To Kiss a Rake (Scandalous Kisses)

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To Kiss a Rake (Scandalous Kisses) Page 19

by Monajem, Barbara


  She blushed, thankful his mind was on prurient matters. She turned and bent over to tuck the reticule back into the drawer.

  Miles cursed softly.

  Melinda gulped. “What?” There, she was squeaking again.

  “Another enticing view,” he muttered. “Come back to bed.”

  Thank God. “I’ll keep some of my winnings,” Melinda said, “but do you have a strongbox for the rest?”

  “Christ, Melinda. Forget the damned money and come back to bed.”

  Afterward, Melinda ordered a bath but sent the maid away; she wanted to be alone, to remember the gentle but fierce lovemaking of her husband. She wanted to savor again this morning’s delight of straddling him and being in control—more or less, that is, for he’d played with her sweet spot, rendering her helpless with pleasure.

  She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Poor Lady Eudora; her husband must not have been much fun, if she’d found lovemaking something to endure. On the other hand, maybe she’d found him unattractive. That seemed quite likely, as she had married him for his money, poor man. Lavinia would not suffer a similar fate if Melinda had anything to do with it.

  That reminded her about the little girl next door. By the time Melinda went down to breakfast, Miles had already eaten and gone to his library, where he took care of correspondence and other business. She wrapped some bread and cheese in a napkin, brought it upstairs, and stuffed it into an old reticule. She went out onto the balcony next to the one where she had seen Rebecca. Unsurprisingly, the little girl wasn’t there, but Melinda tossed the reticule across in the hope that she would find it, if she’d been deprived of food again.

  Before she left for the bookshop, she really should ask Miles what he knew about the next-door neighbors. She tapped on the library door and opened it to find him frowning at Mr. Wilson, his man of business.

  “None of them are suitable, damn you,” he said. “Are Cits and mushrooms all you can find? Yes, what is it?” He looked up, spied her, and rose, but he didn’t seem pleased to see her. An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered across his face. Anger—not exactly. Chagrin, more like, but why?

  Meanwhile, Mr. Wilson had risen as well and bowed, but he seemed frightfully uneasy—and looked anywhere but at Melinda. How strange.

  Miles rearranged his expression into…no expression at all. “Sorry, my love, but I’m busy at the moment. Did you wish something from me?”

  Obviously not the ideal time to bring up the subject of the little girl next door. Melinda nodded to Mr. Wilson and quickly found something else to say. “Only that I’m about to leave for Hatchard’s. Shall I take Hubert again?”

  After a pause, Miles said, “No, I’ll come with you this time. I shan’t be long—a half hour or so.”

  How inconvenient! She dare not pass money to Mr. Fellowes under Miles’s eye. “Very well,” she said, trying to sound pleased, fearing she’d failed. She left the room, shutting the door softly behind her, and hesitated, sorely tempted to eavesdrop.

  She consulted her conscience, a waste of time once her curiosity had been aroused. Then she imagined Miles wrenching open the door and reprimanding her as he’d done Mrs. Timms. She wasn’t precisely afraid of him, but she was already doing enough to upset him; she mustn’t make it worse by listening at a keyhole. She retreated to her bedchamber to spend a little time sewing a new reticule, wondering if her entire married life would be a series of ups and downs.

  At last they left the house, taking advantage of the sunshine to walk to Piccadilly. “I’m sorry if I seemed grouchy earlier,” Miles said. “I was rather engrossed in some business with Wilson.”

  “It’s no matter.” Again, she pondered asking him about the neighbors, but something about him made her hold her peace. She couldn’t quite pin it down—he didn’t seem exactly annoyed, nor was he as uneasy as earlier, but something wasn’t right.

  “By the way, why are we going to Hatchard’s?” he asked. “Didn’t you buy enough books yesterday?”

  Fortunately, she had a more or less truthful answer for this—that yesterday’s visit had been cut short when she’d had to avoid being seen by Lady Eudora. She spent the rest of the walk trying to act as usual while thinking of how to avoid Miles long enough to pass the money to Mr. Fellowes.

  Just as they arrived at Hatchard’s, Miles spied a few acquaintances in the street and sent Melinda in on her own. This might be her only chance, so she hurried up several flights of stairs, peering into corners on each floor, but didn’t find Mr. Fellowes. Drat! She couldn’t carry a reticule full of bills to every ball and entertainment where they might meet. Anxious now, she hurried around the end of a bookshelf and bumped into Colin Warren.

  “Whoops,” he said, “beg pardon,” and then, “oh, it’s you, Melinda. Lady Garrison, I mean. Never know who might be listening, determined to believe the worst.” His eyes flicked to where a couple of dowagers hovered one flight below.

  Melinda huffed. “We’re family now.” She peered at him, noting deep shadows under his eyes. “Is something wrong? You don’t look well.”

  “Been up all night,” Colin said.

  “Thank you for helping Miles recover my money,” she said.

  He grinned. “That was great sport.” His smile vanished; he seemed to be in a bad mood, which was uncharacteristic.

  “Whatever are you doing in a bookshop?” she asked. He even had a book in his hand. She craned to see the title: Myths of the Irish. It didn’t seem like something Colin might read, and she said so.

  “Even worthless rakes read now and then,” he said grumpily. “Hades, there’s your grandmother. I’d best be off.”

  He nodded to Grandmama on the way down the stairs. Much as she wished to, Melinda couldn’t ignore her grandmother, so she waited, heart beating uncomfortably fast, while the old lady stumped up the stairs toward her.

  “Only a few days married, and you’re already dallying with rakes,” she hissed. “Not that I expected anything different.”

  Melinda cut off the denial that was on the tip of her tongue. “Then perhaps for once you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Impertinent!” Grandmama snapped. “Playing piquet for high stakes, too, as I heard to my chagrin this morning.”

  “And winning,” Melinda said, pleading in spite of herself. Grandmama had taught her to play piquet, and the only approval she’d ever received from her grandmother had been to do with her skill at cards.

  “Making a figure of yourself,” Grandmama said. “Causing a public brawl.”

  “I didn’t cause a brawl,” Melinda said, stung. “Mr. Toup insulted me, and my husband stood up for me.”

  “More fool he. He’ll soon regret taking you on. Have you met his dirty little secret yet?”

  Since Melinda had no idea what Grandmama was talking about, she didn’t know what to say.

  “Ha!” Grandmama said, knowing she’d scored a point. “You’ll find out soon enough.” She walked away, cackling to herself.

  What secret? What’s more, how could one possibly meet a secret? Well, unless Miles had a mistress, but both he and Colin said he didn’t. Perhaps Grandmama was only trying to unnerve Melinda. She would simply ignore the old lady, and concentrate on making certain Miles didn’t regret marrying her. Once she had passed the money to Mr. Fellowes and arranged for him to escape with Lavinia, she would never do anything to risk Miles’s displeasure again.

  The dowagers hovered below, eyeing her and whispering.

  Miles was right not to care what anyone thought. She ignored them and leafed through several romantic novels without reading a word, hoping she hadn’t missed Mr. Fellowes. Finally he appeared around the end of the shelves. “At last!” Clutching a novel for the sake of appearances, she hurried him up two flights of stairs to a set of shelves with musty-looking tomes about Anci
ent Greece and Rome. “If anyone comes too close we must discuss the stories you are illustrating,” she whispered. “I was just speaking with Colin Warren, and some old ladies I scarcely know gave me such a look.”

  Mr. Fellowes tsked. “Of course they did. Warren’s a rake.”

  “He’s also my brother’s friend and Miles’s cousin. Why must people have such vile minds?” She set down the novel and dug into her reticule for the money. “Here, take it quickly.”

  Mr. Fellowes pocketed the banknotes she held out. Melinda glanced around—no one had seen them. She let out a breath of relief.

  “Lady Garrison, you have my eternal gratitude,” he said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I shall pay you back as soon as I can.”

  Melinda waved the thanks away and pulled an ancient-looking tome from the shelves. She dusted it off with a fingertip, soiling her glove, and pretended to peruse its yellowed pages. “You must plan it better than last time,” she said softly. “You will certainly be pursued.”

  “Actually, we planned rather well last time,” he objected. “Once we left London, I was to use Miles’s coach and horses. No one would have been searching for a coach with Viscount Garrison’s crest on the door.”

  “That was clever,” she admitted. “This time you will need a substantial head start instead. You may have to arrange for a coach-and-four on very short notice.” She glanced about but saw no one nearby. “I believe Lavinia and I will both be at the opera tonight.”

  Mr. Fellowes made a face. “I don’t like opera.”

  “You must come anyway. I shall try to speak to her and see when she is most likely to be able to slip away without being missed.” She clapped the book shut. “I’ll see you there.”

  Across Piccadilly, Miles found himself suffering from even more restless desire for his wife than usual. He didn’t want to speak to these fellows about horseflesh, but it was part of trying to appear as if all was well.

  Which it was. For a second or two, he’d wondered if Melinda would have preferred that he not accompany her to Hatchard’s, but he’d dismissed the notion immediately. If he’d glimpsed dismay crossing her face, it was because she’d been ready to leave and then had to wait for him—nothing more than that.

  He wished he could tell her about Rebecca now. He didn’t want even the slightest obstacle between them. Nothing could be allowed to mar their harmony, and yet he couldn’t send Rebecca completely away. He had hit upon a compromise, to find a genteel couple in or near London with whom to foster her. That way, he could still see her regularly. Unfortunately, so far Wilson had found no one but Cits.

  With a pang of annoyance, Miles watched Colin go into Hatchard’s. What was his cousin doing in a bookshop of all places? If Melinda saw him, she would certainly speak to him, providing more fodder for the gossips. They were bound to encounter one another from time to time, but why here and now? If Melinda wanted to be completely reaccepted into society, she would need both luck and circumspection.

  He found himself yawning. One of the men was cataloguing, in tedious detail, the merits of a hunter belonging to someone he’d visited last autumn. Miles smothered his yawn and tried to listen.

  Next he spied old Lady Starling descending from a barouche. She went straight into Hatchard’s. What a nuisance, as she was sure to upset Melinda. Miles couldn’t prevent his wife from encountering her grandmother from time to time, but perhaps he should go into the bookshop in case she needed rescuing from the old besom. Before he’d made up his mind, he spied Colin exiting with a package wrapped in paper. How unusual of Colin—he wasn’t much for reading. As he came out the door, Fellowes arrived, glancing furtively about before entering the bookshop.

  Well, if there was one thing Miles knew for certain, it was that he could never be jealous of Fellowes. Melinda could associate with him all she liked.

  Finally his group of friends were ready to go their separate ways. Miles said his farewells and crossed the street.

  Chapter 13

  “What the deuce are you doing way up here?”

  Melinda whirled. “Miles! I was wondering where you were.”

  “I remembered an appointment in Kensington,” he said with a perfunctory smile. “A matter of business. Are you ready to leave?”

  “Not quite,” she said. “I haven’t found a thing to read.”

  Miles came up the last few stairs. “And you won’t in this section of the shop. What’s that you’re looking at?”

  “Something fusty,” she said nervously, putting it back on the shelf. “Everything up here is, but it’s the sort of thing Mr. Fellowes likes.” Fortunately, she had a lie half prepared and hurriedly invented the rest. “He is going to write a book of myths of the ancient world. I came up here to discuss the illustrations with him.” She gave Mr. Fellowes her hand. “We’ll speak again tonight at the opera. Don’t forget your sketchbook.”

  “Very well.” Fellowes bowed over her hand, nodded at Miles, and left.

  Melinda summoned a smile for her husband. “I wish to become his patron. If he can publish the book and make a name for himself, perhaps Lavinia’s parents will consent to their marriage.”

  “Laudable of you,” Miles drawled. “I can only hope he will find someone more worthy before that happens.”

  She disliked his tone of voice and felt compelled to explain. “I know you don’t believe in love, but Mr. Fellowes does, and he loves Lavinia.”

  His shrug was indifference personified. “Whatever you say, my dear.”

  She wished she could take that for permission to assist in an elopement, but most likely the exact opposite was true.

  He escorted her home and left again immediately. She sensed that something was wrong, but what could it be? Surely he didn’t suspect about the elopement; if he did, he would simply forbid her to have anything to do with it.

  Lady Paulding called with a couple of her friends—the first morning callers Melinda had entertained as a new wife. Lady Paulding chattered about the love match between Melinda and her dear Miles, while the friends looked about them with sharp, inquisitive eyes. Melinda accepted their insincere congratulations and gave thanks when they left.

  She purloined three rock cakes from the dining room and went upstairs to the bedchamber that would soon be hers with a pencil and paper. She didn’t precisely dislike the current furnishings, but she wanted to start her new life on a firm footing—her own taste, her own way of doing things, her own . . .

  Oh, dear. The little girl next door was weeping again. No―wailing! She hurried to the balcony door, unlocked it and pulled it open.

  Oh, God. Rebecca wasn’t on the balcony next door. She was between the two balconies, this house and that, hanging onto the vine for dear life. Melinda leaned out and put her arms around the little girl. “It’s all right, Rebecca. You can let go. I have you safe.”

  It took twice more, hugging the girl tight and reassuring her, before Rebecca would, or perhaps could, peel her fingers from around the stout stem of the ivy. Melinda tightened every muscle and pulled back, landing hard on the balcony floor. The girl wailed again. They were both shaking.

  Melinda took a deep breath and stood, lifting the child. “That’s my lovely, brave girl.” She carried Rebecca inside and shut the door behind her. She sat on the sofa and drew the little girl onto her lap.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” The girl burst into tears again.

  “What―” Melinda knew at once. “She birched you, didn’t she?” She stood, laid the girl on her stomach on the sofa, and pulled up her gown. She sucked in a horrified breath at the raw wounds on the girl’s bottom. “That horrid, horrid bitch, and don’t repeat that in front of anyone or you’ll get birched for that, too. I suppose she didn’t feed you, either.”

  The little girl sniffled and shook her head. “She took away the bread and cheese.


  “That I left on the balcony for you?”

  Rebecca nodded glumly. “She said I stole it.”

  Melinda cursed inwardly. She absolutely must speak to the girl’s mother and see what could be done. “Here,” she said, setting the plate with the rock cakes on the sofa beside the girl.

  Rebecca gave her a tentative, lop-sided smile, but didn’t touch the cakes. “Mrs. Timms made these.”

  Once again, something about the child seemed familiar to Melinda, but she couldn’t say what. “You’ve had her rock cakes before, have you?”

  Rebecca nodded, still not touching the cakes. “Yes, but she says I am a child of sin and will come to a bad end.”

 

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