50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (9 page)

“The what?”

The duchess laughed. “Mr. Anaedsley. That's what they call him. It's a play on the word ‘unavailable' because he is always available. Enjoys going to parties and the like, especially during the Season. So he is available, but no woman has been able to catch him. So he's ‘unassailable.'”

Her husband frowned. “I don't believe unassailable is quite the right word.”

His wife laughed. “Probably not. No one said that society girls were smart. Only that they're marriage-minded.”

The duke gave a mock shudder. “Don't remind me.”

The two shared an intimate chuckle. It was then that Melinda noticed they were touching. Though the duke stood and his wife sat, he was near enough to stroke the back of her hand, which she stretched out for him. As Melinda sat, their fingers entwined, folding and caressing each other in such a way as to make her blush. It was ridiculous. They were just interlocking their fingers, and yet it had her thinking the most carnal things.

Meanwhile, the duchess had turned her attention back to Melinda, though her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. “So how did it happen?”

“What?”

“You and Mr. Anaedsley. You must know that everyone will want the tale.”

“Oh. Well, my cousin challenged him to a duel.”

“What!” cried the duchess.

“That explains the jaw,” said the duke.

Mellie twisted her fingers together, her mind not on the fight but the kiss they'd shared afterward. “It…um…it wasn't a real duel. Fisticuffs, but it was a long fight. All the county will be talking about it for years to come.” Given their little village, she would likely be the subject of gossip for generations.

“That sounds like a tale.”

She shook her head, feeling mortified all over again. And angry. Mostly angry at the silliness of men. “It happened so fast,” she said. “Yesterday I was thinking of different scents to add to my creams. Today…” She gestured vaguely to her surroundings. “Today everything is different.”

The duchess smiled. “Sometimes love is like that.” Then she looked to her husband, and the two exchanged so soft and intimate a smile that Mellie was transfixed.

So that is what love looks like, she thought. Entwined fingers, shared smiles, long looks. She would have to remember to do such things with Trevor. But the idea of stroking even the back of his hand twisted her belly to a tight knot of anxiety. Or perhaps she was feeling something different. Something hot and needy. She didn't know. She wasn't used to these emotions at all.

She needed to change the subject. She needed to distract herself and everyone else from this confusing discussion until she had time to sort through her thoughts. But when she looked back at the duke and duchess—both watching her with disconcerting attentiveness—she realized she had no idea what to say. Her father was easy to distract. A simple scientific question, and he could be occupied for hours. And neither Ronnie nor her uncle had ever needed her to do more than nod and agree as if she had been listening to their every utterance.

But this, she realized with a growing sense of panic, was polite conversation, and she had none. There had been no need to learn it in her father's household where she was mistress and almost no one ever visited. But now, she was in society as the fiancée to a future duke. And she had absolutely no idea what to say or how to make the growing silence anything but uncomfortable.

She looked to the duke and duchess, realizing that of all the people she would meet, they were perhaps the kindest. Unusual on their own, they would be more accepting of her oddities. That should have been reassuring, but it wasn't. If she could not speak with them, then how would she handle anyone else?

She abruptly stood, her mind whirling as she searched for a solution. But this was not a chemical recipe. There was no way to add an ingredient or set a mixture on a fire to heat. This was society, and she'd been a fool to think she could manage such a place.

“Miss Smithson?”

“This was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.” She headed for the door. “I cannot be here.”

“Oh Lord, she's bolting,” the duchess said, dismay in every word.

“Seelye, bar the door please,” the duke called. “I fear we've insulted our guest, and now we must trap her here until she forgives us.”

It took a moment for her to understand what the man had said. That, and the sight of the butler, looking like a kindly uncle as he held out his arm to gesture her back into the parlor. She tried to take a step around him, but he somehow managed to be directly in front of her no matter how she moved. And then she processed what the duke had said.

She whirled around. “Oh no! You haven't insulted me. I just…I just…”

The duchess came forward. “Never been to London before, have you?”

“Well, yes, I have. For shopping and the like. A few times.” Exactly twice.

“And here we are confusing you. We're terrible that way. No one ever knows how to talk to us. We're just too odd.”

“Oh no, Your Grace.”

“Tut, tut. I know it's true.”

“Oh…oh…” And that was it. Just that ridiculous sound over and over as the couple firmly escorted her back into the settee. It was embarrassing. They were treating her like a lunatic child, and she didn't blame them in the least. But what was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to act?

His Grace pressed a brandy into her hand and encouraged her to drink. She did, nearly swallowing the whole in a single gulp.

“Good girl,” he said as he might to a dog. Then he looked at the butler. “I think it's time that we request Mr. Anaedsley join us to dine.”

“I shall do so directly,” the man intoned.

“And you and I shall talk fashion,” Her Grace said with a smile of encouragement.

Oh Lord. She had no idea about fashion. None whatsoever.

“Don't worry,” the woman said as she patted Melinda's hand. “I know just how to set you up right. Make all the tabbies jealous when you appear. We'll get you dressed like a queen.”

Melinda didn't know what to think. She certainly had no idea what to say. Somehow, in the few minutes away from Trevor, she'd been reduced to an idiot. And this time she couldn't blame it on anyone but herself. How had she come here so unprepared?

And how would she manage her escape?

Revenge must be plotted carefully. Observe the lay of the land first.

Trevor was debating the newest trend in fashion fabrics with Eleanor when Seelye coughed discreetly at the door. Trevor didn't really care much for fashion one way or another, but he'd learned young how to discourse easily with a woman such as Lady Eleanor. And truthfully, there was comfort in knowing the pattern of a conversation even if the individual steps were beyond boring. But they knew their duty when Seelye appeared.

“We should continue our discussion with His Grace,” he said to Lady Eleanor. They both knew which conversation he meant—Eleanor's sponsorship of Mellie—but the lady chuckled happily.

“Radley couldn't care less about the different choices in cotton.”

“The Philistine.”

She laughed and took his arm. “It's been very odd, you know, seeing him wear the title. But I think I have learned how to manage him.”

Trevor didn't comment. He very much doubted that Eleanor had learned to “manage” the man at all. She had simply found a way to make peace while residing in his household. Fortunately, their bargain regarding Mellie's come out would go a long way to seeing her established in her own home where she could do as she liked.

So it was in companionable accord that they ventured back to the receiving parlor. His gaze found Mellie immediately, and what he saw was enough to make him slow his steps. To anyone else, she looked composed and quiet. Too quiet, actually, because her body was absolutely statue-still, an image reinforced by the stark pallor of her skin. The only sign of life was when her gaze cut to his and held. Panic. That's what he saw there: an angry, wide-eyed panic.

“Mellie?” he said carefully as he pasted on his most friendly smile. “Don't fret. I'm here now. Everything will be fine.”

At which point her panic turned murderous.

He swallowed, somewhat at a loss. What could possibly have happened in the bare half hour that he'd been talking with Eleanor? He looked to the duke and duchess, but saw no help there. The man appeared genial as he sipped his brandy, and his wife studied Eleanor with a quiet, serious expression. No one appeared interested in talking. No one, that is, except Eleanor who had been reared since the cradle in handling tense social situations.

“My goodness, it's gotten late. Cousin, would you mind terribly if Trevor and his fiancée stayed to dine? I have an exciting idea that I'd like to pursue, but it requires your permission.”

The duke's eyebrows raised. “My permission? Eleanor, in my experience, you do exactly as—”

“Yes, yes, but you are head of the family now, and we must see to the proprieties.”

The duke's mouth flattened as he set aside his glass. “Then by all means, let us see to the proprieties.”

The duchess flashed a canny smile. “I have already sent word that we would have two more to dine. You can't say no, Mr. Anaedsley, because I've already sent down the order.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” he answered, not liking the expression in her eye. He'd seen that look before on merchants and aristocrats alike. It saw advantage and was ready to seize it. Not evil or even cruel, but he'd be a fool to underestimate the woman.

Meanwhile, the duke wandered forward and set a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder. It was a small gesture—definitely an intimate one—and the lady's expression softened as she turned to her husband.

So the stories were true. The two were definitely a love match, their strengths and weaknesses clearly complements, one to the other. He pegged His Grace as the genial one—Her Grace would be the one to measure advantages. Together they would make a formidable couple. But what could they possibly have said to upset Mellie?

He looked to his fiancée and drew on his vast experience dealing with his mother and two sisters. Settling near her, he took her hands in his and patted them as he might a small child's. His mother especially appreciated this gesture.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you dearest? Dinner with the duke and duchess?”

Mellie's eyes narrowed, and her fingers stiffened into claws. Hell. That was not the reaction he'd hoped for.

“I…um…” He swallowed.

Meanwhile, Eleanor released a musical laugh. “Don't pester her, Trevor. Can't you see she's nervous? It's not every day she dines in such exalted company. But if my cousin is agreeable, I should like to make it a commonplace occurrence.”

“Oh?” Her Grace asked, her voice polite in the most casual way. But the gleam was back in her eye.

“Why yes. Trevor and I are old friends, you see. Similar stations and the like. He has just asked me—well, begged me, truth be told—to help him smooth things with Melinda.” She glanced over at Mellie. “May I call you Melinda? I think we shall become the grandest of friends soon. At least I hope so.”

“My lady.” Mellie's words were clear and precise. She even dipped her head as was entirely appropriate—in a servant. She appeared completely docile except, of course, beneath his fingers her hand was still rigid with fury.

“Oh, excellent!” Eleanor cried as if she had just been given a treat.

Meanwhile, Radley released a loud sigh. “Out with it, Eleanor. What are you asking?”

“Well, nothing so very terrible. I thought it would be nice if I had a companion, so to speak. For the Season.”

Trevor stiffened, but it was nothing compared to the jerk that went through Mellie's hand. Though tiny, he felt her reaction all the way to his toes. “Not a companion, Eleanor,” he said coldly. “As a friend.”

“Well, what is a companion except a friend?” She turned back to the duke and duchess. “You see, I thought Melinda could stay here with us for her come out. She and I will have the grandest time. We could go together to balls and such. Don't worry about her attire. She's going to get completely outfitted. I thought we'd go to your dress shop, Wendy. And then—”

“Stop.” The one word was soft, but no less clear. It came from Mellie like the single ring of a bell, and all eyes turned to her.

Trevor's fingers tightened on her hand, alarm shooting through his body. “Mellie, dearest, you must trust me.”

“I am not accustomed to trusting others with my life,” she said simply. “Nor am I a beggar to be thrown at their doorstep like a lost child.”

“Of course not—”

She didn't stop to allow him to finish but turned directly to the duke and duchess. “Your Graces, I apologize for intruding into your home. The thought had been to seek Lady Eleanor's sponsorship during the coming Season, but I see now that it won't work.”

Trevor patted her hand, desperate now for the gesture to soothe her even though it had already failed. “It
will
work, my dear, if only you would allow me to—”

“Why won't it work?” asked the duchess. There was no animosity in her tone, but neither did she allow others to speak over Mellie. When Trevor turned to her, she waved him to silence with an impatient gesture. Her gaze was on his fiancée as she waited for her answer.

Beneath his hand, he felt Mellie wage an internal war between honesty and prevarication. He knew because he recognized the symptoms. Her breath accelerated, her fingers twitched, and her gaze dropped to the floor. The changes were subtle, but he was watching her closely. Sadly, he couldn't help her in this. If their scheme were to work, she would need to face the duchess regularly. And yet, he still tried.

“It has been a long, exhausting day, hasn't it? You're feeling quite overwhelmed and probably would like a lie down.” That is, after all, exactly the suggestion his sisters would adore.

Her expression broke, and she shot him a glare. “I began the day fearing for your life, Mr. Anaedsley. Then I wallowed in the mud with you before being cast out by my father. What exactly do you think is overwhelming about sitting in a parlor with pleasant people?”

The duke barked out a laugh as he settled on the arm of his wife's chair. “Sounds like a lively tale.”

“It isn't,” Mellie said in exasperation. “It's an embarrassing tale. Just as this conversation is rather…”

“Humiliating?” offered the duchess. “Feeling like a piece of rubbish being tossed about on the wind?”

“Yes.” Mellie's body tightened then released, her breath coming out in a soft sigh. Exactly the reaction he'd wanted, but he hadn't expected the duchess to understand what he had not.

“But there's nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said. “I've got it all handled.”

The duchess snorted. “She's not the type to want to sit quietly while others do everything for her. If you don't understand that about your own fiancée, then the two of you don't suit.”

Trevor rounded on the woman, outrage at her statement overruling his good sense. “On the contrary,” he said coldly, “it is one of the things I most admire about her.”

“Really,” drawled the damned seamstress. “Then why did you just go off with another woman to arrange things on her behalf? Did you think she'd appreciate being left with strangers while you bartered her future behind her back?”

“I wasn't bartering!” Except, of course, he had been. And the guilty flush that heated his cheeks showed him for the liar he was. “I was…I was arranging things. But that's what we wanted, isn't it dear?”

Mellie didn't comment. She'd gone mute. Even her hand had stopped moving, which was a sure sign that she'd locked herself up tight. In fact, he'd bet his fortune this was exactly how she acted when Ronnie got out of hand. But he wasn't Ronnie to blather on in ignorance of her wishes. “Damn it, Mellie, we discussed this and agreed.” She'd even kissed him in full view of the entire county.

Her gaze dropped from his. “I know. But I hadn't realized…I didn't know you'd meant here. With…”
Them.
She didn't have to say it, but her gaze encompassed the house and all its exalted occupants.

Good Lord, didn't she understand? “I am the grandson to the Duke of Timby. Did you think I spent my days with merchants and a baron or two? You wanted a Season. This is what it means to have one.”
With
me.
He didn't say the words, but she had to understand them. He was a peer.

The room settled into an uncomfortable silence until the duke apparently got impatient. “So as I understand it, Eleanor, you want to sponsor Miss Smithson. Introduce her to society, but what exactly does that mean?”

Eleanor immediately brightened. “Well, I should like her to live here,” she said. “We've plenty of room, and she does need some education.”

“Actually,” Trevor cut in, wondering why he was suddenly so irritated by his childhood friend. “She's had a better education than you. Certainly a better grounding in the sciences.”

Eleanor huffed. “Well, what is that to the point? There's not a soul who will ask her anything about that.”

Surprisingly, Mellie spoke up next. “She's right, Trevor. There are things I should learn before I enter society.”

Eleanor beamed at her as if she were a particularly bright child. “See, she understands.”

“
She
has a name,” he growled back.

“But she hasn't given me leave to use it. Not really.”

Trevor frowned. Hadn't she? Damnation, why was the conversation so hard?

“You have my leave,” Mellie said woodenly, which was even more worrisome.

Meanwhile, the duke was apparently trying to keep things moving. “So you'd like her to live here, and then the two of you would go to parties and such.”

“Yes, exactly,” Eleanor answered.

Meanwhile, the duchess entwined her fingers with her husband's. “I expect it will take a great deal of Eleanor's time and attention.”

The duke frowned as he thought. “Keeping her busy, you mean? So she can cease nattering at us?”

His wife smiled. “Well, I doubt that will ever truly stop.”

“Truly spoken.” But he did smile. “I should like a little less of Eleanor's attention.”

Eleanor released a puff of disdain. “If you would but listen closer when I speak, I would be happy to instruct you less.”

The duke proved Eleanor's point by roundly ignoring her. “There are plenty of rooms in this house. We could put her next to Eleanor's bedroom.”

His wife's expression turned indecently intimate. “And if you are not called upon to chaperone all the time—”

“Sold!”

The duchess grinned, but Trevor did not like the tone of the conversation. “Mellie is not at auction!” he snapped.

“No,” the duchess agreed, “but we have a bargain. Miss Smithson, it is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to our home. Eleanor, pray make sure to keep yourself and her well occupied. And in the meantime,” she said as she pushed to her feet, “I should very much like to eat.” She looked over their shoulders at the butler. “Seelye, that is why you are here, is it not? Is dinner served?”

The man bowed in a most proper form. “It is indeed.”

The duke was also on his feet. “Excellent! My lady?” he said, extending his arm to his wife.

“My lord,” she answered as she touched her fingers to his forearm.

Eleanor stood as well, though her expression was sour. “You are ‘graces,' not lord and lady.” Then she turned to Trevor as she waited for his arm. “They make an effort in public, but at home everything scatters to the wind.”

Trevor had been busy helping Mellie to stand. She was clearly still angry, but there was more to it than that. Panic seemed to rest on her shoulders like an ugly cloak, but there was no time to address the problem. Propriety demanded that he lead Lady Eleanor to the table.

“Mellie—” he began, but Eleanor cut him off.

“Begin as you mean to end, Mr. Anaedsley.” Then when he still hesitated, her voice became sharper. “Trevor, you came to me for a reason. Trust me to know how to polish a raw girl.”