The Mad Lord's Daughter

by Jane Goodger

  “The card, Miss Atwell,” the butler said, handing her a card.

  Melissa smiled, her heart skipping happily. But her smile faded and her heart dropped when she read the name written in bold, eloquent script. Your devoted servant, Waltham.

  “No,” Miss Stanhope breathed, getting up and looking over Melissa’s shoulder at the card. Melissa put it down on the chair’s arm as if it had caught fire. If their meeting had been a pleasant one, the flowers—and their meaning—would have warmed Melissa’s heart. But the flowers’ meaning had a rather ominous taint given the man’s despicable behavior.

  “What a horrid man,” Miss Stanhope said, marching over to the door. “Please remove these weeds immediately and put them with the garbage.”

  In less than one minute, the flowers were gone, but Melissa could not get the image—and the sordid message—from her mind.

  “Where is John?” she asked.

  Miss Stanhope shook her head. “I would expect he has gone home,” she said.

  “Oh.” How could he have left without saying good-bye, without letting her know how his discussion with his father had gone?

  Melissa was staring morosely at her needlepoint when the butler reentered the room. “Mr. Charles Norris is here, Miss Stanhope. Are you in?”

  Dread filled her, but she nodded. “Could you please have Mr. Norris wait in the Blue Parlor? Thank you.”

  “You look rather ill, Miss Atwell. Are you quite well? Did those onerous flowers upset you? Perhaps it would be best to put off your drive with Mr. Norris,” Miss Stanhope said.

  “It’s not the flowers, though I did find them upsetting,” Melissa said, letting out a rather miserable little laugh. “I’m breaking it off with Charles.”

  Miss Stanhope, surprisingly, did not seem stunned. In fact, Melissa realized, she appeared almost pleased. “I see,” was all the older woman said.

  “I don’t believe we would suit, and with all that’s happened, it’s not fair of me to ask him to keep his word on a proposal that hasn’t even officially been given.” Melissa waited for Miss Stanhope to argue with her, but the usually opinionated woman simply nodded in agreement. “Shouldn’t you be urging me to change my mind?”

  “Why would I urge you to marry a man you do not love?” she asked sensibly.

  “I don’t understand,” Melissa said, feeling as if her entire world had gone a bit topsy-turvy.

  Miss Stanhope gave her the gentlest of smiles. “You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you, my dear?”

  Melissa nodded slowly. “But how did you . . .”

  “One would have to be blind or an old, stubborn fool not to have seen it,” she said, sounding oddly bitter. “I’ve suspected for quite some time that John was in love with you. I only recently realized that you return his affections.”

  Melissa smiled hopefully at the older woman. “And you approve?”

  “Wholeheartedly. However, my blessing is quite irrelevant, is it not? I do believe Lord Braddock, stubborn man that he is, will not be as forgiving of this change in plans. But if the two of you are truly in love, you can weather this. It will not be easy,” she warned. “You not only have to deal with Lord Braddock, but also with a society that can be unforgiving of scandal. I have no doubt that your father’s identity will be common knowledge quite soon. You should both be prepared for some negative social consequences. Then again, with Lord Braddock’s public support—and mine—no doubt any censor that does occur will pass. You will also have the support of my niece, the Duchess of Kingston, and her husband.”

  Melissa went over to Miss Stanhope and gave her an awkward embrace, a gesture that seemed to pleasantly stun her chaperone. “Thank you, Diane,” she said. “You have been a true friend.”

  Charles was sitting patiently in the Blue Parlor when she entered, quietly closing the door behind her. This alone caused his eyebrows to rise, no doubt because propriety dictated that she should have kept the door open. He stood, smiling uncertainly, and Melissa’s heart did a little tug. She liked Charles, and she did not want to hurt or humiliate him as surely her rejection would do.

  She stood at the door, hands behind her back, and gave him a small smile. “I cannot marry you, Charles,” she said simply.

  His expression changed subtly, as if he thought he hadn’t heard her correctly, or as if he couldn’t believe the words that had just sprung from her lips. “Beg pardon?”

  “I cannot marry you.” She prayed he would not ask why, that he would accept her word and go on his merry way and find another to marry. He shook his head, as if the words still did not make sense.

  “If this is because of what happened last night, I would like to assure you . . .”

  “It’s not,” she broke in. “Not entirely, anyway. I could tell you that I won’t marry you because it is not fair to you to make you marry a girl whose birth isn’t acceptable.” He started to protest, but Melissa held up her hand to stop him. “It isn’t fair, but that is not my reason. I do not love you, Charles.”

  His face grew tight, and he looked completely taken aback. “While that is unfortunate, it does not make a difference to me. I love you, Melissa, and I know in time you will come to love me.”

  “Please, Charles, this is so difficult.” She wrung her hands in front of her, wishing she did not have to explain.

  “I don’t understand. You are a . . . ,” he stopped abruptly, his face turning slightly red. “You are illegitimate. You cannot expect to marry well—if at all. And yet you refuse my hand simply because you do not love me? I can give you my name and perhaps even a title one day. You will be my wife, live in a fine home.”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” she said.

  “Then tell me what it does have to do with. You are refusing me, so pray tell me how this decision of yours has nothing to do with me.”

  “I love someone else,” she blurted.

  That news stunned him to silence, and he visibly stiffened.

  “We did not think it was possible for us to be together,” she said miserably. “But we cannot deny what we feel.”

  He let out an audible breath. “John.”

  Melissa nodded as her eyes filled with tears. She did not want to hurt Charles, but could see no other way. “He feels terrible about this, about hurting you. I beg you to forgive him if not me. I fell in love with him before I met you. I did try not to.”

  “How you must have suffered, being forced to attend to me,” Charles said bitterly.

  “Not at all. I like you; I enjoy your company. And for a while I truly believed I could be happy with you. But that was before . . .”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I realized John felt the same way as I.”

  He shook his head and stared at the floor. “This was not well done of you,” he said, sounding horribly close to tears, though she saw no evidence of such in his eyes. “Of either of you.”

  “We do feel dreadful.”

  “You’ve made a fool of me,” he said, finally showing anger.

  “Very few people know of our engagement, and those who do will no doubt be understanding.” She was desperate to assuage his hurt. “I’m so sorry, Charles. You cannot know how much.”

  He stared at her, hurt and anger in his brown eyes. “I’ll see myself out, shall I?” he said with fierce dignity.

  Melissa moved away from the door, wishing she could say something that would make this better all around. He stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. “I could have made you happy, Melissa.”

  “I know,” she said softly. He walked from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, still acting the gentleman. When he’d gone, Melissa went slowly to the nearest chair and collapsed into it with a sigh. Moments later, Miss Stanhope looked in on her.

  “I saw him leave. He didn’t seem overly distraught.”

  “No. He took it rather well,” Melissa said, still feeling unaccountably sad. Never in her life had she hurt another person so, and she found it was n
ot a good feeling at all.

  Diane gave Melissa a searching look, for it did appear she was rather more upset about the breakup than Mr. Norris. Diane had a feeling the gentleman, as much as he’d insisted upon his devotion, was likely a bit relieved at this moment. He was a good man, but he had found it difficult to accept the fact that his intended was born on the wrong side of the blanket.

  A polite knock and the butler’s entrance again interrupted their conversation. “Miss Stanhope. Lord Braddock is requesting your presence in his study,” he said.

  Diane gave an inward sigh. In all her life she’d never experienced such drama. She wished she’d never accepted Lord Braddock’s proposal that she chaperone his niece. Had she known accepting such a request would bring such heartache and headaches, she would have politely declined, then walked briskly in the opposite direction. He requested an audience, did he? She was quite, quite certain that it wasn’t to apologize for his boorish behavior of the previous evening. No doubt he wanted to discuss his son and his ward’s future.

  She ought to let him figure it all out for himself. After all, hadn’t she warned him about leaving the two of them together? Hadn’t she done her best to prevent what he would certainly see as a debacle? At least until it was too late and their hearts had already been fully engaged. If she’d been allowed to do her job, they never would have had the opportunity to fall in love. As it was, the two of them had spent long hours together—two beautiful, young, intelligent people ripe for the picking. Honestly, how could Lord Braddock act upset or shocked? He, himself, had nearly succumbed to her own charms, such as they were.

  No, she reminded herself. He had not succumbed to anything but lust for a woman in close proximity. She was sure he would have responded the same way to any moderately attractive woman. Diane, whose heart was so fully engaged it constantly ached, knew well that she had not captured Lord Braddock’s heart. And if she hadn’t known, his little speech the evening before certainly had given her a large dose of reality.

  “While I find your presence diverting and would be more than happy to share a few hours in pursuit of physical pleasures, Miss Stanhope, I do hope you realize that I have no interest in anything permanent. Or even long-term.” Worst of all, perhaps, was that it hadn’t been said in a haughty tone, but rather a kind one. And that could mean only one thing—that he greatly suspected she was in love with him and that he could in no way return those feelings. But a good romp? Then, of course, he would be at her service.

  He couldn’t have been clearer. And yet . . . he seemed to like her quite a lot. He seemed to seek out her company. And sometimes he would look at her the way a man looks at a woman he loves.

  “Balderdash,” she muttered, chastising herself, just before she entered his study following an efficient knock on his door. She did not wait for him to invite her inside, but pushed through, her face set in her sternest old-spinster lines. Then she looked at him, at his anguished expression, and her heart was immediately engaged once again.

  “What has happened?” she said, going to where he stood staring at the cold, empty fireplace.

  “My son fancies himself in love,” he said with such derision, any warm feeling that had snuck into her heart was chased away.

  “I believe he is in love, my lord. And I also believe I expressed some concern about allowing the two of them to be together. Alone.”

  He quickly took out his watch and snapped it open with a practiced motion. “Ah. Ten seconds before you gave me your ‘I told you so’s.’”

  She raised one eyebrow. “If that is all,” she said, turning to leave.

  “That is not all,” he shouted, and she turned slowly back toward him, raising one elegant brow. “What am I to do? He’s threatened to marry her one way or the other.”

  “Then give him your blessing,” Diane said calmly.

  “My blessing! Good God, woman. My blessing? Not only has John betrayed me, I have betrayed my brother. John is so concerned about being in love,” he said mockingly, “that he’s lost sight of everything he believed in.”

  Diane stared daggers at this man she loved, wondering if she could choke some sense into him. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I simply do not understand why falling in love with a beautiful girl is such a tragedy.”

  “Because now everyone will know she is a bastard, for they damn well know I would never sanction such a thing otherwise. And until his madness took over, John believed as much as I do that love does not live past the first fuck.”

  Diane flinched, for she was unused to hearing such language and certainly not from a peer.

  Lord Braddock swore again, this time beneath his breath. “I apologize,” he said curtly.

  Diane let out a weary sigh. “Regardless of your invalid beliefs, you cannot be as obtuse as you are acting. After last night’s ball, there is no one in London who isn’t talking about your niece and speculating on her parentage.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing,” he said, outraged that she would suggest such a thing.

  “No, you would not have. But I did. I do have some friends who are unaware I am Miss Atwell’s chaperone, and I heard from two that the Duke of Waltham’s by-blow was attempting to pass herself off as your niece.”

  He turned startlingly white. “Why did you not tell me last night?”

  Diane let out a weary sigh. “Hadn’t we all been through enough?” she asked, feeling unaccountably on the verge of weeping. “Waltham also sent her several baskets of flowers this morning, which I promptly had thrown in the garbage. You could never have known Melissa would look so much like her half sister. Unfortunately, enough people have met Lady Caroline that their likeness cannot be easily overlooked. Especially with Waltham’s sending her flowers the day after her first ball. He signed his name.”

  George walked behind his desk and sat down heavily, resting his head against his palms in a gesture so defeated, Diane couldn’t help feeling badly for him.

  “How has it come to this?” he asked, looking up at her. “I was only trying to honor my brother’s last wish. How did it all get away from me?” He gave her a searching look. “Nothing about these past few months has gone as planned.” His eyes flickered lightly over her face. “Nothing.”

  “Lord Braddock. George. May I be frank with you?”

  He gave her a small smile. “When have you been anything but?”

  “No matter what you believe or don’t believe about love, I’m telling you right now that John and Melissa love one another. Their love may not last; you are right about that. We’ve both seen too many unhappy people to believe it always does. But I have seen love,” she said, thinking of her own parents.

  “He wanted my blessing. I couldn’t give it.”

  “You can, my lord,” she said briskly. “And you must.”

  “It is unfathomable to me, how he could be so swayed by a pretty face.”

  Diane fought another surge of anger. “Do you really have so little faith in your son that you think he would believe himself in love with Melissa simply because she is lovely? My God, you must have loved your wife to distraction to have become so utterly jaded.”

  He lifted his head sharply, his eyes filled with undeniable anger. “You are wrong,” he said succinctly.

  “Am I?”

  “Don’t you see that proves my point? I was young and foolish, not much younger than John, and I allowed myself to believe in such fairy tales. I was a fool. I am not bitter; I am a realist, so please do not look at me with pity.” He slammed a fist atop his desk. “Goddamn you.” He’d quite lost his temper, but Diane was having none of it.

  “Are you finished?”

  He took a few bracing breaths before nodding.

  “I was not looking at you with pity, you great fool of a man. I was looking at you with love. So if anyone is to be pitied, sir, I would say it is me.”

  “You can’t,” he said roughly. “You don’t.”

  “Of course, you are right, Lord Braddock. You are always right about
all things.”

  “I have never made such claims.” He looked downright aghast.

  “It is just that you are so opinionated. And if anyone dares to offer an opposing opinion, you are ready with a long list of reasons why they are wrong.” Diane felt weary of a sudden. “I did not wish to turn this conversation toward myself. I am here to discuss Melissa and John and to urge you, for once in your life, not to act like an ass.”

  With that, her back straight, her eyes dry, she walked from the room.

  George sat for a long moment staring at the closed door as if paralyzed. “Foolish woman,” he mumbled after a time, then stared blindly at the paperwork on his desk. He felt a rather foreign ache in his chest, and thought, for a moment, that he was ill. And then, with a small, disgusted sound, he realized that the ache in his breast just might be his heart, completely thawed and able to feel pain for the first time in nearly thirty years. He let out a strangled sound.

  She couldn’t love him. He refused to believe it. Refused. He was too old for such nonsense. How dare she say such a thing to him when she knew full well he had absolutely no interest in reciprocating those feelings.

  “Love,” he said, making the word sound like a curse. “Poppycock.”

  And then he let out a small chuckle. What gall Diane had, telling him such a thing without even the smallest bit of warmth in her voice, as if she’d been rather appalled herself. He had to admire her courage, standing before him and arguing and then admitting to him that she . . .

  “Loves me,” he said softly. The ache that had dwelt in his heart for so long eased just a bit. “Bloody hell.”

  Chapter 19

  John supposed he deserved it, but damn, Charles could hit hard. He gazed in his mirror, his valet behind him looking concerned and just a bit angry (it was difficult to shave a man when he sported a large bruise on his jaw). “Not broken,” he said, waggling his jaw a bit. Though it hurt like hell, he wasn’t angry with Charles, and he certainly hadn’t reciprocated.