Her throat tight, she took up a quill, dipped it into the inkwell and hastily scrawled out a quick note. She sanded the ink and carefully sealed the foolscap, then summoned a footman to deliver her somewhat cryptic missive to Lady Claire Leighton at the Sterne residence. The liveried fellow nodded, bowed, and turned on his heel to do as his lady had requested.
Already distracted yet again by her thoughts, Melisande watched him go through a distant haze. Lost in thought once more, she stared, unseeing, through the mullioned window fronting the street. Though there were hours yet before she would take her leave, she felt hollow. Painfully so. It was if her decision to go had created a deep, yawning chasm in her heart—one she feared would never be filled, and…
Within the secret corners of her heart, she allowed herself an admission: she would miss him.
She would miss the devilish sparkle in his eyes, the engaging curl of his lips when he smiled, the husky sound of his voice when he chuckled shamelessly at some scandalous quip or another he had made specifically because he enjoyed seeing her blush.
Her thoughts quickly reminded her of several such quips in rapid succession and she could feel her own lips turn up at the corners. Her eyes misted. “Oh, Tony. Why could you not be a duke or a prince or an earl at the very least?”
Her whispered plea seemed to hang in the air, repeating itself back to her until she wanted to cry, to run away, to flee to her room and hide until she felt capable of facing the world again. But deep inside she feared that day would never come—because she loved him.
Yes, she admitted, despite knowing the futility of her acknowledgment. She loved the mysterious, handsome pirate king who had snatched her out of the darkness and into his arms and promptly stolen a kiss along with her heart. But it was the dictates of Society which had broken it, she decided. Those silly rules of pride and precedence her father would never, ever allow her to break. She was the daughter of a marquess. As such, she would marry royalty or as close to it as possible—or such had been his declaration.
From a tender age, Melisande had known precisely what her father expected of her and she had tried so very hard to give him what he wanted, to be a child he could be proud of, a woman he could admire.
She had tried—so very hard, but now...
Now, all she wanted was to forget the wasted years, to forget that her father was an impossible man to please, to forget class and station and expectations and instead spend the rest of her days with the scandalously exciting, sinfully beautiful, and utterly charming man who had somehow managed to make her see the world—and him—through different eyes.
Only with Tony was it perfectly acceptable to enjoy a scandalously wicked dance in darkened shadows outside a ballroom. Only Tony could have showed her the beauty of Vauxhall in a way that made the very trees unforgettable—or perhaps it had merely been his company which had made the leaves more vibrant, more alive? The flowers more abundant and infinitely more colorful? The day and every moment within it spent with him entirely more glorious?
Tears stung her eyes and, rising, she blinked them away.
She had no future with Tony; her love for him was a thing that could never be.
Forcing herself to move away from such thoughts, she hurried into the parlor and rang for tea. Claire would be here soon and she needed to prepare. There were so many things she needed to say, to explain, and to apologize for—things she could do and must do before she went away.
Settling herself on the settee to wait, she folded her hands in her lap and considered the scene she had witnessed while returning from her final assignation with Tony in the Rothwyn's gardens before Lady Phoebe's betrothal dinner.
While it may be true that she was destined never to find a happily ever after for herself, there was definitely hope for Claire. Aye, there was hope, and she would do this one last thing for her—she owed it to their friendship to do so. And then?
She would move on.
18
Morning had barely faded into early afternoon when Claire arrived at the townhouse. Melisande greeted her with what she hoped was her usual fervor and good cheer and then led her into the parlor to sip tea and nibble on freshly baked scones which they slathered with a delectable, warm strawberry jam while engaging in their usual catch-up chatter.
Soon, as Melisande had known it would, the conversation came around to Rothwyn and his sister's betrothal celebration.
“I should apologize for leaving without saying goodbye to you,” Claire admitted. Her face flushed with color and Melisande had to wonder if it were mirrored upon her own cheeks.
“There is no need to apologize, Claire, truly,” Melisande told her. She had departed shortly after the Leightons herself, but she said no more because Claire had sat her tea cup aside, folded her hands in her lap, and straightened her shoulders as if she were entering a confrontation zone which required an extra bolster for her courage.
“I have a terrible confession to make.”
“Confession?” Mel asked while carefully placing her own tea service on a more sturdy surface than her suddenly unsteady fingers allowed. She, too, had a bit of an admission to make but she was not at all certain now was the proper time to do so.
“He kissed me. It was weeks ago,” Claire blurted, and then hurried to explain, “and I—I did not say anything before because I did not think anything would come of it. I never believed things would progress as they have, Mel. But now…”
Her words trailed off and an icy cold dread started in Melisande's middle. She did not want to jump to conclusions but there was naught she could do to prevent an image of Tony engaged in an amorous embrace with Claire from flitting through her thoughts and…the chill slowly moved outward. She sucked in a quick breath. “Who kissed you?”
Claire's courage seemed to have failed her as surely as her ability to speak a name, though she did try. Her mouth worked in silence for a moment before, defeated, her gaze fell. Tears pooled in her eyes, wetting her lashes, and Melisande suddenly feared she, too, was a mere breath from becoming a sobbing, miserable mess.
“Come now,” she prompted. “It cannot have been as bad as all of that, surely?”
“It was the duke, Mel. Rothwyn,” she half whispered, and Melisande almost laughed aloud from the sheer force of her relief.
“He kissed me, Mel. Me,” Claire continued to explain, her expression pained. “And then, he kissed me again and he—he asked me to marry him. I—I am sorry, Mel. So very sorry.”
Claire covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them, but the only reaction Melisande could seem to dredge up at the moment was a silly grin. In fact, she was so relieved to learn the kiss Claire had received had not come from Tony, she could feel waves of nervous, giddy laughter bubbling up from a place deep inside her.
Hurriedly schooling her features, she patted Claire's shoulder consolingly. “There, there. All is well, Claire. Everything will be fine.”
Better than fine, Melisande thought, now that she was certain Tony was in no way involved in Claire's confession, but Claire shook her head vehemently in denial.
“Everything—is—not—fine!” she insisted. “You do not understand, Mel. I wanted so badly to say yes! I did not realize how very much I truly wanted to accept his proposal until the very moment he asked, Mel, but I could not do so because you and I, we—”
Understanding dawned and Melisande felt a quick stab of guilt. Claire had denied her heart, declined the duke's proposal because of her. She shook her head.
“We were foolish enough to think we could force our hearts to go where we lead them, that is all,” Melisande gently finished for her. She had been, in any case, but no more. Standing, she pulled Claire's hands away from her tear-stained eyes and tugged her up from the settee to her feet. “You needn't fret, Claire, and you will quiet yourself this instant, because I promise there is no reason for your tears.”
Giving Claire a little shake, she pressed on. “We both know I was never in love with the duke, Clai
re, but clearly you are and if you want Rothwyn, well then, you shall have him and I will hear no more about it.”
Claire's confusion echoed itself in her expression. “But—I don't understand, Mel. You were so excited, in the beginning, and then so adamant, I–”
A rosy flush spread across her cheeks. “That is why I went into the library during the betrothal celebration. You said you meant to have him, even if you had to resort to trickery, and I thought...”
“You believed I had the poor man cornered in the library and was merely waiting for the two of us to be discovered so that I might spring my trap?” Melisande grinned.
Puzzled suspicion filling her gaze, Claire peered at her. “Something like that, yes.”
Melisande winced. “Would it be terrible of me to admit I truly did consider it?”
Claire's crestfallen expression was answer enough. She chuckled. Motioning to the settee, Melisande encouraged her to sit again while she rang for more tea. “As long as we are sharing closely held secrets, there is something I, too, must confess.”
A servant brought tea and Melisande passed Claire a fresh cup before taking her own with her to a chair into which she settled herself carefully. When they were alone again, she asked, “Promise you will not be angry with me?”
“Of course.”
Keeping her gaze fastened on the amber liquid inside, Melisande ran her index finger around the delicate rim of her cup. “I have met someone. A man.”
Claire's eyes went wide. “And you did not tell me? But that is wonderful news! Why would I be angry?”
Melisande's brow went up into a sardonic arch.“Because during those many hours you've spent berating yourself for falling in love with the man I claimed to want as my own, I have been enjoying every possible moment with another?”
“Well, there is that.” Claire laughed. “Still, you must tell me everything! Who is this mystery fellow? Where did you meet him? Will I get an introduction soon? Of course I shall. Have the two of you set a date for the wedding?”
Melisande shook her head, denying the wistful thoughts even as they poured into her head. “Unfortunately, there is no glad news to share—for either my heart or my future. He is—he is not like us, Claire. He is untitled. A merchant captain, possibly, or a ship hand at the very least and you know as well as I that, even should I desire to do so, Father would never allow us to wed.”
“But—are you certain it is not merely a passing infatuation? You truly do love him?” Claire pressed and Melisande swallowed hard.
Nodding slowly because to do more would be akin to delivering a final, devastating blow to her already shattered heart, breaking it into pieces far too tiny to ever mend, she said, “Yes. Yes, I truly do love him, Claire.”
She got hurriedly to her feet and ran her hands along her skirts, fighting the urge to fist her hands in the material. Forcing a laugh, she said, “And that is precisely why you must not worry over accepting the duke's proposal, you see?”
Claire slowly sat her cup aside and clasped her hands in her lap. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Oh, Mel. I am so sorry.”
Melisande shook her head, denying her sympathy even as it was offered. “No, no. None of that. I shall be fine, you'll see.” She reached for Claire's hands and pulled her to her feet for a second time. “I've decided to go to Helena.”
“You're leaving England?”
“Surprising, is it not?” She laughed. “Had you told me I would be planning a trip to the island at the beginning of the Season, I would have been the first to declare you mad. But now—”
Melisande shook herself out of the daze she could feel herself slipping into. “I will spend a few weeks with Helena and the baby. Give my wounded heart time to heal.”
She drifted in thought for a moment, but then pointedly turned her attention back to Claire, her eyes narrowed in warning. “But I will most definitely return for your wedding—and there will be a wedding, Claire. There just has to be. Promise me.”
Claire's lips twisted, her expression wry, and she shrugged. “If he will have me now. I did refuse his proposal, after all. Perhaps I have wounded his pride so deeply he no longer wants me?”
“Oh, pooh,” Melisande said, waving away her concern. “Such a thing is not possible and you know it. Go to him. Explain why you refused him. He will understand, and I will be back in England to celebrate your nuptials before you can miss me!”
* * *
Despite being seemingly engaged in the conversation with Tony and her sister, Alaina could not help but notice when Lucien glanced at the mantel clock for the third time in as many minutes—and for the third time, he frowned.
“What could possibly be taking her so long?” he grouched. “Alaina, do run up and fetch your sister, please. I am certain Phoebe has had ample time to step into a proper dress for dinner and can join us now.”
“My word,” she grumbled, her eyes rolling in exasperation at her brother. “You would think you were about to succumb to starvation the way you are going on, Lucien. Give her a moment. Besides, Em and I are quite enjoying a few uninterrupted moments with Uncle Tony before someone arrives and sends him into hiding again.”
“Tony enjoys the shadows,” her brother said, and Alaina rolled her eyes yet again.
“He is likely tired of skulking in the shadows and before you interrupted, thank you, Your Grace, he was telling us about that girl Tristan was trying to save from the pirates—you know, the Marquess of Glenwood's hauntingly beautiful granddaughter? In case you weren't listening, Tony says she had the brightest blond hair he had ever seen and eyes so green they oftentimes appeared to glow. He says that she was very beautiful.”
Lucien grunted. “Tony is not your uncle. How many times must I—”
Alaina wanted to grit her teeth in frustration over how easily her thick-headed brother seemed to miss the true gist of a conversation. Instead, she merely waved away his completely unnecessary reminder.
“Of course he is not our uncle, Lucien, but we love him just the same. Anywho,” she continued, skipping back to her previous conversation, “I daresay even the marquess's lovely granddaughter would not hold a candle to Lady Claire. What do you think? Which is more fetching? Blond ringlets or soft, dark curls the color of a raven's wing?”
“I think you should mind your own business,” Lucien answered, a scowl once more pulling at his features.
“He prefers raven tresses, Alaina, or had you forgotten so swiftly that it was Claire to whom our brother proposed, after all. Not that Chelly girl.”
“Chelsea,” Tony corrected, amusement springing into both his tone and his eyes. “But do not let my correction remove us from the subject at hand, please.”
His eyes swung to meet Lucien's scowling gaze. Ignoring the warning in his eyes, Tony grinned, unrepentant. “You were saying, Emily? You can't mean to tell us your brother actually garnered nerve enough to propose?”
Emily nodded, and Tony turned to deliver a hardy clap of congratulations to Lucien's shoulder. “Well done, old man. I must confess I had quite begun to doubt you still had it in you. But never mind that. When should we expect the happy event to take place?”
“There will be no event, happy or otherwise,” Lucien grumbled. “Unfortunately, the lady declined.”
Alaina and Emily both blushed and ducked their heads in a moment of shared embarrassment for their brother, but Tony showed no such reservation. His mocking laughter rang out like the raucous cackling of a hen.
“Intelligent girl!” he said, once he managed to reign in his laughter.
“Oh, do hush, Tony,” Phoebe said as she swept into the room. “You know you would just as soon see Lucien happily settled as the rest of us. He is lonely. I think having a wife with which to spend his leisure hours would be good for him.”
“At last! It is so good of you to join us, Phoebe. Might we go in to dinner now?” Lucien asked, and though his tone was overly polite this time, his brows remained drawn down into what Alaina feared wa
s becoming a perpetual scowl, but no one paid him heed. Nor had Tony, apparently. His derisive snort at Phoebe's comment left no doubt for any who was listening what he thought of Lucien and his spending time—leisure or otherwise—with a woman.
“Provided you three ever give him an hour of leisure,” he teased. “With Phoebe's upcoming wedding, Tristan's upcoming trial, and both you girls' come-outs practically imminent, he might never enjoy a moment of ease in what few years remain of his miserable, misguided life!”
“And what of you, dearest Uncle?” Alaina needled back, one dainty brow arched high. “Now that Lady Melisande has left the country, how and with whom will you be spending your time?”
Tony visibly recoiled at her words.
In fact, Alaina thought, it was almost as if the news had hit him like an unexpected blow and she almost felt sorry for having delivered it so baldly.
Almost, but not quite.
Unrepentant, she offered him a cheeky grin.
“Perhaps you should have followed Lady Melisande home the way you followed her into our gardens a few days ago, hmm? Then I daresay you would have known she plans to spend the remainder of the Season with her friends Helena and Prince Simeon and their most beautiful daughter, Sabrienne. In Kozla,” she added pointedly, which was the rather childish equivalent, she belatedly realized, of having stuck out her tongue.
Lucien sighed at the continued useless banter. “If we are still not going to be allowed to go in to dinner, perhaps Phoebe would care to enlighten us as to the reason for her tardiness—inexcusable though it is likely to be?”
Emily turned to look pointedly at Phoebe, one brow arched high in question as if she were waiting for something specific. “Yes, please do tell, Pheebs, but quickly. Our brother is famished, it seems.”
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