The Mad Lord's Daughter (6 page)
Melissa laughed. “I quite agree with you. But I also believe that one can fall in love even in an arranged marriage.”
“I am quite gratified to hear you say so,” Miss Stanhope said.
“You have never been in love, then?”
“Of course not,” she said as if the idea was perfectly absurd. John’s father, who had been ignoring the conversation, turned his head slightly.
“But you are so lovely,” Melissa said, and Miss Stanhope’s cheeks turned a bright pink.
“Thank you, my dear,” Miss Stanhope said stiffly. “Unfortunately, the men who were looking for wives during my seasons did not quite agree with you.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that men are less intelligent than women,” Melissa said in a stage whisper that clearly John and his father were meant to hear. He laughed at her audacity. No, Melissa was not a shy girl. She would do very well when she got over her fear of people.
Just then the lights flickered, and those not already seated hastily made their way to their seats. The four of them sat side by side, with John to Melissa’s right, Miss Stanhope seated next to her, and her uncle on the far left. The lights had been dimmed only a moment when the orchestra began playing. And from then on, the girl was in rapture, her eyes never straying from the stage, from the actors and singers. At one point, John thought he detected a tear coursing down her face, something rather confusing as the opera wasn’t at all tragic—at least not yet. By the intermission, John was about to fall asleep, and so was surprised when Melissa turned, bubbling over with enthusiasm for the opera.
“Oh, it was lovely, wasn’t it? Are all operas so wonderful? I could hear every note, every word, as if they were sitting right in front of me. And the costumes! How do they move about so freely wearing such ornate clothing?”
John laughed, her joy infectious. “Such enthusiasm for mediocrity is really not the thing,” he drawled, but he couldn’t continue his farce and so ended up laughing again when he saw the look of horror on her face. It was obvious to him she was to become an opera lover. God help the poor man who married her. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of attending more than one opera a year.
“Lord Willington, would you be so kind as to get your cousin a refreshment. I would very much like to say hello to my niece. I haven’t seen her in weeks, you see.”
“Of course,” John said, standing and giving Miss Stanhope a bow. “Would you like some punch, perhaps, Melissa? I think it will be a bit of a crush out there, and it might be best for you to stay put.”
His father stood and stretched a bit. “I’ll be two boxes down talking to Quimby. He’s being stubborn about Rolt’s Act, trying to water it down too much, and I want to get him to see sense while he’s away from his cronies. I’ll keep an eye on Melissa while you’re getting refreshments.”
“I’ll be perfectly fine here reliving the first act,” Melissa said, looking over her program for
The Lily of Killarney.
She’d never thought an opera could be so very exciting, and she couldn’t wait to find out if young Creggan was actually going to murder his secret wife, Eily, so he could marry the wealthy Ann and save his lands.
The Lily of Killarney.
She’d never thought an opera could be so very exciting, and she couldn’t wait to find out if young Creggan was actually going to murder his secret wife, Eily, so he could marry the wealthy Ann and save his lands.
Now that she knew the characters, she wanted to put their names with the names of the performers, and she looked over the program with interest. It was all so exciting and she wondered what the cast was doing at this very moment. How brave to walk out on a stage and sing your heart out to a large crowd of people. It must be so thrilling to hear such applause, to be part of something so absolutely astounding.
Down below, the seats were nearly empty, and several members of the orchestra were either relaxing or tuning their instruments. Outside, she could hear the rustling of dresses and quiet murmurs of people passing by. She looked toward the box where Miss Stanhope had gone to visit her niece, the duchess, but it appeared to be empty. Was she the only person still seated? Where had they all gone?
That was when she comprehended where at least some of them had gone, and realized she needed to find a water closet or be exceedingly uncomfortable for the remainder of the opera.
Feeling slightly rebellious, Melissa stood and moved toward the exit, peeking out at those who walked by. Everyone seemed so calm, so sure that he or she belonged, so completely unaware of his or her surroundings. Melissa reminded herself that this was practically an everyday occurrence for most of the ton. If they had to go use the necessary, they did so. Right now, Melissa truly wished she had told Miss Stanhope of her needs.
Two elderly women were passing by, chatting rather loudly to one another, when Melissa stepped out of the box. “Excuse me, ladies,” Melissa said with an air of apology. “This is my first time at the opera house. I wonder if you could be so kind as to direct me to the necessary.”
“Oh, I daresay you won’t have time for that,” one lady said. “It’s all the way on the evens, you see.”
Melissa looked doubtfully down the hall where the even-numbered boxes were, hoping to see Miss Stanhope or John walking her way. “Thank you.”
Melissa stood uncertainly in the hallway just outside the box, nodding absently to the increasing number of passersby. Oh, why hadn’t she thought about going minutes ago?
Just as she made up her mind to start walking toward the evens, the lights flickered, indicating the second act would be beginning shortly. Suddenly, Melissa found herself in a sea of people, all hurrying to get to their seats before the act began—and she was heading against the flow, jostling and bumping into people. She kept her arms against herself, her fists held tightly against her chest, as if she were fending off an enemy. Panic flooded her, and she found it difficult to breathe, to move. She pressed herself against a wall as people moved around her, some staring at her strangely. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried with all her being to hold in the scream she so wanted to let out. They were breathing on her, touching her, rubbing their clothes against hers. Calm, calm, calm, she said to herself over and over. But no matter how much she pleaded with herself to open her eyes and make her way to her uncle’s private box, she was paralyzed.
From what seemed like miles away, above the roaring in her ears, she thought she heard her name.
“Melissa, good God, what happened? Melissa!”
She opened her eyes, and there stood John, staring at her with concern and fear. Without thinking, she flung herself into his arms and allowed him to half drag her into their box, which had been but a few steps away. She was shaking uncontrollably, pressing her forehead against his chest, clutching his lapels as though if she let go, she’d plummet down to the gallery below.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’re safe now. Safe. It’s all right.” He continued to calm her, his voice low and steady, as slowly she began to relax against him.
“What has happened?” Her uncle. She clung even more fiercely as she felt John shrug.
“I found her just outside, terrified of something. I don’t know what.”
“N-nothing,” she managed, lifting her face up to look at him. “It was nothing. I . . .”
“I don’t think she was ready for such a crowd. Is that it, then?”
She nodded, then pressed her forehead against him, and he tightened his hold on her. “I’m s-so sorry.”
“I don’t want you to worry about a thing, not a thing,” her uncle blustered. Then, “Where the devil is Miss Stanhope? She’s supposed to be with her charge, not gallivanting all about the opera house socializing.”
“I was eight boxes away, conversing with my niece and my brother,” came a terse reply. “You, if I do recall, said you would keep an eye on her.”
“Well, you should have stayed here.”
Melissa straightened up, shaking her head. “Please, Uncle, it’s not Miss Stanhope’s fault. It is mine and mine alone. I had no idea I would react in such a way. I have no experience at this, you see. I should have stayed in the box as you directed me, but I needed to . . .” She flushed pink. Even she knew one did not mention aloud going to the necessary in front of members of the opposite sex.
“No need to worry,” Miss Stanhope said in her no-nonsense tone. “The crowds have dispersed. I can direct you. And perhaps we should call it an evening, my lords?”
“Of course,” Lord Braddock said rather quickly.
“I thought it was a great bore, too,” John said, then gave Melissa a wink.
“We’ll meet the two of you in the lobby,” Lord Braddock said. “And, please, Melissa, don’t worry about a thing. We’ll muddle through this just fine.”
By the time the carriage pulled up in front of her uncle’s Piccadilly town house, everyone had agreed London was a bit overwhelming for a girl who had been as isolated as Melissa had. The plan was for Miss Stanhope, Melissa, and John to head to their country estate in Flintwood, with Lord Braddock to follow in a few weeks’ time when his business in Parliament was concluded. Melissa did not object, for she truly thought their plan was best. It would allow her to get used to being out and about at small, inconsequential amusements where she would not be faced with such large crowds of people. By May or June, she would be ready for the season—and finding a husband.
During her long lessons on etiquette and deportment, Melissa had never questioned the necessity of such knowledge. She simply went along with the lessons because her father asked it of her. But now she realized everything she’d learned was in preparation for a day she hadn’t thought would ever come.
The thought of having a husband, of being out in the world by herself, was more than daunting. It was terrifying.
Chapter 5
Melissa sat up in bed and hugged her knees, watching in pure delight as snow fell outside her window, big wet globs that would surely turn to rain if the day warmed. But for now, it was a lovely sight, especially knowing this would be the first time in memory that she would be allowed to go out into it.
Snow in Bamburgh was a rarity, but on the few occasions it had snowed, her father had forbade her to touch it for fear she’d catch a cold. But over the years she had snuck to a window and touched the impossibly soft and frozen fluff that clung to her sill. She’d even felt the snow kiss her cheeks once before Mary pulled her back in horror.
“It was lovely,” she’d said, closer to tears than she would ever admit. She’d looked outside and seen one of the stable boys pick up a bit of it and fling it against the stable wall.
“You’ll catch your death and then what will you do?”
Melissa had shrugged. “Die I s’pose.”
Her father had overheard the entire exchange and stormed into her room, his face a mask of fury. It was one of the few times in her life she’d ever seen her father angry; never had that anger been directed at herself. He’d grabbed her shoulders and given her a hard shake, then dropped his hands immediately. “Don’t you ever say such a thing again. Ever, do you hear me, Melissa Ann? Do you?”
Tears had coursed down her cheeks then, tears of anger and fear and terrible guilt that she had made her beloved father angry with her. But over the years she’d watched countless times when people trudged through the snow, as horses plodded through it, great clumps lifting into the air. She’d even watched her own father walk from the house to the stables, and he’d never fallen ill. It made no sense to a little girl, and even less sense to her when she was grown. By then, she accepted her life without resentment or anger.
But now, Bamburgh was behind her, along with her father’s incessant fears, and she could do as she wished. If she wanted to touch the snow, she would. If she wanted to don a pair of boots and take a walk in it, she could. She pushed down a sharp stab of anger at all her father had taken from her. She would not be angry with him. He’d loved her. He’d only been trying to protect her.
But it had only been snow, a small rebellious voice said.
She rushed to the window and looked out to see John below talking to one of the servants who had a shovel in his hand. Without thinking, she threw open the sash and called down. “Is it lovely?”
“It’s bloody cold, that’s what it is,” he called back, smiling.
“May I come down?”
“Of course,” he said, looking slightly taken aback that she’d asked.
Melissa quickly closed the window and turned to find her maid, Clara, behind her tidying up the bed. While she missed her old maid, Mary, Melissa liked having someone who was not only efficient but who treated her like a normal young lady. Mary had always taken great care not to touch her and had always worn pristine gloves when she was attending her. Even when dressing her hair, Mary had donned a clean pair of gloves. It was something Melissa hadn’t thought about until moving to her uncle’s. She realized, with a bit of self-disgust, she hadn’t thought of a great many things while living her cloistered, quiet life in Bamburgh.
“Clara. Could you please help me into my warmest clothes? I’m going out into the snow.”
“Oh, miss, it’s terrible cold out there,” she said, shuddering, and Melissa had an awful sinking feeling that she would be denied. “I have some nice woolen mittens you can borrow. And your boots. Be sure to dress warm.”
Melissa grinned, feeling a sharp sense of freedom. No one would stop her. “I will. I’ve never been in the snow, you see.”
“Never?” Clara asked, amazed. “I met a girl from Italy once who had never seen snow.”
“Oh, I’ve
seen
it. I’ve just never been
in
it.”
seen
it. I’ve just never been
in
it.”
“Let’s bundle you up, then.”
In a matter of minutes, Melissa was warm and cozy in a woolen dress, boots, muffler, and thick woolen mittens that Clara had fetched from her own supply. “Gloves won’t do in this cold. It’s getting colder by the minute out there. Me mum makes the nicest mittens, doesn’t she? I’ve got more than I could ever use. It doesn’t matter that I’ve only got the two hands, she’s forever knitting more.”
“Be sure to tell your mother thank you for me. These are wonderful,” Melissa said, waggling her fingers inside the mittens. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the snowflakes that had been thick and wet now fell and danced in the wind before settling onto the ground. She flung herself out the front door, not caring that she looked like a hoyden, not caring that she was supposed to be a twenty-three-year-old young lady who should be acting far more sedately. She’d been sedate for so many years, and now she wanted to experience life.
It was snowing and it was . . . oh, goodness, it was hitting her face, cold little bites on her cheeks and eyelids and neck. She pulled her muffler about her a bit tighter. It was cold, she thought, then laughed out loud.
“You are always laughing at something, aren’t you? What is it now?” John asked, his dark hair frosted white with the snow.
“I’ve never been in the snow,” she said, then turned her face up to it again.
“Look,” he said, scooping up a bit of snow into his gloved hand and patting it until it formed a sphere. Then he tossed it at her, hitting her with a muffled thud on her shoulder and leaving behind a round snow print. Melissa opened her mouth in delighted shock, glancing from the snow on her shoulder back to John’s grinning face.
“Let me try,” she said, grabbing up some snow. The grass was still peeking through the white stuff, but it was disappearing quickly from view. Melissa did a very poor job with her ball, but she threw it at him anyway. He ducked with a laugh. “No fair, you must stand there and take it like a man,” she announced, then bent down and retrieved more snow. With a bit of a devilish look, she gathered up as much as she could before packing it down and throwing it, hitting him squarely in the face. He stood there like a statue, his face covered with the remnants of her snowball.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to . . .” She started laughing. “Honestly, John, I was aiming for your shoulder. I never meant to hit you in the . . .” He calmly wiped the snow from his face, where it left behind cold rivulets of water. His face had gone quite red, and Melissa hoped it was from the cold snow and not from anger.
“I’m afraid that requires retaliation,” he said calmly, then bent down again. Melissa didn’t wait to find out what he was planning. She took off across the lawn, her feet slipping and sliding in the snow. Melissa, having spent much of her life indoors, was perhaps not the most agile runner, and she found very quickly that running in the snow added a degree of peril. Hearing footsteps behind her and gaining quickly, she tried to make a quick turn but instead found herself flailing about right before she tumbled, face-first, onto the frozen ground.
“Melissa!” John cried, coming up next to her. She couldn’t answer. Could. Not. She was laughing too hard. Oh, had she ever in her life laughed like this? Laughed at her own silliness, at the pure joy of being completely absurd. He was kneeling next to her, his face still wet from her snowball, laughing with her. His eyelashes, thick and straight, were clumped charmingly together by the melted snow, his gray eyes dancing with humor. She suddenly felt strange, impossibly hot even though she was sitting on the snow-covered ground. It was as if everything in her body thickened: her blood, her breath. It was the strangest sensation she’d ever felt in her life, and she instinctively knew it was because of John.
“I thought you surely hurt yourself,” he said, still laughing.
“Only my pride,” she said, thankful that the strange feeling was abating. “And, oh, my dress.” It was a snowy, wet, muddy mess. “It’s filthy,” she said, rather delighted with that as well. She wished she could roll around in mud and laugh and laugh all day. Except it was extremely cold sitting there on the ground. She began struggling to get up, but he offered her his hand. She grabbed it without hesitation, and he hoisted her up rather too fast, making her crash against him and threatening to toss them both back onto the snowy earth. Her face was just inches from his. She could see a bead of water on his cold-flushed cheek, see the dark shadow of his beard, even though it appeared he’d already shaved that day, see that his gray eyes were rimmed with the darkest blue. And that feeling was back full force, a feeling that made her wonder what it would be like to press her lips against his. Not one month ago, such a thought would have made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. Put her mouth against a man’s? Never. But for some reason, the need to press against John, to kiss him, was nearly overwhelming.
John pushed her gently away, his smile appearing rather strained. His laughing eyes were shuttered, his jaw tight. Melissa felt unaccountably foolish. She was not good at hiding her feelings, as she’d never had to practice such subtle deceit before. It was possible John was quite aware of what she’d been thinking—and he very clearly didn’t like it.
“Did I hurt you with the snowball? Is that why you are angry?” she asked, praying he would allow her to pretend ignorance.
His cautious look was immediately replaced by one of his smiles. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you did. Wounded me terribly. But I suppose falling headlong into the snow and ruining your dress is enough recompense.”
A whinny from the stables drew Melissa’s attention. “Could you show me the horses?”
“I suppose you cannot ride?”
“I did have a hobby horse when I was a girl and rode her like blazes. I was a princess saving an errant knight.”
That made him laugh, and Melissa relaxed slightly. “I do believe it’s the other way ’round, my dear.”
“Not in my world. However, the thought of riding a real horse rather terrifies me, if I must be perfectly honest.”
“You must.”
She shot him a withering look. “They are so monstrously big.”
They stepped into the gloom of the stables, and Melissa breathed in air laden with hay, wood, leather, and horse manure. It should have been an unfortunate combination, but Melissa found the aroma not at all offensive. It was markedly warmer in the stable, and the snow on her coat immediately began melting.
“My goodness, how many horses do you have?” she asked, wandering down the middle of the stone floor, far from the reach of any horse that might want to attack.
“We’ve twelve here, including the carriage horses, and a few others at my father’s estate near Cambridge. You shouldn’t be afraid of horses, you know. They’re rather like big dogs.”
“I’m afraid of dogs, too,” she said, backing away from one stall where a black horse with a white mark on its forehead leaned out.
John immediately went over to the beast, murmuring softly, then rubbed its head. The horse seemed to like the attention, and Melissa stepped a bit closer. “Sir Jake is like a kitten,” he said, taking something out of his pocket and feeding it to the animal.
“I thought you said horses were like big dogs,” Melissa said, keeping her eye on the horse in case it decided to burst through its stall.
“All right then, in an effort not to confuse you, I’ll say Sir Jake is like a puppy. All love and gentleness. Come here, I’ll show you.”
Melissa stood, eyes wide, staring at the horse, which seemed completely uninterested in her presence.
“I would never let you approach a horse I didn’t think was completely trustworthy. There are some who are a bit more ill-mannered that I would not allow you to pet, but . . .”
“Pet? You want me to
touch
it?”
touch
it?”
To her horror, John gave the horse a hug. “You’ve wounded his heart irreparably,” he said. “Good ol’ Sir Jake is very sensitive. Now, come here. Don’t be such a coward.”
Melissa marched over to him, her arms crossed.
“Take off those silly mittens and hold out your hand like this,” he said, demonstrating by holding his hand, palm up, completely flat. It was said as if this were a simple request. Well, if he was not going to take great issue with it, she wouldn’t either. She took one mitten off and held out her hand, frightened to her very core. Her hand shook noticeably, and she shot a look to John, who was staring at her with an intensity that was exceedingly disturbing. Without a word, he dropped a bit of carrot into her palm, then grasped her sleeve at her wrist and gently guided her hand toward the horse.
Melissa stifled a scream as the horse’s great head dipped toward her hand, but John held it fast. To her wonder, the horse gently took the food from her palm, hardly touching her with its impossibly soft muzzle.
“Oh,” she whispered, smiling as she watched the horse crunching on the very same morsel that had just been in her hand. It was miraculous.
“There’s my gentle boy,” John said, rubbing the horse’s head again.
“May I try again?” Melissa asked, still grinning and feeling ridiculously proud.
John dug into his pocket and dropped another carrot chunk into her hand. Melissa noted he took care not to touch her, and for the first time in her life she felt that loss. In her memory, she could not remember ever being touched by anyone, skin to skin. Always they wore gloves, even her father.
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