by Kruger, Mary
Well, it wouldn’t last, he assured himself, swinging up the stairs to his house. He would take her money, yes, and use it to restore his estates. And, once they were profitable again and he was solvent, he would return every damned penny, standing on his own and at last supporting his wife. Only by such a resolve could he salve his pride.
Across the street, two men who had been leaning against a lamp post came to attention as Justin reached his house. “That him?” one said. He was short and broad, his features coarse, with an eye that showed a tendency to wander.
Jenkins nodded. “Him, all right, Ott,” he said, and spat. “Bloody bastard.”
Ott grunted, staring at the town house with his good eye, his other wandering to the side. “A big man, though. Might not be so easy to take him.”
“Are you going back on your word?”
“You saying my word ain’t worth nothing?”
Jenkins looked hastily away from the wandering eye. Trouble was, you never knew where Ott was looking. “Your word had better be worth something. You said you’d do it.”
“Aye, and I will. But I’ll need help. Can’t expect me to take him alone.”
Jenkins opened his mouth to say that was exactly what he wanted, and then shrugged. Weren’t his money, after all. “All right. Hire who you need. I’ll square it with the guv’nor.”
“Right. Tell him I’ll want more, while you’re at it. Another half-crown, like.”
“Highway robbery,” Jenkins grumbled. “All right. But not a penny till you do the job. He’s not to be killed, mind.”
“He won’t be.” He flexed his fists thoughtfully. “I’ll do the job, or my name’s not Ned Ott.”
“Stand still, my lady,” Liza said, as she struggled with the lacings of Melissa’s gown.
“I am trying to, Liza!” Melissa snapped, and shifted onto her other foot. “Oh, are you sure this gown will be all right? I do so want to make the right impression.”
“Tch, my lady, what have you got to worry about? Here, look.” Grasping Melissa’s shoulders, Liza turned her towards the pier glass. Melissa gave herself a long look. The gown of lavender watered silk was deceptively simple, falling from the newly stylish higher waist to the floor in a soft whisper of fabric, with neither flounce nor ruffle to ruin the classic line. Silver lace trimmed the short, puffed sleeves and the low neckline. Melissa studied herself for a moment longer and then reached up to her shoulders, hitching the dress up higher. “Now tell me you don’t look fine?”
“The neckline is too low!” Melissa wailed, and her hands went to her shoulders again.
“Now, my lady, you’ll see worse than that. Come, sit down and I’ll finish your hair. Come on, now.” Liza grasped Melissa’s hands and led her back to the dressing table. Reluctantly Melissa sat down and watched as Liza gave her curls, now fashionably cropped, a final brushing, polishing them to the sheen of burnished copper.
“I’m so pale, Liza,” Melissa murmured, leaning forward just as Liza was about to thread a lavender satin ribbon through her curls. “Do you think I should try some rouge?”
“No, my lady, you’ll do fine.” Liza finally managed to fasten the ribbon. “I don’t know why you’re so nervous.”
Melissa’s eyes met their reflection, holding a faint violet sheen to match the gown. Nervous was not the word for it. Tonight she would finally make her debut, at a ball given by Lady Helmsley, and she was terrified.
Melissa hadn’t realized how unprepared she was to move in the exalted circles of the ton. These past few weeks, spent under Augusta’s tutelage, had quickly shown her how much she had to learn. There was so much one must do, and even more that wasn’t allowed. She must always patronize the best dressmakers, the best milliners; stay on the good side of such powerful hostesses as Sally Jersey or the Princess Lieven, no matter how annoying they might be; and she must never do anything to jeopardize her husband’s career. To a girl who was used to being in control of her own destiny, the restrictions chafed, and by the day of the ball Melissa was certain of only one thing. She was sure to disgrace herself somehow.
There was a knock on the door and Justin stepped in, the first time he had been in her bedroom. Melissa stood up quickly, almost knocking the stool over. “That will be all, Liza.” Her hands fluttered up to her shoulders again before she remembered and forced them back down. Justin looked remarkably fine, she thought, unable for the moment to tear her eyes away from him. His evening coat was of black velvet, his shirt a pristine white, and though there was lace at the cuffs, there was nothing the least bit feminine about him. The coat seemed almost molded to his broad shoulders, so perfectly did it fit, and the matching black pantaloons hugged the muscles of his thighs and calves. He was so handsome that all her love for him swelled up, and she had to turn her eyes away.
How he reacted to her own appearance she could not tell, because he simply stood there and stared. “Well, Chatleigh?” she said, when the silence had stretched on quite long enough. “Will I do?”
Justin didn’t answer, and so she looked up from drawing on her gloves, dyed to match her gown, to see him regarding her in a new, and somehow unnerving, way. “Yes, m’dear, you’ll do,” he said, finally, and began to walk towards her. “Wish you’d wear colors, though.”
“I think it’s a beautiful gown.” Melissa held out her dress on either side, and let it fall with a whisper of sound.
“So it is. Just as well it’s lavender.”
“Oh? Why?” she asked, as he stopped a few paces away from her. For the first time she realized he was carrying a long, flat box.
“M’father,” he cleared his throat, “well, it seems that when m’father went into debt the first thing he sold off were the jewels. Afraid most of them are gone, m’dear.” The eyes he raised to her were so filled with regret that Melissa was touched.
“It doesn’t matter, Chatleigh.” His hair was unruly, as usual, and she had to resist a wifely impulse to reach up and smooth it.
“Doesn’t it?” He shrugged, and thrust the box at her. “Here. Should match your gown, anyway.”
Melissa glanced up at him and then back down at the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay a necklace of teardrop-shaped amethysts, set in gold. “Oh, Justin,” she breathed, as she drew the necklace from the box, draping it over her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so lovely.”
“No? Afraid it’s not very valuable, or m’father would have sold it.” Little enough to give her, with all the Chatleigh jewels gone. She was, after all, his countess, if not his wife, and something was due her. Bitterness at the fact that he had nothing to give her rose again to gall him.
“That doesn’t matter!” She glanced up at him again to see him watching her with that same odd intentness. Feeling suddenly shy, she undid the catch and slipped the necklace on. “You’re right, it matches my gown perfectly,” she said, after glancing into the mirror. “And earrings, too.”
“Sorry there’s not more,” he said, abruptly, and Melissa shook her head.
“Don’t be. I like these very much.” For the first time, as she walked back across the room towards her husband, she felt like a countess. That Justin thought of her that way too, if not as his wife, was borne out by this gift. “Thank you,” she said, and, before she could lose her nerve, stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “It means a lot to me.”
Justin didn’t say anything, but only watched her as she picked up her shawl of fine white cashmere and then crossed to the door. He was still standing there when she turned. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.
“What?” He shook his head, as if just awakened. “Yes, of course.”
Much later Melissa slipped out of Augusta’s ballroom and made her way to the ladies’ retiring room. Heavens! she thought as she climbed the stairs and glanced down at the milling mob below. She had been assured that this, her first social affair in London, would be small and quite manageable. Instead, it had become, as Augusta said with satisfaction
, a sad crush. And this at a time when town was said to be thin of people! Melissa’s lips twitched in amusement as she sat before a mirror and smoothed her hair. Londoners certainly did have different ideas about things.
Not that she was complaining. In fact, as far as she was concerned, the evening had been a success. She had been introduced to many people, and she hadn’t disgraced herself. Of course, she hadn’t had the chance to exchange much above a few words with anyone, either. She suspected the real test would come once the ritual of visiting began, as Augusta had assured her it would. She was, it seemed, a success. How very odd.
Her fingers stilled in the act of tweaking a curl into place, and she studied her reflection objectively, as she rarely had before. Was she really so attractive? She’d never thought so, having always been envious of her mother’s pastel prettiness. Her own coloring was too vivid, too strong; redheads, so she’d been told, were rarely in style. And yet, tonight, she’d heard more than one extravagant compliment on her appearance. A girl’s head could be turned quite easily by such flattery, except for one thing. Her husband was not, apparently, in the ranks of her admirers.
Her lips tightened just a bit. She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her. After all, it was quite the thing for husband and wife to spend the evening apart; she didn’t think Justin had even signed her dance card. Quite a fashionable marriage, she thought, picking up her reticule. She hated it.
The ballroom was no less crowded when she went back in, searching the crowd for her husband. He was nowhere in sight, and neither was her partner for the next dance, whoever he was. The signature on the dance card was illegible, a large E followed by a scrawl of letters. Melissa was frowning down at it when a smooth, urbane voice spoke behind her.
“Who would ever have thought,” the man said, “the last time we met, that we would be meeting again under these circumstances?”
“I beg your pardon?” Melissa said, and, turning, saw her partner for the next dance, regarding her through his quizzing glass. The Marquess of Edgewater, whom she had last seen in the corridor of the Hart and Hind, in what seemed like another life.
Chapter Thirteen
“Good evening,” Edgewater said, when Melissa merely stared at him. “I don’t believe we have been introduced. I am Edgewater.”
“Yes, my lord, I remember you,” Melissa said, finding her voice. She must not let this man see how much she disliked him.
“I thought you might. This is my dance, I believe.”
Melissa looked down at the illegible scrawl again. “So it is.” Placing her hand on his arm, she allowed him to lead her to the crowded floor, where the sets were just forming. Thank God it was a country dance, and not a waltz. With luck she wouldn’t have to exchange much conversation with him.
She was wrong. “So you were married to him, after all,” he said when the steps of the dance brought them briefly together.
Melissa stumbled, but made a quick recover. “Did you doubt it?” she asked, coolly.
“You must admit, the circumstances were suspicious.”
Which you were no doubt pleased to tell everyone, she thought, fuming, as she whirled away from him again.
To her relief, the next time they met, Edgewater appeared to be concentrating on his steps, but when they came together again he returned to the attack. “So now you are a countess,” he said. “And Chatleigh, I hear, is going to take his seat at the Lords.”
“What is it you want, sir?” Melissa snapped, tired of his baiting.
His eyebrows rose at such direct speaking. “Want? Why, I don’t wish Chatleigh to take his seat.”
“What?” Melissa stumbled again, and he reached out to grasp her elbow.
“Come, we can’t talk about this here.” Still holding her arm, he led her off the floor and into the hall, which was marginally less crowded.
“Why is it any concern of yours whether Justin enters politics or not?” she demanded when she could, and again Edgewater’s brows rose.
“Quietly, my dear, no need to make this a public event.”
“But—”
“Smile, as if you are enjoying yourself. Need I tell you how to flirt?”
Melissa stared up at him, and then, to his surprise, burst into laughter. “Chatleigh was right about you.”
“Why? What did he say?”
“He called you a damned dandy.”
“Did he?” Edgewater paused in the act of reaching for his snuffbox. “He has always underestimated me.”
“And I believe you underestimate him. Or, do you.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “Why does it matter to you what Chatleigh does?”
“Because, my dear, he is a Tory.”
Melissa raised a delicately arched brow. That hardly seemed reason enough. “Yes, so?”
“And the government is backwards enough and reactionary enough without adding another Tory to it.”
“I hardly think one more would make so much difference.”
“Ah, but you never know, do you?” This time he did reach for the snuffbox. “These are dangerous times, my lady. Such times call for boldness, not the timidity of our government.”
“Are you saying you’re a revolutionary?”
“Hardly. Do I look like one?”
“No, you don’t,” she said, slowly. “But then, isn’t that the idea?”
Edgewater looked up sharply as he was just about to inhale the snuff from the back of his hand. “You are his wife,” he said, abruptly. “You could convince him his talents would be wasted in Parliament.”
Melissa shook her head. “No, I don’t have that much influence with him, and I wouldn’t presume to tell him what to do. Besides, I think he might have something worth saying.”
“Do you.” Edgewater studied her and then smiled. “You surprise me, my lady.”
“Do I? Why?”
“There is more to you than it appears.”
“I am the daughter of a soldier, sir.” Her voice was quiet. “And I don’t give up a fight easily.”
“I believe this is a battle I may enjoy,” he murmured.
“Evening, Edgewater. M’dear.” Justin suddenly loomed up beside them. Edgewater, slim and dapper, looked effete and puny next to Justin’s robust frame. “Believe this is my dance?”
Melissa consulted her card. It was a waltz, and Justin had definitely not requested it, but she would not argue. “So it is. Good evening, sir,” she said to Edgewater, and he inclined his head.
Justin led her out onto the floor, and his arm went about her waist, drawing her closer to him than she had been since that fateful night at the Hart and Hind. Melissa shivered, though the room was not cold. Far from it. She felt the warmth creeping up into her face, and as Justin whirled her across the floor, it invaded her limbs, making them feel curiously heavy, so that she leaned towards him for support. Feeling the movement, Justin glanced down and she met his questioning, silent look with her own eyes wide and startled. “I—I’ve never danced like this before,” she said, breathlessly.
“No? Wouldn’t have thought it.” Justin swung her about, and her hand, resting on his arm, tightened. Through her kid glove she could feel the tactile warmth of his velvet jacket and the strength of his arm, and she shivered again.
“Shouldn’t we be having a conversation?” she went on, when he didn’t speak.
“Why?”
“Why? Everyone else seems to talk while they dance.”
“Oh, we’ve plenty to talk about, madam,” he said, softly, “but we will not do so here.”
“About what?”
“Your tête-à-tête with Edgewater.”
“What!”
“Pray lower your voice.”
“But it wasn’t—”
“We will not discuss it here.”
“We will not discuss it anywhere!” she snapped, and would have pulled out of his grasp had he not held onto her.
“Easy, m’dear, don’t want to cause a scene.”
“I don’t care!” she s
aid in a furious whisper. “Of all the ridiculous things to say—you know I’m not like that!”
“Do I?” he said. All the old doubts, the old suspicions, had come rushing back when he’d seen her apparently deep in intimate conversation with Edgewater. His gaze, cool and impassive, caught hers and held for a long moment. Then she jerked away from him. “Come.” He took her arm. “I’ll bring you to my aunt.”
Melissa threw him a fulminating glance as he escorted her across the floor to where the chaperones sat. So he thought her a flirt? Very well, then, she thought. She would be a flirt, and see how he reacted.
And so she was. She did not stay with the chaperones, as she suspected Justin wished her to, but instead took to the floor with any who asked her. And there were many. Her beauty and freshness, her delightfully frank way of looking at one, were novelties to the jaded members of the ton. She was young, yet without any of the gaucheries of a girl fresh from the schoolroom, and unusually pretty. By the time she and Justin climbed into their new barouche it was late, and her feet in their thin satin slippers were aching. No wonder, she thought with satisfaction. She hadn’t sat out one dance. Let Chatleigh make what he would of that.
The barouche swayed gently as it traveled over Mayfair’s cobbled streets, and in the light from a passing streetlamp she saw her husband’s face, turned a bit to the side, wearing an abstracted look. He’d said little to her since they had left Lady Helmsley’s. It was time to change that.
“I have been invited to go driving tomorrow,” she said, and Justin’s eyes opened.
“By whom?” he asked.
“By Lord Beverley. I trust you won’t approve.”