50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (8 page)

“Very clever, Wendy,” her husband said with a smile, “but we shouldn't keep them standing about in the hallway.” Then he grinned at Trevor. “Do you know what the best part of being a duke is?”

Trevor laughed. “I can think of a thousand things.”

“Well, other than my lady wife, there is but one: excellent brandy. Would you care for a glass?”

“With pleasure,” he answered as the four of them crossed a pristine marble foyer to enter a lavish parlor. His Grace went directly to the sideboard, and as he poured from a crystal decanter, he glanced at her. “And for you, Miss Smithson?”

“I should love a glass of brandy, if you please.”

The duke's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn't say anything. Which left it to Trevor to enlighten her.

“As a general rule,” he said in an undertone, “ladies find brandy too strong.”

“Oh,” she whispered back. But she'd always drunk brandy. It was one of her favorite… Well, no matter, she was in society now. “I'm sorry. I suppose I meant…um…”

“Sherry for her, please,” Trevor finished.

The duke was just turning around with a glass of brandy when his duchess lifted it from his hand. “Let her drink what she wants.” She pressed the snifter into Mellie's hand. “You'll find we're not the typical duke and duchess.”

Mellie looked at her drink, unsure what to do now. “Is there a regular type?” she wondered aloud.

“That's a question for Eleanor,” the duchess replied as her husband passed another brandy to Trevor. “She's Radley's cousin and takes great delight in correcting our misguided notions. But for now, you should eat and drink as you like in our home.”

Mellie smiled, feeling her insides ease a little. The duke and his duchess were of a warm sort. They smiled often—usually at each other—and took pains to set her at ease. She hoped that she wouldn't muck things up so badly.

Meanwhile, the duke had leaned back against the sideboard, his brandy glass held out to Trevor. “À votre santé,” he said gravely.

Trevor raised his own glass in salute. “To your health as well.”

The duke flashed a broad grin at his wife who groaned. “Yes, yes, you said it right. But it loses its effect if you grin like that.” She settled on the settee next to Mellie. “He just learned that phrase from Eleanor and thinks he's the cat's cream whenever he says it.”

His Grace chuckled. “It's French, you know. Never had the chance to learn the Frog's lingo. And I refuse to even try Latin or Greek. But I've got Spanish well enough, plus a smattering of Egyptian and Arabic. I'm not bad as languages go, but I knew a ship's mate who only had to hear something once before he could spit it back like a native. Terrible navigator though, and that more than anything hurt his chances aboard ship.”

Mellie nodded as if his words made complete sense. Oh, his meaning was clear enough, but his general manner and casual speech didn't fit with her idea of a duke. Didn't they all speak Latin and converse about politics?

As if sensing her confusion, Trevor gave her a hasty explanation. “His Grace is the newest sensation in London. A seaman elevated to a duke.”

“Gracious,” Mellie breathed. So this really was the man she'd read about in the papers. “That must have been overwhelming.”

The duke chuckled. “Most would say exciting.”

A woman's dry voice cut through the air, the words coming from the doorway. “Or tragic.”

The duchess's expression turned wry. “Good evening, Eleanor. Pray join us.”

A statuesque blonde entered the room. Her gown was of the finest cut and fabric—a blue silk that shimmered as she walked and emphasized the pure color of her crystalline eyes. Her hair was expertly coiled in a design that made Mellie's eyes hurt as she tried to trace the locks. And the expression on her flawless skin was polite, if not especially warm.

“Seelye mentioned that I had visitors.” Her gaze stumbled for a moment on Melinda who was suddenly aware of the stains on her travel dress and the uneven texture of her skin. But then Trevor stepped forward, executing a deep bow.

“Lady Eleanor, it has been too long.”

Her face suddenly shifted. Her eyes widened, and a polished smile curved her perfect lips. “Trevor! My goodness, when did you get back in town? And what has happened to your face?”

“Just today, as you can see.” He made an expansive gesture at his creased clothing. “And I came directly here to speak with you.”

“To see me?” She pressed a hand to her lips, a gesture that brought even more attention to the flawless color of her skin below those blue, blue eyes.

He reached forward, gently tugging at her hand until he could press a kiss to her knuckles. Mellie watched the whole exchange as she would an opera sung in a foreign language. They were actors on a stage performing perfect roles in their dance. Beautiful in a way, but so distant that she felt no connection to them, or even to the world around her.

“Sweet Eleanor, I have come to beg a boon from you. You did promise me one long ago.”

“I did not. I would never.”

“I believe I rescued your kitten from a tree.”

She frowned a moment then huffed out a breath. “That was years ago.”

“Nevertheless,” he said as he straightened. “I should like to collect on that promise.”

“I was seven!”

He arched a brow, and she tilted her head, exposing the long column of her white neck.

“You always were a scapegrace, Trevor. Very well, what is it that you'd like?”

His grin broadened, and suddenly Melinda became part of the opera. He swept his arm toward her in a perfect arc. “First, may I introduce you to Miss Melinda Smithson, my fiancée.”

Mellie rose to her feet, knowing at least this part of the performance. She dipped her chin and bent her knees, dropping into a curtsy, such as would be expected when greeting a lady.

But when she straightened, she didn't see a cool greeting on the lady's face. No, Lady Eleanor's jaw was slack with horror. Then she turned to Trevor, her body trembling with the enormity of her revulsion.

“Stop this, you idiot. Stop it now!”

If he ignores you, be patient. Revenge will come in time.

Trevor watched in dismay as one of his oldest friends insulted his fiancée. Eleanor didn't mean to, of course. She was just reacting to the mésalliance of himself with Mellie—a natural reaction for one of her station. As the daughter of a duke, she understood what so few did of the personal and cultural divide that separated the aristocracy from new money cits such as Mellie.

But it wasn't an unbreachable gap, and it certainly didn't warrant such a massive reaction as Eleanor's pale face and dramatic pronouncement suggested. And damn it, she kept doing it.

“Trevor, you have to reconsider. Think about what you are doing.” Then her gaze narrowed on his face. “Were you forced? Is that why you were beaten?”

And all the while, Mellie stood there unmoving, her face composed into a cold, flat mask.

“I was not beaten,” he snapped. Then he took a breath. “Please calm yourself.” Then he took her by the elbow and turned her toward the door. “Perhaps we had best take a walk in the garden.”

“Oh yes,” drawled the duchess from behind him. “Do wander off with Eleanor. I'm sure your intended will feel so much better, being abandoned like that.”

He shot her an irritated look, but then caught himself before he insulted the highest-ranking woman in the room. Damn it, Mellie would feel that much worse if he had it out with Eleanor in front of everyone. Fortunately, his fiancée was of a more practical mind-set.

“No,” she said softly. “He's right. Some discussions require privacy for frank discourse.”

The duke stepped forward. “Not to take sides here, man. Your marriage is your affair, but don't you think Miss Smithson should be part of your frank discussion? Wendy and I can take ourselves off, can't we, love?”

The duchess pushed to her feet, ready to leave with her husband, but Trevor looked to Mellie for guidance. Did she want to be part of what looked like a humiliating argument with Eleanor? Or would she rather he simply deal with it himself? Unfortunately, she gave no clue as to her thoughts. She'd simply folded her hands before her and looked down. Like a damned servant in front of her betters, which he supposed he couldn't blame her for. But hell, it gave him no idea how to proceed.

In the end, it was up to him to decide, and frankly, this was not something he wanted said in front of Mellie. “I won't be but a moment. I swear.”

She looked back at him, her eyes nearly blank as she nodded. “Of course. I'll just wait here.”

Trevor stifled a curse and nodded, then he allowed Eleanor to guide him out the parlor door and to the back of the house. They didn't go outside but moments later walked into a cozy room meant for intimate family discussions. It was stately; this was the residence of the Duke of Bucklynde after all. But it had a tad less velvet, a great deal more browns from the wood, and none of the impressive knickknacks of history that were placed about the receiving parlor.

Sadly, it wasn't in the least bit comfortable, but at least it was private. He took a breath, trying to feel his way into the conversation. He needn't have bothered. Eleanor took that on herself. She grabbed both his hands, squeezed them warmly, and spoke in a sincere voice.

“We have known each other practically since the cradle, traveled in the same circles, and shared the same friends since the beginning. No one knows better than I the stresses you face as the heir to a dukedom. It is a daily struggle of appearances and moderated words and not a single moment to think on what we want. On what we require as people who laugh and love and wish just like the lowest bootblack.”

“Eleanor,” he began, but she shook her head, revealing a desperation he hadn't seen in her before.

“Hear me out. I know the pressure and the constant pain of biting one's tongue, of wishing to scream at the unfairness of it all. You are a man and have more freedom to fight back, but that means very little when the usual pleasures don't satisfy.”

He frowned. “Usual pleasures?”

She huffed. “Come now, Trevor. You're not the kind of man to lose himself in drink or women. You don't gamble, and you hate politics. What is there left but your science experiments?” She said “science” as if she were speaking of a hobby like embroidery or gardening.

“Don't be insulting,” he snapped.

“I'm not trying to be!” she shot back equally irritated. “I know you want to prove something to your family. God knows I don't know how you've held off for so long. But Trevor, that's no reason to throw away your entire future for a science chit.” This time she said the word “science” more like she might speak of kitchen scraps.

“She's not some experiment,” he shot back. “She's a girl. A human being. And what makes you think she enjoys science?”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Well, I have eyes to see, don't I? She's got no pretense to class, curtsies like a housemaid, and doesn't speak unless spoken to. The only way that she could have come into your awareness was through your hobby. So who is she? How did you meet her?”

“She's the…” He sighed, knowing he was simply proving her point. “She's the daughter of my old tutor.”

“Mr. Smithson. The one who first got you excited about all those bugs.”

He nodded, not even bothering to challenge her thought. “It doesn't matter how I met her—”

“Of course it does.”

“What matters is that we're engaged, and I want you to bring her out.”

“
What!
”

He held up his hands. “Listen to me—”

“I don't care what you say, I will not help you destroy your future. Marriage to her would be a disaster!”

He was beginning to become irritated by her absolute certainty that Mellie would be a disaster. Mésalliance, yes, but a disaster? “Eleanor, she's a very nice person.”

“I don't care if she's Mother Mary!” Then she pressed her hand to her mouth, obviously realizing the sacrilege she'd just uttered. Neither had sat down, and so she plopped on the nearest settee, only to jump up a second later. “You don't know how hard this is, Trevor. I am daily confronted with the…the disaster that is my family name. We used to be an honored and respectable title, but all we are now is a joke. He's the sailor turned duke, and we are a laughingstock.”

“Hardly a laughingstock.” Certainly the duke had been the wonder of last season. Still was a conversation item, and his wife was no help as she was a seamstress by trade. But things had quieted down. “They seem to have adjusted well enough.” Especially given what he'd heard about the duchess's extra family affiliations.

“And whom do you think is responsible for that? Certainly not those two. They think it entirely appropriate to run squealing through the house.”

Trevor frowned, his thoughts on the sight that had greeted them when they'd first stepped through the door. The duke and duchess had seemed a tad casual, of course, with a marked lack of consequence in their manner, but nothing so crass as what Eleanor implied. “I'm sure any respectability is due to your influence. Which is why I came to you, my oldest friend, and the one most capable of helping in my hour of need.”

“Don't try to butter me, Trevor. You don't know how hard it is.”

“She can pay for her own come out, you know.”

“As if that matters—”

“And I will add in extra for your troubles. I understand you're without great resources. Not to put too fine a point on it, but extra income probably wouldn't come amiss.”

She whirled around, her hands on her hips as she glared at him. “I am very well situated, Mr. Anaedsley. I only remain here in this house as an example of proper breeding. If it weren't for me here, they'd likely have livestock to dine!”

She was exaggerating and they both knew it. But she was speaking the truth from her perspective. Anyone could see that the duke and duchess were a little rough about the edges. Their ability to adjust to their new status obviously came from her guidance. But that was exactly why he'd come to her in the first place.

“Tell me what I can say to convince you.”

She folded her arms. “Not one thing. Forget about the Season, and forget about her mysterious science ways. Imagine instead a lifetime with her across the table from you every day. Does she clutch her fork in her fist? Reach for the wrong glass?”

“It's not that bad—”

“Does she insist on making friends with the wrong people? Embarrassing you if you ever have someone appropriate to visit? You cannot live on science. Her conversation is all well and good for now, but what will happen year after year when she simply does not live up to the name?” She stopped and gestured angrily at his jaw. “And what has happened to your face?”

He touched his swollen jaw and shrugged. “A ridiculous brawl.” He wouldn't call it a duel because with Eleanor, she would think pistols or swords. And this morning's affair had not been nearly so elegant.

“A brawl. Trevor, look what she has brought you to! Think of the daily strain of it all. Believe me, it wears on a person.”

He winced because he knew she was right. Though he'd likely never tire of Mellie's scientific conversation—she'd learned plenty from her father over the years—a lifetime of the constant reminder of their mésalliance would certainly become tedious.

He sighed. He would have to tell Eleanor the truth. He'd hoped to avoid it, but could see now that she had his best interests at heart. She would never agree to help him if she thought that he truly was set on this marriage. So ignoring propriety, he dropped into the chair nearest the fire.

“Pray come sit down, Eleanor. If we're going to talk plainly, I'd rather not do it on my feet.”

“There is nothing you can say to sway my—”

“It's not a real engagement.”

She stopped with her mouth ajar. He watched her frown, then snap her mouth closed before she quickly dropped into the seat across from him. “Tell me everything.”

So he did. He told her about his grandfather's scheme to see him wed. He explained that he needed time for his investment to prosper, and that Mellie needed an alternative to Ronnie. He explained it all step by step in logical detail. And when he finished, he looked at her and asked the most important question. “So will you help me?”

She shook her head slowly, not in denial, but in apparent shock. “I never thought you capable of such deviousness.”

He grimaced. “It is not my natural path.”

“Don't cut up stiff. I mean it as a compliment. I just…” She leaned forward, catching his hands. “Are you sure you're not bamming me? This isn't a grand passion?”

He laughed at the idea. Loudly, and for a very long time, just to prove the point. Though he was remembering the kisses. The very wonderful, very exciting kisses he'd shared with Mellie. If he were of a silly frame of mind, he could easily form a grand passion for her. And that was what made this scheme so perfect. He could pull it off. He could pretend to the world that he'd fallen desperately in love with Mellie. Or, at least desperately in lust, and that was enough.

Apparently, his mirth was enough to convince Eleanor because she sat back and looked at him with the kind of expression he'd learn to respect. It was a female look and indicated a devious mind at work.

“Eleanor?”

“So you haven't found a wife?”

“Absolutely not. In fact, if you could help me find Mellie a husband, I would be beyond grateful.”

She grinned. “How grateful? Just how much money has your grandfather promised when you become engaged? And how much will he pay afterward to make you become un-engaged?”

He cocked his head, startled to realize that she was haggling. There was a decidedly mercenary gleam in her eye. “I believe the new duke and duchess have had an effect on you.”

She sniffed and drew back. “No need to be insulting.”

“It's not an insult. My recent experience with poverty has shown me just how important it is to mind one's coins. I cannot see that it is any different for a woman.”

“It's more important for a woman. Especially one who isn't as yet wed and who is sick of hiding in her rooms whenever Radley comes home.” She leaned forward. “Do you know they are most disgustingly in love? Constantly kissing in dark corners throughout the house.” She shuddered. “My mother is likely rolling over in her grave.”

“Surely it isn't as bad as—”

“It's worse. And I would desperately love to be established in a house of my own.”

He waited, his brows lowered as he watched the wistful expression cross her face. Dreams chased one after the other in her eyes, but he hadn't a clue what she wanted. Eleanor was likely as open with him as she was with anyone, and yet he still had no clue as to her true thoughts. What did this woman dream of? He didn't know, and he found that sad. After all, they'd been friends from the cradle, and yet she was always the Elegant Lady Eleanor. What did a woman who defined the best of his class think of in her private moments?

He touched her hand. “What do you want, Eleanor?”

“Money,” she said bluntly. “Lots and lots of money.”

Well, that was clear enough. So with a grin, he set about the negotiation.

* * *

Mellie watched Trevor disappear with the extraordinarily beautiful Lady Eleanor and tried not to groan. They were two peas in a pod, those two: beautiful, titled, and of longstanding acquaintance. She had no way to compete with that, and so she simply had to accept it, though fear churned in her stomach. They were deciding her fate, after all. And clearly, she had no part in the discussion.

“It's nearly dinnertime,” the duchess said into the silence. “Do say you'll stay to dine. I should very much love to hear the tale of how you trapped the Unassailable Duke.”