by Jane Goodger
The way he loved Melissa?
“Bloody hell,” he whispered harshly.
Since he’d never been in love, it had been easy to dispute its existence. But now in the throes of what he believed was love, he was rather lost. For the first time in years, he wished he had a mother he could talk to about such things. His mother, dead now for years, would not have been that person. She’d left her husband, abandoned her son, and probably didn’t have an ounce of compassion or kindness in her black soul. The few memories he had of his mother were not good ones, but of a woman who was as cold and uncaring as a baby farmer. Had she been born of the lower classes, John had no doubt she would have found the job appealing.
He wished, then, not for his mother, but for another mother. The kind who would lay a gentle hand upon his head, who would smile when he entered a room. Who would pick out the runt of the litter and claim it was the most wonderful pup in the world.
Unable to sleep, John left the manor house as soon as the sky hinted of dawn. He strode to the stables, feeling restless and out of sorts, hoping a good ride would clear his mind and bring him back to sanity. A young stable hand, hair mussed from sleep and rubbing his eyes, came to assist John, but he told the lad to go back to bed. He wanted a distraction, no matter how small, from thinking about Melissa. John had always done some of his best thinking while riding, and he hoped this early morning ride would bring some sense into his addled mind.
It didn’t. No matter how fast, no matter how far he rode, he could not get Melissa out of his mind or, yes, out of his heart. His horse, heaving great breaths after an invigorating run, quivered and snorted when he pulled on the reins and stopped the steed. He dismounted, gave the horse a rub on its neck, and stood on a hill overlooking Flintwood House in the distance. It was a fine building, even from so far away, and he felt a swell of pride that it would someday be his. He’d stood at that spot a hundred times, looking down on this land, never imagining himself living there with a family. In his thoughts, it was only him. But now, he could not stop his mind from inserting Melissa into the picture. And their children. He let out a curse, wondering if and when this insanity would end. God help him, he felt like weeping. Over a woman!
“Well,” he said to the horse, for it was far, far more difficult to say what he wanted to say to a human. “Looks like there’s nothing to do but go to my father.” He let out a breath, not wanting to think of his father’s reaction when he told him he wanted to marry Melissa. He would try to convince his father it was the best choice, the only choice Melissa had for happiness. He would approach his father and explain his plan as he would a business proposition, with reason and logic, and he would not tell his father that he loved her. His father would dismiss such nonsense out of hand. Yes, people would call his father a hypocrite, and his tenure on the commission reviewing marriages between first cousins would be jeopardized. And his good friend, Mr. Darwin, would likely not be pleased. But, really, what other choice was there?
By the time John returned to the manor, everyone in the house had already been up for several hours and eaten breakfast. The young people, including Miss Stanhope, were out fishing, the butler told him. John grinned. It was the perfect time to seek out his father and tell him of his plan.
He strode into his father’s study, pleased when his father smiled at the interruption. He seemed to be in a good mood, which boded well for this conversation.
“I have a solution to our dilemma with Melissa,” John said confidently, even as his stomach was a knot of nerves.
“Oh?”
“I can marry her,” John said. Instantly, his father frowned, but John forged ahead before he could be interrupted. “Please hear me out, Father, for I’ve given this matter considerable thought. I do realize that our marriage would jeopardize your work on the commission and could possibly lead to questions about Melissa’s birth. But people will have such questions no matter whom she marries. We get on fairly well, and I do believe we could make each other happy. And if I marry her, Melissa will not be forced to lie about who she is and can avoid the humiliation of telling her future husband the truth—and the possible repercussions that could come from such an admission.”
His father leaned back with a smile, and for a moment, John thought he’d done it—he’d made his case, and his father would agree. He found that he was painfully hopeful.
“I have never been more proud of you, my boy,” his father said, surprising John completely. “But no, I would not ask you to make such a sacrifice.”
“It would not be a sacrifice, Father. I do care a great deal for Melissa. And I believe she feels the same,” he said, feeling just the tiniest beginnings of panic set in. His father thought he was martyring himself for the cause?
“I’m certain you do. And I care for her, too, but I would never marry her.” The earl let out a laugh. “However, such drastic measures are entirely unnecessary, as Charles came to me this very morning and requested Melissa’s hand. Of course, I consented.”
For one brief moment, John’s vision went black, as blood rushed to his head. He quickly recovered, but was left weakened, shaken to his core. “That is . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to speak. “What of her birth?” he asked.
His father gave him a curious look. “Are you quite all right, my boy? You have no trepidations about such a match, surely. Charles is your greatest friend. You invited him here yourself for the express purpose of meeting Melissa.”
John forced himself to focus on his father, even as his gut churned. “Yes. Of course. But what of Melissa?”
“After long consideration, I thought it prudent to inform Charles of Melissa’s birth. No one other than he will be told, of course. He was disappointed, which is understandable given society’s prejudices, but he said he loved her and would be able to overlook her birth.”
“Overlook it?” John said, feeling a surge of anger.
“Yes, he’s rather infatuated with her,” George said, chuckling at some remembered comment during their interview. It only served to drive John a bit mad, thinking about Charles and his father discussing Melissa. “And, by the way, Melissa seemed pleased by the arrangement and glad she doesn’t have to hold her secret with Charles. Indeed, I could not have asked for a better resolution to the entire problem.”
John clutched his chair’s arms, trying to process what his father was telling him. Charles would marry Melissa, and she was glad of it. He did not believe it; he could not. He loved her. “Melissa is pleased?” he repeated stupidly.
“Not over the moon, no. But pleased. There won’t be a formal announcement in the Times until after the season begins. Charles and I agree that Melissa does need a bit more time getting used to social events and interacting with the ton before being deluged with invitations. You know how the women react when someone announces an engagement.” He gave a mock shudder. “But, as far as I’m concerned, the matter is settled. I’ll have my attorneys draw up a marriage contract immediately. In fact, I’m just now writing to Mr. Henley to start work on it.”
“And Melissa is happy with the plans?”
His father shook his head, as if impatient with John’s continued questions. “As I said, yes, she is pleased. I think she realizes that her options are quite limited, and the fact that Charles wants to marry her despite her birth is remarkable.”
John was taken aback by his father’s comment. “Do you think less of Melissa because of her birth, Father?”
“Of course not. But I am a realist. Few members of the peerage would knowingly marry a bastard, no matter who the father is.”
“I am willing,” John said, and was horrified to feel his throat aching. He barely recognized the sensation, the raw pain that signified he was near to weeping. Good God.
“Yes, and I do appreciate the noble gesture. No need for martyrs though, eh? You’ve done a marvelous thing for her, John. Marvelous.”
John gave his father a nod and stood, feeling as if he’d just been trampled by a speeding c
arriage. He didn’t know how this had happened, how he had allowed himself to fall in love with the one woman who was forbidden to him. She’d told his father she was pleased. Pleased.
And he felt as if he were dying.
Melissa’s stomach was a bit queasy, and it had nothing to do with the large breakfast she’d had that morning. She and Charles had told no one but Miss Stanhope about their impending engagement, and Melissa felt adrift. She did not know if she was supposed to act happy or grateful. She only knew that had her uncle told her of Charles’s request just two days ago, before she understood the full impact of her birth, she never would have agreed to the match. But now she knew no one else would want her.
And yet, Charles did. It should have made her feel wonderful and loved. Instead, for some reason she could not fully explain, she felt even more tainted. He was marrying her in spite of her birth. Although he hadn’t said any such thing out loud, she got the distinct feeling Charles felt he was making some sort of grand gesture, that he should be patted on the back and congratulated for still wanting to marry her after hearing the dreadful news.
Perhaps she felt this way because it was all so new, this sense that she ought to somehow be ashamed of who she was. All her life, she had been told she was special; she had felt loved. And now she was supposed to hide who and what she was.
She heard a happy feminine shout, and watched as Lady Juliana’s pole bent from the weight of yet another fish. They were all using the same bait—thick, squirmy, pink earthworms—but Lady Juliana was the only one catching anything. Already, she had three fish in her basket, and the men got grumpier and grumpier with every one she caught.
“Oh, a fine trout,” she said, expertly taking the flopping fish from the hook. Melissa would never have imagined the proper and unsmiling woman she’d met a week ago was now this grinning hoyden with fish slime on her hand.
The six of them were fishing in a picturesque lake surrounded by weeping willows just starting to sprout their small leaves. Charles hovered by her, teaching her how to bait the hook and toss in the line. Laura sat by Avonleigh, apparently doing so to bother him, and Lady Juliana and Miss Stanhope sat upon a large rock that jutted out into the pond. Only John was missing. It was sunny, finally, and the sun dappled through the trees and onto the grassy bank where they all sat or stood, fishing poles in hand. Laura, incessantly cheerful, regaled the dour Avonleigh with endless happy tales, ignoring his frown and looks of irritation. Melissa enjoyed their banter, his weary sighs as Laura would begin yet another topic he had no interest in. Yet this time, Laura was discussing her wedding, and that topic made Melissa’s stomach churn even more.
She wished she felt the joy Laura seemed to feel about her upcoming nuptials. But all Melissa could think was that she was marrying someone she didn’t love. She wondered what John would say to her when he learned of the engagement. Would he be relieved? Probably. She knew enough from talking to the other women that men put far less importance on kissing than women did. What she had thought was a magical moment of bliss, John had apologized for. He’d lost his head, but not his heart, obviously. Hadn’t even Miss Stanhope dreamed of marriage after allowing a man to kiss her? She, too, had been cast aside.
“Laura, no one wants to know the nonexistent details of your fictitious wedding to a man who hasn’t even proposed,” Charles said good-naturedly.
Laura wrinkled her nose at her brother, then cast a sidelong glance at Avonleigh. “Am I boring you?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes.” Avonleigh was not a man to jest, and so Laura pretended to sulk even though Melissa suspected she’d known all along Avonleigh had absolutely no interest in discussing her wedding plans.
“Perhaps we should discuss your wedding, then, my lord,” Laura said. “Do you want a large one or a small one?”
“I don’t want one at all,” Avonleigh replied dryly.
“What of you, Charles? Are you still racing to the altar?”
Melissa stiffened, for Avonleigh wasn’t looking at Charles with his hooded gaze, he was looking at her. She always had the feeling the marquess knew far more than he let on.
“I’m certain I’ll get there before you,” Charles said with a laugh, then looked at Melissa warmly. She wished that look caused a thrill in her heart instead of a sickening lurch in her stomach.
Charles stood, waving at John, who approached the group, a ready smile on his face. No doubt his father had already told him the good news of her pending engagement.
“Any luck?” he asked. They all grumbled, except for Lady Juliana, who held up her basket half full of fish.
Melissa stared at him, willing him to look at her. Did he know of the engagement? He must. Then, he met her gaze and looked quickly at Charles, before offering her one of his easy grins. He knew. And he was happy, obviously. A burden relieved. A problem solved. Perhaps, even, a temptation removed. Melissa wished she could leave this happy scene, go to her room, and cry for a day. Life had been so much simpler when she’d lived in Bamburgh with her father. Each day had been very much like the one before it, with no surprises, no heartache, no arguments. She’d been content, unaware an entire world existed that she didn’t know and could never understand. Now she understood far too much. She understood what it felt like to love someone who did not love you back. She knew shame and the uncomfortable feeling of deception. Her uncle had told her no one but Charles could know of her birth. That meant living a lie for the rest of her life.
“Hey, ho!” Charles shouted, his pole bending nicely, indicating a big fish.
“Set the hook properly,” Lady Juliana said, clearly teasing him.
“It’s set, all right,” Charles said, and in a matter of minutes a large fish was flopping about helplessly on the grass. “That’s a big bastard,” he said, full of excitement. Then he looked at Melissa and his cheeks flushed. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, to her horror.
“Such language,” John said, lightly. “And in front of the ladies.”
“Yes. I did apologize,” Charles said.
“So you did,” John said blandly.
Melissa felt a rush of humiliation and terrible awareness that for the rest of her life, each time someone used that word, Charles would give her a searching look, a mumbled apology. “What kind of fish is that?” she asked, grateful her voice did not betray the pain in her throat. It was an odd-looking creature with a large, flat head and some sort of tentacles sprouting from near its ugly mouth.
“It’s a catfish,” John said. “See the whiskers?”
“Fine eating, too,” Charles said, holding up the fish and showing it to Melissa, who wrinkled her nose and backed up a step. Charles laughed. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Melissa. Haven’t you ever seen a fish before?”
“Of course I have. On my dinner plate.”
“This is her first time fishing, Charles, you know that,” John said.
“Oh. I’d forgotten,” he said, sounding almost sullen, and Melissa gave him a questioning look. Charles had been a wonderful companion these past days and had never even hinted a criticism. “Come here, then, and take a look, Melissa. It won’t bite.”
It looked awful to Melissa, like some sort of abomination of nature with its whiskers and flat head, its mouth opening and closing as it gasped for air.
“She’s a beauty.”
“It’s a girl?” Melissa asked dubiously, silently thinking it silly to call that ugly fish “a beauty.”
John laughed. “Hard to say. But it is a fine fish and delicious. That one’s big enough to almost feed all of us. Would you like to touch it?”
Melissa looked at John with horror. “Goodness, no!”
“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand.
Melissa pressed her lips together, and did as he asked, allowing him to bring her hand to the fish’s slimy surface. She wrinkled her nose, but giggled. “See?” he said, looking at Charles, who held the fish out to her. “You just have to be patient.”
Melissa’s eyes wer
e on the fish, so she missed the look that passed between Charles and John.
“It feels just as slimy as it looks,” Melissa said, laughing up at Charles. She called over to Lady Juliana. “I don’t know how you can take one of those things off the hook. It’s dreadful.”
Lady Juliana was putting on a worm at that moment and bent to rinse her hands in the lake’s clear water. “Practice,” she said briskly.
Melissa didn’t think she’d want to practice such a thing, but she was willing to try to forge her way in this new life. Charles seemed to enjoy so many things that were foreign to her and was genuinely shocked when she didn’t know the simplest things they all took for granted. The only skills she had were used in the confines of a home. But those skills didn’t seem to mean much at the moment.
“Fishing is boring anyway,” Laura said, glumly looking at her slack line. “I don’t know how many times I’ve been, and I hardly catch a thing.”
“You’ve been fishing four times,” Charles said.
“Because it’s so boring,” Laura countered, making Melissa smile.
Lady Juliana let out another shout. Honestly, that woman must be doing something none of the others were. “It’s not boring for Lady Juliana,” Melissa pointed out.
Laura moved her pole, and it bent, producing a gleeful shout from the previously bored woman. “Oh, I’ve got one. I’ve got one.” She pulled, jerking the pole, and pulled some more.
“I think you’ve got a root, not a fish,” Charles said, laughing, and going over to his sister to help. “Honestly, Laura.”
Laura stuck her tongue out at her brother, and he simply laughed, taking the pole from his sister’s hands and maneuvering farther down the bank in hopes of dislodging the hook.
“Having fun?” John asked, coming up to stand close to Melissa.
“Oh, yes.”
“Liar.”
Melissa gave him a searching look and saw nothing but good humor. No suffering. No longing. And certainly no love. She looked back at the lake, feeling ridiculous. “You’ve heard,” she said softly.
