50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (6 page)

That got his attention. His fist was raised, but he looked to her, his eyes alight with excitement. “Mellie!”

She flung herself forward. Dropping to her knees, she slid in the mud, coming to a stop just where she'd intended—right beside Trevor's head. Ronnie reached for her, but she pushed him away as she wrapped herself around the fallen lord.

“Stay away, you brute!” she practically spit at her cousin. Then she used her cloak to dab at the blood on Trevor's face. “My love, my love, are you alive? Oh God, someone fetch a doctor! Please, someone!”

Her words were ten times more dramatic than were needed, but she'd learned that the best way to deliver a message to her cousin was in the most theatrical tone possible. So she cradled Trevor in her arms and crooned like any heroine in the most lurid gothic romance.

Trevor's face was indeed a battered mess, but not so unrecognizable that she didn't see the gleam of appreciation in his eyes or the mischievous smile that pulled at his swollen lip.

“Are you an angel?” he asked. “Have I died?”

The man was lying in the mud, his ankle nearly snapped in half. His face oozed from a myriad of cuts, and yet he still had the wherewithal to give the crowd a good show. It was enough to make her contemplate dropping him in the mud. She didn't, of course, but she hoped her glare would suffice.

Meanwhile, Ronnie just stood there poised, his fist still raised as he gaped. “Mellie?”

She looked up, shooting a venomous look at his bloodied fist. “Do you mean to trounce me as well? Lay me out in the mud and the shite like last week's garbage?”

“What?” Ronnie took a moment to understand while she gestured with her chin toward his fist. Then he abruptly gasped and shook out his hand, dropping it helplessly to his side. “But I won. This was an
affai
re d'honor.
”

“Congratulations,” she mocked. “You beat a man half your weight.”

“Hey!” muttered Trevor. “I'm not that small.”

“Oh shut up. I'm making a point.” Then she turned her attention to her cousin. Best make the situation absolutely clear. “You were right, Ronnie. You have made everything so clear to me. I could never love a brute like you. It's him I want. A man of elegance, not violence.”

She watched her cousin absorb her words, his mind obviously working slowly, and no wonder. Certainly, Ronnie was an accomplished fighter, but he'd never in his life been called a brute. He was a poet, for God's sake. And his father was wont to call him a useless fribble with no starch whatsoever. Of course, both appellations were completely wrong, but truth didn't matter here. Not when he'd wanted drama. And so she stretched the truth—she outright broke it—and she felt no remorse.

“I love Trevor,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“Since when?” her cousin demanded.

Since never. She had a thorough disgust of them both. Especially as Trevor began to speak in a quavering voice.

“Oh, to finally hear those words, now in the moments before I expire. My life is complete.”

“You're not dying,” she hissed. Unless he was hurt more than he appeared. The thought shot her with alarm until he started speaking again.

“I am dying!” he cried. “Kiss me, my love. Kiss me, and mayhap your love will keep me tethered to this mortal coil.”

“I will not,” she said between clenched teeth.

He pitched his voice to a plaintive wail. “Then I shall die for sure!”

Damnation on all bloody arrogant, ridiculous men! One glance about her showed that the crowd was hanging on his every word. She didn't really care until she looked at Ronnie's face. He wasn't stupid. He could see that Trevor wasn't really hurt. It wouldn't take him long to remember that she'd never spoken of Trevor with anything but disdain. And from there it was a small step to realizing that this entire display was a sham. So she had to do something quickly. Something that he'd never forget, even if he did suspect the lie.

So she did it. She kissed Trevor.

She more than kissed him. She lifted him in her arms and gave him the kind of scorching kiss that every woman dreamed she'd received from the grandson of a duke. And he—horrible roué that he was—wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her right back.

And he kept kissing her, with tongue and teeth and a growl of hunger so wonderful that she hated him even more. Even as she lost all thought to propriety in this very public place.

Keep your composure at all times, even if he has lost his.

“Melinda Smithson!” Ronnie exclaimed and probably not for the first time. Trevor barely restrained his irritation. The idiot apparently thought taking a parental tone would endear him to Mellie. Sadly, the tone did have an effect on Trevor. It cooled his ardor just enough for him to realize they were kissing in the mud in full view of the entire county.

Romantic? Yes. Appropriate behavior for a gentleman of good breeding? Decidedly not.

So with a reluctant sigh, he drew back, taking the time to stroke her cheek and admire the silky texture of her skin. Damn, but she was a beautiful woman. Especially since their ardor had pulled the pins from her hair and tumbled her mahogany curls down her back. The sunlight brought out the red highlights and turned her mink eyes golden. And her lips—her wet, red, plump—

“Melinda Smithson!” Ronnie cried again. “You forget yourself!”

“Yes,” she said, her expression still gratifyingly dazed. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Trevor grinned. “Love will do that, you know,” he said as he stroked his thumb across her plump lower lip. “Makes one forget everything else…” He stretched toward her, and she brought herself in reach. But then there was Ronnie, grabbing hold of Trevor's shoulder and muscling him back.

If the idiot had dared to touch Mellie, Trevor would have punched him hard right in the knee. It would be enough to cripple the man, potentially for life. But as the bastard chose to exercise his physical prowess on Trevor, his knee was spared. Sadly, the same could not be said for his own ankle. Now that he wasn't kissing Mellie anymore, other painful sensations were pushing to the forefront of his brain. His ankle, for one, was swelling by the second. His jaw was already three times as large as it should be, or at least it felt that way.

He dropped his head forward, touching his forehead to hers. All around them, their audience was cheering, jeering, or simply making ribald comments that were getting more and more obscene.

“We need to get you home,” he said to her softly.

Her eyes had widened at some of the things being said. No more sexual daze. Just a growing pinkness in her cheeks and not from his attentions. “Can you walk?” she asked.

He nodded. “It'll hurt like the devil, but I think I can manage it.”

“Should I send for the carriage?”

“Heavens, no!” The last thing he wanted to do was sit in here in the muck waiting. “If you support me—”

“Of course. Lean on me, Mr. Anaedsley. I'm a great deal stronger than I look.”

He squeezed her fingers, only now realizing that he was holding her hand. “I'm beginning to realize that, Mellie. Indeed, I wonder at how blind I've been.”

Her mouth opened in surprise at his words, and this time he knew that the pink in her cheeks was because of him and not the buffoons around them. He meant to keep it that way. The more he distracted her from everyone else, the less mortified she would feel.

“Yes, cousin,” pressed Ronnie. “Do get up. This is most unseemly.”

She shot the man an irritated look. “You wouldn't say that if I'd been kissing you.”

Trevor didn't think it was possible for Ronnie to look like an offended princess. The buffoon was too big to pull off the dainty, nose-in-the-air look. Apparently he had a little dandy in him. Ronnie pranced backward, stepping on his tippy toes as he gasped at the insult.

“You wound me, cousin. I have thought nothing but for your happiness. I only wonder what this roué has said to sway you from your normal common sense—”

“Oh, owwwww!” Trevor groaned loudly as he pushed to his feet. In truth, it wasn't that bad, but he would play a dying invalid if it shut up Ronnie.

Mellie scrambled to help. “I'm right here. Lean on me.”

“Oh, for goodness sake—” Ronnie exclaimed.

“No, no!” he said over her cousin. “I can manage it.” He'd made it to his feet, then leaned his weight onto the bad ankle. He wasn't faking his gasp when pain shot like fire all the way up his spine.

“Don't be foolish!” she snapped as she quickly pulled his arm around her shoulders and bolstered him. Damn, she wasn't lying. She was strong, sturdy enough that he didn't fear he'd break her. Made a man think of all sorts of potential acrobatic feats.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I'm getting my stink all over you.”

She chuckled. “I've been in worse, I assure you.”

He glanced at her, wondering how that was possible.

“When you're not here, whom do you suppose helps my father with his experiments? Who holds the sheep while he applies his tick cream? Who—”

“Good God,” he exclaimed, truly appalled. “I'd assumed it was the servants.”

“Only sometimes. He says I have the keener eye for detail—”

“But—”

“And a scientific mind to help him analyze the progress of his work.”

She sounded proud of the fact, and well she should. After all, praise from her father was rare indeed, and he recalled beaming for a whole month after one of the man's compliments. “But he still should hire someone else to hold the sheep.”

She chuckled. “He shall have to now, if I am to head to London with you.”

Trevor smiled, liking the idea of her in London with him. He wanted to see her in silks and jewels. And he should like very much introducing her to the many entertainments offered in London. “I shall take you to the Royal Theater. You will love—”

“London!” squeaked Ronnie from a step behind them. “Whyever would you go there?”

Trevor grinned, relishing the idea of putting the man in his place. With his most arrogant expression, he shot Ronnie a glare. “She is my fiancée, man. Did you think I would hide such a jewel in this backward county? We are to London where she will learn how to be a duchess.”

“A duchess!” Ronnie squawked.

Did the man know nothing? “I am grandson to the Duke of Timby.” He barely held back the “you idiot.” It was a second later when he realized that of course Ronnie knew who he was, but apparently, he wanted to be sure everyone else knew the supposed reason Mellie had chosen him over her cousin.

True to the drama in the man's head, Ronnie's mouth flattened into a disapproving line. “How could you, Mellie?” he asked in a loud hiss. “How could you betray everything—destiny, love, everything—for a title? You are nothing but a money-grubbing—”

His hurt ankle be damned. Trevor lifted off Mellie and punched Ronnie right in the mouth. The crowd had started to disburse, but at his action, they all halted and turned back. If Ronnie wanted a passion play, then by all means, let them have it.

“I am Trevor Harrison Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby,” he said in ringing tones. “And after my father, I will be the duke. Miss Melinda Smithson is to be my bride and in good time a duchess. If any man dare insult her again, be assured I shall do more than toss them into the shite. I shall run them through with my sword.” He lifted his gaze and looked all around. “Do you all hear and understand?”

One by one, he saw people dip their chin and nod. A few even said, “Yes, Yer Grace,” as if he had already inherited the title. His last heavy stare was for Ronnie, who had just regained his equilibrium.

With the sun at his back and his fists bunched, it was never more clear the differences between the two. Ronnie was two stone heavier and had a great deal more skill with his fists than Trevor ever guessed. Worse, the skill came not only from size, but from intelligence. He'd wager Ronnie was smarter than the average buffoon and a good deal cagier as well. And from the look of absolute hatred on his face, he wasn't going to give up Mellie without a fight.

It didn't matter. Mellie was never, ever going to marry this man. Trevor swore it on everything he held dear.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, his gaze locked on Ronnie's. “She is my affianced—”

“I understand.” Ronnie's gaze slid with angry disdain to Mellie. “And I am disgusted.”

Beside him, Mellie sighed. “Ronnie—”

Ever the dramatist, the man spun on his heels and stalked away. Just as well. That left him alone with Mellie as they hobbled their way back to their house. But after a few steps, Trevor realized that his fiancée was indeed bothered by what her cousin said. Her eyes were downcast, and her mouth had tightened into her own straight, quiet line.

“Mellie, what is the matter? Don't be concerned about Ronnie's nonsense. I assure you, everyone will think you have done enormously well for yourself.”

She jerked beneath his arm as if she wished to throw him off her but had stopped herself at the last moment. Then she twisted to face him. “That man is my cousin,” she said in an undertone. “And quite possibly my future husband.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I am being practical. There is no assurance that I will find a husband in London, and then what? I will have publicly thrown over Ronnie, and it takes the devil of a long time for him to get over imagined slights. Imagine a lifetime of apologizing.”

“You will find a husband in London,” he said, irritated beyond measure with her anger. She thought nothing of the sacrifice to
his
reputation. That he—grandson to the Duke of Timby—had just declared a grand passion for her. He liked her well enough. Lord knows a certain part of her anatomy couldn't get enough, but she was a cit. A woman from commerce with no pretense to good breeding. His family would have a collective fit when they heard. It might very well put his grandfather in the grave.

He understood that she was not used to this type of manipulation or deviousness. It was awkward enough for him, and he had been swimming in society's viper-strewn waters all his life. Did she truly not understand?

“You will be sponsored by a ducal family, you will be fêted as my fiancée, you will be society's newest morsel to be met and entertained. Everyone from the Prince Regent down to the smallest bootblack will be discussing you.”

She looked horrified, which only went to prove how very green she was about society.

He sighed and tried to make it plainer. “Debutantes strive all their lives for just that kind of introduction into society. Women have been known to proffer all sorts of bribes and promises for the reach you will have merely because you are my fiancée. Mellie, don't you see? It will be the easiest thing in the world to find you a husband.”

“But—”

“Enough!” he snapped. He did his best to keep his voice low despite the way he'd just wrenched his damned ankle again. “If you do not trust me in this, then our endeavor is doomed from the start.”

She blinked a moment, her expression clearly troubled. He waited, his ankle and jaw a throbbing annoyance, but nothing compared to the pain of having his word questioned by a green chit who knew nothing about anything. In the end, though, she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I trust you,” she whispered.

“Good. Then trust this. I swear upon my honor, upon my family name, and upon that stupid sword my grandfather keeps perched above the mantle: I will find you a good husband. A man who is decidedly
not
Ronnie!”

She looked at him a long time, obviously unaware of what it meant for him to swear by his family's sword. He was about to curse her for her stupidity when she again dipped her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered again.

“You're welcome,” he managed, doing his best not to sound surly.

“And now, perhaps we should get you home to a bath.”

Yes, because—as he was now very aware—the future Duke of Timby stank of shite.

* * *

“This is just so unlike you.”

“You've never done anything like this before.”

Melinda didn't respond to her father or her uncle. They were pacing about the room, shooting furious comments at her every second step, but her mind had gone far, far away. Normally, she would wander about in her chemical recipes, mentally playing with ingredients and speculating as to the results. It had been a favorite game of hers for as long as she could remember. But this time, her thoughts were locked inexorably on kisses. A thousand kisses in an infinite variety but all from one, mischievous aristocrat.

“Your mother, of course—”

“But you don't want to be like that.”

“No. Not like your mother.”

“I'm just so concerned, my dear.”

“This is so unlike you.”

Then
he
walked in. His hair was wet and slicked back, but as his curls dried they started to spring about his head in a casual wildness she found very appealing. His expression was guarded, but his smile was as wide as the morning sun. She focused there—on his mouth—because he was infinitely more interesting than anything else at the moment.

“Well, I feel much better,” he said. “And I wager that I smell infinitely more appealing.” He crossed to her side, drawing her lax hand to his mouth for a kiss. “How about you? Are you recovered from my stench?”

She smiled because he seemed to want her to. “Of course, Mr. Anaedsley. It was only a little bit of shite.”

He chuckled. “It was a great deal more than a little. Your cousin aimed me exactly.”

She nodded. “And you let him do it. Did you know at the time what he intended?”

He shrugged. “I did. And I thought a single blow that landed me there was adequate recompense for his wounded pride.”

If only Ronnie had thought the same. “I did warn you,” she said softly.

“So you did. And I have learned my lesson.”

“Not to underestimate Ronnie?”

He chucked her under the chin. “No, silly. To heed what you say. You are of an uncommonly levelheaded nature.”

She winced, knowing what was coming. After all, her levelheaded nature was exactly what was in question here. And her uncle lost no time as he pounced on Trevor's words.