The Mad Lord's Daughter (13 page)
Avonleigh gave him a grim smile. “It isn’t only her eyes, which, by the way, are a Waltham family trait, as your father’s friend Darwin can explain to you. When I saw her walk into the room, I thought she was Waltham’s daughter come to visit.”
“Lady Anne? I see no real resemblance, to be honest.” Lady Anne was a rather plump woman with dull blond hair and brown eyes. She was, in fact, the very image of her mother.
“No, the younger one. Caroline is her name. If you’d seen her, or if your father had seen her, you would never have attempted this. Melissa could be her twin. Same hair, same eyes. Miss Atwell is simply an older and more beautiful version of Lady Caroline. Anyone who has seen her will immediately note the similarities. Frankly, it’s uncanny.”
John looked at Avonleigh sharply. “I forgot there was another daughter. Has she come out?”
“No. I only happened to see her last fall at a house party in Sussex. While she is not well known in society because of her age, there are those who will immediately see the resemblance.”
“I don’t care that they do,” John said. “They will never question my father publicly, even if they do so privately. Melissa is my cousin, my uncle’s daughter.”
“And what of Waltham? Do you not think he will say something?”
John pressed his lips together, his heart sinking. He’d heard there had been some animosity between his uncle and Waltham but had not known why. He wondered if somehow Melissa and her mother were the cause of the rift. Still, Avonleigh could be overstating things. “We rarely attend the same social events as the duke.”
“Do you plan to tell her of her birth?”
“No. It is not my place to. My father wants her protected. Our hope is that no one will realize she is not his niece. Or at least that no one will mention it.”
Melissa laughed again, and both men lifted their eyes to her. God above, she was lovely. She held her hand on Norris’s arm and looked up at him with a smile that no doubt was making Norris dizzy. John knew that smile, knew how it could affect a man. He should warn her not to smile so openly.
“Why don’t you offer for her yourself and prevent the scandal? She is no relation, after all.”
John’s gut clenched, and an unexpected and unwanted longing pierced him. “The truth of it does not matter. What matters is that society know she is my cousin—and that is what they shall know.”
Avonleigh gave him a curious look, then laughed. “Oh, that is rich,” he said, hardly in control. “She is your
first
cousin, of course. And your father is a leading opponent of such marriages. That does put you in a difficult position.”
first
cousin, of course. And your father is a leading opponent of such marriages. That does put you in a difficult position.”
“Hardly,” John said.
“Oh? And the reason that you cannot keep your eyes from her is simply because of your role as her protector. My God, man, you flinch each time she smiles into Norris’s face.”
John turned fully to Avonleigh, his expression stony. “I don’t care for what you are implying.”
Avonleigh lifted his hands, proclaiming innocence. “I’m implying only that you are attracted to a female who is, except for her sad birth, completely available to you. Except she is not. Don’t you see the irony in that?”
She laughed again, and John couldn’t stop his eyes from flashing even though he knew Avonleigh studied him. He swore if she did so again he would run to the pair and yank her from Norris’s arm.
“I’m sorry, John,” Avonleigh said, suddenly serious. “I was teasing you only because I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” John said between gritted teeth.
“I didn’t know you truly love the girl. I am sorry.”
John tore his eyes away from Melissa and Charles and stared at Avonleigh as if he’d lost his mind. “You are mistaken, my friend.”
Avonleigh gave him a small bow that held only a hint of mockery. “Of course.”
Chapter 9
Lord Braddock’s unexpected arrival caused a major stir among those staying at Flintwood House, because the earl rarely did anything unexpected. A flurry of activity quickly calmed when the lord went directly to his study and summoned his son. John immediately sensed something was wrong. He spent a few minutes making certain his appearance was acceptable and racking his brains for anything he might have done that would have warranted such unusual behavior from his father. The last thing on earth John wanted to do was disappoint or fail the one person in the world who had always supported him wholeheartedly. For a moment, John felt like a ten-year-old boy who couldn’t remember doing something naughty but was certain he must have.
“You wanted to see me, Father?” John said, eyeing his father cautiously.
“We have a problem,” he said heavily, and the lump in John’s gut grew. “My brother was not forthcoming with me, and now we are put in an untenable situation. He told me only that Melissa’s father did not know of her existence, but he failed to tell me who the man was. It was a grave oversight. I don’t know what he was thinking to keep such a secret from me.”
“Waltham,” John said.
His father’s brows shot up in surprise. “However did you know?”
“Avonleigh said Melissa bears a striking resemblance to Lady Caroline, Waltham’s younger daughter.”
“It’s rather uncanny,” his father said with an air of defeat. “I saw the girl myself. I thought it was Melissa with Waltham, even though logically I knew it couldn’t be.” He shook his head as if still in disbelief. “We cannot hope to avoid gossip now. And it is paramount that Melissa be made aware of this. I’ve found it is always best to approach these sorts of matters directly rather than with denial.”
“Surely you don’t mean to tell people who her sire truly is,” John said, his entire being rebelling against the idea. He’d never met Waltham, but his reputation as an unscrupulous and ruthless man was well known. John refused to think what such a man would do to find his daughter—a daughter kept from him by his greatest enemy.
“Not at all. But when people comment on their likeness—and they will—we shall agree. That is all. It certainly wouldn’t make sense to deny their likeness. In this way we will deflect any gossip.”
John frowned, not liking the idea that people would be talking about Melissa, perhaps even calling his father and him foolish for maintaining she was a true Atwell. “I don’t want her hurt,” John said.
“And if we take this tack, she won’t be. At least not as much as she might have been if we hadn’t discovered the resemblance before her debut. It’s a wonder no one commented after we brought her to the opera.”
“Maybe they did, but we did not hear of it.”
Lord Braddock scrubbed his face, and John noticed for the first time that his father, usually impeccable, looked as if he’d just risen from bed after only a brief sleep. “I tell you I do not relish telling the girl that the man she’s thought of as her father is no relation. The stigma of being a bastard might be overwhelming for her. Everything she has always believed is a lie. But we must tell her.”
“Must we?” John could not bear the thought of Melissa being hurt, and the news that she was a bastard would certainly hurt her. There was nothing less forgiven by the ton than low birth.
“She’s avoided the taint of being a bastard her entire life, so do not think I have come to this decision lightly. At least her mother was poor gentry and not a maid. Or worse. However, people talk, and there is a real danger there are some who remember her mother. She came from a good family that had fallen on hard times, and I know people will remember them—and her. There are also those who may recall that Christina worked as Waltham’s children’s governess.”
John stared blindly at the floor, feeling restless and angry about the entire situation. He wished he could tell society to be damned, but he knew he could not. “I fear all this deception will come back to haunt us, Father. Lie after lie,” he said, shaking his head. “But I think at least we cannot lie anymore to Melissa, no matter how it may hurt her. May I be with you when you tell her?”
“Of course. Do you know where she is at the moment?”
“No doubt with Miss Stanhope in her sitting room.” He stood, but hesitated to leave. “She is unique, Father. Any man would count himself lucky to have her. She is not the shy little thing she was before we came here. She is . . .”
lovely beyond words.
He stopped, for his father was giving him the most quizzical look.
lovely beyond words.
He stopped, for his father was giving him the most quizzical look.
“She is . . .” he prompted.
“She is likely to get an offer before the season even begins.”
His father looked happily stunned by the news. “From whom? Not Avonleigh.”
“Norris. He’s making an utter cake of himself whenever she’s around. It’s rather nauseating.”
George laughed. “Thank goodness that hasn’t happened to you, dear boy. I’ve seen better men than Norris fall victim to a woman. Is Melissa as enthralled?”
“She seems delighted by the attention and the novelty of having a man pursue her,” John said. “But I don’t believe her heart is engaged.” Just the thought of Melissa’s falling in love with Norris made him feel rather ill. Good God, if they married, she and John would be neighbors, and something about that seemed unthinkable. “I’ll get her, and you can ask her yourself.”
“It’s important you not appear too eager to see Mr. Norris.”
Melissa didn’t want to disappoint Miss Stanhope, but she was hardly eager to see the man again. Perhaps it was because she’d had so little contact with men growing up, but she had scant interest in the man other than for practicing her social skills. “I’m afraid Mr. Norris does not know the importance of that particular rule,” she said dryly.
“You don’t care for him?” Miss Stanhope asked, her brows rising.
Melissa shrugged, which caused Miss Stanhope to frown. Shrugging was something a lady did not do. The list of things a lady did not do was growing daily. “I think he is a very nice man, but I do not think I should like to be with him for the rest of my life.” It was his nose, she thought, considering the matter. His nose had the oddest little cleft in it, right at the tip. Melissa could not look at him without being aware of it. He was a nice man, very solicitous and flattering. Yes, it was flattering to have a man be so obviously interested in her. Enraptured might be a better word. And that made her suspicious. Why would a man like that be enraptured with her? From all accounts, Charles Norris was, if not a rake, then very knowledgeable about life and women. Or was he simply trying to be nice to her at the behest of John? That would have made more sense to her.
It seemed as if Mr. Norris was always hovering about her or staring at her. It made her feel exceedingly self-conscious. It really was too bad, because she liked his sister, Laura, very much, and it would have been nice to be part of their family.
He was handsome, with soulful brown eyes; his golden hair, streaked with both lighter blond and darker brown, was quite pretty. He had a nice jaw, strong and masculine, and while he wasn’t as tall as John, he was tall enough so that she had to tilt her head slightly when speaking with him. And yet . . . his arms were odd, too. And his hands. They seemed too . . . soft. Not feminine, but not manly. Then again, she’d only ever seen her father’s hands and John’s. Since they were all related, it made sense theirs would be the hands she liked. Strong, broad, and gentle without being soft.
She gave herself a mental shrug, knowing an outward one was unladylike, and pushed away the real reason she didn’t find Charles Norris attractive, why the thought of kissing him was so unappealing. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with John. How she wished she had never kissed him. It had been such a foolish thing to do, but then she hadn’t known how it would affect her until it was too late. She allowed herself a small, silent sigh. Perhaps she would have to kiss Charles just to make certain. At that thought she wrinkled her nose, which caught the attention of Miss Stanhope.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh,” she said, gazing down at her needlework. “I put in the wrong stitch.” It was, of course, a blatant lie, for if she had one skill in the world, it was needlework. Miss Stanhope narrowed her eyes but accepted her explanation wordlessly. Honestly, it was almost as if the woman could read minds. For a girl who had never much thought about men, all this thinking about them was giving her a bit of a headache.
It was at that moment that the man most in her thoughts stepped into the room following a soft knock.
“Good morning, ladies,” John said.
They both dutifully responded in kind.
“Was that Lord Braddock I saw disembarking?” Miss Stanhope asked, keeping her eyes trained on her needlework.
“Indeed it was,” John said with curious enthusiasm. “Now we are all even, Miss Stanhope. I do hope you no longer feel the need to deprive us of your company.”
“He needn’t have come home on my account,” she said, her tone slightly sharp.
“Oh, no, indeed. He’s come on another matter entirely,” John assured her, but two spots stained Miss Stanhope’s cheeks, and Melissa felt a tug of sympathy for her. How nice it would have been if Lord Braddock had returned just to make her stay more enjoyable. “He’d like to see you, Melissa, if Miss Stanhope can spare you.”
“Of course,” the older woman said.
Melissa leaped up and quickly put her needlework in her basket before practically running toward John, who gave her a bemused smile. “You are like a puppy,” he said fondly.
“I’d much rather fancy myself a cat. From what I’ve read, dogs are entirely too drooly.”
He chuckled and led her out the door.
“How is Uncle?” Melissa asked. “We were not expecting him, were we?”
“No.”
Melissa, walking beside him, tilted her head. John seemed rather pensive, and she wondered for the first time if something had happened. Something horrible. Something involving Charles Norris’s asking to court her, or worse, to marry her.
“Do you know what Uncle would like to see me about?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Oh, he was so maddening. She would have questioned him more, but they were already at her uncle’s study. Letting out a huff of impatience, she preceded her cousin into the room, smiling shyly at her uncle. Always when she saw him, she felt that same pang, for he looked so much like her father. Behind her, John closed the door softly, and Melissa became even more alarmed.
What was the protocol for rejecting a man’s suit? Was she allowed to say no? Would her uncle let her reject a perfectly fine, perfectly acceptable man simply because she didn’t care for his nose?
“Take a seat, my dear,” her uncle said heavily, and Melissa’s fear grew tenfold. She sat clutching her hands in front of her. She looked quickly over to John, who took a chair beside her, but he was gazing at his father—and looking quite miserable.
“I have something difficult to tell you,” her uncle began.
Melissa furrowed her brows. Certainly, telling her a man wanted to marry her would not be difficult.
“The man you thought was your father, my brother, was not in fact your father.”
Relief swept through her, and she let out a laugh. “Oh, yes, I know,” she said, practically giddy that this meeting had nothing to do with Charles Norris.
Her uncle looked stunned. “You know?”
“Of course. Ever since I can remember, I’ve known. My parents made no secret of it. But my father has always been my father, so it made little difference to me.”
“But surely you understand how society . . .”
“Father,” John interrupted, and shook his head. He turned to her, and seemed to force a smile, which Melissa found rather confusing. What was all the fuss? “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment, Melissa? Just for a minute.”
Without a word, Melissa stood and left the room, wondering what the two men could possibly have to discuss. Was it possible that they themselves had just learned the truth? She leaned against the paneled wall, hearing their muffled voices but not able to discern what was said. Their voices, low rumbles, made her smile. No doubt they’d thought she’d dissolve into tears upon hearing their news. Rupert Atwell was the only man she’d known as her father, though her mother had often talked about how lucky they both were to have found him. Their meeting had always seemed like a fairy tale to her. Her mother, alone and with a small baby girl, had stumbled along Bamburgh’s coast, homeless and desperate, and had been discovered by her father.
“I fell in love with her—and you—that very day,” her father had said.
Though quite young when her mother had died, she still remembered how her parents had loved each other. Vague images of cold, blustery days sitting before the fire while both parents read often comforted her after her mother died. She remembered the windows rattling, and her mother’s worried look at the storm outside, and her father with those strong, reassuring hands, taking her mother’s smaller, more delicate one, and comforting her.
The door opened, and John appeared again, with that same forced smile plastered on his face. “Please join us,” he said, and she walked back into the study, slightly amused by their attempts to protect her.
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