by Allison Lane
Chapter Eight
Melissa jumped when a footman rapped sharply on her door. She and her grandmother were officially at home today, but callers should not arrive for another hour. Her maid exchanged words with the man.
“Lady Castleton asks that you hurry, milady,” Willis reported, rapidly twisting Melissa’s hair into a high knot that spilled wisps and curls around her face. “Lord Rathbone is in the gold drawing room.”
Melissa froze. Her second-worst nightmare. His mourning period had several weeks to run, so she had ceased worrying about him.
Lady Castleton would be furious if the truth came out. Melissa had lied by omission, implying that she had come straight to Castle Windcombe upon leaving home. Even worse, Melissa had demanded that she be judged on her own merits. Could Rathbone control his surprise when he recognized her? She hadn’t changed that much.
How should she greet him? she wondered as she descended. She must prevent all mention of the past.
Let him set the tone, Bea’s voice echoed. He was enough of a gentleman to wait until they were in private to bring up their mutual deceit, for exposure would harm him just as much. But intelligence had never been his strong suit, and she had no idea if shock might loosen his tongue. In that case, she would have to deflect the conversation and pray her very astute grandmother would not pounce on the ploy.
Had he changed? Her heart beat a little faster at the memory of his blond hair and aqua eyes. Few men compared favorably with his physique. And his kiss—
Entertaining such thoughts was unproductive. Infatuation with his admittedly handsome exterior would never do. At least she was no longer a hoydenish rustic. Her afternoon gown of green striped muslin set off her figure, its primrose ribbons emphasizing the amber highlights in her eyes and turning her hair to spun gold.
“What brings you to my door, Charles? You’ve not called in well over a year,” Lady Castleton was saying as Melissa approached the drawing room. It sounded as though they were still exchanging greetings, but the words confirmed that he was not the sort to pursue family obligations.
“I have been at Swansea, my lady,” he responded. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But one of my grandmother’s last requests was that I look in on you this Season, so here I am.”
“Dear Abigail,” said Lady Castleton sadly. “How I miss her. She was the best of my cousins.”
“We all miss her.”
He had done very well by her death, fumed Melissa, detecting a hint of ambivalence in his tone. Inhaling sharply to steady her nerves, she glided into the drawing room.
“There you are, Melissa,” exclaimed Lady Castleton. “You will recall that I recently lost my cousin, Lady Lanyard. This is her grandson, Charles, Lord Rathbone. My granddaughter, Lady Melissa Stapleton.”
* * * *
The moment Charles spotted the speculation in Lady Castleton’s eyes, he berated himself for acquiescing to his grandmother’s demands. But it was too late to back out, so he turned to the newcomer, determined to conclude this duty call as quickly as manners allowed, then wash his hands of them.
Shock drove all air from his lungs.
She was the image of his grandmother’s portrait. Tall. Golden. Voluptuous, yet innocent. His cravat dug into his neck. If the painting was fascinating, how much more was the living, breathing woman?
He forced his feet into motion and led her to a chair. “I had no idea the family was hiding such a beauty.”
“You sound a shocking flirt, my lord,” she murmured.
He was stunned. There was no other word for it. Her eyes were only inches below his own. His arms trembled with the effort to not drag her into an embrace. Dear Lord! He had never met a woman who affected him thus. It was all he could do to limit himself to a light kiss on her elegant hand.
To prevent the scandal succumbing to temptation would cause, he seated her and retired to lean against the mantel, a safe eight feet away. A deep breath allowed him to address commonplace remarks to Lady Castleton while he fought to regain his composure.
* * * *
Melissa saw that flash of recognition and the accompanying shock, but his greeting remained coolly formal. The familiar web of pretense closed around her, and she bit her lip in anger. This was not the same as the deceit they had perpetrated in the past. Once they managed a private word, they would agree to forget their earlier association.
Why had Lady Lanyard asked him to call? If the woman had known the truth, Charles would have inherited nothing. Gossip being what it was, everyone would have heard if he had been cut off.
With a start, she realized that Rathbone was talking and had been doing so for some time. It would not do to call attention to herself by woolgathering, which would pique Lady Castleton’s interest and bare the very scandal she sought to avoid.
“…your son not here?” he was asking.
“You know he hates London,” replied Lady Castleton. “He will not subject himself to town until Eleanor is ready to make her bows. Certainly not this Season.”
“I understand that your brother is Lord Drayton.” Charles turned to Melissa.
She sighed. “That is true, my lord, though thankfully he has no plans to come to town.”
“Thankfully, indeed. His weakness for wine and gaming is well known. The connection could mar your standing.”
“My own countenance has already countered such nonsense,” declared Lady Castleton. “But your support is welcome.”
“You have gentlemen to escort you?” he asked.
“Not this Season. My grandsons are otherwise occupied. Edwin is still at Oxford, and Henry stayed home to study estate operations. He will take over one of Castleton’s small holdings next fall.”
“It is a complicated subject. I have spent much of the past year doing the same.”
“You are interested in estate management?” asked Melissa.
Despite his claims, she had not believed he would actually involve himself in Swansea’s operation. It was more in Rathbone’s character to hire an efficient steward, leaving him free to pursue his indolent life in town.
Of course, he might be merely passing the time until mourning was over, though he had not even managed to do that. His bottle-green jacket fit tightly across muscular shoulders. Buff pantaloons clung to equally muscular thighs before disappearing into dazzling boots. His blond curls raged in deliberate dishevelment around his face. Even his indolent pose against the fireplace could not mask his athletic conditioning. Such casual elegance could be the model for Corinthians everywhere, but he displayed not the least hint of black. Not even an armband.
She shivered unexpectedly at the memory of being pressed against that masculine body.
“I must be.” His aqua eyes turned unexpectedly serious as she fought to recall the question he was answering. “Swansea has never been in good condition and needs considerable attention.”
“Do you enjoy the work?” she asked.
“More than I expected.” Surprise stabbed him, both at her question and at the continuing attraction she exerted for him. Her voice was pure velvet, stroking seductively across his skin. But attraction would never do, he reminded himself sharply. He could not seduce an innocent, especially one of his relatives. And he certainly could not court her. He must find Harriet.
“My uncle has a fascinating book that discusses Coke’s experiments at Holkham Hall. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I’ve studied it in detail. My former steward did not hold with new-fangled notions, as he called them, so I’ve had to learn everything on my own." He mentioned several specifics, launching a delightful exchange that lasted for some time.
“Will you be in town long?” asked Lady Castleton when the visiting hour approached.
“A fortnight, perhaps. Since you lack an escort, may I offer my services?” His words surprised him as much as Lady Castleton. Lady Melissa was frankly staring. His mind produced a string of oaths over such stupidity.
“That will be charming,” her ladyship accepte
d. “We attend the Sefton ball this evening. Would you care to dine with us first?”
“Delighted.”
The arrangements were quickly made, much to Melissa’s discomfort. What game was Charles playing? Surely he could not wish to continue their acquaintance beyond a duty call – unless he meant to maneuver a moment alone so they could agree to forget the past. Or maybe he would retaliate by embarrassing her in public.
But that was ridiculous. He knew that any attack would make her fight back. His own reputation was tarnished enough. Revealing his deceit would ruin him.
Melissa stifled all questions as the first of their callers was announced. Within minutes the drawing room was crowded with gossips, friends, and beaux. Unaccountably, Charles stayed for the entire at-home, his status as a distant cousin hardly stretching to cover this breach of good manners.
“How handsome you look today, George.” Melissa smiled an hour later as Lord Rufton bowed over her hand. “Is that a new waistcoat?”
“Yes, it is,” he admitted, his eyes lighting as he took in her own appearance. “Beautiful, as always, my dear.”
“I will become hopelessly conceited if you continue such exaggerations,” she countered lightly.
“Fustian. Have you heard the latest? Kemble is retiring from the stage.”
“Oh, no! He will be missed.”
“His farewell appearance will be next week. Would you like to attend?”
“Very much. Make the arrangements with Grandmama. Who else will be in the party?”
“I thought to ask the Hartfords and possibly another couple. But who should I include to balance numbers?”
“Perhaps my cousin. He just arrived in town. Are you acquainted?” She gestured at Charles, who was exchanging on-dits with Lady Debenham.
“Yes, but I had no idea you were related.” He frowned.
“Only distantly. Our respective grandmothers were cousins. Despite that he remains in mourning, he will escort us during his brief visit to town.”
George was still frowning, but had no right to object to the arrangement, so he held his tongue.
Charles fended off Lady Debenham’s curiosity even as his eyes returned to Lady Melissa. Why did he find her so intriguing? The attraction went beyond her similarity to his grandmother’s portrait. He was too old to be taken in by a pretty face and had never been interested in the annual influx of young girls, though at nineteen she could hardly be compared to the twittering seventeen-year-olds that flooded London every Season – he grimaced at the reminder that Harriet would be barely seventeen, if that. Lady Melissa seemed at ease, surrounded by admiring swains.
It took him a moment to identify why the scene seemed odd. Though Lady Melissa qualified as a diamond, and at least six gentlemen were staring as if they would devour her, she affected none of the airs of an Incomparable. Where was her conceit? She did not play her suitors off against one another, made no move to create competition between them, and derided no one. Even Lord Ampleigh, whose ample girth and innate shyness repelled many young ladies despite his title and fortune, was laughing and teasing with the rest.
Charles excused himself from Lady Debenham’s side when Matt Crawford arrived. They had long been close friends.
“It’s been an age, Matt.” Charles led him to a relatively quiet corner.
“You begged off your usual rounds last fall,” Matt reminded him.
“My grandmother fell ill.” Charles shrugged. “I would not be here now if she had not commanded me to leave off mourning after three months and look after her cousin.”
“And who might that be?”
“Lady Castleton, of course. That is why I am here. I only arrived last night.”
“Ah." Matt looked speculatively at Charles. “So the delectable Lady Melissa is your cousin. I am amazed that you have not already snapped her up. She is your type.”
“Hardly.” But his loins protested the lie. “My tastes do not run to innocent maidens, as you well know. Nor had I met her before today. Her brother is definitely not my type.”
“Nor mine, though at one time we were friends,” admitted Matt. “I attended a month-long house party at his estate last summer that included a card sharp. Not an experience I care to repeat.”
“Who?”
Matt shook his head. “You know better than that, Charles. Without proof, I cannot blacken any man’s reputation.”
“No wonder Lady Melissa moved in with her grandmother,” murmured Charles to himself. Something nagged at the edges of his mind, but he could not bring it into focus. He hoped she had left upon the death of her father. If she had been in her brother’s keeping at the time of that house party, publicizing it would tarnish her reputation. Who had been dishonorable enough to cheat at cards? He could understand Matt’s reluctance to name names, for such a charge would ostracize the perpetrator. And without proof, Matt would face a duel and the blackening of his own name. But Charles could not let the incident die. Somehow he would discover the villain and bring him to justice. It should not be difficult to learn who had attended that party.
“Yes, she has suffered from association with such a weak, dissipated fool,” agreed Matt, not pretending to have missed the aside. “But those who know her will never hold it against her. She is a delightful young lady and will make a wonderful wife.”
“You sound infatuated. Are you pursuing her yourself?” asked Charles.
“No. We would not suit. But I consider her a friend.”
Charles let his eyes return to Lady Melissa. Lord Rufton was taking his leave, his eyes betraying how much he cared for her. Hers also contained warmth.
Rufton was an unexceptionable suitor, heir to an earldom and wealthy in his own right. The rest of her court was another matter. Ampleigh was unworthy of such a beauty. Thornhill didn’t count, for he would not settle down for years. Parkington, though… As the younger son of a baron, he was far beneath her touch.
Charles scowled at the arrival of Lord Graffington. Here was another whose eyes betrayed interest, but he was not an acceptable suitor. Too many black deeds lurked in his past, and not just his unrestrained raking. Graffington delighted in roughness and had been banned from several quality brothels in consequence, though that was not common knowledge. Charles only knew about it because he had witnessed Graffington being ejected from Madame Filette’s for injuring one of the girls.
He forced his attention back to Matt. “You decided that you would not suit in the short time she’s been in town?”
“Of course not. I’ve known her for years. As I said, her brother used to be a friend.”
How was he to discourage Graffington? wondered Charles as he turned the conversation to horses and last month’s mill near Dover. Whether the man was serious or not was irrelevant. It would not do for him to hover around her. His mere presence could damage her reputation.
It never crossed his mind to wonder why he felt responsible for her future. He paid not the slightest attention to any of his other relatives.
Matt took his leave after arranging to drive Melissa in the park. Charles grimaced when Lord Englewood arrived. There was another who was unworthy of the lady – a prosy bore who dampened the spirits of everyone around him.
By the end of the afternoon, Charles had decided to spend the entire Season in London. Before he returned for dinner, he sold the last of Swansea’s paintings, then rented a dilapidated room whose only virtue was its proximity to Mayfair.
* * * *
Melissa enjoyed the afternoon once she realized that Charles would not bring up their sordid past. She deliberately steered her eyes away from his sartorial splendor, and concentrated on her suitors. Not much had changed in two weeks. She still could not summon the excitement for any of them that might grow into love.
George headed the list, as he had from the first, though the glow he raised was naught but friendship. Perhaps it was his unprepossessing appearance that kept her heart from pounding. His bright blue eyes were his best feature, but
it was difficult to develop paroxysms of pleasure over a stocky physique topped by a mop of red hair, especially when compared to tall muscularity and blond curls.
Stop it! she admonished herself. She was not such a shallow ninny that she judged a man by his shell! But she had to concede that George did not raise thrills. And she refused to admit that Charles did.
Lord Graffington was new to her court but she found him intriguing. He had a delightful sense of humor that had lightened several boring evenings, including Lady Osterley’s dull musicale two days earlier. And he was certainly pleasant to look at – tall and blond, with warm brown eyes. Perhaps too warm. He exuded the same powerful masculinity she had noticed in Heflin and Charles.
The other regulars were mostly friends. None would make an acceptable husband, but none was shopping for a wife so there was little danger from enjoying their company.
Matt Crawford fit neither category. Though he only occasionally approached her, she often felt his eyes on her, almost in a paternal way.
Charles was the last to leave, promising to return for dinner. Whatever his game, she must distance herself from him. He was not a man she could ever accept, yet he still exerted an unwanted attraction on her. She feared where it might lead.
“I cannot believe you encouraged Lord Rathbone to accompany us,” Melissa protested when everyone was gone. “The man is an unprincipled libertine whose presence can only tarnish my reputation.”
“Nonsense!” scoffed Lady Castleton. “It is true that he sowed his oats with abandon when younger, but he is now seven-and-twenty. It is time he married and settled down. He inherited a considerable fortune from my cousin. You could hardly do better, dear.”
“Absolutely not,” stated Melissa, horrified at the direction her grandmother’s thoughts had moved. “I’ll not wed a libertine no matter what his fortune. Don’t encourage him. I would hate to have to repudiate him publicly.”
Lady Castleton agreed, but with a look in her eye that Melissa mistrusted. It gave her yet another worry, for she had never expected her rigidly proper grandmother to dismiss such obvious faults.