The Mad Lord's Daughter (8 page)
He nodded. “Yes, that is the usual case. Just look at Mrs. Picket and her brood.”
“And what of Mr. Picket? Does he not love his wife?”
“Of course not,” he said quickly, but something in his face changed, a flash of uncertainty or remembrance, that disappeared as quickly as it had come.
John pulled back a large swallow of brandy and stared at the fire in his room, feeling out of sorts. If he were in Town, he’d be out with his lads, going to a club, playing cards, letting off some steam. He was not a disagreeable person. In fact, most people thought John was rather too affable. He was not the sort of man who said the things he’d said to Melissa earlier that day—things he knew deep down he didn’t believe.
Any man, as long as he didn’t beat his wife, would be suitable for a woman such as Melissa? Was he
insane
? Right now, he couldn’t think of a single man on his very long list who would suit her. She was far too unusual, too . . . something . . . to be with just any man. Avonleigh, indeed. He half wanted to write his friend and tell him to stay away. She’d not marry him if he had anything to do with it. He was too . . . Well, he liked politics far too much, and Melissa knew nothing of politics. And Avonleigh liked smaller women with more curves. Melissa had curves, it was true, but she was slim and rather too tall for Avonleigh’s taste. Now that John thought more about it, they would never suit at all.
insane
? Right now, he couldn’t think of a single man on his very long list who would suit her. She was far too unusual, too . . . something . . . to be with just any man. Avonleigh, indeed. He half wanted to write his friend and tell him to stay away. She’d not marry him if he had anything to do with it. He was too . . . Well, he liked politics far too much, and Melissa knew nothing of politics. And Avonleigh liked smaller women with more curves. Melissa had curves, it was true, but she was slim and rather too tall for Avonleigh’s taste. Now that John thought more about it, they would never suit at all.
What Melissa truly needed was a man like Picket—but with a title. Despite what he’d told her that afternoon, he thought the Pickets might be that rare couple who did love one another. Perhaps he should adjust his beliefs to include only members of the ton. Yes, Mr. Picket adored his wife. He’d once ridden ten miles in a cold, driving rain to a hothouse in Sheffield to get her a single rose for their wedding anniversary. John knew because he’d met him on the way home. The farmer had been a bit ruddy-faced about the whole thing, but John would never forget what he’d told him that day: “Without her I’d be nothing more than me. An’ how sad would that be?”
Nothing more than me
.
.
John frowned fiercely, swirling the amber liquid in his snifter and breathing in the sharp fumes before taking another swallow. It would be good to get her off his hands. Perhaps when his father returned from London, John would take his leave. They wouldn’t need him again until the season started in earnest. Who knew? Perhaps she’d find Charles Norris to her liking. Women were constantly flocking around him, and he’d been the target of more than one marriage-minded mama. He would do.
For some reason, John’s stomach churned at the thought of them together. Charles was a sophisticated and experienced man who would no doubt have little patience for a girl so completely innocent. And Charles could be a bit of a snob, something that hadn’t bothered John overmuch until now. Still, they might suit.
He drained the glass and let out a curse, wishing the task was done, that she was married and off his hands. Wishing the thought of her married didn’t bother him so damn much.
Chapter 7
Miss Stanhope sat, her back straight, posture perfect, as she played the piano and watched John and Miss Atwell go through the intricate steps of the quadrille while obviously trying desperately not to laugh. Melissa, who had spent much of her life performing steps with “ghost” dancers, at first had calmly moved in time to the music in perfect form.
But poor John was having quite a difficult time of it, and instead of becoming frustrated, was having great fun talking to his imaginary partners. He entertained the two women so thoroughly, they could hardly get through the first figure without being completely overcome by laughter.
Diane stopped playing when it became quite clear that Miss Atwell knew the dance far better than the young lord did.
“I think we’ve covered the quadrille quite enough,” she said, making a very poor attempt to be stern. “Perhaps we should focus on the polka or the reel.”
“Or the waltz,” Melissa said, still grinning. “I’ve never before danced the waltz with a partner. My father never learnt it, you see.”
John looked delighted. “Before we begin, however, I absolutely insist on a demonstration of how it is possible to dance the waltz without a partner.”
Melissa lifted her chin with exaggerated dignity. “It’s very simple, considering I don’t have to worry about someone’s blundering about and stepping upon my toes.”
John gave her a little nod of his head, silently acknowledging her wit, then turned to Diane. “Could you play something by Strauss? I find Brahms depressing.”
Melissa perked up, feeling ridiculously happy to be dancing with an actual partner. But she would be a good sport first and demonstrate how very easy it was to dance alone. John sat in a nearby chair, lazily draping himself over it, so that he rested his temple against one knuckle, seemingly bored with the entire exhibition.
Melissa assumed the position driven into her by her dance instructor, her back painfully straight, her chin held erect, her eyes forward, and embraced her imaginary partner as if it weren’t the most ridiculous thing on earth to do. She thought she heard John make a noise that sounded suspiciously like he was trying to stifle a laugh. Ignoring him, and smiling like mad, she began dancing as soon as Diane started the piece, only to break into gales of laughter when she chanced a look at John, who had quite lost his battle to appear bored.
He stood. “That, my dear, is a tragedy of the first rate,” he pronounced. He turned to Diane. “Please begin again, Miss Stanhope.”
Melissa felt a familiar rush of trepidation when he walked toward her and extended his hand, but quashed it immediately. Grasping his left hand firmly, just to show she wasn’t afraid, she was slightly more hesitant when she felt his other hand upon her back, warm and solid, just below her shoulder blade. She shook her head slightly, angry with herself, then placed her own left hand upon his shoulder.
“Courage,” he whispered, bending down near her ear. He nodded to Diane, and then Melissa was swept into a waltz like none she had ever imagined. All those times, dancing by herself as the dance instructor called out corrections, could never have prepared her for what it felt like to dance with a man who knew how to waltz. It took only a few moments before she was allowing him to lead her around the room, sweeping past Diane, who looked on with approval as her fingers flew over the keys.
Melissa quickly responded to his slightest pressure, following his lead, feeling herself become part of the dance, part of her partner. It was glorious, to be held like that, to move around the floor in complete unison with another human being, to feel his breath upon her forehead, and then, when she lifted her face, upon her cheek. He smiled down at her.
“You are amazingly good for a girl who’s never done this,” he said. “Marvelous, really.”
Melissa flushed, feeling happier than she had in memory. How wonderful it would be to be wearing her prettiest ball gown, to dance in a room full of people, all swirling about, laughing, talking. She would not grow fearful, not if John was with her, looking down at her and smiling the way he was now.
Diane stopped playing and was positively beaming at her. “You, my dear, are certainly ready to dance at your first ball,” she said. “Now we must get you used to crowds and social interactions, and our work will be done. But I’m afraid those lessons will have to wait ’til tomorrow, if you don’t mind. My correspondences are much overdue, and I really must dedicate some time to that this afternoon. But tomorrow I suggest we meet again, my lord, so we can practice the various social interchanges that might occur.”
“I see no reason I cannot handle that now,” John said affably. “I have some estate business I must attend to tomorrow and will have little time to dedicate to Melissa. But I certainly don’t want to keep you from your correspondence.”
Diane seemed to pause, then nodded, and Melissa had the distinct feeling her chaperone felt uncomfortable allowing John to handle this aspect of her education. When Miss Stanhope was gone, he noted the chaperone’s hesitancy.
“I believe Miss Stanhope is taking your education as a personal mission and would be very displeased with herself if something should go wrong.”
“As happened at the opera?” Melissa said, suddenly feeling dejected.
“Precisely. But that won’t happen again. I’ll stay by your side until you feel comfortable, I promise. In the meantime, you can practice with my friends and me. They’ll be here in two days, you know.”
Melissa wrinkled her nose. “I shall feel like a horse being inspected.”
“And so shall they, I’ve no doubt.”
Melissa hadn’t thought of it that way and suddenly felt better about the whole thing. “I suppose I hadn’t thought that young men of the ton often feel the same pressure to marry as women. You don’t think they’ll find me too old, do you?”
“While you are rather long in the tooth, I do believe you do not yet qualify as a spinster.”
Melissa knew he was jesting, but until recently hadn’t fully understood that twenty-three was quite old to make one’s debut. Most girls were married and had children by her age—or else were considered on the shelf, according to Miss Stanhope. She would know, Melissa reasoned, because her chaperone was definitely a spinster.
“All right, then. Prepare me for my first ball.” Melissa was aware she sounded very much like a green recruit preparing for his first battle—a bit frightened but with a courage that was likely misplaced. She stood before him very much like a soldier before a commanding officer, back straight, arms to her side.
John rested his right elbow against his left arm, and tapped his index finger against his mouth as if deep in thought. “Ah, I know. We’ll go through different scenarios and see how you respond. Let’s see. A spotty-faced young man with an overgrown Adam’s apple who smells strongly of sausage approaches you for the first waltz of the night. What do you do?”
Melissa nodded, as if this were the most important of questions. “While I do adore sausage, I look at my dance card, which is already nearly full, and tell him the first waltz is already taken by my cousin.”
His eyes sparkled with good humor. “Very well. But what if it is not taken?”
“Then I graciously thank him and agree to the dance.”
“Or?”
“Immediately seek you out to be certain we dance the first waltz together.”
He clapped his hands together. “Brilliant.”
Melissa curtsied very nicely and said, “Thank you, sir.”
“My lord, to you, underling.”
“My Lord Conceit, how very sorry I am if I have inadvertently discounted your rank.”
John rubbed his hands together and paced back and forth a bit before stopping. “All right. Scenario two. A very handsome, very rich young man who dances like a master and to whom you are quite attracted in a very improper way . . .”
“You!” she said gleefully.
He gave her a dark look. “Not me. Now pay attention. This stunner has asked you to take a walk in the garden with him.”
“Hmmm. How rich?”
John growled. “Be serious, miss.”
Melissa let out a puff of air. “I immediately seek out Miss Stanhope and advise her of my plans.”
“Precisely. Now, what if you cannot find Miss Stanhope?”
“I regretfully decline.”
“Ah,” he said, raising one finger. “This man, this Adonis, is very persuasive. And he convinces you that it is perfectly proper to go out to the terrace and look at the stars. You’re within sight of an entire ballroom. What could possibly be wrong with that?”
Melissa narrowed her eyes. “This sounds like something you may have done.”
John shrugged, but pressed her. “What do you do?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“I’d probably go.”
John didn’t look happy about her answer, but he didn’t say she was completely wrong either. “Not the best choice, but I’ll allow it this time. Now, what if he should try to kiss you?”
Melissa’s face immediately heated. “I wouldn’t allow that,” she said, shocked.
John tilted his head. “Why ever not?”
Was he tricking her? Trying to have her believe such a kiss would be within the realm of proper behavior when it was not? Or was a simple kiss from a handsome man, given freely, acceptable?
“Do I want to kiss him?” she asked.
His eyes drifted to her mouth, then shot back to her eyes. “Yes,” he said, sounding slightly annoyed.
“Well, he is handsome. And rich. I’m assuming he has a wonderful title. He wants to kiss me, and I desperately want to kiss him. . . .”
“I did not say desperately.”
“. . . and I
desperately
want to kiss him,” she repeated, just to needle him. “So, yes, I do. I kiss him.” She nodded as if certain she had the right answer.
desperately
want to kiss him,” she repeated, just to needle him. “So, yes, I do. I kiss him.” She nodded as if certain she had the right answer.
“No. You do not kiss him,” he said, sounding horrified. “You don’t even know the man! If someone saw you, you’d be marching down the aisle with a complete stranger within a fortnight. Good God, Melissa.”
Melissa pouted good-naturedly. “But he’s so handsome,” she said wistfully. “And you’ve told me it doesn’t matter really whom I marry, as long as he is wealthy, doesn’t beat me, and can give me children.”
“I apologized for saying that.”
Melissa lifted her eyebrows. “But if it’s what you truly believe, I’m afraid I cannot accept that apology.”
“You,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at her, “are insufferable.”
Melissa shrugged to tell him that his opinion of her didn’t matter in the least. She was having far too much fun at the moment to get into an argument with John.
“I would never allow a man to kiss me for the simple reason that I would foul it all up, so you needn’t worry.”
This, apparently, got him curious. “Foul it up?”
“As you so succinctly pointed out not five minutes ago, I am rather long in the tooth. A man would certainly expect a woman of my advanced years to know how to do such a simple thing.” To her horror, Melissa felt the sharp burn of tears in her eyes. Suddenly, the fun had gone out of the lesson. “I’ve never even touched another person. Not really. How am I expected to be a wife? To kiss someone? To allow someone to touch me? . . .”
She let out a short sob, then swallowed, and closed her eyes, mortified that she had blurted out her greatest fear. How could she allow a man to touch her anywhere he wished when she’d never even held a man’s hand? She pressed her gloved hands against her cheeks, feeling the smooth silk against her flesh. In quick, angry movements, she tore the gloves from her hands and threw them to the floor.
John’s heart nearly broke for her at that moment. He knew she didn’t want his pity, but by God, how could he not give it, watching her fall apart in front of him.
“Sometimes I want to go home so badly I could scream,” she said fiercely, staring at the floor, her fists clenched against her stomach.
“Melissa, come sit by me,” John said, walking over to the settee. She looked at him uncertainly, then joined him and sat, very much like a petulant child. John slowly took off his gloves and placed them between them on the settee. “Now, give me your hand.”
She looked up at him, and he nearly got lost in those magnificent violet eyes of hers, still shining from her brief bout of crying. Instead of giving him her hand, she clenched her fingers tighter in her lap and gave her gloves, still lying on the floor, a look of longing. Taking a shuddering breath, she said, “My father thought that disease entered the body through the pores of one’s hand,” she said, gazing at her own small, pale hands. “I wasn’t allowed to take my gloves off except to bathe and at night. And no one was ever allowed to touch me without wearing them. Not even my father. He . . .” She shook her head and fresh tears fell. “He didn’t want me to die, you see.”
Bloody hell.
“I believe your father, while well meaning, was a bit misguided. It’s far more likely that we get disease through tainted food or water than by simply touching someone, unless they’ve been mucking about a pigsty. While I’m no expert on disease, I can say logically that his theory is wrong, or else everyone you know would be dead by now. The servants, my father, Miss Stanhope, me. Gloves are worn so that clothing does not become soiled, or to keep one’s hands warm. Now. Give me your hand, Melissa.”
“I believe your father, while well meaning, was a bit misguided. It’s far more likely that we get disease through tainted food or water than by simply touching someone, unless they’ve been mucking about a pigsty. While I’m no expert on disease, I can say logically that his theory is wrong, or else everyone you know would be dead by now. The servants, my father, Miss Stanhope, me. Gloves are worn so that clothing does not become soiled, or to keep one’s hands warm. Now. Give me your hand, Melissa.”
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