“This could take hours,” Miles said. “There’s the first cut direct.” A pompous man named Wendon-Benton, one of Lord Bottleford’s friends, pointedly turned away. “And the first friendly gesture.” He nodded to a gentleman on the footpath—a pleasant sort with whom Melinda had flirted numerous times. The gentleman raised a hand and came over to offer congratulations.
“Colin told me the news last night,” he said. “You’ve stolen a march on us all, Garrison.”
“For such a prize, how could I not?” Miles said, and Melinda smiled and blushed, and after a few more words, the man continued his stroll.
Across the way, a crusty countess glared at Melinda and put her nose even higher in the air than usual. Her husband, who’d been looking bored, told her not to be foolish when she jabbed him in the ribs and pointed. Their daughter, one of Melinda’s friends, raised her hand in a surreptitious wave. Another reason to smile.
The barouche moved slowly forward, and so did they. News of their presence had preceded them; she could tell by the great number of people who simply avoided looking their way. “Waiting to see whether it’s politic to acknowledge us,” Miles said.
“If they don’t, we’re well rid of them,” Melinda said stoutly to cover her chagrin. Being ignored―or worse, given the cut direct―positively hurt in a spot somewhere in the region of her heart. On the other hand, it gave her a new and doubtless valuable perspective on society. “Hypocrites.”
“That describes about eighty to ninety percent of the ton,” Miles said.
Melinda nodded sadly; the Upper Ten Thousand were settling, in her mind, into three categories: the top-lofty, the down-to-earth, and the vast, wishy-washy majority.
“We’ll ignore them right back,” Miles said, as if it were easy. How unexpected to think of herself and Miles as we.
As they moved slowly through the park, she found herself noticing her husband’s hands. They were large and well formed in his perfectly fitting gloves. Warm, gentle hands which had slid the wedding ring onto her finger. Powerful hands, holding the ribbons with such skill. How would those hands . . . handle her?
He would touch her when they were in bed. Heat coursed through her at the thought. In her previous imaginings of passion, she hadn’t gone much past kissing. What new and tantalizing territory stretched before her?
He held the reins in his right hand, whilst the left rested on his thigh, brushing her gown. Her mind yearned to explore unknown paths. Hot, tantalizing paths that led…
“Melinda?”
She yanked her thoughts back to the present. “Sorry, my mind was wandering.”
His eyes met hers. “Down pleasurable paths, I hope?”
“Quite pleasant, thank you!” she said pertly, trying her hardest not to blush again. She acknowledged an acquaintance of Miles’s who approached to congratulate them, and they continued on. She was saddened when she waved at a friend—now a former friend—who stared right through her as if she didn’t exist. “It’s not so much fun to be rid of someone you used to like.”
“On the other hand,” Lord Garrison said, “you learn who your true friends are.”
“I suppose you speak from experience.”
“Yes,” he said shortly.
Evidently, this subject was still taboo. She wondered if he realized that the more he remained closed like an oyster, the more she wanted to pry him open. She had a lifetime of marriage in which to do so. Perhaps he wouldn’t object to sympathy. She tucked her fingers into the crook of his left arm.
A well-known Corinthian, one of Melinda’s erstwhile suitors, trotted by. He swiveled in the saddle, his mount sidled, and he lost his seat, landing on the turf with a yelp.
Melinda broke into a storm of giggles. She clung to Miles’s arm and laughed and laughed, finally leaning her head against his powerful arm, knocking her bonnet askew.
“Oh, dear,” she said, untying the strings and setting it right again. The Corinthian, a notable horseman, had stood, scarlet-faced, dusted himself off, and was now trying to catch his reluctant horse. A number of amused spectators laughed and made ribald jests.
Melinda giggled again and bit her lip. “Grandmama would disapprove of my behavior. So far, I’ve read all night in bed and at meals, and now I’m laughing unrestrainedly, which she says a lady should never do.” She finished retying the bow. “Oh, there’s Lavinia.”
Miss Darwin and her mother were a little way back from the carriageway, walking in the other direction. Lavinia spied Melinda and gave her a tiny wave, but the instant Lady Eudora set eyes on Melinda, she thrust her daughter behind her with a few sharp words. Lavinia subsided, hanging her head.
Melinda swallowed. “It seems I am no longer permitted to be friends with Lavinia.”
Miles shrugged. “No loss.”
“It is a loss! I like her very much.”
“She has no spirit,” Miles said. “She didn’t even try to stick up for you just now, and she dropped Fellowes the instant someone with a title came along.”
“Not everyone has a great deal of spirit,” Melinda said. “Her mother is a bully, and if Lavinia is a little too meek and obedient, it is because she was brought up to be so.”
“And you were not?”
It was Melinda’s turn to shrug. “Yes, but I didn’t believe everything I was told.”
“Because you have spirit,” Miles said. “Thank God for that, because I couldn’t put up with such a ninny. Fellowes is well rid of her . . . Good day, my lady.”
The Marchioness of Corington, one of society’s foremost hostesses, strolled alongside with a friend. “Miles, my dear, I just heard the news. How wonderful to be able to receive you again. Such a bore it was to be obliged to cut you, but Corington says enough is enough, and I’m so thankful. And Melinda—I may call you Melinda, mayn’t I? Your mother and I are good friends. What a charming couple you make.” She chattered on, ending with, “It’s frightfully short notice, but you will come to my ball tonight, won’t you?”
Behind her, Lady Eudora’s face fell ludicrously.
“I should love to,” Melinda said, feeling absurdly wicked. What fun to see Lady Eudora so disconcerted! She glanced up at Miles.
“An excellent notion,” he drawled. “We’ll be delighted.”
Before Lady Corington had a chance to escape, Lady Eudora whispered something in Lavinia’s ear and hurried up, gushing. “My dear Lady Corington, how delightful to see you. Lavinia and I have been looking forward to your ball for weeks. And the new Lady Garrison! How charming.” She barely glanced at Melinda, but sent Miles a quick, vicious glare.
Whatever was that about? Miles and Lady Eudora seemed unlikely acquaintances. Meanwhile, Lavinia stood pale and silent.
When they had moved on, Melinda said, “Lavinia didn’t look well.”
“Perhaps her noble suitor decided not to offer for her,” Miles said.
“You may be right.” Melinda sighed. “I wonder if Mr. Fellowes still wants to marry her.”
“If so, he’s a fool. Not only is Lavinia entirely without character, but a man would have to be mad to put up with that woman for a mother-in-law.”
“Or madly in love,” Melinda said. “Lady Eudora looked at you as if she positively loathes you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he said, “and no, I will not discuss it.”
Damn. Something about Melinda got under Miles’s skin, disrupting his usual poise and making him blurt what he shouldn’t.
“Very well,” she said cheerfully, which made him not only disgruntled but suspicious. He’d expected a protest or at least an irritated look. Why would Melinda suddenly accept his silence about the past?
“Fortunately, I already have a new evening gown, as Grandmama and I were invited to Lady Corington’s party before I was ruined.” She made a face.
“I thought I had escaped Grandmama for good, but I shall have to get used to meeting her everywhere.”
True, and since the old lady hadn’t got much of a rise out of Miles, she might try Melinda next—and so might his many ill-wishers. He steered the curricle through a glut of carriages and soon had them out of the park.
“You won’t hear the truth about me from your grandmother or any of the others,” he said, as they bowled down the street towards home.
“Any of which others?”
“Anyone you might see at the ball or any other function,” he said. “Anyone you might ask.”
He wondered how many people knew where his daughter was housed. He didn’t think it was common knowledge, but he must get Rebecca fostered out quickly before someone tattled to Melinda. Miles wanted to be the first to explain. Tomorrow, he thought dispiritedly, he would interview some of the potential foster parents his man of business had found.
“I shan’t ask anyone,” she said. “That would smack of disloyalty to you. It would seem as if I didn’t trust you.”
“I see. As a matter of interest, then—does that mean you do trust me, or merely that you mean to make a good show of it?”
She took his question seriously, spending so long pondering that he became impatient. “Well? Do you or don’t you trust me?”
“Mostly, I do,” she said. “Apart from the fact that I don’t know you very well yet, how can I help but trust you?”
“Very easily, I imagine,” he said. “You have many reasons to distrust me.” He counted them off on one hand. “My bad reputation, my hasty temper, my unwillingness to discuss the past—”
She put up her own hand. “Your kindness, your honorable nature, your soothing voice—”
“My voice?” Unbelievable. “My voice is soothing?”
“Most of the time, yes,” Melinda said. “I wouldn’t have gone down the mews behind Almack’s with you if I hadn’t trusted your voice.”
“Good God. I cannot think of a less logical reason to trust someone than a pleasant voice.”
“It has nothing to do with logic,” she said. “It’s a feeling.”
“My dear girl, it is such things as feelings and pleasant voices that enable rakes to lead innocent women astray.”
“I’m not saying discernment is unnecessary,” she said, her color heightened. “Merely that logic alone is also flawed. Besides, I shan’t need to ask anyone. Sooner or later, people are sure to tell me all they know about you—or think they know.”
“And what will you do?”
“I shall listen, of course.”
Chapter 8
It didn’t take much discernment to tell that Miles didn’t like Melinda’s answer. “It would be rude to do otherwise,” she said. “Unless someone is openly hostile and vindictive, but I expect most women will pretend concern for my welfare.” She glanced at his stern face. “You needn’t go all stiff and starchy. Just because I don’t understand why people enjoy being horrid, it doesn’t mean I don’t know what form it will likely take. This is my third season, after all.”
“You are a disconcerting mixture of innocence and cynicism,” he said. “I can’t stop you from listening to them, but I wish I could. It would be far better to leave the past entirely behind.”
They drew up in front of the house. She didn’t answer, because although she wanted to know the truth, she also wondered if perhaps he would prove to be right.
His hard, closed expression certainly made her think so.
Several hours later on the way to the ball, they sat side by side in the coach, close but not touching. She wished she could see his face in the dark interior. She wanted to touch him. She’d spent the last few hours thinking about him, making it difficult to concentrate on getting ready for the ball. She shouldn’t have mentioned that she would listen to gossip, because it had upset him. She wanted to tell him not to worry, that she was his wife and would love him regardless of the past.
Love him?
Could she be falling in love?
No, surely not. This wasn’t anything like what she’d imagined. She appreciated his kindness and found him attractive, but she wasn’t helpless in the throes of an undying passion. They were perhaps growing to like one another, but he was prickly and oftentimes cold, not the sort of man she would fall in love with.
Except for his kiss. She wanted him to kiss her again. Surely that needn’t wait until her courses were over.
She pondered asking him, but sudden shyness struck her. Perhaps men found it difficult to restrain their passion after a kiss. She wished Mama or Adriana were here to explain matters to her.
“Shall you ask me to dance?” she said instead.
His voice leapt at her out of the darkness like a pouncing tiger. “Shall you flirt with me if I do?”
She felt her face heat, thankful that for once he couldn’t see it. “As if I will never have to stop,” she whispered.
He reached for her gloved hand and brought it to his lips. A thrill ran up her arm and into her breast, then down her spine. She shivered.
“It won’t stop,” he said. “It will merely take its time for . . . what, another day? Or two?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. She made a tiny, surprised sound of pleasure.
He laughed softly. “I foresee an enjoyable evening.”
“I foresee a lot of embarrassing blushing,” she retorted, a tiny tremor in her voice.
“What a pity I can’t see your beautiful blushes now.” His hand brushed her cheek. Huskily, he added, “What a shame I can’t feel your heat.”
Her heart sped up. “Your voice isn’t soothing me now.”
“Good,” he said, and she wondered if he would lean in to kiss her, but the coach drew up at Lord and Lady Corington’s house.
The ball proved easier than the drive in the park, as Lord and Lady Corington’s approval meant that many others followed their lead. It was almost like life before her marriage, Melinda thought, except for the sideways glances at Lord Garrison, as if he might turn into a monster before everyone’s eyes. It would have made her giggle, except that something told her it bothered him.
“You don’t really want to be here, do you?” Melinda asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“Your voice again,” she said. “You have a tendency to sarcasm, which you barely suppressed with Lady Corington in the park. You’re doing the same thing now.”
“Do I want to spend time with a parcel of gossiping idiots? I should say not. But it’s a necessary step in reestablishing us both in society. There’s a set forming. Come, let’s dance.”
She took his hand and let him lead her to the floor. How horrid to be judged unfairly. Except that she didn’t know whether or not society’s judgment of Lord Garrison was unfair.
They danced twice, something she’d seldom been permitted to do with the same man, and flirted until she was breathless with excitement and laughter. People were watching them, some with smiles and others with frowns, but all speculative. She danced with one of her former suitors and then with Mr. Fellowes, whose grumpiness meant he was not an amusing partner. He talked of nothing but Lavinia Darwin.
Each time the movements of the dance brought them together, he dealt another blistering remark about Lavinia’s perfidy. “Making sheep’s-eyes at me while she hangs all over Lord Andrews,” he said.
“Surely not,” Melinda said, glancing about but seeing Lavinia nowhere.
“Probably gone off to kiss him in an alcove,” Mr. Fellowes snarled. “Such activities should be confined to the bedchamber, after marriage!” He had the grace to redden. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t say such things to you.”
“I don’t mind,” Melinda said, flushing a
little on her own account, as she was anticipating exactly that with her husband. “I’m a married woman now, after all.”
“I can’t believe I loved her,” Mr. Fellowes said bitterly.
Thank heavens the dance separated them again.
Not for long enough. At the next opportunity, he growled, “What does she see in him? All he has is a dashed title!” He followed that with, “Shallow, grasping…I would never have believed it of her.” At the end of the dance, he delivered Melinda to Miles, snatched his sketchbook and pencil from the chair where he’d left it, and stalked away, muttering, “Makes me sick.”
“What’s got into him?” Miles asked.
“He’s still in love with Miss Darwin, who is in love with Lord Andrews.” At that moment, Lavinia came in from the terrace on Lord Andrews’ arm, looking a little disheveled. She caught sight of Mr. Fellowes and flushed red as a strawberry.
To Kiss a Rake (Scandalous Kisses) Page 12