The Mad Lord's Daughter

by Jane Goodger

  “I’m afraid of dogs, too,” she said, backing away from one stall where a black horse with a white mark on its forehead leaned out.

  John immediately went over to the beast, murmuring softly, then rubbed its head. The horse seemed to like the attention, and Melissa stepped a bit closer. “Sir Jake is like a kitten,” he said, taking something out of his pocket and feeding it to the animal.

  “I thought you said horses were like big dogs,” Melissa said, keeping her eye on the horse in case it decided to burst through its stall.

  “All right then, in an effort not to confuse you, I’ll say Sir Jake is like a puppy. All love and gentleness. Come here, I’ll show you.”

  Melissa stood, eyes wide, staring at the horse, which seemed completely uninterested in her presence.

  “I would never let you approach a horse I didn’t think was completely trustworthy. There are some who are a bit more ill-mannered that I would not allow you to pet, but . . .”

  “Pet? You want me to touch it?”

  To her horror, John gave the horse a hug. “You’ve wounded his heart irreparably,” he said. “Good ol’ Sir Jake is very sensitive. Now, come here. Don’t be such a coward.”

  Melissa marched over to him, her arms crossed.

  “Take off those silly mittens and hold out your hand like this,” he said, demonstrating by holding his hand, palm up, completely flat. It was said as if this were a simple request. Well, if he was not going to take great issue with it, she wouldn’t either. She took one mitten off and held out her hand, frightened to her very core. Her hand shook noticeably, and she shot a look to John, who was staring at her with an intensity that was exceedingly disturbing. Without a word, he dropped a bit of carrot into her palm, then grasped her sleeve at her wrist and gently guided her hand toward the horse.

  Melissa stifled a scream as the horse’s great head dipped toward her hand, but John held it fast. To her wonder, the horse gently took the food from her palm, hardly touching her with its impossibly soft muzzle.

  “Oh,” she whispered, smiling as she watched the horse crunching on the very same morsel that had just been in her hand. It was miraculous.

  “There’s my gentle boy,” John said, rubbing the horse’s head again.

  “May I try again?” Melissa asked, still grinning and feeling ridiculously proud.

  John dug into his pocket and dropped another carrot chunk into her hand. Melissa noted he took care not to touch her, and for the first time in her life she felt that loss. In her memory, she could not remember ever being touched by anyone, skin to skin. Always they wore gloves, even her father.

  But she had touched a horse—or rather a horse had touched her. The thought should have been terrifying, but it wasn’t. Again, she held up the piece of carrot, but this time of her own volition, and Sir Jake took the offering happily. “It tickles,” she said, feeling foolishly happy. She’d thought she would find John smiling at her, but instead he was looking at her with such sadness, she felt her stomach drop in a sickening lurch.

  “Do not do that,” she said, backing from him and the horse.

  John shook his head. “Do what?”

  “Look at me with pity.” Melissa could feel hot tears pressing against her eyes. “I’m not something to be pitied.”

  John looked instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, but it was wrong what was done to you, and I do pity you. You are a woman grown who has never played in the snow, never fed a horse a carrot, never . . .” He stopped, and she could see the muscles in his jaw clench. “There is a lifetime of experiences you have never had, and that is something to be pitied. If your father were alive, I would thrash him for what he’s done to you.”

  The more he spoke, the tighter she gripped her arms about herself, as if she could somehow stop the words from entering her soul, from tearing the pure image she had of her father from her heart.

  “My father loved me,” she said quietly, and watched as John’s ire deflated.

  “Even if that’s true, and I’m certain it was, it does not alter the fact that what he did to you was wrong. I understand his reasons. But it was still wrong. You cannot even touch me—or anyone, for that matter—without flinching. I fear for you, Melissa, I do. The ton will not be kind to you, and the men . . .” He stopped suddenly and looked away.

  Her throat was so full, she could hardly speak, and the tears in her eyes finally spilled over. She truly hadn’t thought she was so different from other girls. She knew she’d have a lot to learn, but was she so very different that a man would not want her?

  “Thank you for showing me the horses,” she said quickly, forcing the words out from a throat that ached terribly. She hurried from the stable, conscious of her awkward gait as she tried to run. She heard him calling from behind, but she only went faster, slipping a bit, unused to the snow, unused to running, unused to everything that everyone else took for granted. Tears fell quicker now, and she prayed he wouldn’t run after her.

  Oh, God, to think she’d wanted to kiss him. And he likely knew it. It was beyond humiliating to think that he knew. He pitied her, and the fact that she’d wanted his kiss likely made him pity her even more. She was such a stupid, freakish girl. With a sob, she reached the front door, only to realize she couldn’t let anyone see that she’d been crying, something that made her cry all the more. She stood there and tried to gather herself together, shivering from the cold.

  John watched her go, angry with himself, and particularly with her father. Every time she discovered something new, each time something ordinary delighted her, it only fueled that anger. Even the way she ran from him, lifting her skirts too high, slipping and sliding and nearly falling into the snow again, made him angry. He let out a curse, and Sir Jake snorted back at him.

  “I’ve made a muck of it, haven’t I, old man?” he asked the horse, who seemed to look at him accusingly. “I s’pose I should go apologize then, shall I?”

  With a sigh, he pulled up his collar against the cold and trudged after her, taking long, loping steps and keeping his head down. It was even colder now than before they’d entered the stable. He turned the corner around the house and was surprised to see her, still standing at the entrance, seemingly staring at the door. Then he heard her sniff and realized she was still crying. Damn.

  “I’m so sorry, Melissa,” he said, and watched as she immediately stiffened. “I had no right to say anything about your father. Indeed, your unusual circumstances have made you unique. An original. If I’m charmed by you, I’m certain others will be, too. Look at poor Waddington the other night at the opera. Smitten, and he hadn’t even seen your lovely smile yet.”

  She turned her head toward him just a bit, but it was enough for him to see that she was smiling. He took that as a good sign and walked up the shallow steps to stand by her.

  “I am sorry, you know. It’s only that I’ve been charged with keeping you safe and getting you ready for the season, and I take those responsibilities very seriously.”

  She dipped her head slightly, just enough so that her neck was exposed to the falling snow, and he watched as several landed and melted just below where her dark curls showed beneath her hat. He had the sudden image of himself kissing her there, where the melted snow was leaving tiny, cold droplets, and he squeezed his eyes shut to banish that completely inappropriate and delectable image.

  His father had put her under his care, and he had promised to protect her and care for her. That charge did not include kissing her, as he wanted to do now. As he’d wanted to do when they were playing in the snow. He’d seen the way she’d looked at him, watched the awareness grow, the confusion in her violet eyes. Hell, he should be thinking of her as a sister, not as a desirable woman who would likely taste as sweet as she looked.... Damn, there were those errant thoughts again. Part of him wished his father had never told him the truth about Melissa’s parentage and had allowed him to believe they were closely related. While he told himself she was off-limits, his body knew the truth—that
she was a lovely, desirable woman who desired him. He suspected she was completely innocent. He certainly didn’t want her discovering her desires with him. The sooner they got her ready for the season and married off, the better. In fact, perhaps they could have a small get-together at Flintwood House and invite the top candidates from his list, thereby avoiding her season altogether.

  “Do you truly think it’s possible that I could be ready for society in time for the London season?” she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

  “I do. And I will help. We will dance and play cards and take walks and do all the things you will be expected to do with the swains who will no doubt start arriving as soon as word is out about Lord Braddock’s beautiful niece.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, turning to him and giving him another of her stunning smiles.

  No, he thought, it would not be lovely. It would be rather torturous. But he would do it anyway, as he had promised his father he would. He had given his father his word, and nothing would stop him from fulfilling his duty—certainly not his ridiculous and sudden attraction to her. He would find her a suitable, gentle husband who would care for her all the days of her life.

  And he would watch and be glad of it.

  Chapter 6

  “Part of your duties as the wife of a landowner is to make certain your husband’s tenants are well cared for,” John said, sitting beside her in his smart little surrey as they toured the Flintwood estate. “A good wife will know her husband’s tenants, will be certain the sick are cared for and that they have enough food in their stomachs.”

  “And what does a good husband do?” she asked, trying to bait him.

  “A good husband listens to his wife when she tells him what needs to be done,” he said without hesitation. “Having a title is a great responsibility. A lord must maintain his estate, to make it profitable even in times of difficulty, to keep it in a condition worthy of his heirs.”

  Melissa looked at the lands surrounding Flintwood House, seeing things she hadn’t noticed during the days since they’d arrived. The stone walls were in perfect repair, the livestock she’d seen looked fat and healthy, and all the cottages sturdy and well kept. She wondered what it would look like in summer, in full growing season. It must be lovely.

  On their journey from Bamburgh they’d passed by other farms that had looked very poor indeed compared to those in Flintwood. They were passing one particularly large, charming cottage, its snow-covered yard dotted with hundreds of footprints, surrounding a large and jolly-looking snowman.

  “Oh, look,” Melissa said, pointing out the cocky-looking fellow wearing a battered bowler on his frozen head. “There must be children.” Melissa dared not tell John that she’d never actually seen a child close up. He would only look at her with that odd combination of anger and pity that made her feel uncomfortably aware of how different she was from most young women of her class.

  “Shall we stop in? This is the Picket house. Huge brood of children, which is why they have one of the largest houses. Oldest boy works in our stables when he’s not helping his father. Good lad, he is.”

  “How many children?” Melissa asked, trying to keep her tone level, but failing miserably.

  “Nine. And mostly boys. I think the last was a girl, born less than a year ago, if I recall.”

  “A baby?” she breathed, not able to keep her enthusiasm from her voice.

  “That’s right,” John said, sounding excited rather than pitying. “You’ve no doubt never seen an infant, have you?”

  She shook her head, slightly mortified.

  “Well, you’re about to see a baby and more.” He pulled a bag from beneath the seat and held it up to her. “Peppermint sticks. They go mad for them,” he said, flashing a grin and leaping down from the surrey and going ’round to help her down. In his enthusiasm, he grabbed her about the waist and pulled her down effortlessly. “Come, now. And do try not to stare. It might frighten the children.”

  Melissa wrinkled her nose at him. “You can be extremely disagreeable when you want to be,” she said in mock anger, but laughed when he gave her a look of pure innocence.

  Before he could bound to the door, it swung open, and it seemed as if twenty children piled out of the house at once, not just seven. It was obvious John made their house a regular stop, for they were climbing all over him trying to get at his bag of peppermint sticks, which he held aloft and out of their reach.

  “Children, leave poor Lord Willington alone,” a harried-looking woman said. She was dressed more fashionably than Melissa would have pictured for a farmer’s wife; clearly they were one of the more well-to-do families. Only her hair, which burst willfully from her bun, seemed even the slightest bit unkempt. And while her tone was rather stern, Melissa could tell that she was nearly as charmed by her own children as John was. The children quickly settled down and looked up at John like seven little angels, patiently waiting for their candy.

  John gave them one each, then gave three to Mrs. Picket—one for her and one for Mr. Picket and one for their son who would be home later that day.

  “Mrs. Picket, I’d like to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Melissa Atwell,” John said. “Miss Atwell, Mrs. Picket. This is Toby, Thomas, Henry, Paul, Lizzie, Nathan, and . . .” He looked around, making a great show of searching for the little toddler who was hiding behind his legs, giggling madly. “Mrs. Picket, I do believe you are missing a child.”

  The other children laughed. “Jamie’s in your stable,” the little girl piped out.

  “No, no. Isn’t there another lad? A little one. I swear you had one called Philip. Mrs. Picket, is he lost?”

  The little boy threw himself in front of John and yelled out, “Here I am.” His face was already sticky from his candy.

  Melissa stood back, overwhelmed at the sight of all these children. They were so . . . little. Little noses, little hands. Their skin smooth and creamy, their hair wispy and clean. Melissa heard the sound of a baby, and while they all herded into the large front room, Mrs. Picket disappeared, returning in moments holding a chubby little blond-haired baby.

  “This is little Louisa,” Mrs. Picket said, gazing down at her infant.

  “How old is she?” Melissa asked, her eyes riveted on the child.

  “Nearly eight months now and already trying to pull herself up to walk so she can keep up with her big brothers and sister,” Mrs. Picket said.

  “She’s lovely,” Melissa said. “Truly, all your children are.” She wanted to touch the baby, to see if her skin could be as soft and velvety as it looked, but fear that she might hurt the little thing stopped her.

  “They can be a handful, but we’re truly blessed,” Mrs. Picket said. “We were just finishing up our lessons, if you’d like to watch a while.”

  The children gave a collective groan, but without being told trudged into the next room, where two large tables were set up.

  “We’ll let you get to your work,” John said, to the sound of more disappointed groans. “I know the children won’t be able to concentrate while we’re here. It was good seeing you, Mrs. Picket. Tell Mr. Picket I’ll be by Saturday next to talk about getting that new American horse plow.”

  “I’ll let him know. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Atwell,” Mrs. Picket said, leading them to the door.

  After John helped Melissa into the surrey, he turned to her. “That might have been a bit overwhelming as an introduction to children. Have you survived?”

  “It was a bit overwhelming. They all seem so . . . alive,” she said, struggling to come up with the proper description for the Pickets’ children. “And small. Like little people.”

  “Oh, they’ll grow. Have you seen her oldest? Jamie is just fourteen, but he’s nearly as tall as I am. A big, strapping boy.”

  Melissa looked at him with curiosity. “You truly like the children, don’t you? It’s not only duty for you, is it?”

  He looked taken aback by her question. “Of course I like t
hem. They’re good children.”

  Melissa had never considered that she might have children someday. It was something so beyond her experience; she hadn’t given it a thought. But after visiting the Picket household, she was better able to wonder at what it would be like to be a mother, to have children, to hold a little baby who depended upon you for everything. It gave her a small insight into what it must have been like for her mother.

  Her mother had died so young, she only had the vaguest memories of her. Her father had been a calm, stern, and loving presence in her life, and for all his flaws, she’d never felt unloved. Now, as a woman on the cusp of having her own husband and children, Melissa wondered how it would be to lose a beloved spouse and be faced with raising a child alone.

  One of her most vivid memories was of asking her mother whether she would be able to attend a ball like Cinderella. Her mother and father had been sitting by the fire—her father reading a book, her mother knitting. They’d looked at each other as if she’d asked whether she might travel alone to America, and then her mother’s eyes had welled up with tears. It was fear Melissa had seen in their eyes, the kind of fear that had made Melissa feel horrid. She’d made her mother cry and her father look like he just might join her. Melissa had never again asked about balls or princes, and when her mother died, she had stopped believing in fairy-tale endings.

  They rode in silence on the way back to Flintwood House, Melissa so lost in thought, she didn’t even notice the sky had cleared, making for a brilliant sunset.

  “Look,” John said, lifting his chin to a sky gone a stunning peachy-yellow. Melissa gasped at the beauty of it, and when she turned, she found John looking at her with the oddest expression on his face.

  “I’m inviting a couple of my friends here in two weeks,” he said gruffly.

  “That sounds like fun for you,” Melissa said uncertainly.