by Allison Lane
“Melissa! I had no idea you were in town,” replied Miss Rosehill, eyes widening at her friend’s appearance. “It must be nearly two years since I’ve seen you. How long have you been in London?”
“Since early March.”
“Really? I thought your brother was still at home.”
“He is, of course. Surely you knew I left Drayton last year. I have been living with my grandmother.”
“I’d forgotten. I spent the summer with an uncle and then returned to Mrs. Weatherbottom’s School for Young Ladies without even going home.”
“I hear she is a terror,” gasped Melissa.
“Absolutely. Papa finally let me leave last month.”
“When did you arrive in town, then? I’ve not seen you.”
“Last night. My parents refused to present me this Season, citing my age and their lack of funds. But Aunt Charlotte invited me to stay for a few weeks, so here I am.”
Clara was seventeen, but had always seemed older. Her family lived not far from Drayton Manor. The girls had known each other all their lives, though they had never been close. Most parents considered anyone connected to Drayton Manor to have a suspect character.
“I must return home,” apologized Melissa, sidestepping a pair of haughty matrons, who were glaring imperiously to find the sidewalk partially blocked. “But have your aunt call tomorrow. We will be at home. Castleton House on Berkeley Square.”
“Certainly. It is good to find a friendly face. London is more than a little intimidating.”
“But not for long.”
Melissa pondered Clara’s sudden appearance as she and Lady Castleton made their rounds that afternoon. The girl was sweet and sensible, and would make someone a wonderful wife. Despite Clara’s comment about tight budgets, she had a good dowry. Her father had probably postponed a formal come-out to increase her chances of contracting a match her first Season, thus sparing him the burden of a second sojourn in town. He’d always been a nip-farthing. And that accounted for Mrs. Weatherbottom, whose school in Lincoln offered but one virtue – low tuition.
* * * *
The Wharburton masquerade was that night. Twenty years earlier, Lady Wharburton had begun the tradition of holding a costume ball suitable for innocent maidens. None but the most proper were invited to insure that no one’s reputation was threatened. This year she had outdone herself, rigging out her extensive ballroom as a forest glade. Trees in gigantic planters reached to the ceiling, their branches festooned with lanterns. Mirrors cunningly expanded the effect. Banks of flowers, thickets of ferns, and even a babbling brook filled corners and alcoves. The doors to the terrace stood open to the night, with trees and shrubs arranged on either end of its flagstone surface, furthering the illusion of the forest primeval.
Beneath this canopy surged a vast collection of disparate beings – Romans and Greeks; gods and goddesses; kings, queens, and other assorted rulers; Shakespearean characters; Cavaliers; French courtiers, Spanish grandees, and Russian princes; pirates and rogues of every description; shepherdesses; gypsies; and ladies-in-waiting.
Melissa settled her mask more firmly and smiled at Lady Castleton.
She had vetoed her grandmother’s suggestion that she dress as Cleopatra, fearful that donning a black wig would trigger recognition as Harriet. Instead, she’d dressed as the fairy queen, Titania. Willis had arranged her golden hair into a nebulous halo that mimicked the billowing froth of gold netting comprising her costume.
“I never imagined anything like this,” she murmured as they descended the stairs after greeting Lady Wharburton. A highwayman in a black domino grinned at her, his mask revealing beguiling aqua eyes.
“Stand and deliver!” he growled. “Your card, my lady.” He then ruined the effect by adding, “please.”
“So polite a marauder.” She giggled, rapping him on the arm with her fan. “But you may have the country dance after supper, good sir.”
“Surely you’ve a waltz to spare. Your cruelty overwhelms me, your majesty,” he teased.
“As your arrogance does me,” she riposted. “Country dance or nothing, Charles.”
He grimaced, but complied.
The evening was almost magical. The pretense of anonymity added excitement, dissipating the usual ennui. Laughter bubbled from all sides, and even the most ponderous of partners seemed light on his feet.
Ampleigh whisked her into a spirited reel, keeping up a stream of chatter whenever the steps brought them together, his usual shyness forgotten. He made a perfect Henry VIII, laughing because his portly physique made the usual padding unnecessary.
George led her into the supper waltz, his closeness sending prickles marching across her skin. He was dressed as Lochinvar, and she wondered if he had decided to claim a cherished bride. The idea left her breathless. Was she falling in love with him at last? George certainly deserved it.
Supper was a lighthearted period spent laughing at Lord Heatherton’s imitations of the luckless Mr. Bowles who, to impress a young lady, had hired a horse too spirited for his meager skill and been thrown ignominiously into the Serpentine at the height of the fashionable hour.
Pretense usually caught up to one in the end, reflected a suddenly somber Melissa. She ought to reveal her own deceit before something happened to expose her, but doing so would destroy her reputation. She had already added several lies to the account, both explicit and implied. And revealing her faults also risked harming Charles. No matter how much he deserved censure, she did not want to be responsible for calling it down on his head.
“Let us stretch our legs outside a moment,” George suggested when they returned to the ballroom to find the musicians not yet ready to resume playing.
“That sounds delightful.” The room was airless. Perhaps a turn on the terrace would restore her sagging spirits.
He led her to the railing, but properly declined to descend into the garden without adequate chaperonage. Charles had labeled him stuffy, though she had never considered him so. He certainly could not compare to Uncle Howard. On the other hand, he never retained her hand too long or tried to kiss her – hardly the behavior of a besotted man. She wanted less restraint from a husband.
But the thought proved premature. Smiling into her eyes, he led her along the terrace beyond view of the doors, then drew her into his arms.
“You are beautiful tonight, my dear,” he murmured before covering her mouth. His lips were gentle, moving deliciously over her own.
Melissa responded without thought, letting her hands creep around his neck as he pulled her closer. Her lips tingled where he touched, but neither of them was in danger of losing control. The increased noise from the ballroom drew them apart.
“We must return.” He sighed, setting her reluctantly away.
“Yes,” she agreed, unable to think of anything else to say.
Charles was waiting beside Lady Castleton, his social smile belied by the stormy anger seething behind slaty eyes.
“What were you thinking to slip outside unattended?” he hissed as he led her to a set that was forming near the terrace.
“Odious beast!” she snapped. “How dare you? George is a gentleman. He would never harm me.”
His fury increased. Forcing her hand onto his arm, he whisked her out the door and into the trees at the end of the terrace.
“Have you no sense of propriety, cousin?” he demanded harshly.
“Have you?” she replied stonily, arms akimbo as she glared at him. “You have just committed the same dastardly crime.”
“Do you expect to bring him up to scratch by compromising him?” he sneered, refusing to evaluate the cause of his anger. Rufton was so obviously planning to make an offer that the betting at White’s concerned when, not if, a betrothal would occur.
“You certainly have a low opinion of both myself and society, sir. There is nothing wrong with taking a turn about the terrace with a trustworthy companion. But I suppose you judge others by your own dishonorable history. Why Lady Wharburton inclu
ded you on her guest list I do not know.”
“Jade,” he whispered, white to the lips. “With women like you around it is no wonder so many marriages are empty shells.”
“As you know from experience,” she tossed back, fury removing any censor over her words. “How many wives have you seduced?”
“It is not my behavior we are discussing, but yours, Melissa,” he growled, grabbing her shoulders. “A lady does not disappear outside with a gentleman unless she wishes to be thought fast.”
“Fustian! And you know it. How can you sing such a different tune for others than you do for yourself?”
“I’ll not have my family’s honor destroyed by a headstrong chit!” He no longer cared if he made sense. He wanted to shake her. Or strangle her. Or ravish her. Emotion tossed him about until he hardly knew where he was.
“Family honor! You are not responsible for me, Lord Rathbone,” she reminded him coldly. “You are so distantly related that nothing I do could possibly harm you, even were I a Jezebel. If my behavior is wanting, my grandmother will let me know soon enough. And there is little impropriety in spending two minutes with a gentleman who is seriously courting my hand. Now leave off being such an ass and return me to the ballroom.”
Anger turned her eyes tawny. The cloud of netting cradled her, as a square of jeweler’s velvet might cradle a precious stone. Charles teetered on the precipice, desire battling duty and paralyzing will.
Desire won.
Groaning, he pulled her into his arms. His lips devoured hers, his tongue pushing behind them to taste her sweetness even as his hands swept her back and hips.
Melissa twisted away, slapping his face hard enough to leave the imprint of her hand on his cheek. “Cad!” she spat, eyes glaring in fury. “Dishonorable toad! You have just verified every word of your reputation. How dare you kiss another when you are already betrothed?”
“What?” He shook his head in shock. What had happened? She had responded, as eager for the kiss as he. Cotton wool clogged his brain. His body screamed to drag her closer. His fingers tingled with longing.
“You know very well that you are betrothed to Miss Sharpe and have been for some months. When is the wedding scheduled?”
“Where did you hear that?” he choked, dizzy from the shock. Lady Lanyard had told? Why? But that was a stupid question. It was another way to guarantee his compliance. And there was no point in denying it when he had no choice but to marry the chit. He shuddered.
“From your grandmother, of course. She was thrilled to learn that you were finally settling down, and so informed her cousin. Frankly, I pity the girl. You will not make a good husband.”
“Come, come, Lady Melissa,” Charles protested, trying to keep his voice teasing. “I am not yet married, Miss Sharpe will never know, and you can scarcely deny that you enjoyed that every bit as much as I did.” He caressed her arm, sending shivers through them both.
“Of course,” she agreed, even as she slapped his hand aside. “One can expect no less from a rake of your experience. But I am not one of your liaisons, my lord. No gentleman would force himself on a lady. You are a libertine and a cad. Tales of debauchery surface wherever you go. The Willingford scandal echoed long after you were thrown out, you must know.”
He gasped, opening his mouth to explain, but she cut him off.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know? Their estate runs with my brother’s. If you cannot control your base nature, I will cut you in public and bar Castleton House to your entry. Now are you going to return me to my grandmother, or must I advertise your perfidy?”
Furious, he unwillingly complied.
She was right, he had to agree as he brooded over a glass of brandy after seeing them home. He had overstepped propriety by castigating her for spending five minutes outside with Rufton. Even if the man had kissed her, it mattered not. They were all but betrothed.
His own behavior was far worse, his loss of control inexcusable. That kiss had burned deeply into his soul. She was the most passionate woman he had ever met, though that could not fully explain his attraction. Perhaps it was her unavailability – he faced a future shackled to an insipid wife. Or maybe it was the way her disdain challenged his competitive spirit. Either way, he looked bad.
Her diatribe haunted him. She knew about Lady Willingford. What a shameful mess that had been! All sense of honor had fled that week. He still did not understand why he had accepted Willingford’s invitation. Respectable parties involving eligible misses were poison to his constitution, but that did not countenance his reaction. He had cuckolded a man under his own roof, an inexcusable act under any circumstance. The affair had not been a hunting party, designed for dalliance and peopled by light-skirts.
And Carla had not been his worst transgression. He cuckolded Knightsbridge as well, despite knowing that the man was his uncle’s closest friend. If Knightsbridge had discovered the liaison, his grandmother would have learned of it and written him off for good. And he had very nearly been caught by one of Willingford’s tenants. The most disgusting aspect was that he hadn’t really enjoyed either of them.
* * * *
That kiss also kept Melissa awake until nearly dawn. Her reaction had caught her off guard, drawing a response before her mind had time to think. But any excitement was strictly physical.
She must remain strong in the future and never be alone with him. If it ever happened again, she would be lost. She had spoken truly during that last conversation with Beatrice. Charles was a very dangerous man who could easily seduce her. Her choice of costume tonight had been prophetic. She had found herself in the woods, lusting after an ass.
But she could not help comparing Charles’s kiss to the one she had shared only minutes before with George, who suffered badly in contrast. His kiss had been tender and sweet – and utterly dull. She had not considered it thus at the time, of course.
Bea’s voice echoed. Once the emotions are engaged, you will no longer feel delight at another man’s touch…
Poor George.
Charles had revealed a world of pleasure that she desperately wanted to enter. The awful truth must be faced. She had wanted him to continue, had wanted more than just a kiss. Her unladylike nature had nearly betrayed her.
It was not the first time he had affected her thus. His embrace in the state apartment at Lanyard Manor had also aroused desire, though a pale imitation of her present state.
Don’t allow anyone to touch you…
But she had, and now she was more confused than ever. Was this a physical thing that could be initiated by any man? Touches are exciting… Perhaps she was truly a wanton.
But her mind refused to accept that theory. George had not raised a flicker, even when she prayed he would. And Heflin’s attack had provoked only revulsion and terror. The only explanation was Charles’s skill as a rake.
If only Bea were here! She could have answered these questions. It was obvious that their previous discussion had not gone far enough. But Bea was gone, leaving her nowhere to turn. She certainly couldn’t mention this to her grandmother, or even to Helena, no matter how open they claimed to be with each other. Helena had doubtless never entertained a wayward thought in her life. She was a proper miss, properly trained to assume a proper position as wife to a very proper husband. No matter how much she wanted it, none of that was true of Melissa Stapleton.
Conflicting messages swirled in her head. Lady Castleton swore that true ladies lacked wanton feelings. Satisfying a man’s needs, she said, was a duty a wife performed without complaint. With a gentle husband, it was not too unpleasant. Marriage to George would thus be perfect, for his embrace had been tender. She would receive nothing more than kindness from him, but neither would he arouse her disgust.
Charles evoked a shocking amount of excitement. Bea had claimed that such feelings were normal, whatever one’s station in life. Did society use the image of unpleasant duty to discourage girls from straying?
But that seemed unreasonable.
All ladies could not be liars.
Help me, Lord, she prayed. I am so confused. Is pleasure really wrong?
Yet discerning the truth would not solve her real problem. Charles might be damnably attractive, and experienced enough to set her body aflame with a touch, but he was also irresponsible, unreliable, avaricious, lazy, and deceitful. She would never forgive him for tricking Lady Lanyard out of a fortune. And now she had a new grievance. He had just eliminated any hope of happiness with George. Lord Rufton embodied all the characteristics she wanted, and he would have made a wonderful husband.
Except in bed, whispered a voice.
* * * *
George called the next morning. She should have expected it, she admitted when she realized the purpose of his visit.
“My dear Melissa,” he began, nervousness roughening his voice despite his efforts. The gold drawing room seemed cavernous with only the two of them in it. And cold. “You must know how much I have come to care for you, and I flatter myself that you return my regard. Please make me the happiest of men by accepting my hand in marriage.”
“George, I wish you had not done this.” She sighed, praying that her impressions were correct. The lack of a flowery speech was a good sign. “I do care for you, very much. Please, please remember that and take my words to heart. I am not the right wife for you, my dear friend. I am managing and have a sharp tongue. You would soon be unable to overlook that. And I do not believe that you love me, friends though we are. Think, George,” she begged, laying a pleading hand on his arm as pain knifed across his face. “Think about Caroline and Thomas. Can you honestly say you feel like that about me?”
He bit his lip. “Well, not exactly—”
“Nor do I,” she interrupted him. “I love you like a brother, George – better than a brother, considering the one I am cursed with. But it is not the same thing.”
His shoulders slumped.
“You’ll thank me someday,” she promised, then pondered his expression. “Why are you so eager to wed?” she asked softly.
His eyes turned suspiciously bright. “It’s my father,” he whispered, face crumpling. “He suffered an apoplexy at Easter and can no longer speak or even rise from his bed. He has long urged me to secure the succession. I cannot disappoint him.”
