Unsuitable Wife Page 3

  Over the rim of his tankard Justin watched her. Prettier than he’d remembered. Innocent-looking, too—no wonder he’d been so taken-in—but a spoiled little wench. Well, he’d soon break her of that. Couldn’t say he blamed her for trying to decamp. In fact, he’d expected it, and though he’d arisen at an ungodly hour to stop her, he was in perfect sympathy with her feelings. If his sense of honor didn’t demand that he do the right thing, might be he’d run, too.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  Melissa looked up, her eyes wary. “Eighteen, my lord.”

  Justin briefly shut his eyes. Eighteen. God, barely out of the schoolroom, and already, like the rest of her sex, up to such tricks. What would she be like when she gained some experience? “And do you always wear black?”

  “No. I am in mourning.” Justin said nothing, but merely looked at her. After a few moments she put down her toast. “My mother died this week past, of an ague.”

  “Your mother died just last week and you’re setting traps already?”

  Melissa’s head shot up at that. “I did not trap you, my lord,” she said, her voice tight, “and I miss my mother very much.”

  “My condolences,” Justin said, after a moment. “And your father?”

  “Dead these past four years.”

  “Excuse me, meant Sir Stephen.”

  “He is not my father!” she flared, and then under Justin’s steady regard subsided, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “Stepfather, then. If he exists.”

  “Oh, he exists. Unfortunately.” Melissa pushed back her curls from her forehead. “Poor Harry. I should never have left him there.”

  “Harry?”

  “My brother.”

  Justin leaned back. “Am I to expect a visit from an outraged brother, then?”

  “Harry? Hardly.” Melissa smiled, and for the first time he noticed her eyes, not green or grey or hazel, but an odd, beguiling combination of the three. “No, he’ll be returning to Eton soon, and in any event, he doesn’t believe in fighting.”

  “Coward, is he?” Justin drawled, expecting her to flare up, but, to his surprise, she smiled again.

  “Hardly. Harry has many reasons for not believing in fighting, but cowardice isn’t one of them. You’ll see when you meet him.”

  “Madam, I have no intention of allowing you to foist your impecunious relatives upon me.”

  “Impecunious! I see.” The corners of her mouth turned up. “My, you do know how to talk when you want to.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  Justin shot her a look, but her face was expressionless. “Any other people in this mythical family of yours?”

  “No. My mother was an only child, and I’ve never met Papa’s relatives. You see, when he married my mother—”

  “Spare me.” Justin held up his hand. “Don’t want to know the details.”

  “I should think you’d want to know more about me, my lord, since I am to be your wife.”

  Justin’s gaze on her was calm. “Oh, I know enough about you, m’dear. None of it to your credit, I’m afraid.”

  Melissa glared at him, and Justin returned to his tankard. Rather odd that her stepfather hadn’t yet arrived either to claim his daughter, or to demand payment for her ruin. He must know by now that she and Bennett had caught a live one, a genuine earl. Well, they were in for a surprise, Justin thought, smiling grimly. They’d soon find that this particular earl didn’t have a feather to fly with.

  There was a quiet knock on the door and then Bennett bustled in. “Good morning, my lord, Miss Melissa.” He beamed at Justin, and Melissa threw him a sour look. The traitor! “The chaise is ready, sir, when ye want it.”

  “Thank you, Bennett,” Justin said.

  “The chaise?” Melissa rose, scraping her chair back. “But I tell you, I am not going.”

  “Now, miss.” Bennett turned to face her. “Thought we settled this last night.”

  “No, Bennett, we weren’t thinking clearly—”

  “Thinking clearly enough this morning,” Justin said. “Thank you, Bennett. Be done here in a minute.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Bowing, Bennett closed the door behind him. Melissa stared at it a moment, her fists clenched, and then whirled to face Justin.

  “I don’t want to marry you!” she cried. Justin shrugged and picked up his tankard again. “Oh, how can you sit there so calmly, when—”

  “Does no good to get upset. Sit and finish your tea.” Melissa glared at him. “Come on. Sit.”

  Much to her surprise, Melissa found herself sitting at the table again. How had he made her do that, without even raising his voice? “Please, my lord, if you will only listen—”

  “Leave soon as you’re done. Wells is a long ride.”

  “Oh, what is in Wells that is so important?”

  “A bishop. Have to have a special license to get married so soon, you know,” he said, at her blank look.

  “Oh!” Melissa’s cup clattered on its saucer as her hands flew to her cheeks, so pale that for a moment Justin felt a reluctant stab of sympathy. “Oh, please, must we?”

  “Come, now, not so bad a prospect, is it?” he said, giving her his most charming smile.

  “Oh, but could you not just let me go? I promise I won’t tell anyone what happened. I know you’re only trying to protect my good name—”

  “Not your good name. Mine.” Justin rose abruptly and looked down at her, his eyes hard. “We will be married, or I will return you to your stepfather immediately.”

  Melissa’s eyes widened. Had he but known it, he had hit upon the only way to convince her. He had trapped her, as neatly as he thought he himself had been trapped. But she would not submit tamely. My lord earl would soon learn that he had not obtained a comfortable, conformable wife. “Very well, then, my lord,” she said crisply, rising to her feet. “But you will live to regret it.”

  “Don’t doubt that,” Justin said to her back as she swept out of the room before him. Her shoulders stiffened, but other than that she gave no sign she’d heard him. Stubborn and spoiled, he thought. God help him.

  Outside the inn the post chaise stood waiting, the job horses stamping and blowing in the cold. Bennett and his wife, waiting to see them off, gathered Melissa into their arms before allowing her to enter the chaise.

  “Well, now, to think I’d ever see the day, my little girl marrying an earl!” Mrs. Bennett said, her eyes suspiciously moist.

  Melissa disentangled herself from the clinging embrace and stepped back. “You’ll see to Harry, won’t you? He’ll be so alone. And tell him to write to me? I’ll send you my direction.” She glanced over her shoulder. Justin, talking to the coachman, appeared not to be attending. “Wherever I am.”

  Bennett followed her gaze. “Now, miss, don’t ye be thinking of running away. He’s a good man.”

  “And how do you know that?” she demanded.

  “Doing the right thing by ye, ain’t he? Many another man wouldn’t.”

  “How lucky for me, to find an honorable man.” She made a face at her betrothed’s back, and at that moment, he turned.

  “Ready to go, m’dear?” he said, and if he’d seen her grimace, he gave no sign.

  Melissa put her chin up, glaring at him, and then nodded. “Yes, my lord,” she said, allowing him to help her into the chaise. She would not cry. She would not let him see her cry.

  “My lord.” Bennett plucked at Justin’s sleeve as he prepared to climb in, and Justin turned. “Take care of her? She’s very dear to us.”

  Justin looked at him for a moment before speaking. “Should have thought of that before you set your trap.”

  “Oh, my lord, it wasn’t any such thing!” Mrs. Bennett protested, and Bennett shook his head.

  “Sorry ye feel that way, my lord,” he said. “She’s a good girl. Treat her well and she’ll be the best wife¬—”

  “Thank you, I don’t need your advice.” Justin shook
off Bennett’s hand and climbed into the chaise. His face was hard as the door closed behind him, and under the force of that look, Bennett quailed. Might be it wasn’t such a good idea to let Miss Melissa go with him, after all.

  Melissa glanced at Justin as he sat next to her, and then turned away. The postilions mounted and set the horses into motion. As the chaise jolted off Melissa took one last, long look at the Hart and Hind and the two people who were so dear to her. Then the chaise swept through the gate and onto the road, and was gone.

  This was the crucial moment.

  The Marquess of Edgewater, having already attempted, and discarded, six freshly laundered and starched neckcloths, was now on the seventh, his valet standing by with yet another one draped over his arm, should this attempt fail. The valet held his breath as the Marquess finished tying the cloth, and then stepped back to survey himself critically in the tiny mirror. Then, ever so carefully, the marquess lowered his chin. The neckcloth creased in exactly the right place, and the valet let out his breath.

  “Perfect, my lord,” he said.

  “Of course.” The marquess gave himself another thorough scrutiny and was satisfied with what he saw, the fawn-colored pantaloons, the white ruffled shirt, the brocaded waistcoat, and the hessians, with the shine that many gentlemen envied. Some said that George Brummel, the Beau, used champagne in his bootblack; Edgewater had his own formula, and he shared the secret with nobody. “My coat,” he said, snapping his fingers, and the valet scurried forward with the coat of deep blue Bath cloth, its brass buttons nearly as big as saucers. By dint of much struggling Edgewater was at last fully attired, and the valet set himself to smoothing any wrinkles that dared mar the fit of the coat. A final brushing of the hair, styled à la Brutus, and Edgewater was done, stepping back to admire the results. Very nice, indeed. Too nice for the country, of course, but one must always maintain one’s standards.

  The valet turned away to finish packing, and Edgewater completed his ensemble with the addition of various fobs and seals and, of course, his quizzing glass, without which he would have felt naked. Dreary place, the country; dreary places, country inns. One never knew who one would have to associate with, though last night’s fracas with Chatleigh had been tolerably amusing. Not surprising that Chatleigh, clumsy oaf that he was, had managed to get into some kind of trouble. It would be interesting to see how he got himself out.

  A chambermaid was already at work in the room across the corridor when the marquess at last sauntered out. Ah, so Chatleigh had left already, had he? Edgewater wondered who the girl was. Foolish of Chatleigh to claim her as his wife, when all the world could see the sort she was. Ah, well, it would be a bit of gossip to enliven the rounds, once he returned to London. One must find some way to amuse oneself.

  The marquess was very much looking forward to returning to town as he walked down the inn’s stairs, heading for the private parlor he had engaged for his breakfast. Bad ton to mingle with the hoi polloi, or the local people. Take, for example, the man who was standing in the hall, talking urgently and angrily to the innkeeper. Edgewater shuddered as he passed them, appalled at the cut of the man’s coat. Really, provincial tailors were quite incompetent. True, the man was in mourning, but that was no excuse for a coat that rode up on the shoulders and wrinkled across the back. Edgewater nodded at the innkeeper and went on into the private parlor. It was only as he was closing the door that the conversation caught his interest.

  “I tell you, Sir Stephen, Miss Melissa is not here.” Bennett sounded weary. “If she was—”

  “Do I think you would tell me? Oh, no, Bennett,” Sir Stephen said. “I know she is here. Someone saw her come in here last night—yes, you didn’t know I knew that, did you? And her name was not on the waybill for the stage this morning. I demand you tell me where she is!”

  “I don’t know, Sir Stephen, and that’s the truth.” Bennett spread his hands. “I’ll ask around about her, and if ye want to look over the inn—”

  “I certainly do,” Sir Stephen said, and pushed past him to reach the stairs. Bennett watched him for a moment, muttered something under his breath, and then went after him, and, at last, Edgewater closed the door.

  Interesting, he thought, crossing the room to tug on the bellpull. Wasn’t Melissa the name of the girl who had been in Chatleigh’s room last evening? So what had Sir Stephen Barton’s daughter—for Edgewater had recognized the man, having met him once in the dim past at a gaming hell—been doing with Chatleigh? Interesting, indeed. This was something that would bear watching.

  The post chaise, somewhat spattered and dusty after three days of hard traveling, rode across the North Downs, nearing the end of its journey. Ahead Justin rode on horseback, and though that was what he preferred, it was not what had driven him to it. He simply could not abide his bride’s company, and not for any reason that made sense to him. She was just too damned attractive.

  Justin shifted a bit in the saddle. His wife. Damn. Last thing in the world he wanted was to be married. Oh, he’d always known he’d have to marry eventually, if only to secure the succession, but there had seemed enough time, even with his heir, his brother, Philip, still in the thick of the fighting on the Peninsula. The death of his father had been a surprise; Justin had confidently expected that the old reprobate would live forever, in spite of his tendency towards apoplexy. Now the eighth earl, Justin had reluctantly sold out of the army, and returned home to a mountain of bills. Once the debts had been discharged there was little left over for the crumbling, decrepit, neglected estate that was Chatleigh Hall, and so Justin had added another requirement to those he would need in a bride. She must be an heiress. Instead, he found himself saddled with an insignificant country miss, gently bred or not.

  And too damned pretty. He had to stop himself from glancing into the chaise. Even now, when he knew she was not the innocent she appeared, she contrived somehow to look demure and sweet. Her bonnet, though of black silk, managed on her to look as fetching as the airiest confection from the best milliner. Curls the color of new-minted pennies clustered about her face, and her features had the delicate perfection of a cameo. Her cloak, also of black, was all-encompassing against November’s chill winds, but Justin had a very clear picture of what was underneath. Too clear a picture.

  Which, he told himself, wrenching his mind away from a memory that was much too enticing, was precisely why he was in this situation. Getting an heir on her might not be so distasteful, but he would have to be wary of her wiles, else he would find himself in deeper trouble. She would have no power over him. Marriage was not going to change his life.

  Inside the chaise, Melissa glanced up from the book she had chosen to enliven the trip, and caught a glimpse of her husband, riding ahead. Having never traveled before, she had been just a little excited about this trip, in spite of the circumstances, and she had hoped to spend the time becoming acquainted with her new husband. Instead, he had barely come near her. After three days of marriage he was still a stranger to her, but that was all of a piece with what had gone before.

  Melissa leaned back. Her wedding, so different from what she had always dreamed, already was shrouded with an aura of unreality. There had been no flowers, no music; she wore black rather than colors, a plain bonnet instead of a frothy confection of lace and flowers. The little church where they were married by a bewildered clergyman was empty, save for his wife and his deacon, standing as witnesses. Most importantly, the man standing beside her, repeating the vows, was a stranger. As he slipped his signet ring on her finger in lieu of a wedding band, she looked up into his eyes. They were chill and remote, and she shivered. He was her husband, and she was no longer Miss Selby.

  Melissa closed her eyes tightly, her fingers, icy cold inside the black kid gloves, twisting together. God help her, it was true. She was really married, and because it was too overwhelming to deal with just now and she was very tired, she drifted into a light doze.

  She was in the tiny attic room at the Hart and
Hind again, and this time, candles were lit all around the room, filling it with a soft radiance. She was in bed, and she was wearing—well, she wasn’t certain what it was, but it was so diaphanous, so shining that she felt naked. There was a man in the room with her, and though she felt the familiar thrill of fear, it quickly left. He was Justin, her husband, and this was right, it was natural. She smiled and knelt up, holding her arms out to him, and he came onto the bed with her and took her into his embrace. She felt blissfully warm, safe and secure and cherished, as his lips came down on hers, not in hard, punishing kisses, but a lovely, persuasive one. This time she could respond, her arms tightening about him, and when his hand slid down to her breast, she moaned…

  The chaise jolted to a stop. Oh, heavens! Melissa thought, coming abruptly awake. Color stained her cheeks as Justin wrenched the door open and thrust his head inside. “What is it?” she asked, breathlessly. “Why are we stopped?”

  “The Hall’s ahead,” he said. “Going to ride ahead to warn the servants.”

  “Oh. Very well.” Melissa sat back as the door closed and the chaise started off again. Chatleigh Hall, at last. It would be good to be done with traveling. Perhaps here, in her new home, she would shake the feeling of unreality that bedeviled her. Perhaps matters would not be so bad as she feared.

  The chaise jounced as it made a sharp turn, and she caught a glimpse of pillars on either side, the one on the left missing stones from the top. She grabbed the strap to steady herself against the swaying of the chaise as it continued down the rutted drive. The Hall should be coming into sight at any moment, she thought, craning her head to look out the window and catching a glimpse, as she did so, of her husband, riding far ahead. Instantly color flooded her cheeks again, and the memory of her dream intruded forcefully upon her, as real and vivid as if it had actually happened.

  But it hadn’t, she reminded herself, sternly directing her mind away from those disturbing images, and she was glad of it. She was! After all, he was a stranger, and she had no wish to be so intimate with him. She was surprised, however, that he had not sought her bed at any of the inns they had frequented during their journey. Perhaps he simply wished his marriage to be consummated at his home?