Except hope he hadn’t been recognized. If he had…he didn’t know what he would do.
He knew what he should do. Knew what he might have to do, but a sliver of hope remained that he would get out of this fix. Come up with a good story, get her swiftly and silently out of London, let Edward find a way to set her up respectably. There were always men about who would marry a ruined girl for suitable compensation.
The idea disgusted him, but what choice was there?
He slouched in the opposite corner from Melinda. It was only a matter of time before she saw him properly. Would she recognize him? He didn’t frequent the venues where one was likely to find innocent young ladies, but there was still plenty of talk—mostly matchmaking mamas warning their daughters against him.
For the moment, he would take her home and put her into the hands of his housekeeper, Mrs. Timms. That efficient woman would give her something for the headache. He would ask Mrs. Timms to purchase Melinda a few necessities, and by noon they should be able to leave for Sussex.
Ten minutes later, the coach drew up in front of his house. She opened heavy-lidded eyes and groaned.
“We’ve arrived,” Miles said. “Now all we have to do is get you indoors without being seen.”
She frowned. “Where are we?”
Was that a frown of recognition? So far, he saw no sign of terror or disgust. If only he could get her safely indoors before she realized into whose clutches she’d fallen.
“This is my house,” he said. “Mrs. Timms, my housekeeper, will take care of you. She’s a highly respectable woman, so you needn’t worry.” He let the window down, wishing it weren’t so light already, wishing he carried a key to the door at the foot of the area stairs, so it might appear that he escorted a maidservant, not a lady. Dallying with one’s servants was frowned upon, but even the highest sticklers wouldn’t expect him to marry one of them.
He handed his front door key to Jem. “Open the door. I have to get her inside quickly.”
Tradesmen’s boys had already begun their morning errands. Down the street, one of Miles’s neighbors wove drunkenly home after a night of debauchery—in the other direction, thank God. “Your hair is too recognizable,” he told Melinda. “Can you put up your hood and hurry straight into the house?” He opened the carriage door, hopped out, and put down the steps.
She fumbled with the hood, then stopped short with a tiny sound of distress. Impatient, he reached out to help her, but drew back. He mustn’t do anything to make her mistrust him more than she already did. More than she already would when she realized who he was.
She moaned. “I don’t think . . . She clutched her belly. “Oh no, I’m going to be—” She scrambled for the door.
He caught her, half in and half out. She retched once, twice, and was violently ill onto the pavement. She moaned again. The moan trailed away into a whimper, then she hung still.
Miles drew her into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder. She had swooned. He tried to pull the hood over her hair, but it didn’t cover enough.
“Somebody had too much to drink?” Miles’s cousin and heir, Colin Warren, appeared from behind the coach. That was all right; he could trust Colin.
“Help me, will you? Cover the girl with this blanket.”
Colin goggled. “But that’s—”
“The lovely, innocent Melinda Starling.” A tall, thin fellow called Toup, one of Colin’s more dissolute associates, came into view. “And that well-known ravisher of gently-bred maidens, Lord Garrison.”
Bloody hell. If he’d had a free hand to plant Toup a facer . . . But it didn’t matter what anyone said about Miles Garrison. It had already been said, and said so often, that it blew away like so much chaff in the wind. Melinda’s reputation was what mattered now. Miles gave up hope of escaping this predicament lightly. He resigned himself to the worst.
Toup leered. “She’s not so innocent any more, I’ll wager.”
“If you value your life,” Miles growled, “you’ll watch what you say about my betrothed.”
Toup gaped at him, muttering an apology. He left in a hurry, agog with the news, while Colin followed Miles into the house. “You’re going to marry Melinda Starling?”
“Yes, damn you.” Before Colin could start asking questions Miles wasn’t quite ready to answer, he said, “Go wake up Mrs. Timms. Tell her I’m putting Miss Starling in the best guest chamber. Tell her she’s had a blow to the head and been unwell . . .” When Colin still stared at him in astonishment, he said, “Just do it, will you?” and turned for the stairs.
Colin went, shaking his head, and Miles carried Melinda up the two flights to a small bedchamber at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. She was so light, so pale, reminding him once again of a fragile little bird. She wasn’t fragile, though—something fierce and determined, something proud within her aroused his admiration.
How could her grandmother simply abandon her? And why?
He laid Melinda on the bed and adjusted the blanket over her. He had no choice but to marry her. He didn’t want to—didn’t want to marry at all—but it was the only way to save her reputation. And his. He was no hypocrite; he admitted that much of his motive was selfish. If he didn’t do right by Melinda Starling, he would have to leave England in utter disgrace.
She wasn’t going to like it any more than he did. She’d wiped his kiss away, feared his advances . . . When she learned who he was, it would be far, far worse.
Like every other woman, she wouldn’t even consider that he might have had good reason to jilt Desiree Sibley, all those years ago. He came from a long line of disreputable peers known for cheating and debauchery, and he’d spent his first few London seasons flaunting voluptuous actresses and holding orgies with Colin and his friends. Naturally, people believed the worst of him—particularly as recounted with tears and drama by Lady Eudora Darwin, Desiree’s cousin and daughter of a pompous but impoverished earl. Only Colin’s insistence on the truth of Miles’s story had saved him from complete social anathema. The sticklers amongst the men and almost all the women had shunned him at the time, and many still did.
If Melinda repudiated the engagement, not only the women but well-nigh everyone would consider him forever unredeemable. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that she was unlikely to reject him. Earlier this evening she’d seemed a managing, decisive sort of character, one who knew her own mind, but even women with their reputations intact didn’t lightly spurn offers of marriage from wealthy peers. Rejecting him would seal her ruin, whilst marrying him would provide her with both material comfort and respectability. As for acceptance, it was hard to say, but perhaps they could both regain some degree of approval by society. He would do what he could to ensure her happiness.
She’d wanted to marry for love. A pity, but that was now impossible.
He couldn’t play at wooing her as a lover, with pretty speeches and promises of everlasting passion. He wasn’t such a fool anymore, and it wouldn’t be fair. Something had happened to him when Desiree had betrayed him. Not that he’d been an effusive sort even before meeting her; he’d been brought up by lazy, indifferent servants and had rarely seen his absent parents, so he was more or less a stranger to affection. Passion for Desiree—also a beautiful redhead—had taken him by surprise, and afterward… If he had to describe it, he would say a cold pair of hands had closed itself about his heart. He cared about nothing and no one and preferred it that way.
He would have to use what powers of persuasion remained to him. He was long out of practice when it came to dealing with gently-bred maidens, but he’d always been considered good-looking, and he’d once had considerable address.
“Lord Garrison!” Mrs. Timms bustled into the bedchamber, followed by Colin. Her eyes darted immediately to the still figure on the bed, then back to Miles. She curtsied.
“Mr. Warren tells me you’ve brought your betrothed?” She sounded astonished, even disbelieving, and who could blame her? “I knew nothing of her impending arrival, or I should have prepared.”
“I didn’t know either, Mrs. Timms. We were planning to drive to Sussex to her brother’s home, but she had a nasty knock on the head last evening, which caused her to swoon. I think she may have a concussion, for she was extremely sick just outside the front door, and she has swooned again.”
“Tsk,” the housekeeper said. A maid appeared in the doorway with a pile of linens. Mrs. Timms went briskly into action, ordering the maid to fetch a nightdress, water for washing, and a warming pan with coals from the kitchen. She flapped open one of the folded sheets. “Lift your young lady, my lord, but gently, very gently, and I’ll make the bed. Those who’ve had a knock on the head such as that need to lie still and rest.”
Miles did as she said, thankful his housekeeper had taken him at his word. She wouldn’t disobey him, but he couldn’t tolerate disapproval or stiff, cold-hearted treatment of Melinda, particularly after what she had suffered from her grandmother . . .
Why had the old lady behaved so cruelly? What had Melinda done to deserve being left out in the street?
Mrs. Timms’s voice roused him from his thoughts. “Lay her down now, my lord. If you and Mr. Warren would be so kind as to leave the room, I shall undress her and put her to bed. Ah, there you are, Polly. Thank you. Now go fetch that warming pan. Good Lord Almighty, what sort of gown is this?”
“It’s a costume for a masquerade at Almack’s. The Greek goddess Athena, I believe.”
“Tsk,” said Mrs. Timms again, dipping a cloth in the pan of warm water the maid had brought and wringing it out. “Such heathen nonsense, but it’s a very pretty costume, and what lovely hair she has, your Miss . . . ?”
Yes, he had no choice but to reveal her name. “Starling—Melinda Starling. Should I send for a doctor, do you think?”
Mrs. Timms felt Melinda’s forehead and took her pulse from one limp wrist. “She has no fever, and her heart beats firmly, so I think not. She is a little chilled, though, so if you will please leave the room, my lord, I shall get her into a warm bed.” Gently, she wiped Melinda’s face and the stray strands of hair sticking to it. “She’ll need a bath for certain, but not until she is somewhat recovered.”
He and Colin made their way down one flight to Miles’s library and a decanter of brandy.
“You and Melinda Starling,” Colin said. “It’s hard to believe. Apart from Stephen, they’re a damned starched-up family.” He tossed back the brandy and held out his glass for more. “I thought you’d vowed never to wed.”
“So did I.” Miles didn’t quite believe it either, perhaps because he still had hopes it might prove to be untrue. He refilled Colin’s glass and then his own. “I suppose someone must pass on the family name, stained though it is. I had hoped you might spare me the necessity, but since you’ve made it clear you won’t, it’s up to me.”
Colin snorted. “You don’t give a damn about the name and nor do I. You’d better tell me what really happened. God knows what sort of story Toup will spread about town, and it will be up to me to counter it with a better one.”
Miles lowered himself to the sofa. “I don’t care what Toup says.”
“That’s all very well for you,” Colin said, “but I don’t relish going about defending your honor. It was bad enough last time.”
Miles suffered the rush of gratitude mixed with shame that he always felt when recalling what Colin had done for him. He hadn’t asked for it—he would never ask another man to perjure himself—but Colin had cheerfully backed up Miles’s story as if he’d really been a witness and would have done so in court, if it had come to that.
“It will be far worse if she decides not to accept me.” Miles proceeded to tell Colin about the evening’s events, punctuated by the pouring and drinking of more brandy. Not too much, though. He had a journey to Sussex to prepare for as well as an extremely sober talk with Melinda.
“Unbelievable,” Colin said when Miles was done. “Why wouldn’t that old bat let Melinda into the house? Admittedly, she’s a dreadful harridan, but she’s such a stickler for propriety, you’d think she would do anything to protect the pristine Starling name.” He chuckled. “A Starling marrying a Warren. God, it’s the jest of the century.”
It was indeed, if one were in the mood to laugh. As children, he and Colin had taken perverse pride in their long line of disreputable ancestors, which included libertines, swindlers, and possibly a murderer (although nothing was ever proven). Miles’s own father, after causing innumerable scandals, had been killed in a gaming hell brawl.
Whereas the Starlings were considered an ideal example of the landed gentry. Even Stephen, who’d been something of a rake before his marriage, had managed his affairs with finesse. Edward had a quick temper and a punishing left, but that was viewed as manly in a man of impeccable family. Their father, by what Miles recalled of him, had been a loud, stiff-rumped bore. The mother was a good-looking redhead of whom he knew very little, but that was obviously where Melinda had got the hair.
Colin wandered off to his lodgings to get some sleep, and Miles went in search of Mrs. Timms. “How is she?”
“She is asleep, my lord, but somewhat restless. That is only to be expected, but I’ve set one of the maids to keep watch.”
“Send someone to buy Miss Starling some clothing and whatever other necessities are required for a short journey. I’ll be driving her down to her brother’s estate in Sussex as soon as she wakes. We must leave by noon at the very latest.”
Mrs. Timms’s eyes widened. She tsked. “Oh, dear me, no, my lord.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She must be kept completely still, not jolted about in a coach. If we move her, she will get worse rather than better. She must rest, my lord. There is no question about it.”
Damn and blast, but Mrs. Timms’s grave face convinced him. He couldn’t even keep his promise to drive Melinda straight to Sussex, except at the risk of her life. “We’ll wait until she’s better, but go ahead with purchasing her some clothing.”
“I shall try, my lord, but at such short notice I shall be hard-pressed to find anything suitable for the bride of a viscount.” She frowned up at him, clearly bursting to ask why Melinda had no trunks and no maid, how he’d come to bring her to his bachelor household, why she was about to travel alone with him, what her family were about to allow any of the foregoing, and a dozen other questions as well.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just buy something serviceable, at second-hand if you must.”
“But, my lord—”
“Do as I ask, Mrs. Timms.” He turned away before she trespassed further upon her status as a servant, albeit a valued one, thus obliging him to be harsh with her. As long as she kept her mouth shut and did as she was told, Mrs. Timms could wonder and speculate all she liked. None of that would matter once the wedding had taken place.
If there was a wedding at all. He had to persuade Melinda to marry him first.
Melinda opened her eyes. Immediately, she knew she wasn’t at home. The room didn’t smell right, and the bed curtains were of an unfamiliar green damask. She turned her head and met the eyes of a maid she’d never seen before.
“Oh, Miss, you’re awake!” The girl popped up out of her chair. “Thank the Lord for that. I’ll get Mrs. Timms for you right quick.” She curtsied and scurried away.
Mrs. Timms? Melinda had never heard of such a person. She raised her head to look about her. Her head felt queer, as if something was loose inside it. She lay down again as memory flooded in. The masquerade, the kiss, and Grandmama . . . refusing to open the door. Washing her hands of her forever.
Countless times since the dreadful day when, at nine years o
ld, Papa had sent Melinda to live with her grandmother, the old lady had threatened to wash her hands of her. Finally, in one of her rages, her grandmother had told her why. Melinda was no true Starling, but the result of a tawdry affair. Her mother had cuckolded Papa with a French gamester, and Melinda was the result. Papa had only acknowledged her as his own child to avoid a scandal.
Melinda had always thought she would welcome the time when Grandmama finally gave up on trying to make a proper Starling of her. She had never imagined how much it would hurt and still did.
The man who had kissed her had taken her up in his coach again. She didn’t remember anything else, but he must have taken her here . . . which was where?
A stout, middle-aged lady bustled into the bedchamber, carrying a tea tray. “Awake at last, are we? I can tell you, Miss, his lordship will be most relieved. We have been in such a worry over you.” She set the tea tray down on a table by the bed.
His lordship. Yes, she remembered now. The man who had kissed her was titled, but she couldn’t very well ask his name, so she merely smiled weakly.
“I am Mrs. Timms, his lordship’s housekeeper. Are you well enough to have a sip or two of tea, Miss?”
Yes, she was parched. “That would be wonderful,” she croaked. She struggled up, ignoring the pounding of her head.
The housekeeper moved quickly to help, plumping up the pillows behind her. “I expect your head still hurts a great deal, Miss.”
To Kiss a Rake (Scandalous Kisses) Page 3