The Mad Lord's Daughter (22 page)
“Melissa,” Miss Stanhope said quietly, but with an urgency that was startling. “Please look over to the right. And do not look back until I tell you to.”
Melissa did as she asked immediately. “What is it?”
“The Duke of Waltham is passing on our left,” she said conversationally in a low voice. “Perhaps you could move your parasol slightly? There, that should do it.”
Melissa felt her entire body flush and stiffen as she lowered the parasol to hide her face. Her father. Her real father was passing them by, right at this moment. He might be looking at them, at the girl holding the parasol in front of her face, wondering who it was. She felt her skin prickle, almost as if she could somehow feel his gaze upon her. Next to her, Miss Stanhope chatted with Charles as if nothing were wrong. Or at least they were trying. Their conversation was stilted at best, and Melissa could sense their discomfort. It seemed like forever, as if the crowded Row would never allow them to slip past the duke’s carriage unnoticed.
And then, “He’s passed.”
Hot tears pressed against Melissa’s eyes as she realized she would be forced to behave in such a manner her entire life. Her father, just a few feet away, and she couldn’t even look at him. Suddenly, the true nature of her birth struck her in a way it hadn’t before.
“My dear, all is well,” Miss Stanhope said soothingly.
“I don’t know what he looks like,” she said in a small voice. “What if I should encounter him when I am alone? What should I do?”
Charles pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “Be discreet,” he urged, indicating the cloth, and she looked at him in dismay. “People talk.”
“He is right, my dear,” Miss Stanhope said, calmly. “You must never cry in public.”
Melissa stared at the handkerchief in her hands and tried very hard not to allow any more tears to fall.
“I’ve just told a joke, Melissa,” Charles said. “Laugh.”
She did, laughing delightedly, then pressing the handkerchief against her cheeks as if so overcome with mirth she was crying. Strangely, the pretend laughter turned into real laughter, for Melissa had never in her life been in such a bizarre situation.
“That’s enough,” Charles said, rather harshly. “You’re making a scene.” He looked about nervously.
Melissa was not making a scene. In fact, no one looked their way with anything other than mild curiosity.
“No need to worry, Mr. Norris,” Miss Stanhope said.
He nodded, but appeared to be upset. Again, that sullen look she hadn’t seen until quite recently showed itself, and her uneasiness grew. Charles had told her father that her birth didn’t matter, but it was becoming clear to Melissa that it did. It was small things, the slips, the veiled criticism, the worry that she wasn’t acting entirely correctly. Just the other day he’d looked at her perfectly respectable gown, one that Miss Stanhope herself had picked out and deemed modest, and suggested mildly that it wasn’t appropriate for a walk along Mayfair. She’d looked down uncertainly, seeing nothing untoward, but felt self-conscious for the remainder of the day. He wasn’t being intentionally cruel, she knew that, and perhaps she was simply overly sensitive to every look and comment that could be construed as criticism.
Finally, the carriage turned onto Kensington, and the group made its way back to her uncle’s town house on Piccadilly. Charles leaped from the carriage and assisted first Miss Stanhope and then herself down—not an easy feat with their voluminous skirts. He walked the women to the door, gave a bow, and bid them good-bye, seemingly in a hurry to leave.
Once the door was closed, Melissa leaned up against it and closed her eyes. “That was perfectly dreadful,” she said, pulling off her gloves and sighing with relief.
Miss Stanhope agreed. “It certainly was not the most pleasant drive, was it?” she asked, in that brisk way of hers.
“This is far more difficult than I thought it would be.” She heard the frantic clicking of Darling’s nails on the floor and bent to greet her puppy. “Did you miss me, Darling? I missed you. Next time, I’ll bring you. What do you say to that?” Darling wiggled her little body so much she nearly fell over.
The thought of another carriage ride sent dread into Melissa’s heart. She’d stupidly thought seeing her true father would be a wonderful thing, but that was before she’d learned it was very likely he wouldn’t acknowledge her. London was not such a big place, and for the rest of her life she would be fearful of running into him, or into his daughter who apparently looked so much like her. Her lovely room in Bamburgh called out to her, those safe walls that kept all ugliness and sadness away.
“Ah, there you are. How was your ride?”
Just like that, John was there by her side, acting as if all was well, as if they hadn’t been separated for nearly three weeks. He bent over to give Darling a good scrub, then straightened.
“Awful,” Melissa said feelingly.
“Waltham was in the park,” Miss Stanhope said, pulling off her hat and setting it on a nearby table.
“Did he see you?”
“No. I hid behind my parasol.” Melissa picked up the green parasol with black lace and snapped it open to demonstrate.
“That must have looked rather suspicious,” John said, laughing.
Melissa closed the parasol and smiled a genuine smile for the first time all day. “Perhaps I should start wearing a mask. I would become very mysterious, and the ton would go mad with curiosity. ‘I wonder if she’s afflicted,’ ‘I wonder if she’s too beautiful to behold?’ And I’ll wear a different wig to each event so no one will be certain if I’m one woman or several.”
“An ideal plan,” John said, smiling down at her. But even though he smiled, and let her make light of it, she saw real concern in his eyes, and loved him all the more for it. It was so
good
to see him.
good
to see him.
“I’m very glad you are here, Lord Willington. You are the only one who can make Melissa laugh,” Miss Stanhope said warmly. “Now, my dear, we must change for dinner. No doubt we’re both full of dust.”
John stood at the base of the curving staircase and watched the two women ascend, Darling awkwardly following behind them. His smile slowly faded once they were out of sight. He knew the instant he heard her voice that he should not have agreed to dine with his father that evening. He’d truly thought being away from Melissa for three weeks, going to his clubs with his chums, and generally doing anything he thought would get his mind clear of her, would work. It had not. He had been miserable, had had trouble sleeping, and had not been able to bring himself to have sex with a rather lovely barmaid who offered herself up to him in the most blatant manner possible. He’d come to the conclusion that it was not lust driving him, but love. He loved Melissa enough to let her be happy. That was what he told himself—that Charles would make her happy, would protect her, would love her.
John knew she and Charles had been spending time together because his friend had regaled him with droll stories about their various adventures. Everything seemed to be going along just swimmingly, and John would have forced himself to be happy for his friend if it weren’t for the odd things Charles would say now and again.
He’d mentioned, for example, Melissa’s clothing. Charles had asked, with complete sincerity, if Melissa dressed in a fashion that was a bit “fast.” That was his word. Fast. It was ridiculous. From John’s point of view, her gowns were rather too modest—but perhaps that was because he so enjoyed looking at whatever flesh he could. It could also be that John had seen quite a bit of Melissa that day in the rain, and even that had not been enough.
And then Charles had casually asked what John knew of her mother. In honesty, John knew next to nothing but that she’d come from an impoverished family of high birth and had been forced to work as a governess. She’d had the misfortune of being hired by Waltham, who, if rumors were correct, made a habit of forcing himself on his female servants. The younger, the better.
“Are you having second thoughts about Melissa?” John had asked carefully.
Charles had seemed genuinely surprised by that question. “Good God, no. It’s just that I want to know more about her. We are to be married, after all.”
John had ignored the rather sharp stab of disappointment he felt. Charles clearly was still in love with Melissa, and John felt slightly ashamed for thinking his friend would abandon her.
John went to his father’s study, grateful it was empty, and flung himself onto a settee. She’d looked damned beautiful today. Her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes sparkling, even though she’d had an awful time on her carriage ride through Hyde Park. The thought of her sitting there, hiding behind her parasol as her father drove by, made his stomach clench. Poor Mel. He wished he’d been there to hold her hand, to give her courage. She should never have to hide from anyone, and the thought of her cowering from Waltham made his blood run hot.
Yet, she seemed happy. Wasn’t that what he wanted, for Melissa to be happy? What kind of a cad would endanger her position in society simply because he wanted her so badly it was a physical ache? And what of his father? Should he ruin his father’s reputation, simply because of his own selfish needs?
Yes, he should, he screamed silently.
But he wouldn’t.
“Ah, there you are, my boy.” Speak of the devil, John thought.
“Father.” His father gave him a hearty embrace as he always did when they hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks. They had an easy relationship, one his friends envied, actually. Perhaps it was because it had been just the two of them for so long, living in a bachelor house, relishing all their manly pursuits without worrying about the female gender. Having so many females about lately was disrupting their calm life in ways neither could have imagined.
“Waltham passed by Norris’s carriage today in the park,” John said. “He didn’t see Melissa, but it was a close call. She actually hid behind her parasol.”
“What the devil was Waltham doing in Hyde Park, for goodness sake?” his father asked rhetorically. “Let’s go into the study, shall we? I’ve got a nice cognac I want you to try. It came highly recommended.”
The two men didn’t speak until two snifters of the fine cognac were poured. “It’s Courvoisier,” George said, lifting his glass. “To Melissa’s happy marriage.”
John was in the process of lifting the glass to his lips, but upon his father’s toast he stayed his hand. “Of course,” he said, taking a large swallow.
His father looked at him curiously. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic about the marriage, even though you acted as the matchmaker.”
John shrugged and stared into his glass, letting the warmth of the cognac hit his stomach before he said another word. “I worry about Waltham, and about whether Charles will be able to deal with him should the duke meet Melissa. Then again, I don’t know if I could deal with Waltham. I’ve heard he’s rather volatile.”
“He’s evil,” George said. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to avoid Waltham, since he’s in Town and likely to be attending the same entertainments as we. I’m not certain it was a good idea to let Melissa have her season, after all.”
“She’ll have to face him at some point,” John pointed out. “She could be a countess someday, and it is very likely they will meet. Perhaps it would be good to simply get it over with. This waiting for the ax to fall is not good for Melissa. She shouldn’t have to hide her face. It makes her feel . . . tainted somehow.”
George took another appreciative sip. “Fine, very fine,” he said, indicating the cognac. “But as far as Melissa goes, I pray all goes well. That girl tugs at one’s heart.”
John smiled thoughtfully into his glass. “That she does.”
“Say, I was wondering if you would like to join Miss Stanhope and me later on for some whist. Melissa does play, rather badly, but it will give her a distraction after what happened today. Miss Stanhope is a fierce player.”
“Oh?”
“We’re undefeated.”
John raised his brows. “I hadn’t realized you and Miss Stanhope had been partnered,” he said, surprised his father had spent so much time with the woman.
“I wouldn’t call us
partnered,
” his father said, and John was rather shocked to see his father’s cheeks grow pink. He could not recall ever seeing his father blush in all their time together. Lord George Braddock did not blush—ever. “But I do admire her bloodthirsty tactics when it comes to whist. Quite amazing, really.”
partnered,
” his father said, and John was rather shocked to see his father’s cheeks grow pink. He could not recall ever seeing his father blush in all their time together. Lord George Braddock did not blush—ever. “But I do admire her bloodthirsty tactics when it comes to whist. Quite amazing, really.”
“I don’t know if Melissa even knows the rules. Not very sporting of you, Father,” John said, but he knew he wouldn’t pass up the chance to spend time with Melissa. He was quite masochistic when it came to her, it would seem. “Just how many matches have you two had?”
His father smiled. “Let’s see now. At least twenty.”
“Twenty?” John said, flabbergasted.
“Perhaps more.”
“You’ve spent nearly every night since I left Flintwood House playing whist with Miss Stanhope? Father, I think something more is going on here.” John was joking, but realized he’d caught on to something when his father blushed—again. “There is something going on, isn’t there?”
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