50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (7 page)

“And just what have you done, you whoremonger, to turn her head so? Good God, do you routinely make a spectacle of the women of your acquaintance?”

Far from being insulted, Mr. Anaedsley appeared to be amused. “Only those who enjoy the spectacle, sir.”

“Well, I assure you,” inserted her father, “she did not enjoy it. She did not enjoy it one bit.”

Her fiancé arched his brows as he turned to her. “Is that so, my dear? Not even a little?”

She felt her body heat under his gaze, warming from the frozen place she'd existed before he'd walked into the room.

Meanwhile, her uncle was making disgusted noises. He was rather good at them actually. He combined outrage and a snort to a loud sound that never failed to draw everyone's attention. Well, everyone, it seemed, except Trevor. He was busy teasing her knuckles with his thumb while his eyes sparkled with a dark mischief she found completely mesmerizing. Especially since his lips curved upward in a secret promise.

“I think we should be away to London with all speed,” he said. “Have you directed your maid to pack?”

She nodded. He had reminded her twice of this plan before heading to his bath. But she had not had a chance to tell her father, who was right now sputtering with rage.

“L-London? What? Good God, Mellie! But I have my experiments, and you must help. And—and—London? Why?”

It was Mr. Anaedsley who answered with a cordial tone laced heavily with aristocratic arrogance. “Because she is my promised bride, sir. She must be introduced to society with all haste. The Season is barely a week away.”

“I don't understand any of this,” her father said. He stopped walking to drop into a chair by the fire. His entire spirit seemed diffuse, as if he hadn't the strength or the will to support his own body.

Mellie's uncle put a comforting—or a condescending—hand on his brother's shoulder then shot a glare at Mr. Anaedsley. “What is there to understand, Gregory? He seduced her. He came into your house, crept into her bedroom—”

“Have a care, sir. You are speaking of my future wife.”

“I am speaking of you, sir. How could you abuse—”

“Enough!” Trevor had been standing, but somehow, the man appeared to grow taller. She was looking right at him so she saw him draw the mantle of his heritage about him. His shoulders straightened, his chin grew hard, and his words became clipped and cold.

“I will answer this once because you are her family. She is as pure as the day I arrived. I have neither seduced nor debased anyone here, and you do her no credit to think such a thing.” Then he turned to her father, and his body softened a bit. “Sir, I know I should have spoken with you first. In truth, this…connection with your daughter has caught me by surprise. But I think you would wish us happy.”

Her father slumped even further in his chair. “It's just so unlike her.”

And there it was. The words that had damned her from the beginning. She could tell that Trevor had no understanding of what those words meant in this family. He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “A woman's heart is a mysterious thing, sir. I can barely fathom my own actions except to say that your daughter is a prize among women.”

His words heated her enough that the final frozen part of her began to move. She spoke for the first time in over an hour, her voice filling the room for all that she spoke in a whisper. “What he means, Mr. Anaedsley, is that such an impetuous action is something my mother would do.”

Trevor frowned, obviously trying to remember her parent. “I'm sorry. I don't understand. Isn't it the most natural thing in the world for a daughter to resemble her mother?”

Three exclamations of shock greeted his words. And no wonder as he'd just voiced everyone's secret fear. With a sad smile, Mellie finally found the strength to stand. A moment later, she had crossed to Trevor's side as she stood before her distraught father.

“Mama was somewhat impulsive,” she said neutrally.

“Somewhat!” her father exclaimed. At least he didn't snort like her uncle.

Meanwhile, Trevor cocked his head to one side as he looked upon the three of them. “Impulsive? Or prone to dramatics like Ronnie?”

“How dare you, sir!” Ronnie's father exploded. “My son is entirely sane!”

Trevor drew back in surprise. “I don't believe I suggested otherwise. Just that he's prone—”

“Mama killed herself,” Mellie said softly. “I believe my family fears I might have inherited her madness.” There. She'd said the words. Now it remained to be seen if he would end this scheme for fear of her mother's taint. “I suppose I should have told you earlier, but…”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps I already knew. Something about a bridge?”

“Yes—”

“This is outside of enough!” bellowed her uncle. And looking at her father, Mellie knew the man was at the last of his strength. She hadn't realized how much of a blow her engagement would be to him. So she went to him, sinking down on her knees to be level with his eyes.

“Papa, is it all so very odd? You have been singing Mr. Anaedsley's praises since the first time you tutored him.”

Her father shook his head. “And you have had nothing but disdain for him.”

She sighed. It was true. “Perhaps I have changed, Papa. Maybe I finally opened my eyes and looked at him.”

Her uncle made an ugly sound. “What you saw was a title, my girl. And a—”

“An alternative to Ronnie?” she said, shooting him a heavy glare.

Her father took her hands. “But Ronald makes sense. He's only your half cousin, you know. And if you two marry, we will keep the mill in the family.”

She sighed. “Yes, I know, Papa. But perhaps I can look higher.”

“Don't be foolish, girl,” interrupted her uncle. “You won't be accepted into his world. You'll be reviled by everyone you meet, called an encroaching mushroom, and criticized at every turn.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Trevor stiffen. “I will see that she is not.”

“As if you could promise that,” her uncle said with a sneer. “No man is that powerful, not even a duke. She belongs with us.”

“She belongs where she chooses to be.” He lifted his chin. “And where I have invited her. Mr. Smithson, we have declared our intentions. It is up to you now whether you choose to accept it or fight—”

“No,” she interrupted in a low tone. She could tell he meant well, but Mr. Anaedsley was still a man and had little understanding of how to ease her father into a situation. Some things required a woman's touch. And so that's what she did. She took her father's hands and kissed them. “I wish to go. Will you truly stop me?”

His eyes grew watery, and she could feel the tremor in his hands. “This is all so sudden.”

“Even so, Papa.”

“Gregory—” her uncle began, but she shot him an angry look. It was seconded by Trevor who made a growl akin to her uncle's, except that it was lower and more threatening. Apparently, it was the only way to silence her uncle because after a single furious glare, he stomped to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.

Meanwhile, she laid her cheek against her father's thin hands. When had they gotten so frail?

“Papa, do not toss me aside.”

“As if I could, Mellie.”

She lifted her head then and looked into his eyes. “You will let me go?”

“If you are truly engaged, I cannot stop you.”

“Papa,” she whispered, cut to the quick by the defeat in his eyes.

He looked at her then. “You have been scheming for years for a way to go to London. You have finally found one I cannot fight.”

She swallowed, knowing now how stupid she'd been to hope he would understand. “I have to grow up, Papa. I cannot be home at your beck and call forever. I am a woman grown.”

His eyes grew watery, and he looked away. The fire grate was cold, and she thought to light it despite the warmth in the room. But when she moved to do just that, her father clutched her hand. “Mellie,” he said, his voice cracking on his words. “Do not…don't do anything impulsive.”

What he meant was: don't do anything mad. Do not act crazy. Except this whole escapade was insane, and so she wavered, abruptly unsure of what she should do. Were they right? Was this her mother's illness coming to the fore?

Then Trevor was beside her, his hand warm on her back as he supported her. She would not topple with him beside her. And when he spoke, his voice was pitched low, soothing to her father. “This is not insanity, sir. You know me. You have admired my mind and my sense since I was a boy. Do you think I would affiance myself to a madwoman?”

Her father lifted his gaze slowly—not to her, but to Trevor. It rose until the men looked each other in the eye, and then finally, her father nodded. “Very well. Go to London, Mellie. But just the Season, yes?”

“Yes.” She had to work to push the word out of her mouth. If all went according to plan, she'd return with a husband and would never live here again.

“You'll write me, won't you?”

“You could come up and join me,” she offered, all the while wondering if that were even possible.

“No, no. I have my experiments, you know.”

She knew.

“And your uncle has some excellent ideas about your formula.”

Her uncle spoke from behind his brandy glass. “You still need to give that to me.”

She looked to her uncle, noting that his expression was as bland as possible. But what was more interesting to her was the way Trevor took a step back, his narrowed eyes jumping from her to her uncle in rapid succession.

“Of course,” she said as she rose to her feet. “I can write it down—”

“No need to bother with that now, my dear,” interrupted Trevor. “You should get your valise. The day is rapidly escaping, and we have a long ride to London.”

She didn't suggest they wait until tomorrow. It would only increase her father's agony. He did not adjust well to change, and the anticipation of an event was often worse than the adjustment itself.

“Papa,” she said softly. “May we take the carriage?”

“And what of a chaperone?” her uncle demanded.

“My maid will do fine,” she said, hoping it was true.

Finally, her father released a long sigh. He deflated even more in his seat, but when he looked at her, his eyes were clear and strong. “You may take the carriage, my dear. But if you ask me to bless this marriage…” He shook his head. “I cannot.”

“What? But Papa—”

“No, my dear.” He stood then, his movements bizarrely normal. He had his normal strength, his usual crispness in speech. “Go if you must, but I do not approve.”

Then he turned and headed for his laboratory.

Reward him for being solicitous. Once you have his attention, do everything to keep it.

Trevor sat in the most well-appointed carriage he'd ever had the pleasure of traveling inside. The springs were new, the cushions plush, and there were even decorative lamps in case one wished to read after dark. It was the height of modern luxury, and yet he'd never felt more uncomfortable in his life.

He sat alone on his seat. Across from him was Mellie and a sour-faced prune of a maid who obviously took her position as chaperone much too seriously. Every time he tried to touch his fiancée—even the accidental brush of knees—she glared at him as if he'd just tried to lift Mellie's skirts. Even conversation was stilted as the woman glowered at all discourse, clearly blaming him for her sudden removal to London.

Well, to hell with it. Mellie was his fiancée, and more important, she was clearly suffering. He would talk to her and do what he could to ease the pain of her father's defection.

But how to start? How to broach the subject when the lady didn't wish to converse? She sat as still as stone, her gaze vague, and her hands clenched tightly together in her lap. He'd already tried the normal conversation starters. He'd discussed the weather and the length of the drive. Noted various interesting sights, which frankly were nothing more than, “Oh, there's another handsome cow.” In the end, he decided on direct speech. It had always worked best with her anyway.

“Mellie, you no doubt feel rather unsettled. I know this is sudden—”

“I have made my choice, Mr. Anaedsley, and am well content.”

Her words were spoken in clipped, almost acerbic tones, but he could see the anxiety in her tightened fingers. “I'm sure you are,” he said trying to be soothing, “but that cannot have been an easy conversation with your father.”

For the first time in over an hour, her gaze cut to his and held. It was too dark to see any glisten of tears, but he knew that she'd been on the verge of crying ever since her father had walked out on her. How could she not? It had been just the two of them since she was a child. In many respects, her father was her whole world.

“He will adjust in time,” she said softly. “It is all for the best.”

“Yes, it is, but…” He leaned forward onto his knees. He didn't dare take her hand because of the damned maid, but at least he could reach toward her without actually connecting. “Mellie, in twenty-four hours you have become engaged and now left your home.” He didn't mention the viper's nest called London society. She'd learn the horrors of that soon enough. “Please, ask me questions about what is to come. Or rail at me. Hit me even, if you like. Do something to ease the pain.”

Her lips tightened, but her words came out calm. “Will that help? Will it force my father to forgive me or make the insults to come easier to bear?”

So she did have an idea of what would happen in London. “I have found that women who discuss things find everything easier to bear. Or so they have claimed.”

He could not shake the memory of how white her skin had gone when her father refused his blessing. Or that she became stone while her uncle cut at her some more until Trevor put a stop to it. No more tragic a figure had ever appeared on stage than Mellie standing still while her only family voiced their disgust and walked away.

Meanwhile, she shook her head, keeping her lips resolutely shut.

“You are thinking,” he guessed, “that to speak of such things aloud will surely cause your heart to break in two. That the pain will cripple you, and you will curl up into a ball and sob until you cannot move again. Do I have the right of it?”

Again her gaze locked on his, holding it without wavering. And then she opened her mouth, but not a word came out. She tried twice. He saw her draw breath, but not a sound broke through.

So he reached across and took her hands despite her maid's angry cough. He could not entwine his fingers with hers because Mellie's were curled into tight fists, but he could wrap his two hands around hers where they strained in her lap.

“You are not alone, you know. I am here, and I have many friends in London. They will stand by you as well. It is only that it is so sudden that you feel turned around.”

Her mouth was working again, but this time she managed to whisper one question, barely heard, though there was little noise from the carriage. “What if they're right?”

He frowned. “Who is right? About what?”

She blinked her eyes, clearly fighting the tears. So he squeezed her hands and tried to silently reassure her. In the end, it must have worked because she took a deep breath and spoke, her words louder if not yet steady.

“This has happened so fast. I am never impulsive, and yet here I am. It has only been a day.”

“You have been looking for an alternative to Ronnie for a very long time. Months, even.”

“Years,” she said.

“Then that is the opposite of impulsive.”

She nodded, but she did not appear convinced. “My mother…” Her words were cut off. Stopped, and this time he could not get her to start again. Not by squeezing her hands. Not even by touching their knees together.

“I do not remember much of what happened,” he said. “I believe my mother told me, but it was so long ago.”

She looked away. “Mama drowned herself. She was pregnant at the time.”

“Good Lord,” he breathed. “How old were you?”

“Six. It was very confusing.”

“And you—” He cut off his words. This was absolutely not something to discuss with a servant sitting right beside them. Not the question of why her mother would do such a thing or how her father handled the loss. “You were so young.” And now her whole family obviously lived in terror of her repeating her mother's madness. “But you are nothing like your mother.” Indeed, he suspected that she had been raised since that very day to be the very opposite of her mercurial parent. He just wished he could remember the details of the event.

“Not generally, no,” she said. “But—”

“Not at all.” He flashed her his most charming smile. “Remember, I am well acquainted with impulsiveness. And given the example of my mother and two younger sisters, I can also firmly state that you are not prone to fits, moods, or even the normal female range of excitation.”

She blinked at him. “Are you saying that I am not a normal female?”

He snorted. “Of course you're not normal! Good Lord, do you think I would engage myself to a normal female? They are the most impossible, unmanageable, and difficult creatures on Earth. You, my dear, are nothing of the sort, and I revere you for it.”

It was the absolute truth, but he feared she didn't take it as the compliment he intended. She stared at him in open-mouthed horror and slowly drew her hands back. He sighed. He knew from experience with his most irrational sister that some women would take an insult no matter what one said. But he had never counted Mellie as one of those types.

“Surely you see I mean it as a compliment,” he said.

“Surely you see that calling a woman an unnatural creature is nothing but an insult, no matter how it is intended.”

He dropped back onto the squabs, seeing that she was determined in her mood. “You are just worried about what is ahead and grieving what you have left behind.” He shrugged, though inside, his belly tightened with frustration. “Tell me what I can do to ease your mind.”

She opened her mouth to speak—once, twice—and then she dropped her head against the squabs and stared at the ceiling. “I think I should prefer to…”

“Grieve?”

She shrugged. “Think in silence.”

“As you wish.”

So the three of them sat with their own thoughts. It should have been a peaceful trip, but he quickly realized that silence was not his natural habitat. He was so rarely quiet that this silence felt deuced awkward. There was always chatter in his life: with his friends, with the society he often was forced to endure, and even in his own mind. To sit without speaking now was to allow his mind to run rampant with noise. He realized then that his attempts to soothe her had been—at least in part—a way to distract himself from his own fears.

After all, he was now engaged to a woman far beneath his station. They were about to enter the social fray where he had vowed to protect her when they both knew there were distinct limits to what he could do. And yet he had promised. He would do his utmost to see the process through, but it was a daunting task. And if he were honest with himself—which in the silence he was forced to be—he feared he wouldn't be able to do any of what he intended: protect her, gain his own independence, even so simple a thing as to find her a husband. Herculean tasks.

And in this silent misery, they made their way to London.

* * *

Mellie was nearly dead inside by the time they made it to Lady Eleanor's Grosvenor Square residence. It was a curious thing how her thoughts and body stilled to the point of total hibernation. In truth she hadn't even realized how little life remained in her until her fiancé had woken her. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd brought her to brilliant life with kisses and caresses, but then it had all died as they rode in silence toward London.

She didn't blame him, of course. It wasn't his fault that she was an unnatural woman, her mother had been mad, and her father lived only for science. But she blamed him for showing her what feelings were, how life could be expressed in laughter and in lust, such as she'd never thought existed before.

And now, as all that awareness died, she learned about pain. Not physical pain, but an ache as that brimming understanding slowly quieted. She was once again sitting without moving, watching silently as life passed her by. It was all she could do to muster the strength to stand and face the home of the esteemed Lady Eleanor.

Meanwhile, Trevor stepped out of the carriage, groaning slightly at his stiff muscles. His jaw had swollen to an ugly and no doubt painful degree. And she was sure he had a myriad of other bruises about his person. And yet he had endured the long carriage ride in silence without a word of complaint. She couldn't imagine her father doing such a thing. Or Ronnie, for that matter. She hid a small smile. Her uncle was in for a miserable ride back to his home with Ronnie in the carriage.

Meanwhile, Trevor was extending his hand, and she felt awkward as she alighted. Her own body was stiff from the travel, and she winced as her knee popped when she straightened it. She was sure that Lady Eleanor's knees never made noise.

“No worries now, my dear,” said Trevor as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Everything will be right and tight, you'll see. By the morrow, you'll be buried in dress shopping and party invitations. You won't have a second left to worry.”

She didn't answer. She hadn't the life inside her to speak, but the feel of his hand and the heat of his body gave her enough strength to begin the stately walk to the door. It was an impressive house in an impressive neighborhood. She'd never been in Grosvenor Square, though of course she'd heard of it. As it was near dark, there were no other people on the walk, but the ever-present murmur of the city beyond kept the place from being quiet. At least until Trevor banged the huge brass knocker carried in the beak of a fierce eagle. The ducal crest, she presumed, and she felt appropriately intimidated by it.

The door opened on silent hinges by a butler with a large frame and immaculate salt-and-pepper hair. Trevor greeted him warmly.

“Seelye, you're looking in excellent health.”

“Mr. Anaedsley. A pleasure to see you this evening.” By not even a flicker of an eye did he acknowledge Melinda, but he did step back to gesture them inside. “Please step in out of the damp air. I shall inform His Grace that—”

At that moment, a woman's low throaty laugh vibrated through the air before they heard the words, “Radley, that's wicked!”

“Is it?” the man answered, humor lacing through his words. “I thought it would be fun.”

Melinda looked up to see a couple descending the stairs, the woman a bit faster than the gentleman, her eyes alight with laughter as he reached forward and missed her arm. There was nothing untoward in their actions, except that anyone with eyes could see that the two were playing with each other. Nothing so childish as tag, but still a game of run and catch though neither went faster than a quick walk.

“Slow down, minx,” the man called, but he needn't have said it. The woman had stopped abruptly on the second to last step, her gaze finally catching the party in their front hallway. Since the man hadn't noticed yet, Mellie feared a collision, but at the last second, the gentleman stepped nimbly aside, taking a small leap around his companion to land sweetly on the main floor. Which was when Seelye cleared his throat and everyone—the couple included—looked to the butler.

“Your Graces,” Seelye intoned. “Mr. Anaedsley and Miss…”

Mellie remembered at the last second what was required. She hastily dropped into an awkward curtsy. “Miss Melinda Smithson, Your Grace. Er, Your Graces.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Smithson, Mr. Anaedsley,” said the duke as he stepped forward and executed a smooth bow.

Meanwhile, Her Grace frowned, obviously searching her memory. “Mr. Anaedsley. Mr. Trevor Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby. Goodness, I stitched quite a number of gowns for you, sir.”

Beside her, Trevor chuckled as he pulled off his hat and gloves. “For me, Your Grace? I assure you, I have never worn a gown in my life.”

“No, sir, but countless ladies have ordered them just to please you.” She smiled as she joined her husband's side. “I must know, is yellow truly your favorite color?”

He frowned. “Yellow? No, Your Grace. I favor purple instead.”

“Very royal of you,” she said. “And I always did think Miss Atterberry somewhat addled. Didn't stop me from selling a dozen or more yellow gowns last Season.”