50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (25 page)

Her hair shown like auburn fire in the morning light, a perfect complement to the rich green of her gown. Her skin was dewy fresh, and her eyes— Sweet God, her eyes were bright with the sheen of tears. He was sure of it. There was anger in every abrupt slash of her gaze, fury in the way she pushed aside an offered hand before she stepped on her own over the rope to cross to the center of the square. But there were tears in her eyes. A well of sadness that reached to him through his drugged haze.

She hated this. He could see her disdain for the mockery her life had become, and he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her away. He would give her a laboratory filled with all the chemicals she wanted. He would build her a house and furnish it however she liked. And he would give her children. A thousand children if she wanted.

“You better sit down,” said the voice beside him.

“What?”

“You're giggling.”

“What?” Though it might have come out as a wha—?

“Jesus, what was in that tea?”

Good question. But it didn't matter. “I'm going to fight.”

“You can't.”

“For her. I fight. Just…get me to the ring.”

He felt the duke's supporting arm. Felt the grip of his fingers and the push as he half guided, half carried Trevor to his corner. Then there was the awkwardness of trying to get over or under the rope.

There was a strange roaring in his ears. The wave of an ocean punctuated with bawdy suggestions. It took him a moment to realize that he was hearing the crowd jeering him. He had in mind to give them a rude gesture back, but he needed all his concentration to crawl under the rope without getting sick.

Bloody hell. Maybe he should get sick. That might get the damned poison out of him.

Sadly, there wasn't time. Things looked like they were getting ready. His love was saying something. She had turned away, and his heart lurched in his chest. This is just what it had felt like when she gave him the cut direct.

His insides had hollowed out, and there was just a yawning emptiness where she had been. An aching hole that expanded and grew with every day that passed without her. He swallowed, feeling the tears threaten to choke him.

“Mellie!” he cried as the darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

She turned at his cry, and he dropped to one knee before her. Then to his horror, he watched as her lip curled in disdain. He looked down at himself, seeing the mud on his pants. He tried to brush it away, but that only smeared it into a disaster.

Never mind. He had to speak. He had to tell her his heart. Whereas words and images flowed through his brain he couldn't quite form them into words. All he managed was, “Cricket. Beaut. Beuuu. Tt.” Damnation, he couldn't even say the full word. His mouth wouldn't form the
y
.

He watched her eyes narrow. The sheen of tears was gone, and now she was a towering goddess of fury.

“Beauuuuttt,” he garbled.

And then he went down. Toppled like a tree. He landed face-first in the mud.

He clutched his staff, trying to use it to lever himself upright. But what before was a too-short stick was now a towering tree of unwieldy wood. All he managed was to roll onto his side so that he could see the fight.

Apparently, his collapse signaled the beginning of the fray. While he was trying to use arms that had gone numb to push himself upright, Ronnie had lifted his own massive stave up to the sky with a roar.

Backlit as he was by the sun and the crowd, the man looked impressive. Like a giant of old with a really big stick. But off in the other corner, the ladies were busy as well. They opened the turkey's cage door. The bird would likely have just sat there, content in his cage. Turkeys—or even dodos—were not contentious beasts. But Ronnie's bellow had startled it.

It leaped forward, gobbling and flapping its wings. Eleanor reached for the thing, but she missed, as did the duchess who flung herself forward, succeeding in startling the poor creature even more.

That's a really big bird, he thought as he lay on the ground watching. Big enough to hurt a man if he were, for example, helpless on the ground.

He would not be defeated by a damned turkey. And he would not give up Mellie. So with his own muted roar, he shoved his hands down, managing to lever himself onto all fours.

That, of course, put him almost eye to eye with the bird, so he had a perfect view of the thing—running straight at him—as it fouled Ronnie's sudden charge.

Man and beast collided with much squawking and roaring. Ronnie tried to recover. He was nimble for such a big man, and he side-stepped as best he could. But he was carrying a nine-foot quarterstaff. Trevor's own six-foot one was difficult enough. The three extra feet was too much for Ronnie. He tried to use it against the bird, but ended up digging the end in the ground instead. With the quarterstaff suddenly jerking him sideways and the bird pecking at his knees, there was no hope.

Ronnie fell as all giants fall: with flailing arms, a roar of frustration, and—in this case—a bird pecking at his privates. Which—now that Trevor thought about it—was probably the reason for the high-pitched nature of Ronnie's scream.

The duchess ran forward, her truncheon raised high. She was heading for the turkey, saying something that might have been, “you poor dear,” and then she gave Ronnie a big whack as she rushed past.

Ronnie might have recovered. The duchess, though fierce, had hit him on his fleshy behind, which was insulting but not really damaging.

Mr. Rausch stepped forward. He walked leisurely, which Trevor thought was rather lucky. The longer Mr. Rausch took to subdue Ronnie, the more time it gave Trevor to get to his feet.

But he'd forgotten that Rausch was a smart man, not given to ostentatious shows of fury like Ronnie. He stepped casually forward and set the silver-tipped point of his staff on Ronnie's throat.

“I win,” he said.

“No,” Trevor bellowed. Or he tried to. It came out more as a strangled groan. It took all his concentration to stay upright on his knees.

The crowd was deafening as they screamed abuse. No one seemed to have heard him. But he was fighting for Mellie. He couldn't let her go to the roué. He couldn't!

“No!” he tried again as he got one foot under him. Oh bloody hell, the ground was heaving about like a boiling pot of porridge.

Meanwhile, Ronnie looked like he was going to fight. There wasn't much he could do lying flat with a silver-tipped spear to his throat, but he started cursing. Apparently, the man was well versed in ways to insult his attacker. Rausch, of course, wasn't in the least bit concerned.

“Yield, Mr. Smithson.”

Ronnie didn't want to. But then a little pressure to his throat had his insults sputtering to silence. A moment more—or perhaps after a deeper push from Mr. Rausch—and Ronnie gave in. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Say it, Mr. Smithson.”

Finally, Ronnie did. “Yield.” It was an angry curse, but the word was clear enough.

“I don't,” said Trevor.

With a Herculean effort, he surged to his feet. He would fight for Mellie.

But he'd forgotten the damned turkey. The beast was a menace. Worse, it was an easily startled menace that abruptly set to gobbling and pecking at him. And the duchess did nothing to restrain the satanic creature.

Trevor went down again, tripping over the bird on his way to Mellie, who was just now stepping into the ring. He tried to call out to her. He tried any of a thousand different things that all added up to him pleading with her to understand. To forgive him. To wait.

But none of the words came out except one. It burst forth as the turkey managed to kick him in the gut.

“Bugger!”

Then he went down beneath the creature's wings.

He rolled away. He could manage that. But by the time he got free of the maniacal creature, it was to see Mr. Rausch on one knee before Mellie. And while she stared in frozen shock, he offered her a ring.

Bloody hell, the man had just proposed.

Trevor didn't give up until he saw Mellie's nod. A slow dip of her chin that cut the heart straight out of him. Proposed. Accepted. And him flattened by a turkey.

With a moan of despair, he gave up. He closed his eyes and let unconsciousness claim him. The last thing he heard seemed fitting somehow. A final end to this charade.

“Squawk!”

He really hoped that someone had just strangled the demonic bird.

If a rake once discovers he has emotions, he will be ruined forever.

The turkey had escaped. Sometime during the end of the fight and the return to the ducal residence, the turkey and Ronnie had disappeared. She hoped the creature had run off to find a welcoming forest somewhere. She hoped Ronnie had gone off, never to be seen or heard from again.

But mostly, she didn't hope or want or feel anything at all. She just sat in a chair and stared at the fire. Trevor had failed her. She knew that wasn't a logical feeling. None of her feelings ever were. Not when she'd clutched him in a desperate need to escape London with a fake engagement. Not when she'd realized she was in love with a man who had stated at the very beginning that he didn't even like her. And certainly not when she'd decided to fight for him by giving him her virginity.

She'd been an illogical, irrational female, just like her mother. And just like her mother, she had destroyed her life. She hadn't thrown herself off a bridge, but she had done something equally disastrous. She'd accepted Mr. Rausch's ring.

Her entire goal in coming to London was to find love. Someone she loved who loved her in return. Who would marry her and raise a family with her. Mr. Rausch would do none of those things. And lest she be confused about these things, he had stated it aloud when he'd offered her his ring.

“I do not love you, Melinda, and I never will. But we can still travel the world together. And you can still give me your formula and make me rich enough to buy you anything your heart desires. If you accept these things, then I offer you honorable marriage.”

She had agreed. And now, his heavy diamond ring listed sideways on her finger.

So she and Trevor had failed each other. She would have to carry on as best she could without love, which meant she had completed the transition to the aristocracy. Everywhere she looked in the
ton
, there were loveless couples. And that too Trevor had told her: my set doesn't marry for love. And now she wouldn't either.

“Hasn't the duke returned?” Mr. Rausch asked.

She looked up from the fire and mustered a smile for her fiancé. “He sent word an hour ago that he will return before the feast.”

“Does he stay to watch over Mr. Anaedsley?”

She nodded. “He wrote that Trevor was drugged, not poisoned. A powerful sleeping draught.”

“I told you something was off. No man goes down from a turkey kick, even one to the gut.”

“Ronnie did.”

Mr. Rausch smiled in obvious amusement. “Ronnie got a turkey peck in…well, in a sensitive area. That is vastly different.”

She had no answer to that, and so she smiled as she might to her father. It was a vague sort of pleasant expression, which was usually enough to set her pater to prosing on without a thought to her. But Mr. Rausch was cut from a different cloth.

“For a woman newly engaged to a man as rich as Croesus, you appear remarkably downcast.”

“I apologize. Was there something you wish me to do? If we are to leave soon for Africa—”

“Tell me first why you are glum.”

“I'm not glum, Mr. Rausch—”

“And for God's sake, call me Carl.”

She paused, then realized he was completely in the right. “Very well, Carl.” She paused. She did not like the feel of his name on her tongue. It felt unwieldy in her mouth. She supposed it was one more thing she would have to adjust to. “I am merely overwhelmed, I suppose.”

“Or perhaps you have given up on your dreams and are mourning the loss.” Then he took her hands in his, his long fingers toying with the heavy ring he had given her. “You loved him?”

She thought about denying it, but this man was to be her husband. She would not start the relationship with a lie.

“Yes, I did. I do. But I assure you, that will not prevent me from being a good wife to you.”

He patted her hand. “I never doubted it. But can you tell me why you love him?”

She frowned, wondering why he was pushing into a wound so raw.

“I find that it is the words that make a difference. If you can express things in words, it makes everything more clear.”

It made sense when phrased like that, but she didn't know if she could do it. “How does one use words for a feeling?”

He squeezed her fingers. “You are of a scientific mind-set. Try analyzing the causes.”

She thought back to that first day. “He makes me laugh,” she said. “And so mad I want to spit at him. And then I laugh again.” She thought about his hands on her body and how—when she wanted to hide away—he was there, pushing her to do something outrageous again. “He makes me live when I would much rather disappear.”

“There will be a million things to see and do. And then there is what I will teach you in the bedroom. Let us disappear together into that wonderful country.” He raised her fingers to his lips, but rather than press a chaste kiss to her hand, he rolled his tongue around the tip of her fourth finger before sucking it into his mouth. And when he was done, he looked into her eyes.

It was meant to be erotic, and a tiny part of her woke enough to pay attention. There were sensations tickling up her hand. Wet from his tongue. Pressure when he nipped at the tip. And a seductive heat from his eyes as he watched her reaction to everything he did.

She wanted to be aroused. She reached for the feeling that overwhelmed her whenever she was with Trevor. She found a pale shadow of it and did her best to nurture it.

Meanwhile, he set her hand down with a fond smile. “It will take time,” he reassured her. “But if you promise to try, then you will be surprised by what I can accomplish.”

“Of course I will try. You will be my husband.”

He nodded as if he expected no less, but there was disappointment in his eyes. She was already failing him, and their engagement was only six hours old. What would it be like in six years? Or sixteen? The idea horrified her, and yet that is what she had committed herself to do.

She struggled for something to say. She never was short of words with Trevor. And perhaps that was what she ought to say, Trevor was no more to her. She would hereafter cease thinking of the man. He was in her past, and Carl was her future.

She opened her mouth for just that purpose, but entirely different words popped out of her mouth.

“What the devil?” she said.

Her gaze had caught on someone standing in the doorway—someone who looked very much like Trevor, except that he was covered in mud, and he was carrying a bird. It was a pretty thing, somewhat reminiscent of a pigeon. But it was much larger—about a foot in size—and it had colorful green and blue plumage below the gray head and neck.

She pushed to her feet. Behind Trevor, the duke was gesturing to Carl.

“Mr. Rausch, care to share a brandy with me?”

If the man answered, Mellie didn't hear it. She was too focused on Trevor. “They said you'd been poisoned. Are you all right?”

He shrugged. “Have the devil's own headache, but Brant says that will clear by morning.”

“Should you be in bed?”

He stood there looking at her. He was trailing dirt on the floor, and the pigeon on his forearm looked none too happy to be tied to him. “I should be exactly where I am, Mellie. In fact, I should have been here days ago, but…” He shrugged. “I didn't know what to say.”

From beside her, Mr. Rausch's dry voice cut through the room. “Why does everyone keep bringing her birds?”

Trevor's gaze cut to Rausch, but he didn't speak. Instead, his gaze dropped to Mellie's hand and the ring that had flopped sideways again. She tucked her hands together, wanting to hide the damned thing, but he'd already seen.

Then he took a deep breath. “Mellie, would you sit down please?”

She nodded and headed toward her seat, but he shook his head.

“Not there.”

“What?”

“Wait. Just a moment.” Then he crossed to the chair by the window and tugged at it. It was awkward given that he still had to keep the pigeon happy. It squawked in annoyance a couple of times, but eventually, settled down. The duke stepped forward to help, but Trevor gestured him back. So everyone waited while the man balanced bird and furniture, shifting things around until the seat was facing the window.

“Will you sit down here please?”

She glanced about the room, seeing that Eleanor, the duchess, Seelye, and even a couple of the maids were crowding in the doorway to watch. She felt self-conscious sitting down with her back to everyone, but she would do what Trevor wanted. At this moment, she thought she would do anything the man wanted if only he would remain nearby a bit longer.

So she maneuvered herself into the chair and sat down. It was a tight fit given that he was standing between her and the window, and the bird did not seem to like her coming close. But she managed it and then folded her hands in her lap as she looked to him.

“I have been doing the most bizarre things lately,” he said. “Things that any rational person would never contemplate much less execute.”

She heard some murmuring of agreement, but with her heart beating so fast in her chest, she could hardly hear Trevor or what the others were saying. “I know you were drugged. You needn't explain.”

“But that's just it. I have been seized by a madness for weeks. I look at every room, and imagine it as you would arrange it with chairs facing the window, backs to the door.”

So that was why he turned her chair around. “I only do that at home.”

“But I want you to do that in my home. I have also broken completely with my grandfather, which everyone says is a mistake, but I cannot think that it is. And in a life with barely a schoolboy row, I have been in a duel and a fray. I've used a weapon, Mellie, short-sized though it may have been.”

“Actually,” inserted the duke from behind, “you didn't so much use it as fall on top of it.”

Trevor shot an irritated look over her shoulder, but then refocused. “I brought you this bird too,” he said, pushing the creature forward. “It's not a dodo bird, but it's the nearest relative, we think. It's called a Nicobar pigeon, and I've named him Ronnie because the first thing he did was shit on my shoes.”

Mellie looked down, and yes, right there was a telltale splotch on his boot. Then when he didn't speak more, she looked up to realize he was offering her the bird.

“Oh!” she gasped, but she didn't know how to take the thing. Plus it didn't seem to like her either.

“Seelye, take him, would you?” ordered the duke.

“Take him, Your Grace? Where?”

“Well, we failed to eat Ronnie's offering. Maybe we should try Trevor's.”

“Oh no!” cried Mellie, her voice tight as she grabbed the bird. “We are not eating this Ronnie!”

“Well, I doubt we should eat the other one,” said Mr. Rausch. “Though I understand the desire.”

Neither Trevor nor Mellie commented. They were busy handing off the bird to the appalled butler. When Mellie turned back to Trevor, he was looking at her with eyes that seemed to be stretched unnaturally wide. It was clearly a strain for him. He blinked twice, but each time seemed to push his face toward her.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm trying to be bug-eyed for you, Mellie. I'm exaggerating it now, but honestly, I've been trying to do that since you first asked me.”

A giggle trembled up from inside her. She tried to hold it back because she could see he was in earnest. But he made her laugh, and she couldn't stop it. “I was teasing you, Trevor.”

“I don't care.” Then he opened his jacket and pulled out something from inside a pocket. “Hold out your hands.”

She did, and he carefully placed a small book in her palms. Then he added two feathers to the pile. Then three more, then as many as a dozen little feathers.

“As a rule, feathers make me sneeze,” he said. “I find them annoying, and they float everywhere, making a mess.”

“Oh,” she said.

“But these are from your dress. I have been on my knees since that day, collecting these things and sniffing them.”

She frowned. “You sniffed them?”

He nodded, his expression rueful. “Made me sneeze every time, but…Mellie, they were yours. You wore them. They smell like you.”

What could she say to that? She couldn't think. She didn't know what he was trying to tell her, and she couldn't bring herself to guess for fear she'd be wrong.

“And look at the book. Don't say anything. Just know that I think about that with you too.”

She frowned down at the untitled book. She opened the pages, then gasped in shock before coloring up to her ears. There were couples drawn there. In intimate poses. Instead of snapping the book shut as she ought to do, she paged through and imagined herself and Trevor doing every single picture.

“Trevor,” she whispered.

“There's more.”

More? She didn't think she could handle more. Already he'd said more than she'd ever hoped for except the one thing she wanted.

He dropped down onto one knee before her and reached into his pocket. Her heart lurched. He hadn't said it.

He pulled out a notebook. She recognized the journal. He carried it with him whenever he visited her father. “You were right so long ago. You called me a useless fribble who only attends parties. You said I don't care about science—”

“Trevor, I was angry.”

“You were right. I've been dabbling at my studies, but here…” He flipped the book open. “I want to work more. I want to work with you.”

She knew of his research. She'd overheard him talk with her father about it, but she never thought he'd want to share it with her. “But Trevor, I work with chemicals, not insects.”

“You're a scientist, and I never realized how much of your father's work is actually yours. I should have. I'm sorry. All those times I was trying to get your father's advice, his clarity of mind and singular focus—I really wanted yours. Mellie, I've been an idiot.”