by Allison Lane
Now those final words reverberated through her head with new meaning. See that Charles does something useful with his life … You will know where his interests and abilities lie … Take care of him…
And she had agreed. Oh, she had worded her response so that she would be under no obligation to see him again, but the situation had changed. Was she reneging on an oath by abandoning him now? There had been little reason for an informed Lady Lanyard to expect them to meet again. She must have guessed that Harriet/Melissa would never seek him out. So why extract the promise?
But, of course! That was the purpose of the codicil. The other provisions were naught but obfuscation. Its raison d’être was to tell Charles where to find Harriet. It was to be opened in nine months, giving him three months to woo her, and giving Melissa time to grow into a copy of Lady Lanyard.
What a wretchedly devious lady! She must have known of his infatuation with the portrait, but to assure his interest, she had attached the fortune to Melissa’s person, expecting his charm and address to easily win her hand once he put forth the effort. Perfect wife…
But it was too late. He had shown all too clearly where his priorities lay. Even if she could trust his love, she could never crawl back to beg his forgiveness. Her own behavior deserved contempt.
And so she and her grandmother returned to Devon.
Lady Castleton continued to be supportive. She did not press for an explanation, accepting the broken betrothal and already talking of returning to London the next Season. By then, the gossip would have died and Melissa would be an even bigger success. Melissa agreed, but without enthusiasm. The prospect sounded appalling. She did not want another Season. She wanted Charles…
She returned again to his lust for a fortune. Was it inherently evil? Charles had a responsibility to his tenants and employees. All landowners did. Some controlled the lives of thousands of dependents. And that required money – for upkeep, wages, modernization, local industries. She could hardly condemn him for spending some on himself or for living in town like other lords. She had seen no evidence of waste in his life. Granted, he had nothing to throw away, but that hadn’t stopped many another. She did not like to believe he would suddenly turn profligate after so many years of care.
So money itself was not the problem.
But she could not eliminate the possibility that his courtship was all pretense. If he had lied about loving her just to reap a fortune, life would soon become a living hell. She would rather live without him than face the scorn he had directed at her in the beginning.
Determinedly drying her eyes, she crossed to the window. It was time her wayward body accepted reality. She would never see Charles again. She couldn’t.
Bright summer sunshine turned the lawn to an emerald carpet as roses blazed red and white in contrast. One year ago today, a fierce storm had stranded a terrified young innocent in a country inn.
Forcing aside the memories, she directed her thoughts to the future.
What was she to do? Uncle Howard was disgruntled at her return, growing testier by the day. Broken betrothals did not exist in his world. She was a disgrace, someone to be hidden away when people came to call. And the situation was even worse than he knew, for she had finally admitted to herself that she was with child. She had denied it for as long as possible, making excuse after excuse – her system was upset from the emotional beating she had taken; traveling home from London had thrown her off schedule; the hectic pace of the Season had wearied her – but she could no longer avoid the truth. Her hand slid across her still-flat stomach. A child was growing inside. Charles’s child.
What had possessed her to indulge in intimacy before marriage? It ran contrary to all convention, to all morality, to everything she had ever believed in. Yet she had not only allowed it, she had actually encouraged it. Scarlet stained her from head to toe. It certainly belied his charge that she was pompous. Even fear and embarrassment could not banish the memories, raising again the constant yearning to be back in his arms. And she could never blame him. It had not been seduction. She had offered no word of protest, instead begging for more and doing things that he had already warned her would make him lose control.
What was she to do? Again her fingers verified that no one could yet guess. Her grandmother would be shocked to discover how wanton Melissa had proven. Uncle Howard would ban her from his estate. A broken betrothal was nothing compared to bearing a bastard child. Even Lady Castleton’s patience would not extend that far. Melissa had demanded they judge her on deeds, so she could only accept their verdict.
Lady Lanyard would have understood, she knew in a flash of insight. She had warned against this very thing. And the self-confident Harriet had sworn that such a fall from grace would never happen. Perhaps her ladyship had learned the hard way, succumbing to blandishment during the months she awaited marriage to an elderly stranger.
But she was digressing. This was one problem that would not resolve itself. She must find a refuge before her condition became known.
She could not go to Charles. If he thought her deceitful for trying to withhold his inheritance, what would he think if she consented to marriage just to give her child a name? Their mutual recrimination would inject a festering canker into their relationship that must eventually destroy them. Never would they recapture the passion they had shared. She would rather be ostracized than endure a life of strained distrust with one she loved so dearly.
But she must leave. As she watched the roses nodding in the summer breeze, she made her decision. There was one place she could go that would not raise suspicion and that was far enough removed to conceal her child. She examined the plan from all sides, then nodded and sought out Lady Castleton.
“I cannot endure this another minute,” she announced baldly.
“What, Melissa?”
“Idleness is driving me crazy,” she declared. “I must find something to occupy my time. I will never be able to put this behind me if I do nothing but brood.”
“Did you have a particular activity in mind?” she asked.
“Actually, I did. I thought a visit to my cousin might help. She has often spoken of America. Her home is in Baltimore, which is quite civilized. A few months in her company would drive away these blue devils, and I could return for the Season relaxed and refreshed.”
Her grandmother surprised her by agreeing, even to her offer to make the arrangements when she went into Exeter to purchase traveling clothes. Melissa would sail the following month.
* * * *
Lady Castleton frowned long after Melissa left the room. She did not know what had happened, but it was more than time those two patched up their differences. That Melissa loved Charles was obvious. Nothing else would drive her from the country. And it was equally obvious that he cared for her. His daily letters continued, despite every snub. They were ideal for each other, but Melissa was mired in stubborn pride.
She reread the last missive she had received from Lady Lanyard. Abigail spoke of her fears for Charles’s future, her impressions of Melissa, and her wish that they marry to rejoin two branches of Lady Tanders’s family. How Abigail had arrived at her conclusions was unclear, but the weeks in London had confirmed her cousin’s shrewd judgment. It was now up to her to see that the wedding took place.
But Melissa could never be bullied into receiving him. Her pride would not allow it. So she must be tricked.
Nodding her head, Lady Castleton laid her own plans.
Chapter Eighteen
Melissa examined her cramped cabin and grimaced. This was the best accommodation the packet offered? Two months in such a confined space already seemed daunting. A narrow bunk, a tiny washstand, a single chair, her traveling trunk. Most of her luggage would remain in the hold until she arrived in Baltimore.
A wave of weariness washed over her, and she sighed. She really ought to go up on deck for one last look at England, but she was too tired. Her efforts to appear normal, despite the morning sickness and exhaus
tion of her condition, had worn her to the bone. Thank God, she could finally abandon pretense and be herself.
“Go find your own quarters,” she ordered Willis. “I will rest a while.”
“Yes, milady.”
Willis was the only one who knew everything. Melissa had lied to Lady Castleton right through their farewells, babbling about what they would do during the coming Season, speculating on who from her court would be back.
Lies. She was sick of lies. She determinedly blinked away her sudden tears. There would be no second Season. She was not going to America to visit Beatrice. She was moving there for life.
Her heart twisted again over the decision, but she had no choice. To return, she must give up this child, but that was impossible. It was all of Charles she would ever have. Even visiting England would never work, for it risked seeing him again. The pain of a confrontation would kill her. Once she was gone, he would accept defeat and follow the time-honored method of repairing his fortunes. His charm would win him an heiress. And if he accomplished the deed quickly, he would recoup a quarter of Lady Lanyard’s wealth. If he convinced Edwards he loved the chit, he might even get half. She did not want to hear about it. She didn’t even want to think about it.
She had made her own travel arrangements, booking as the widow, Mrs. Sharpe. It would protect her child from the stigma of bastardy and would allow her to claim a connection to Beatrice, whose mother was born a Sharpe. It was the last lie, but a necessary one.
Charles’s face again hovered before her. His every touch returned to haunt her. Unquenchable tears flowed, and she wept long and hard, finally falling into exhausted slumber.
* * * *
Charles had been at Swansea for two months. The number of critical chores was daunting, but he didn’t care. It was all that kept him from Bedlam.
Images of Melissa tormented him day and night. He no longer cared why she had deceived him. He wanted only to hold her in his arms and love her. But the prospects grew dimmer each day. Fifty returned letters sat on his desk, taunting him every time he entered his study. What had he done to deserve this?
You were selfish, whispered a voice. And arrogant. And it was true. Even the way he had humbled himself to convince her to wed him was selfish. He had analyzed her objections, then adopted positions to counter them. Despite his words, he had not always believe in what he was saying. The irony was that he now did. He had become so intimately involved in Swansea that he was wholeheartedly following his own prescription for its future.
Selfishness had also underlain his other behavior. It was the only explanation for his frequent abandonment of honor to press attentions on her. Pleasure and passion were not excuses. No gentleman would behave thus. But he had rarely thought beyond the moment. And he had ruined her as surely as if he had ravished her. If she would not return to him, she was doomed. No other man would accept her to wife.
But that was not behind his continued campaign to win her back, for his thinking was changing. He still needed her desperately, so selfish desire played a role. But he would make no attempt to coerce her in the future. She must eventually consent to talk to him. He would state his case calmly, without pretense, then accept her decision as final. If she refused him again, he would somehow learn to cope. And it would be no more than his just desserts for all the lies he had told.
He had nearly given up hope of having that opportunity when a missive arrived from Lady Castleton. Fear for Melissa set his hand shaking. But fear turned to cold chills as he read—
Lord Rathbone,
My granddaughter has decided to visit relatives in America. She will be sailing on 29 August from Southampton aboard the Western Star, an American ship out of Baltimore. I have the uncomfortable impression that she does not plan to return.
I do not know what caused this rift, but this may be your last chance to repair things. Regardless of her claims, she must regret the current situation. Though she has refused every letter and will not speak your name, I still hear her crying long into the night.
Lady Castleton
I despise you! Her voice echoed as it had done thousands of times since that quarrel. Was it true, or was pride driving her away? Leaving might be her way of circumventing a weakened will. If she felt she might give in, it was conceivable that she would run instead. She was as stubborn a miss as he had ever encountered.
But he loved her so…
He was at least as stubborn as she, he reminded himself grimly. This was his chance. And so he laid his plans.
* * * *
A thump awakened Melissa from her slumbers. It took a moment to identify her surroundings. A louder thump reverberated through the floor, accompanied by creaking. Her bunk lurched.
They were under sail, she realized, gingerly rising. Another lurch tumbled her into the washstand, her fingers clawing at the raised edges until she regained her balance. Could she endure two months of this?
It was a little late to ask that, she admitted as her stomach turned over. The mirror reflected white cheeks and terrified eyes. It was going to be a long trip.
The next lurch drained the last remnant of color from her face. The eyes in the mirror stared accusingly. Her vision blurred. Gasping, she looked again. A pale face. Two faces.
She was losing her mind. Dizzily blinking, she focused once more. Nothing had changed. Beyond her own ghostly image floated one of Charles.
“Melissa?” he whispered.
She whipped around, nearly falling as the floor tilted.
Charles swore her eyes lit with joy before she clamped her face into anger. His heart soared.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded harshly.
“Sailing to Baltimore.”
“Why?” She clutched her throat.
“Because the only lady I can ever love is going there.” He sighed. “We must talk, Melissa. If you won’t consent to talk now, I swear that some time in the next two months you will.” His heart was pounding so hard he thought he might faint, but he kept a tight rein on himself. Neither anger nor passion must intrude if he hoped to win.
“Why must you hound me?” she cried.
He winced. “Melissa. I love you more than life. Without you I am nothing. I have no desire to hurt you. But we need to go back to the beginning and discover how we reached this pass. Afterward, if you still wish me to Hades, I will never disturb you again.”
“How? It would seem I’m stuck with you for two months.”
“You needn’t be.” He had to force the words out. “This ship calls at Le Havre before crossing the Atlantic. I can be gone by tonight.”
She relaxed, sending fear through his soul. The boat dipped and she stumbled against him, his arms closing automatically around her. Dear God, she felt so good!
“No!” she glared, pulling away. She had feared seeing him again, for he could cajole her into anything. But he was right. If there was a chance that she had misjudged him, she must explore it. His other charge had echoed far too often – expect others to behave as paragons… No one was perfect, as Bea had often reminded her. Sometimes she still forgot. “If it is a discussion you want, then we will talk. But you will not touch me again. It distorts reason.” Dear Lord, how well she knew that, but if he kept his distance, she could think.
He sighed. “Sit down, Melissa.” He pointed to the bunk, seating himself on the chair, far enough away that he could not reach her.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, sipping water to help her suddenly dry mouth. Now that she was over the initial shock, she could see the changes. He was thinner, with marks of pain and unhappiness marring his face. They resurrected the worst of her own pain, but she stifled her emotions, determined to judge impartially.
“I booked as Mr. Sharpe to get the adjoining cabin,” he admitted, pointing to a door that she had assumed was a wardrobe.
“More deceit?” She sighed.
“No more than yours, Mrs. Sharpe,” he countered.
She blushed. “Touch
é.”
“Tell me of your brother’s house party,” he said quietly. “That is the real beginning, isn’t it? Matt admitted what he did, and you mentioned Heflin’s advances once before. Now I want to know the rest.”
“Very well.” She related the entire sorry tale.
“So that is why you were traveling as Harriet Sharpe.”
“Yes. I feared that Toby would be so desperate that he would try to follow and drag me back. I had left a note implying that I was going home with Beatrice, and we believed that the other charade would protect our escape. Beatrice’s mother was born Harriet Sharpe. It made the names seem more natural.”
“So you were not trying to trick me,” he murmured.
“Of course not!” she snapped. “Why would I? I knew nothing of you when we first met. You were merely a drunken stranger knocking on my door.”
“You knew about the Willingfords,” he reminded her.
“I had forgotten.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t until you talked about your accident and mentioned the estate the next morning that I remembered the gossip. If I had not already given my word, I’d have turned you down then. The last thing I needed was to fall into the clutches of another Heflin.”
“How did you learn of Lady Willingford’s character?”
“She trapped me into covering her affair with a neighbor when I was thirteen. I had been studying with their daughters – my only means of acquiring any social training. But after months of enduring her threats and her husband’s inquisitions, I quit the lessons and gave up all thought of becoming a proper lady.”
“You have been badly used by everyone, it seems,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But we digress. You were traveling as Harriet Sharpe to escape your brother. But you had already eluded him. Why continue the deceit with me?”