Merciful, because the righteous anger and protective urge motivating Mark itched to do more damage than a left to the jaw as recompense for Winstead’s sins. Mark turned to Miss Southwood. She stopped struggling, but her breathing was ragged as she sagged to the floor.

  25

  Amid the aftermath of the violence and the shock of the event, Mark’s fingers shook as he made quick work of untying Miss Southwood’s wrists. With utmost tenderness, he removed the scarf tied around her mouth. “My dear, are you well?”

  Her eyes fluttered open, she nodded, and tendrils of wavy hair swayed with her motion. “Yes, but quite upset by Lord Peter’s actions. Thank God you were in this church.”

  “I agree, darling. It was the good Lord that caused me to be here when you needed me.”

  She clutched the edges of her cloak and spoke in a soft voice. “He took me out, with permission, on yet another drive in an open carriage and absconded with me. It seems, from what he said to the others, he hired the priest to ignore the irregularities.”

  “Irregular, indeed. I believe we are still alone in this place, and we must make a swift exit.”

  He checked Winstead, who appeared as if he would be out for a while yet but was breathing steadily. The cur could wake up, find a doctor, and make his own sorry way home.

  Mark guided her just inside the main door. “Stay here one moment, my dear.” He reveled in the pleasure of allowing the endearment to slip off his tongue. He stepped outside onto the front steps of the church and whistled for a hackney. A nearby cab immediately responded. Mark went back in to collect Miss Southwood.

  He reassured her with a hushed voice and a gentle hand on her shoulder to encourage her. “Now, lower your veil to cover your face in order to prevent any suspicion should we be seen, and I shall carry you to the cab, keeping my head down to avoid being recognized. If we are seen, it will simply appear as if you fell ill. Young ladies drop like flies in stuffy sanctuaries.”

  “Whatever you think. I just want to leave this place.” Her voice was weak, but he relished the trusting tone. Scooping her into his arms brought a wave of her refreshing minty scent up into his face. It reminded him to breathe.

  Carrying her out was an excellent strategic touch, but holding her so close caused waves of sensation to crash over him. Having her in his arms ignited a deep longing, and being her hero pleased him to the core.

  The subterfuge a success, they were soon inside the cab. Mark leaned out the window and instructed the driver. “There’ll be a large tip for you if you go slowly. I’ll give you our direction after a time. It’ll be worth your while.”

  The unhurried pace wouldn’t jostle her, but he also needed a few minutes to think. With nary a jerk, the cab moved off.

  “Tell me about Winstead’s remark. The part about you being promised to him?” Mark clenched his teeth, not wanting it to be true. He checked his pocket watch and held it loosely, cradled in his palm, touching it like a talisman.

  “A grain of truth, I hate to say. I can only suppose you heard the tittle-tattle about how my father scoured the ton for a pockets-to-let aristocrat to marry me?” She averted her face and sniffled.

  Poor little thing. “Ah, yes, I had heard something of the sort. You may not know this, but the day I met you at your home, I had come a-calling, throwing my hat into the ring.”

  She glanced, stricken, and lowered her gaze.

  He hurried to explain. “I came, not because I need funds but with a sincere thought of you perhaps being the helpmeet I sought. The Cleavers told me such favorable things about you.”

  She spoke just above a whisper. “They are kind.”

  “And when I learned of your father’s search for a titled man to wed you, I decided to apply for the position, so to speak. Your father sent me packing, since you were already being courted by Winstead.” Heat crept up his neck—explaining this was deuced embarrassing.

  She let out a held breath. “I understand. You were not seeking to repair your fortunes?”

  “No, not at all. I assure you, dear, my motives are pure. I arrived in London and found out your father sought an aristocratic husband for you. Almost on impulse, I decided since I’d already met you and knew you were a believer, I would do the pretty and offer myself up to your father. In retrospect, it sounds a bit havey-cavey.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I sincerely thought it was the right thing to do at the time. Not my normal way of going about things. I don’t need money, but the Lord led me.” He realized he was babb
ling, repeating himself, and therefore, clamped his lips shut.

  She swept the back of her hand across her pale forehead and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I’m glad you told me.”

  Willing to beg, he pled, “Please believe me.”

  “I take your word, Lord Russell.”

  Satisfied with the air-clearing between them, Mark nevertheless needed to bring their talk back around to the current situation. He returned his watch to his pocket.

  “Don’t worry, but we do need to protect your reputation. If you return to your home with a different man, in a closed vehicle, it will provide scandal bait. The circumstances are too unusual and suspicious for us to be confident no word of the mischance will leak out.” He ached to take her in his arms and comfort her. But that would be improper and taking advantage of the situation. “Servants do talk, and gossip leaks out.”

  “I agree that scandal is one wrong step away. My life as an unmarried young lady remains circumscribed by the dictates of society, and I fear too many rules have been broken today. I am sore afraid gossip will seep out, and Papa might blame me.” She slumped against the unpadded side of the cab, the back of her hand laid on her forehead.

  He took her free hand and patted it. “I would like to take you to my Aunt Lucy. She is a reputable lady, and you met her at the ball. From there, you’ll send word home saying you encountered her while you were out and accepted an invitation to visit her overnight.” Mark held her hand.

  “Are her servants gossipy?” She withdrew her hand. He forbore to claim it again but noted the pleasurable tingle her touch left behind.

  “Her staff is ancient and beyond the age of talebearing. I think you’ll emerge from your visit there with no one the wiser.” He itched to put a comforting arm around her but resisted, not wanting to press her after what she’d endured.

  “But it’s quite sudden. How will she like having an uninvited guest?”

  “I am certain Aunt Lucy will love it.” After giving Melissa one more smile, he leaned out the window, gave the address of their destination, and told the driver to pick up the pace. The events of the last hour were hard to believe. The traumatic ending to Winstead’s suit meant a chance for Mark. Dare he hope?

  26

  “Miss Southwood. What a surprise. Do sit down,” Mrs. Lucy Banting rattled off in a fluty voice. She patted the settee.

  With relief, Melissa sank onto the offered seat, but she didn’t take her eyes off Lord Russell. He was her lifeline to everything sane and good. Without his presence, she would collapse under the weight of the trauma.

  Mrs. Banting rang a small bell, and a footman entered the room. “Forbes, I’ll have tea in here today. Use the cart.” She turned to Melissa and gushed, “This is wonderful. I love to have guests for tea.”

  “Aunt Lucy, I have a quick favor to ask before the tea tray comes.” Mark stood, hands locked behind his back, the picture of leashed power.

  Mrs. Banting cocked her head, and a flicker of concern crossed her face. “What is it?”

  “Miss Southwood has fallen prey to a difficult circumstance. I am sure you will be quite sympathetic once she tells you. I must dash right now and make a few appearances to quell any curiosity about my activities. I may also tour some gossip spots on Bond Street to detect if there is nasty talk swirling around or not. If all goes well, the unhappy occurrence will not be public.”

  He bowed over Melissa’s hand, locked eyes on hers for a moment, and then made his way out of the room and shut the door.

  Bereft of his strong, reassuring presence, tears threatened Melissa’s composure. She fluttered her fingers in front of her face. “Oh my.” Her voice trembled as she tried to suppress shocked emotions.

  “Now, now, don’t cry.” Mrs. Banting patted Melissa’s hand. “With God’s help, you’ll get through whatever befell you.”

  The aged, myopic butler arrived with a tea trolley and put another log on the fire. When the door latched closed behind him, Mrs. Banting spoke. “You can confide in me.”

  Melissa, speech halting at first, told the tale with few adorning words. “You remember my suitor, Lord Winstead? He abducted me today and forced me to the brink of a spurious wedding.”

  “My dear, I am aghast at such sinful behavior. How dare Winstead.” Outrage suffused Mrs. Banting’s cheeks to a deep rose shade. “The cad. My dear, you poor thing.” She pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “Your nephew, in God’s providence, rescued me and suggested I come here.” Melissa’s face heated with shame even though she’d done nothing improper. Head bowed, she stared down at her chafed wrists.

  With a touch like a feather, Mrs. Banting patted Melissa’s shoulder. “I can’t help but notice your wrists, poor dear. I have just the ointment for your injuries. I’ll get it soon. Do not be downcast. You did nothing to deserve what that young cur attempted to inflict upon you.”

  Melissa lifted her face, stricken. “I know that in my mind, but my heart is sore. My father encouraged Lord Winstead’s suit even though I never wanted him. It hurts that my own father’s scheme engendered today’s events.”

  “Come now. Your father surely didn’t realize he’d put you at risk. We must do a bit of plotting. I shall step over to my writing desk and pen a message to your father, explaining you are my guest.”

  Greetings, Mr. Southwood. Your dear daughter and I happened to cross paths today. I implored her to relieve the tedium of my days by spending an overnight visit at my home. Please have her maid pack a case for her, and my messenger will bring it back with your hoped-for assent. How pleasant to meet you at my ball the other night—perhaps we shall socialize again another day. Yours, Lucy Banting

  “That should suffice.” She signed with a flourish, sanded, and sealed the letter. “What’s his address?”

  Melissa gave the information, all the while marveling at the older woman’s confidence and certainty. Would she ever be like her? So sure, so emphatic?

  A footman arrived with the tea tray, and Mrs. Banting handed him the letter. “Deliver this right away and wait for a response.”

  Respite from worry washed over Melissa. She nibbled cucumber sandwiches and sipped hot black tea, so welcome after the shocking events of the day. She was amazed what a good time she was having, following so close on the morning’s travesty. Mrs. Banting was amiable.

  “I must compliment my cook. These are delicious.” After tapping her lips with a delicately-embroidered tea napkin, Mrs. Banting went on with plotting. “Yes, tomorrow I shall take you home in my carriage, and to all appearances, everything will be above board. Guarding one’s name is important.”

  “Mrs. Banting, it’s kind of you to help me. A tattered reputation is not something I want.”

  “Indeed. I am proud of Mark for thinking to bring you here. Servants’ gossip could proliferate if you’d arrived home with a different suitor than you left with.”

  “Your nephew’s arrival saved me from a dire fate.” She shuddered. “Forced marriage is distasteful.”

  “And disgraceful.” Mrs. Banting graced her words with an emphatic nod. She probed for information. “How did it come about—you being courted by Lord Winstead?”

  “My father is a successful merchant with a fortune not inherited. Earning his riches by trade excludes our family from the haute ton.” Melissa paused to sip tea. She’d never voiced these truths before to anyone. But it seemed right to confide in this trustworthy lady.

  She set down her cup and went on. “Entering the upper strata of British society has long been Papa’s fondest dream, which led him to scour the ranks of the ton for a proper and willing match. Papa sought a nobleman in need of funds.”

  “Oh, I understand now. It’s unfortunate he didn’t find a man of good character to make a more appropriate match for you. You are pretty and ladylike.”

  “Thank you for the compliment. Father’s fortune allowed me to be trained in the social arts. Though I was educated at an expensive academy, just like a lady, our
family remained excluded from high society.”

  “Did this cause you to suffer?”

  “Not really. I don’t share my father’s fascination with the beau monde but have been dragged along in the wake of his obsession.”

  “It hurts me to think of a sweet young lady like you being snubbed and friendless.”

  Mrs. Banting’s sympathetic tone warmed Melissa’s heart. “I was fine. My family and my faith comforted me.”

  “Didn’t you find any friends at the academy?”

  “I made the acquaintance of many girls from noble families, and I did make one close friend there. Her name is Rosanna Cabot. In fact, I saw her at your ball.”

  “Oh yes, the Cabots—a fine gentry family.”

  “Rosanna is dear to me. When we spoke at the ball, we renewed our acquaintance and plan to call on each other soon. Even though we were friends, she wasn’t able to afford me entrée into high society. Her mother also died, and it seems she didn’t have things easy either. I suppose I will learn more when she and I visit.”

  Melissa enjoyed the sweet fellowship with Mrs. Banting, enjoying this interlude. Having a sympathetic ear was a balm.

  “It isn’t right for a charming Christian girl such as yourself to be excluded from social circles for which your training, beauty, and fortune suit you.” Mrs. Banting lifted her chin, as if ready to do battle on Melissa’s behalf.

  Melissa found it a novelty for someone to champion her cause. “Nice of you to say, Mrs. Banting, but the lines between the classes are drawn very sharp. I accept this truth. To marry me off to an aristocrat, however, is a way for my father to achieve his goal. Some would call him a counter-jumping mushroom.”

  “This problem deserves additional thought. The ball provided a good beginning, but can more be done to help your social standing?” Mrs. Banting tapped her chin while thinking. “My nephew mentioned his own embarrassing attempt to ‘get in the running’ as your aristocratic suitor. Does your father remember?”