by Jane Goodger
“Yes.” He was silent for a long moment. “You are pleased?”
“Oh, yes, very,” Melissa said brightly, looking out on the lake with new intensity. If she looked at John, she knew she would cry. It took a few moments before she could bring herself to glance at him and flash him a smile that she prayed was believable. How mortifying if he somehow suspected she was madly in love with him and that the thought of marrying Charles was breaking her heart.
“Good, good. It’s what my father and I hoped for.”
Those words were like small knives plunging into her heart. Suddenly, she was angry with him, raging in fact. How could he stand there so blandly when just yesterday he’d been touching her, kissing her, moaning into her mouth as if he’d die. How could he?
“I think I fell in love with him the moment I saw him,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I’m so glad you showed me, um, things, so that I could be more prepared on our wedding night. I’m ever so grateful.” Her throat aching, she hauled in her line and walked with determination over to Charles, noticing Avonleigh staring at her. She stared right back and gave him a brilliant smile.
John swore to himself as she walked—or rather stalked—off, using all his willpower to look as if nothing of import had passed between them. She was angry, no doubt wondering how a man could ravish her one day and be happy about her engagement to another man the next. Well, she was going to have to keep wondering. She was Charles’s now. She’d agreed to the marriage; his father was having the contract drawn up; the announcement would appear in the Times within a matter of weeks.
The ache in his heart, this wrenching pain that stunned him as much as hurt him, would go away. No doubt one or two weeks in London carousing with his chums and he’d be good as new. It had been unnatural to think he wouldn’t be attracted to such a beautiful woman. He’d never spent so much time with a woman alone, never mind one so desirable. What had his father been thinking, that John was made from stone? Of course he was attracted to her. Of course he’d developed certain feelings. He was a man, and this was lust. It had to be.
Because if this aching, dying feeling was love, then he was doomed to live the rest of his life missing her, seeing her with his best friend, knowing Charles was having what he never would. Knowing Charles was making love to her, touching her, smiling at her in the morning and holding her at night. God, how could he bear it? How? Charles had better be good to her; he’d better never make her feel anything but cherished and loved, or there’d be hell to pay.
This would pass. Dear God, it had to pass.
John hadn’t realized he was glaring at Melissa and Charles until Avonleigh purposely put himself in his sights. He wrenched his eyes away and stared out at the lake, tensing when his friend sidled up to him. “Get a grip, man,” Avonleigh said, his voice tight and low. “Every lustful thought is as plain as if you were holding a sign.”
John nodded, swallowing heavily. “They’re to be married,” he said, his throat raw. To his dismay, tears burned in his eyes. Avonleigh, looking decidedly horrified, took his arm and said loudly, “Sure, let’s try fishing down here.”
They moved down the lake perhaps fifty yards before Avon stopped and stared at him, his dark eyes intense and kind. “Why are you allowing it?”
John clenched his jaw, refusing to give in to the misery that was tearing at his heart. “Because it is what she wants. What my father wants. What Charles wants. Everyone is bloody thrilled.” They were far from the others, and John glared at the happy group, whose cheerful shouts he could still hear.
“Do you think Charles has an inkling about who her father truly is?”
“Yes. My father told him. He’s still willing to marry her.” A rush of despair hit him as he recalled going to his father and telling him that he would marry her. John wondered if he’d told his father the truth—that he loved her and had compromised her—whether things would have turned out differently. Probably not. In fact, it would have been far worse. He would have been left with a father who felt betrayed and sickened by his son’s actions—and Melissa would still be marrying Charles.
“Perhaps it’s best, then.”
John looked at his friend, not understanding.
“Love is fleeting. You know that. You believe that.”
“I did.”
Avon shook his head. “John, you’re my friend and the only man who, I thought, truly believed what I do—that love is a phantom, something that weak men invented to explain temporary insanity.”
John let out a laugh. “You’re probably right. I do feel a bit mad right now.”
“It will pass. It always does.”
John looked up the lake, to where Melissa stood next to Charles, hating this feeling of complete helplessness. “What if it doesn’t?”
“Hell isn’t such a bad place to live, my friend. I do it every day.”
Chapter 14
Melissa looked at her reflection as a seamstress made small corrections to her ball gown, the one she would wear to her debut in two weeks. It was royal blue held aloft with a cage crinoline covered by two petticoats that peeked beneath the cream lace scalloped about the bottom. The bodice was rounded and modest, showing only the barest hint of the swell of her breasts, and the waist seemed impossibly small, thanks to the rather brutal corset she wore.
“The color is perfect,” Miss Stanhope said. “Your eyes are absolutely beautiful.”
Melissa looked at her reflection and smiled. Although her father had hired a woman to come to their home each year to present her with the latest fashions, she’d never owned a ball gown; she’d never had reason to have one. She’d been back in London a week now, and the season’s first ball was in one week’s time. She’d thought two weeks was plenty of time to get ready, but realized now they should have ordered her wardrobe weeks ago. Many of the dresses she needed would not be ready for another two weeks or more. It was only the generosity of her uncle—and his willingness to pay top dollar to get her needed gowns done quickly—that allowed her to have enough clothes to wear during her first week in Town. She was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of clothing a woman needed to wear when in the city. There were day dresses and walking dresses. Dresses one wore to ride in a carriage around Hyde Park, and dresses to wear to the opera. There were ball gowns, and riding outfits (she would have one, even though it was completely unnecessary), and dresses she would wear to dinners. And, of course, every gown required the proper hat and gloves and parasol and fans. Silk stockings, yards of expensive lace, overcoats, and shawls. It was a veritable mountain of clothing. And it all had to be new because everything she had was either black or outdated.
Most disconcerting were the nighttime things she was supposed to wear once she was married. She couldn’t imagine being so very naked in front of Charles, wearing items that were so flimsy and see-through. She was building, Miss Stanhope said sternly, a fine trousseau.
Miss Stanhope had a list, and she would check off each item as soon as it was purchased. It all seemed so excessive, but Miss Stanhope insisted every item was absolutely necessary.
“Not the riding habit,” Melissa had said stubbornly.
“My dear, your future husband is one of the foremost experts in horseflesh and one of the finest riders in the kingdom. You will learn to ride.”
That pronouncement only depressed Melissa, for it reminded her of that day in the stable, when John had been so patient with her, letting the horse gently take bits of carrot from her palm. She wanted John to teach her to ride. She wanted . . . well, she wanted John. She knew she was being unfair to Charles, but she couldn’t help what was in her heart. It seemed like forever since she’d seen John, though he was often in her thoughts.
When the small group had left Flintwood House, she’d been both relieved and terribly lonely. She missed John, missed the way he made her feel clever and beautiful. She missed their talks, the lessons he’d given her on simple things like how to skip a stone on a pond or train her puppy to stay. Or how t
o kiss. Everything seemed to remind her of John, even her puppy. Darling was such a good dog, and she loved her mightily, but every time she saw her, she longed for John. Tonight, for the first time in weeks, she would see him, for he was having dinner at home. It was foolish and futile to wish things were different. She knew she should be happy and grateful Charles wanted to marry her, that he loved her.
But she couldn’t help wondering why he loved her. They hadn’t spent all that much time together. How was it possible for him to love her when all they’d shared was a few walks and four dances? Even their single kiss had been unremarkable. There’d been none of the breath-stealing, heart-stopping, body-throbbing passion she’d felt with John. Nothing but mild pleasantness.
Standing in her ball gown gazing at her reflection, Melissa was happy with what she saw, but she didn’t wonder what Charles would think of her. She only wondered about John.
She’d not seen him since they’d all left Flintwood, even though she’d been in London eight days in his father’s town house. John, she was told, had rented his own place for the season. Still, she would see him. In fact, he was to escort her to the ball, where they would all meet up with Charles and his family. Melissa was a bit nervous about meeting Charles’s family, even though she adored Laura. She couldn’t help wondering what Charles had told his parents about her and whether they knew about her birth.
Charles had visited twice since her arrival, awkward meetings that left Melissa feeling discontented. While they had all had jolly fun in the country, seeing Charles without the others had seemed strange. They’d had little to talk about, and conversation had been strained.
Today, she would be riding out with him in Hyde Park and wearing a new carriage dress—another item she hadn’t needed in Bamburgh, since she’d never had cause to ride in a carriage.
“All done, miss,” the seamstress said, stepping back to look at her handiwork. “It is lovely on you.”
“Yes, it is,” Miss Stanhope said. “Please deliver the dress by Thursday, along with any other items that are completed.” The woman immediately began undoing the tiny seed buttons that ran down the back of the gown. Once her corset was loosened, Melissa gasped for breath. She’d never in her life been so constrained.
“We’d best hurry. Mr. Norris will be at the house in one hour, and I daresay we hardly have time to get home and get you ready.”
“I’m famished,” Melissa said, fearing she wouldn’t have time to eat before her ride with Charles. It was nearly teatime, and they planned to leave for Hyde Park at five.
“I’ll have the kitchen send something up while you dress. Thank goodness, your carriage dress was prepared in time.”
In a flurry of activity, the two women rushed from the dressmaker’s, climbed aboard their coach, then waited in thick traffic as the vehicle edged its way toward Piccadilly.
“It would have been much faster to walk,” Melissa grumbled.
As soon as they reached the town house, they disembarked and stepped briskly inside, Miss Stanhope hurrying to the kitchens, and Melissa going up the stairs to change yet again. She didn’t know why she couldn’t wear the dress she had been wearing; she had been in a carriage, after all. But no, she had to wear the dress specifically designated as the “carriage dress,” along with her pretty green velvet hat with the jaunty black plume, and matching parasol and gloves.
Her maid made quick work of getting her out of her day dress and into her carriage dress while Melissa drank a cup of tea and ate a sugared scone Miss Stanhope had sent up. Her dress on, her hair fixed so that it complemented her new hat, her maid pronounced her ready just as a footman knocked on the door and announced that Mr. Charles Norris was waiting in the Blue Parlor.
“Goodness gracious,” Melissa said, giving her reflection a quick look. “That was fantastic, Clara.” The scone had done little to fill her, and her stomach grumbled in quite an unladylike fashion. She giggled and looked at her maid. “Did you hear that?”
“The thunder, miss?” Clara smiled, and Melissa laughed aloud.
When Melissa stepped into the Blue Parlor, Miss Stanhope was already there, talking politely to Charles.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Norris,” Melissa said, dipping a small curtsy. Charles stood immediately, his gaze warm and inviting. He was a handsome man, and today he looked rather dashing in his fawn-colored pants and dark brown coat.
“If I might be so bold, you look lovely, Miss Atwell,” Charles said, his cheeks going ruddy.
“Thank you. Shall we go? This is my first carriage ride in Hyde Park, so you will have to tell me all about it. Miss Stanhope tells me it is all the thing, especially once the season begins.”
“That is true. It gets quite crowded in May and most especially in June,” Charles said, donning a top hat and picking up a silver-headed walking stick. “Hopefully that will not be the case today.”
Visiting Hyde Park was another strange ritual that Melissa did not understand. Apparently, men and women rode in their best carriages or on their finest horses, wearing their best clothes, and nodded to passersby. The park attracted society’s elite, and it was not unheard of to see a member of the royal family. Miss Stanhope told her she should maintain a pleasant look, be certain to ask who people were, and be extra careful never to ignore someone of higher rank. She would help Melissa understand whom and whom not to acknowledge as they went about the circuit. It sounded rather tedious to Melissa, who wouldn’t know a soul but for the passengers in her own carriage.
They entered the park from Kensington Road, turning onto a wide dirt path that was crowded with carriages and smartly dressed riders.
“This is Rotten Row,” Charles said.
“Is it?” Melissa asked.
“Is it what?”
“Rotten.”
Charles did not find her amusing, though Miss Stanhope let out a chuckle. “I really don’t know where it got that name, but no, it’s definitely not.”
Melissa grinned at Charles, who was positioned across from them, his back to the liveried driver sitting like a statue on his elevated seat. She thought he would smile back at her, but instead he looked slightly annoyed. She wondered where the besotted man had gone, the one who had hung on her every word and found everything that came out of her mouth utterly charming.
“This is a lovely carriage,” Melissa said, not knowing if it was or not, as it was the first of its kind she’d been in. The black-lacquered vehicle trimmed in gold certainly seemed luxurious enough. Thus far, she’d ridden in a train and covered coach, but never in an open carriage. “And the horses seem fine, too.”
“They are the best-matched team in London,” Charles said proudly. “It’s all in the breeding, you know. A superior line absolutely must be maintained for the proper result. Our stables . . .” He stopped abruptly and looked sharply away. “I do apologize.”
It took Melissa a few moments to understand what he was apologizing for, and when she did realize, her face flamed. Next to her, Miss Stanhope cleared her throat.
“It certainly is a lovely day for a ride in the park,” Miss Stanhope said with forced cheer. Obviously she, too, realized that Charles was apologizing for mentioning superior breeding when Melissa was a human mutt.
“You cannot continue to apologize every time you say something that I may or may not interpret as some sort of criticism or slight regarding my parentage,” Melissa said, her voice tight.
“Miss Atwell, this is not the place for a public disagreement,” Miss Stanhope said sternly, but in a whisper only she could hear.
Melissa snapped her mouth shut, clutching her parasol fiercely in her hand as she looked stonily at the passersby.
“I do apologize,” Charles said fervently. “Please forgive me.”
Melissa relaxed, now feeling quite horrible for losing her temper. “There is no need, Charles. Truly. If we are to be married, it should be something we make light of, not agonize over. Until very recently, my father’s identity was completely irrelevant.
Each time you apologize, I feel dreadful.”
“I’m sorry.” And then, realizing he’d apologized again, he let out a sigh and mumbled, “sorry” again.
Miss Stanhope touched her sleeve. “That’s Lord Chantilly. He and his wife are hosting the first ball of the season,” she said, nodding toward a luxurious carriage across the way. “He is one of your uncle’s staunchest allies in the House.”
And so it went, for nearly two hours. Two excruciatingly long hours. Melissa, who had been schooled in the art of sitting still and quiet, had never sat quite so still and quiet for so long. Her arm hurt from holding her parasol perfectly still; her hands sweated inside her green velvet gloves; her back and neck ached. She noticed many women riding on horses wearing smart riding outfits and dashing little hats, and for the first time thought how wonderful it would be to be riding a horse, rather than sitting in a carriage.
“I should like to learn to ride, I think,” Melissa said, looking enviously at one young woman who was trotting by at that moment. She didn’t have to carry a parasol.
“That would be marvelous,” Charles said, full of enthusiasm. “We’ll have you up on a horse in no time. Laura’s smashing good and could give you some pointers. I’m afraid I don’t know much about riding sidesaddle.”
“I am quite fearful,” she said, already reconsidering. She didn’t want to ride a horse, but rather she wanted the freedom riding a horse allowed.
“Once you’re up, it’ll be like second nature. You’ll see.”
Melissa looked at a passing horse dubiously, her doubt growing. Horses were huge. And the riders so high. How did one steer such a large animal? “Perhaps someday.”
“You must learn,” Charles said. “Every woman in England knows how to ride.”
Melissa laughed. “Surely not every woman.”
“Women of quality, I should say.”
Melissa gave him a sharp look, wondering if he’d meant what he’d said, or if she was simply being overly sensitive. He did not apologize, and this time she wished he would. But perhaps he had not intended to insult her. Or perhaps he had, and that was why he did not apologize.