Unsuitable Wife Page 17

  “Would it matter?”

  “Perhaps. Of course, if I thought you would ask me…”

  She let the words hang, and though he was quiet, she sensed his surprise. “Can’t,” he said, finally.

  “I see,” she said, sounding bored. “Well, no matter. If not Lord Beverley, then someone else.”

  “Melissa—”

  “Ah, here we are. It’s good to be home. I’m tired, aren’t you?”

  Justin didn’t have a chance to answer, as the carriage drew up to a stop. “About tomorrow, Melissa,” he said, catching up to her in the hall.

  “What? Are you still thinking about that? But don’t bother!” Her laugh was high and tinkling. “I assure you, I will do quite well without you.” She turned towards the stairs. “Good night.”

  Justin stayed where he was, watching her go, raking his fingers through his hair, and then turned. “Phelps, I want brandy brought to the book-room,” he called over his shoulder.

  Melissa glanced down just as he turned, and she smothered a smile at the look on his face. So, the earl was confused and frustrated. Good. It was high time he had more to think about than his work. It was high time he noticed her.

  The cold that had started the New Year continued, making travel hazardous and stopping the stages, so that no mail could get through. Ice frosted the windows of homes and shops, and by the end of the month the Thames was frozen solid. To the delight of the Londoners, a fair sprang up on the ice, a wonderful Frost Fair, with booths selling everything from beer and trinkets to broadsides printed on presses set up on the ice. Naturally such a novel affair drew many people, and early one afternoon a landau with a ducal crest pulled up on a bank of the river. Melissa emerged as a footman came to open the door. Attired in half boots and a grey pelisse trimmed with fur, and carrying a large fur muff, she was comfortably warm. Behind her came Sabrina, Duchess of Bainbridge, and the duke, who wore a faintly bemused air. Melissa had known the Bainbridges only since Augusta’s ball, but already she and Sabrina were on their way to becoming fast friends. The young duchess was pretty and charming, but what Melissa liked best about her was her openness. Like Melissa, Sabrina had not been born into the ton; she was an American, and her attitude was a refreshing change from the stilted formality Melissa had already encountered.

  “Oh, my, Oliver, just look at this!” Sabrina exclaimed as they stepped onto ice that had been cleared of snow, forming a path reaching to the other bank. A sign nearby read “Freezeland Street.”

  “Yes. Careful on that ice,” Oliver said, taking her arm. “I shouldn’t have let you come. Especially not now.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Sabrina flipped her hair, long and golden, over her shoulder. “You worry too much. Is the earl like that?” she asked, leaning forward to address Melissa, walking on the Duke’s other side.

  “Oh, no,” Melissa murmured, and a little pang went through her. Her attempts to make Justin notice her had come to nothing. With Parliament in session he spent most of his days away from the house, and often at night they attended different affairs. It was the way of life in the ton. Husbands and wives did not live in each other’s pockets.

  Which was why the Bainbridges had been such a revelation to Melissa. Their marriage was decidedly unfashionable, and yet no one would deny their place in society. The Duke’s position at the Foreign Office kept them in town, where they had a wide range of acquaintances. Today he had left his office to escort his wife; the Frost Fair was said to be rife with pickpockets and other undesirables, and he was concerned about her safety. It seemed a little silly to Melissa, since nothing looked more harmless, but again she felt that pang of envy. It must be wonderful when one’s husband cared that much.

  They stopped at different booths, one selling gingerbread, another toys, and by such progress they eventually reached the intersection with the lane that was called the Grand Mall. Even Bainbridge looked impressed. From here one could see the broad sweep of the river, to London Bridge in one direction, Blackfriars in the other. “Oh, heavens,” Melissa said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Yes,” Sabrina said in an odd tone.

  Bainbridge glanced down at her. “What is it?”

  She looked back, frowning. “I don’t know. That man—”

  “What man?” he said, instantly alert.

  “There was a man, but he’s not there now.”

  “So?”

  “I thought he was following us. Oh, but it must have been a coincidence.”

  “Many people here are going the same way,” Melissa said.

  “Yes, but he stopped whenever we did. I noticed him a few booths back.” Her face grew serious. “He was looking at you.”

  “Me! Heavens, whatever for?”

  “What did he look like?” Bainbridge asked.

  “He was, oh, not very tall, with pointed features, but I don’t see him now, Oliver.”

  Bainbridge glanced around. The intersection, thronged though it was, seemed an open, and so safe enough, space. “Wait here,” he said, and plunged back into the crowd.

  “Oh, dear,” Sabrina said, her brow puckered. “I wish I hadn’t said anything.”

  “But if someone is following us…” Melissa said.

  “Yes, but I’m not at all sure, you know, that he was. And Oliver tends to be too protective. Especially now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said anything.” She glanced around. “Promise you won’t tell a soul?”

  “What?”

  Sabrina glanced around again, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “We’re to be parents.”

  “Why, Sabrina, that’s marvelous!” Melissa exclaimed, ignoring the sudden sharp stab of envy and loneliness. To have a child. To have Justin’s child. As things were, it would probably never happen. If she thought it would do any good she would approach him, but she was scared. If she came too close he would see her too clearly, the flaw that was inside her.

  Bainbridge came back then, and at his wife’s look shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone,” he said.

  “I didn’t imagine it, Oliver. You know I’m not prone to such fancies. Not even now.”

  “Yes, I know.” He smiled down at her. “But I think we’ve seen enough for today, don’t you?”

  Sabrina looked up at him and then sighed. “Very well, Oliver. I am starting to feel a trifle cold. Melissa? You don’t mind?”

  “Oh, no,” Melissa murmured, though she felt a little resentful at having the expedition cut short because of Bainbridge’s overprotectiveness. Justin would certainly never treat her that way. Unfortunately.

  In spite of that, she was glad to reach the warmth of her own home. “Phelps, bring the tea tray, please,” she called as she climbed the stairs. She turned into the drawing room, and then stopped. “Justin!”

  Justin turned from the window, where he had been looking out. “Yes, m’dear?”

  “Nothing.” Melissa crossed the room to stand before the closed stove. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  Justin turned back. Not for the world would he tell her that he had come home, thinking to give her a treat by escorting her to the Frost Fair. Nor would he admit, even to himself, how disappointed he had been when he’d learned she’d gone with someone else. “Was that Beverley you were with?” he said, sharply.

  Melissa’s eyes widened slightly. “No, the Bainbridges. Do you disapprove?”

  He smiled. “Whigs, m’dear.”

  “Oh, dear, so they are. Would you like tea?” she asked, as Phelps brought the tray in.

  Justin shook his head. “No, thank you. Got work to do. Excuse me.”

  “Of course.” She watched him go with a little frown on her face. Drat, and just when they had been talking amicably enough. This would have to stop. If only there were some way to hold him.

  Her eyes fell on a pile of square envelopes lying on a salver on a table, invitations to various events, left there this morning. It was a prodigious pile,
and her heart sank at the prospect of dealing with it. And the season hadn’t even begun! She couldn’t imagine what it would be like when everyone returned to town and began having balls and routs and soirées. It was hard enough deciding which to attend now.

  She glanced at the invitations again, sharply this time. Usually she consulted Augusta on which events to attend, trusting that lady to choose the best. Chatleigh always went along with the choice, though often he went off on pursuits of his own. That, Melissa thought, was something she could change. If she needed an excuse to see her husband again, and in the future, she had it at hand. It would only take courage.

  Before she could stop herself, she had scooped up the invitations and was running lightly down the stairs to knock on the door to the book-room. After a moment Justin, within, spoke. “Enter.”

  Melissa pushed the heavy door open and went in. The room was long and wide, with recessed shelves with glazed doors set between the long windows holding thousands of books in morocco bindings. Cushioned seats were set in the window embrasures, and comfortable leather armchairs were scattered about the room, some near the fireplace, others grouped together as if for a tête-à-tête. It was probably the most inviting room in the house, but Melissa had rarely been inside. Justin had appropriated it since taking up politics. Here he was close to any books he might need, and the central library table gave him plenty of space for spreading out his papers.

  He rose from behind the table, a question on his face. “Yes?”

  “I think you need a secretary, Chatleigh,” Melissa said, gesturing towards the papers.

  Justin looked down, and smiled. “Almighty mess. Trouble is, can’t seem to find anything worth speaking out on.” He gestured her towards a chair and sat down himself, linking his hands behind his head. “Nothing that hasn’t been taken, that is.”

  “Surely there’s something?” Melissa said, putting the invitations down.

  “Don’t know what. I don’t know, Melissa.” He got up and began to pace the room. “If I thought I was doing some good I’d stay with it, but nothing ever seems to get done. There’s too much concern for party, and if you’re a Tory, you’d better not agree with the Whigs. Never mind they have some of the right ideas. And neither side seems to care about the war.”

  “Maybe that’s what you should speak about.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, I’m serious, Chatleigh. You were there. You know what it’s like. Perhaps they need to hear it.”

  Justin shrugged. “Perhaps. What did you wish to see me about?”

  “These.” Melissa handed the invitations across to him. “I’m afraid I need a secretary, too.”

  Justin glanced through the invitations. “Want to know what to accept?”

  “Yes. Well, I really want to know which ones you’d like to go to.”

  “Hm. Well, I’d like to go to the Bainbridges’ ball, even if they are Whigs.”

  “Sabrina assures me it won’t be at all political.”

  “Sabrina, is it?” Justin glanced up. His wife was a social success. On the days when she was at home, their drawing room was thronged with visitors; at the various parties she attended, she was always surrounded by a small crowd of admirers. How he felt about that, he wasn’t sure. Sometimes he looked at her, flushed with laughter from a compliment paid her by one of her gallants, and felt sharp, cold anger. At other times, however, he felt a curious pang of loneliness, as if he’d lost something precious. There were times, as now, when they seemed to get along well. Perhaps if he attended more events with her, she would remember that she had a husband? “Very well. The Bainbridges, it is. And this one.” He tossed a card onto the table. “And this. And…this.”

  “What is it?” Melissa asked, leaning forward.

  “A political do at the Prime Minister’s. We’ll have to go, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course.” Melissa gathered up the invitations he had selected, her hand just brushing his, and rose as Justin’s hand jerked back. “I’ll go write the acceptances. Will you be home for dinner?”

  “No, m’dear, afraid not.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “Another time, perhaps.”

  “Of course,” Melissa said, and left the room.

  Justin stayed still for a few moments and then turned in his chair, looking out the window without seeing anything. He had hoped that by coming in here he would be able to concentrate on his work and forget about his wife, but it hadn’t worked. He thought about her too much, damn it, when he was supposed to be working; at night, when the thought of her sleeping just a few doors away, available to him should he wish to go to her, had kept him awake more than once. Sometimes only a liberal dose of brandy or wine helped him find surcease from his powerful, incomprehensible yearnings. He longed to take her in his arms, lower his face in the sweet scent of her curls, run his hands along her soft curves, and…

  Bah! He threw himself into a chair. He sounded besotted. He was not going to be caught in her toils. It would not do to dwell on her beauty, longingly and lovingly, and wonder how she would look suitably attired. Or unattired.

  Justin sat up quickly, clearing his throat. Dangerous thoughts, these. Think about other things, he told himself. Be grateful she was in half-mourning, which dimmed her beauty, though that did nothing to discourage her admirers. And there, he thought, suddenly sitting upright, was something he could do. She was a woman, and that meant she could be bought. A cynical thought, but as he well knew, true. And he knew just what would do the trick.

  He grinned, sitting back with his hands behind his head. His wife’s money freed his own to use on such extravagances, and that almost reconciled him to having married a wealthy woman. Doubtless Madame Celeste had Melissa’s measurements and would be happy to create a new wardrobe for her. And once she saw it, she would forget about other men for a time. If he had to buy her loyalty, so be it. She was his!

  Melissa settled back against the squabs of the barouche, tired, but happy with the events of the day. It had occurred to her that she and Justin would want to start entertaining. Her only experience in doing so had been the Twelfth Night party, and though that had been a success, she had to admit that part of that had been due to its novelty. In London, standards would be much higher.

  The thought had made her take a second look at the house, and she had realized how much there was to be done. Fortunately the structure itself was sound, but several of the public rooms were in urgent need of redecoration. The dining room was much too dark, with its heavy oak furniture and wine velvet draperies; the drawing room remained an Egyptian nightmare. In the past weeks she hadn’t been able to see to them, but now she made time.

  The weather had moderated somewhat. After what people were beginning to call the Great Freeze had ended, a heavy fall of snow had blanketed the land for days on end. Now it was turning warmer, and though the streets were wet and muddy they were passable, allowing Melissa to go out on her errands. She visited Gillow’s warehouse to look at furniture; linen drapers for fabrics for draperies and upholstery; and shops for carpeting. She also consulted with Augusta for a date for her own ball. Once the season began, the social calendar would be so filled that it would be difficult to find a night where some other major event didn’t conflict with theirs.

  There was just one more place for her to visit today, a printer’s, to order the invitations. The footman came to open the door of the barouche for her. As Melissa descended she glanced down the sidewalk, and then froze. Coming towards her was her stepfather.

  She almost ducked back into the barouche, but it was too late. He had seen her. Schooling her features to calm, Melissa stepped back against the coach, her chin held high. “Sir Stephen,” she said.

  “Well, daughter.” She turned her head as he moved to embrace her, and he pulled away, his gaze filled with reproach. “What, don’t you even have a kiss for your father?”

  “What do you want?” Melissa’s gaze was cold.

  “Merely to have a word with you. Are you
going in there?” he said, indicating the printer’s shop.

  “Yes.”

  “Pity. We cannot be private there.”

  “I don’t wish to be private with you!” she snapped, and the footman, who still held the door, glanced towards her. “What is it you want?”

  “Merely to have a word with you, daughter. Would you deny your father that?”

  By a great effort of will, Melissa held her temper. “Oh, very well, if we stay here we’ll likely cause a scene. Come.” She turned back towards the barouche. “Tell John Coachman to drive home,” she said to the footman as she climbed in.

  “Ah, this is more like it,” Sir Stephen said, settling in. “Better than those hacks I’ve been chasing you in.”

  “You’ve been following me?” Melissa exclaimed, and a sudden memory of the Frost Fair came into her mind. But the man Sabrina had thought she’d seen didn’t resemble her stepfather at all. A coincidence.

  “Yes, of course. I had to reach you somehow. Really, daughter, you should tell your butler to allow me in.”

  “What do you want?” she said again.

  “You know what I want, daughter.” His eyes bored into hers. “What I deserve.”

  “I’ll not give you any money!”

  “Ah, but it’s not money I want, is it?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Melissa caught her breath at the silky menace in his voice. Her eyes never leaving his, she reached up to bang on the ceiling of the coach. After a moment the coach stopped, and the footman came to the door. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Sir Stephen is getting down here,” she said.

  “Now, daughter—”

  “I am not your daughter!”

  Sir Stephen’s face grew ugly with anger. “I grow tired of you and Chatleigh and your high-handed ways,” he growled, leaning forward so far that she shrank back. “But you’ll pay.” He climbed out of the coach. “Remember that. You’ll pay.”

  “Tell John Coachman to drive on,” Melissa said to the footman, and leaned back against the squabs, shaking. She had no doubt that he meant what he said. His threat against Justin, she discounted; that had been empty words. The threat against herself, however, had been all too real. The feeling of safety which she had treasured since her marriage evaporated, leaving her feeling alone and defenseless. Unless she found a way to stop him, Sir Stephen would, indeed, make her pay.