50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (10 page)

“She's not a raw—”

“In this she is.” She glanced at Mellie. “You understand precedence? Who goes in to dine in what order?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She nodded. “Excellent. Come along, Trevor.” Then she grabbed his arm, sank in her talons, and began pulling him toward the door.

He had to go or appear completely rude, not to mention gauche and ridiculous. One did not fight with a lady, and certainly not with Lady Eleanor. So he turned his back on his fiancée, feeling like the lowest heel. He listened as they walked, every cell in his body attuned to Mellie, trying to discern her thoughts, her emotions, her…anything. But she was as blank to him as a darkened room.

Meanwhile, Eleanor began to prattle. “Now here is what I plan…”

And so began the most bizarre dinner of his life.

When the opportunity appears, do not hesitate. Strike swiftly.

Melinda trailed in behind the group, feeling like a small child. She hadn't been the last to go into dinner since…well, since ever. Her mother had passed when she was young, so on her very first formal dinner—at the age of eight—her father had extended his arm, and they had walked in together like the King and Queen of England.

It was that memory—and not the sight of her fiancée leading Lady Eleanor to her seat—that brought her emotions to heel. She was not a woman who felt small. And she was definitely not a child to be overcome by feelings best left in the nursery. Therefore, she would do as she had been taught. She would analyze the situation like a scientist and come to a logical conclusion.

She began with the easiest. She would observe her environment. The ducal London home was well apportioned, had an excellent staff, and a first-rate cook. She had not yet been served, but the scent was tempting enough, even for her stomach, which was currently tied up in knots.

She'd already formed her opinion of the duke and duchess as warm and welcoming people, and Lady Eleanor as decidedly not. Especially now that the woman began speaking quite drolly about Lord Somebody and Lady Other with her attention completely centered on Trevor. It took another two seconds of quiet observation for Melinda to conclude that Lady Eleanor was unwilling to allow a low-class usurper like her to be part of the circle that included Trevor. The woman barely tolerated the duke and duchess. A cit like her couldn't possibly compete.

For his part, Trevor chuckled in the exact same manner, though he kept darting worried frowns at her. Melinda concluded that he was either concerned about her silent demeanor or disappointed by her lack of polish.

And therein ended her conclusions based on observations. Not very useful after all, until Lady Eleanor paused in yet another anecdote to glance at her. “I do hope you're listening, Melinda. These are names you should memorize and information you should keep in your pocket.”

She looked at the woman, acute dislike welling up through her belly. But she forced it down even as she curved her lips into something she hoped appeared to be a smile. “I have come to a decision,” she said. In her experience, nothing exasperated an egoist more than having their comments completely ignored.

“Oh, excellent,” crowed the duchess. “I do so enjoy decision at the dinner table.”

Mellie took a moment to study Her Grace, unsure whether this was a criticism or a simple statement of fact. “Duchess?”

“Goodness, call me Wendy. After all, you shall be with us for the whole Season.”

“Your Grace!” Lady Eleanor cried.

“Of course, Wendy,” Mellie responded.

“Now, what have you decided?”

“That if I am to have a Season, everyone will be talking about the gross mésalliance between myself and Mr. Anaedsley.”

Trevor cast her a soft smile. “It's not so gross nor so unusual.”

“Truly?” Mellie challenged. “Then your family coffers need an infusion of my dowry?”

“Don't be ridiculous. The title is very well heeled.”

“Exactly,” Lady Eleanor inserted. “Mésalliance.”

Mellie didn't wish to be supported by that woman at all, but she couldn't disagree. “Therefore, if we wish to distract everyone from that story, we must provide a different one.”

The duke snorted. “I shouldn't worry about that. Something else will come along. Someone will have a scandalous affair. Someone else will drop dead of an interesting illness.”

His wife shook her head. “No, no, she's right. She's talking about the story around
her
. And that won't be replaced by the usual tidbits.”

Lady Eleanor nodded. “Not unless we do something to change it.”

Good. They were all smart. Meanwhile the duke finished off his soup. “Well? Don't keep us in suspense. What do you mean to do?”

“I believe we should talk about my unusual scientific abilities. I'm quite accomplished. It was my discovery that bleaches muslin so white. And I've developed a new formula for an exciting new cosmetic. I should think that appeals to the women at least.”

Total silence greeted her words, and Mellie had a moment of satisfaction. Perhaps she could manage this task after all. But it was a brief moment before an explosion of sound. In truth, the laughter wasn't more than chuckles, but it sounded like a cacophony. They clearly thought her life's work thus far was a subject of humor—that was insulting enough—but it was the softer expressions that truly hurt: pity. The same expression that appeared whenever someone referred to her dead mother, when anyone spoke about her odd father, and now, it was extended to her work as well.

Pity. And if that was the way of things then—

“By Jove, that's incredible. You must have been a child. Were you doing chemistry even when your father was tutoring me?”

Mellie blinked, focusing on Trevor as she nodded. “Yes. I was nine and had gotten grass stains on my dress. I didn't have that many dresses then and didn't want to tell Papa. So I thought of a way to use chemicals to lift it out.”

“And did it?”

She shrugged. “Dissolved the thing into dust. And I burned my fingers trying to stop it.” She held up her hand as if the mark was still there, but she'd been young, not stupid. As soon as the pain had hit her fingertips, she'd plunged them into cold water. And then stood by in misery as her favorite dress dissolved in front of her eyes.

“You don't bear scars from it, do you?” he asked.

She put her hand down. “No. Fingertips grow back quickly.”

“Lucky that,” Trevor laughed, “Or I'd have to stuff cotton in my gloves to fill them out. Especially after my experiments with combustibles.”

She smiled at him, her humiliation easing, but was rapidly beginning to learn that everything moved faster in London, including the pace of conversation. She had no more than found a smile for Trevor when Lady Eleanor stepped in to destroy the peace.

“Well, that story won't serve. Really Trevor, you know better than to encourage that line of talk. Stuffed gloves. Science—”

“Wait now,” interrupted the duchess. “I know about your mill's muslin. Whitest in England.”

“Thank you—”

“Which is all very well and good inside a dress shop,” Eleanor corrected. “But we're planning her come out. Adding ‘bluestocking' to the story will in no way stop talk of the mésalliance. In fact, it will only increase it.”

Mellie looked to Trevor, waiting for him to support her. After all, he understood what she'd accomplished. But he shrugged and gave her
that
look. Pity, damn it, from the one man who understood.

“She's right, I'm afraid,” he said. “We need something better. How about the duel I fought for her?”

Lady Eleanor gasped in horror. “You fought a duel for her?” She might as well have said, you had dinner in a pig wallow?

“Fisticuffs. But the entire county was there as witness,” continued Trevor.

Meanwhile, Mellie was anxious to put an end to that tale. “I've already told the tale.”

“But not to me,” said Eleanor as she smiled at Trevor. Obviously, she wanted him to tell it, but then a second later she waved it off. “I'll want full details later, but again…that will only increase the talk of the mésalliance. After all, who would fight a duel with fists? That's a bout, not a duel.”

“Fair point,” said Trevor. “Though the man was a giant, and he had fists like granite.”

Ronnie was big, but not a giant. “It's a wonder you survived at all,” Mellie said, her tone sarcastic.

Trevor flashed her a grin. “Allow me a little exaggeration. It is my jaw that he pummeled, you know.”

“And yet you are eating and talking with no ill effects.”

He barked out a laugh, and she felt her tensions ease. But she knew by now that a moment later things would be bad again. Oddly enough, the next suggestion came from the duchess who had been mostly content with her food until now.

“Dress her outrageous.”

The duchess was soft spoken, but her words seemed to carry, and again there was a moment's silence in response. Mellie tensed, waiting for more humiliating laughter, this time directed to the highest-ranking woman in the room. But instead Lady Eleanor paused in the act of reaching for her wine.

“Pray go on.”

“Helaine can manage it. Something outré without being déclassé.” She flashed her husband a smile at her French words.

Her husband frowned, then grinned as he translated. “Something wild without being vulgar. But would that work?”

“That all depends,” said Eleanor as she frowned at Melinda. “Do you have any Russian heritage?”

“Russian?” Mellie asked.

“We can't do German,” she returned. “There's nothing outrageous in the entire stodgy lot. French is out, of course, and you don't really look Spanish.”

“What about Turkish?” asked Trevor.

“With a hookah pipe? Hmmm.” Then Eleanor waved it away. “Too dirty with the smoke and all. And not very outrageous either. I think it shall have to be Russian.”

Mellie set her hands tightly in her lap. “But I don't know any Russian.” She didn't even know
anyone
Russian. “Perhaps we should return to my scientific work.”

“No, no, I told you. Bluestockings are boring, not outrageous. We need to make you fun.” She suddenly snapped her fingers. “I know! You must sing badly.”

“What?”

“Very, very badly. Such that we all laugh.”

Trevor was just being served the mutton when he shook his head. “But she has a lovely singing voice.”

No, she didn't. Mellie frowned at him. “Why would you think that?”

He shrugged and gave her a mischievous smile. “Your father told me that once, I think.”

Mellie shot him an irritated look. “Papa meant that I have perfected his cricket calls.”

“Cricket?” the duke asked, using his fork to gesture. “As in with a ball and a bat?”

“Er, no, the insect. My father studies them, you know.”

“So it's like bird calls only for insects?” the man pressed.

“Yes, exactly,” she said, only belatedly realizing how odd this must sound to anyone outside her father's circle of friends.

The duchess set down her fork, apparently not liking the mutton. “But why would anyone want to call crickets?”

Good question. She'd asked her father the same thing at the time. “He believed the cricket's chirp was indicative of a mating ritual. He wanted to test the theory with calls, but he hadn't the knack of it.”

Lady Eleanor beamed at her. “But you did. Can you do one now?”

“Er—”

“Can you, perhaps, make it into a song of sorts?”

“What?”

Eleanor suddenly brightened. “I know, make it a bit like ‘Greensleeves,' but for crickets. You know the tune, don't you?” Then she proceeded to hum a bit of the song.

“What are you about?” That was from Trevor, his voice a mix of outrage and laughter.

The humming stopped, and Eleanor turned wide eyes on Trevor. “It's perfect, you know. We'll call her a poor Russian princess, so lonely she only had the crickets as playmates.”

Mellie set her fork down with a click. “But I am not a poor Russian princess.”

“No one will know that. And besides, you do have an eccentric father, right? We'll say he got his madness from his Russian side.”

“But we're not Russian!”

Eleanor huffed. “We've been over this. All the other countries won't suit.”

“Stop, Eleanor,” Trevor said. “I won't have my fiancée made into a laughingstock.”

“But that's the point, don't you see? To make her outrageous in a fun way.” And when Trevor just stared her down, she added in a tiny pout. “You needn't frown at me like that. It was her idea. I was simply making it work.”

Meanwhile, the duchess waved the footman to withdraw her plate. “We still need a story for her.”

Trevor finished off his mutton with a last large bite. “Love match won't do it?”

Both society women spoke at once. “No.” And, “Certainly not.”

Which is when Melinda made her decision. Right there, between the mutton and the pheasant courses, she looked at the white gloves of the footmen who were trying to hide the gravy stains, the impassive expression of the butler who was nonetheless listening to every word spoken, and most of all, to the flirtatious glances of Lady Eleanor as she systematically made Mellie an object of fun. She saw the silly pageantry of it all, and she finally understood that Ronnie hadn't been the only one obsessed with creating a Cheltenham tragedy out of everything. Everyone wanted a pageant—tragedy or farce made no difference. It was the game of society, and if she wanted to be part of it, she needed to play her roll exceedingly well.

“Very well then,” she said. “I shall be the Cricket Princess.”

“The what?” Trevor gaped.

“Well, it's somewhat true, isn't it? My father is an eccentric entomologist. We are rich beyond Croesus—” Not true, but this was a play, after all. She might as well exaggerate. “And he has taught me some very odd things.”

Trevor reared back. “He has taught you science.”

“No, no,” interrupted Eleanor. “She has the right of it. Science is only interesting if it's bizarre.”

Trust the woman to call her right and bizarre in the same sentence. Meanwhile, she continued to speak to Trevor. “And as your love of bugs is well established—”

“Science,” he reiterated, a heavy note to his voice. “And you know damned well that I believe there is a link between insects and disease.”

“Well, what is that to the point?” she said, in exactly the tones that Eleanor had used earlier. “We shall make you the Buggy Duke and me the Cricket Princess. Everyone will believe a love match then because it's a perfect pairing.”