The Mad Lord's Daughter

by Jane Goodger

  Ah, that bothered her, for her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed with an anger that was quite striking. “I do hope you are not suggesting that I would be the bearer of such gossip.”

  He smiled, though he knew it was not a very pleasant smile. “I would never suggest such a thing,” he said, and calmly handed her the list.

  Diane took the list, resisting the urge to throw the paper back into his hard, mocking face. He was just as cold and heartless and unforgiving as she’d always thought him to be, she decided, turning away and walking to the window where the light was better—and where she was away from him. No, that wasn’t true. She’d actually allowed herself to think, in her weakest moments, that Lord Braddock was a kind, understanding man whom she could admire. Inexplicably, her eyes burned as if she were on the verge of tears, which was ridiculous. Simply because she’d been set down by an arrogant, stiff, uncompromising, and foolish man? He’d made her feel silly for suggesting there was even a hint of impropriety in allowing his son to be alone with his niece.

  She stared blindly at the absurd list, at names she’d seen for years, of men who’d looked past her as if she were nothing more than a potted plant. Oh, how she loathed that men and women believed unmarried women of a certain age had cast off all their dreams of marriage and children. As if she was a dried-up old woman.

  Here she stood, in the presence of a man she’d admired for years, made to feel foolish simply for pointing out a real danger. Any tender thoughts she’d ever had of him—and they were very few indeed—seemed completely preposterous at the moment. Affronted, was he? Angry? Well, she was angry, too, for having her real and legitimate concerns dismissed out of hand. As if Lord Willington was such a paragon. Even priests were tempted by beautiful women. She was about to point out that fact, but when she looked up he was staring at her thoughtfully.

  “I should not have belittled your very real concerns,” he said slowly. “It’s a flaw of mine, you see, to know with absolute certainty that I am right. I am right in this case, but I do believe I could have been a bit more politic during our conversation.”

  Drat. Just when she was getting up a good temper, he had to apologize. At least it sounded very much like an apology. She nodded, not knowing what she could say that wouldn’t get him angry all over again. Instead, she walked to his desk and laid the list on the smooth, polished wood.

  “Any of these would do,” she said, then walked from the room.

  Chapter 4

  The Covent Garden Theatre was one of the newest and largest theatres in London, having been rebuilt in 1858 after a devastating fire. The result was a magnificent structure in a classic style that resembled more a grand government building than a theatre. Staring at it, Melissa had a nearly overwhelming feeling of being in a dream—and it wasn’t a good dream.

  Everywhere she looked, there were people, horses, carriages, vendors, buildings, noise, dogs—and smells. She felt as if she were being crushed by it all and had to fight the urge to squeeze her eyes closed and hold her hands over her ears like a child.

  At first, the carriage ride had been fascinating, but it was all too short. She had little knowledge of London, but her first thought, when they’d arrived at Covent Garden from her uncle’s house on Piccadilly, was that they could have walked to the theatre. But now that they had stopped in a long queue of carriages, it was all too much. The theatre was so large; it loomed over them as if it might crash down upon their tiny carriage. And the noise, it was unbearable. She clutched the seat with her gloved hands and stared blindly at her uncle, who sat across from her, completely at ease. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.

  Melissa was so tense, her entire body started to ache. This was not what she had expected when Miss Stanhope had told her about a night at the opera. Miss Stanhope had explained that it would be a night of little social interaction, a way to slowly introduce her to the society she would someday be a part of. She described a calm, sedate setting in which nothing would be expected of Melissa except to nod at those who were introduced to her. She would look beautiful, she would be admired, and the night would be a rousing success. They had taken special care choosing her gown, selecting a deep blue velvet with cream lace and pale blue underskirt. A rope of pearls was woven through her dark hair, creating a lovely effect—at least that’s what Miss Stanhope had told her.

  It would be a wonderful night, one requiring little of her but to look calm. This was what Miss Stanhope had told her, and this was what she’d believed. She could stand and nod at people. She could carry on a conversation. Of course she could.

  But now, she realized with something close to panic, she could not. She was terrified at the thought of being amongst so many people, of their looking at her, touching her, bumping into her. Outside was a seething mass of people, of all shapes and sizes. It was too, too much to contemplate.

  “Melissa.”

  She blinked and turned toward her cousin, who was staring at her intently, his gray eyes visible in the gloom of the carriage. “Are you well?”

  That single question, the concern in his voice, calmed her almost instantly. “Quite well,” she said, and almost sounded as if she meant it. It was the proper response to such a question, was it not? Certainly she could not tell these people she was about to run screaming from the carriage toward Bamburgh.

  She felt Miss Stanhope’s sharp gaze on her, and she schooled her features. She would not humiliate herself or her uncle. It was such a simple thing they asked. She glanced out at the people, walking about as if being there were a normal, everyday occurrence, when it was truly a terrifying leap of faith. All those people. Surely one or two of them was ill. What if one of them touched her? What if some disease was, at this very moment, crawling upon one of their arms, ready to jump off and onto her as she brushed by? She hadn’t even stepped from the carriage and Melissa wanted to go home.

  “Have you heard anything about this opera?” she asked as if the quality of the opera was of utmost importance to her.

  “Today is the debut,” Miss Stanhope said. “But the company is wonderful. I’ve never yet been disappointed by a performance.”

  The carriage jerked to a halt, and soon the sound of the steps being lowered could be heard, just seconds before the door was efficiently opened by a liveried footman. Miss Stanhope departed first, giving Melissa a pointed look, a silent reminder to allow the footman to assist her down. Melissa felt foolish and awkward, as if every little act of hers was going to be carefully reviewed by her chaperone and uncle. Taking a bracing breath, Melissa stood and calmly gave the footman her hand, trying with all her might not to cringe at the warm strength of a strange man’s hand holding hers. Every day women were touched, and they did not die. Every day, they breathed in the air that others breathed, they jostled and bumped, embraced. And they did not die.

  She felt the gravel beneath her feet and dropped the servant’s hand, feeling unaccountably relieved and proud of herself. No one would ever know what it had taken to act so completely nonchalant when stepping from that carriage. No one would ever know the panic she had to fight, the fear.

  Turning, she watched her uncle and cousin step from the carriage with graceful, masculine ease, looking about the crowd for acquaintances.

  “Melissa, if you’ll allow me to escort you,” John said, holding out his arm much as he had in the study. As always, he gazed down at her, his eyes crinkling as if he knew what she was going through and he was giving her courage.

  She gave him a big smile, as if he’d offered her his kingdom instead of an escort, and he grinned back.

  “I thought you were going to lose your accounts in the carriage,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I haven’t the slightest notion of what you mean,” she said, but she smiled up at him to let him know she did.

  “They won’t bite, you know. At least not all of them. And I’ll let you know which ones do.”

  Melissa squeezed his arm until he yelped, then looked up at him innocently. With
John, she could be calm and almost confident. Clutching his arm, she felt as if there were a protective barrier between her and the rest of the people milling about. As they made their way into the opera house, her uncle was stopped several times and was forced to make introductions. Just as Miss Stanhope had told her, she simply nodded and murmured a few polite words and they went on their way.

  “Not so difficult, you see?” John asked, looking down at her with a small bit of concern.

  “I was being foolish in the carriage. I know that.”

  “Not foolish,” he said. “Just a bit overwhelmed. Am I right?”

  Melissa nodded, thankful that he understood, at least a little, how she was feeling. She didn’t know why or how he understood, but was glad he did. On his arm, the fear that paralyzed her all but dissipated, and she idly wondered if she would one day be able to fight the panic on her own. Or would she need to drag him about for the rest of her life the way she used to drag about her little blanket when she was a child?

  Melissa had never been in a building so large. As they walked beneath the entry, she expected to walk into a grand hall, but instead found herself being led into a crowded lobby. The air was filled with cigar smoke that clung to the ceiling in a fine haze, and so many bodies in one room made the space rather stifling. She seemed to be the only one who noticed this, however, so she kept silent as they made their way slowly up a set of stairs and along a long, curving hallway.

  “Our box is number seventeen, and if you don’t loosen your hold on my arm, I fear it will drop off from lack of blood. There you go. The odd numbers are on the left, the even on the right, should you get lost. Here we are,” John said, stepping through a narrow door and into the box, where eight velvet-covered chairs sat.

  “Oh,” Melissa breathed. It was magnificent. A huge gas-lit chandelier hung high above the theatre, casting the entire cavernous room in a soft, golden light. The oval-shaped room rose three tiers above where she stood, and below was the main auditorium facing a large stage, now hidden by a thick, red velvet curtain. The ceiling was dominated by a golden starburst from which the chandelier hung. A small thrill went through her. This was what she’d dreamed about when she was in her room and had read about the operas that others attended. She didn’t remember longing to go, but she’d always wondered what the grand London theatres actually looked like. And here she was, standing in perhaps the grandest theatre in the world, gazing up at the brightly lit ceiling.

  John watched her, fascinated. She went from nearly terrified to excited and amazed in the space of a few minutes. She was gazing at the ceiling, and he glanced up to see what was so completely appealing that she didn’t seem to be able to tear her eyes away from it. Yes, it was rather pretty, but his eyes moved down to watch her. She was beautiful tonight, with her chin uptilted, her eyes sparkling with excitement. In the box next to them, he could see young Lord Waddington craning his neck to get a better look at her. Waddington was a fool and likely already half besotted with Melissa. From the look on his silly face, John had no doubt of that fact. He stepped between the awkward young man and Melissa and frowned his disapproval. The young man had the good grace to blush and move hastily back, and John sighed. This business of introducing Melissa to society was going to be rife with danger. She had the kind of face and form that would attract all sorts of men—from the perfectly respectable, to the perfectfools, like Waddington there. He wished his father would simply arrange something for the girl and be done with it. The only problem he could think of was he couldn’t think of a single person who would suit. He’d made a list earlier, when he’d first met the girl, and had come up with all sorts of prospects. But now, as he considered the vast majority of the men he’d thought appropriate, he rejected them out of hand.

  He had to get to know her better, he realized. She wasn’t the shy, introverted girl he’d first thought her, a biddable female who was naïve as well as innocent. No, she was braver than half the men he knew. He watched her now, her lively eyes taking in a world she couldn’t have even imagined a few weeks ago. Everything was glorious and new to her, he realized. She’d never been to a ball. She’d never danced with a man other than her own father.

  She’d never been kissed.

  John tore his eyes away from her delicious little mouth, not liking where his thoughts had veered off to of their own volition. He shouldn’t be thinking about anything except finding a suitable husband for her. He certainly shouldn’t be thinking about her mouth or any other parts. On that thought, his eyes drifted slightly downward, and his mouth went slightly dry as his gaze rested on her rounded breasts, straining against her gown as she leaned forward to watch others arriving in their boxes.

  “Don’t fall,” he said, sounding irritable. She simply smiled at him.

  “You don’t need to hover over me, you know. I’m perfectly fine,” she said, but moved back a bit to mollify him. He grumbled beneath his breath and sat down just as Lord Braddock and Miss Stanhope stepped into the box.

  “Oh, look, my brother is here with my niece,” Miss Stanhope said, her face lighting up. She was one of those women who looked rather plain until she smiled. Her smile really did create a remarkable transformation, and John followed her gaze to a booth that was nearly across from them.

  “Your niece is the new Duchess of Kingston?” he asked, his interest piqued. He knew none of the details, but there had been a bit of a scandal involving the duchess and her husband. Something about the new duke’s being the rightful heir after years of being abandoned by the old duke.

  “Your niece married a duke?” Melissa said, her voice giving away her awe that she was sitting next to someone who was related to such an important member of the ton.

  “Yes, indeed,” Miss Stanhope said. “A true love match.”

  Melissa immediately glanced at John with a knowing look.

  “And how long have they been married, Miss Stanhope?” John inquired politely.

  “Oh, they are very much newlyweds. It’s only been weeks.”

  John allowed a smug smile to cross his features before turning his attention to his father. “Melissa wants a love match, Father. Do you have any possibilities? I was thinking of Lord Waddington. He’s in the box next to us and already looks quite smitten.”

  “Lord Waddington?” Melissa asked with sudden, and exaggerated interest. “Someone has fallen in love with me already?”

  His father gave John a hard look before leaning toward his niece and talking in quieter tones. “John doesn’t believe in love. He is having fun with you.”

  “Yes, Uncle, I’m aware of his views. And I was led to believe that you shared them.”

  “I’m afraid that is true. While I don’t want to squash your girlish dreams, I cannot say I’ve ever witnessed true love, whatever that is.”

  John noticed Miss Stanhope stiffen slightly.

  “If people could eliminate all notions of love, the world would be a much calmer—and dare I say happier—place,” she said. “I firmly believe marriages should be handled with diplomacy and tact, rather than allowed to descend into romantic balderdash.”

  Melissa moved her eyes from one person to the next. “Am I the only one, then, who believes in love? Is this a commonly held belief?”

  Miss Stanhope’s rigid stance softened. “No, it is not. And as in anything, there are exceptions to the rule. I do hope that my niece has found everlasting love, for example. Indeed, I’m not certain I’ve ever witnessed a love such as theirs in my entire life. So, I suppose it can happen. I simply don’t believe in overlooking perfectly good prospects because of a lack of love. Many men would make very fine husbands if not for all the silly twits who overlook them in a misconceived search for love. And I am not saying you are a silly twit.”

  Melissa laughed. “I quite agree with you. But I also believe that one can fall in love even in an arranged marriage.”

  “I am quite gratified to hear you say so,” Miss Stanhope said.

  “You have never bee
n in love, then?”

  “Of course not,” she said as if the idea was perfectly absurd. John’s father, who had been ignoring the conversation, turned his head slightly.

  “But you are so lovely,” Melissa said, and Miss Stanhope’s cheeks turned a bright pink.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Miss Stanhope said stiffly. “Unfortunately, the men who were looking for wives during my seasons did not quite agree with you.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that men are less intelligent than women,” Melissa said in a stage whisper that clearly John and his father were meant to hear. He laughed at her audacity. No, Melissa was not a shy girl. She would do very well when she got over her fear of people.

  Just then the lights flickered, and those not already seated hastily made their way to their seats. The four of them sat side by side, with John to Melissa’s right, Miss Stanhope seated next to her, and her uncle on the far left. The lights had been dimmed only a moment when the orchestra began playing. And from then on, the girl was in rapture, her eyes never straying from the stage, from the actors and singers. At one point, John thought he detected a tear coursing down her face, something rather confusing as the opera wasn’t at all tragic—at least not yet. By the intermission, John was about to fall asleep, and so was surprised when Melissa turned, bubbling over with enthusiasm for the opera.

  “Oh, it was lovely, wasn’t it? Are all operas so wonderful? I could hear every note, every word, as if they were sitting right in front of me. And the costumes! How do they move about so freely wearing such ornate clothing?”

  John laughed, her joy infectious. “Such enthusiasm for mediocrity is really not the thing,” he drawled, but he couldn’t continue his farce and so ended up laughing again when he saw the look of horror on her face. It was obvious to him she was to become an opera lover. God help the poor man who married her. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of attending more than one opera a year.