Читать книгу An Improper Duchess - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 5

Chapter One

“Blast it all, Melisande! Why will you never listen to me? When will you start to have a care for your family and not just yourself?”

Melisande, the Dowager Duchess of Gifford (though at thirty-three years of age, she felt a bit ridiculous to be a dowager), sat back in her chair and watched as her brother Charles, Lord Litton, furiously paced the length of her drawing room. A wide, angry gesture of his arm almost sent a tall Chinese vase toppling, and he shoved a delicate gilded French chair out of his way. As he was a tall, strongly muscled man who rode and hunted whenever he could, the chair went crashing to the Aubusson rug.

Melisande sighed. She was quite fond of that chair. She knew she should have moved all the daintier pieces when her brother sent word he was coming, but she hadn’t been able to summon the needed energy. She’d been out late last night, to the theater and then a ball, and a sharp headache still lingered behind her eyes.

And Charlie was not making her feel any better. His constant pacing, his angry words, which she’d heard so many times before, made her feel quite dizzy.

“How lovely to see you, too, Charlie,” she said. “And what brings you to my house so bright and early? Aren’t you and Louise and the children usually out taking a brisk walk at this hour?”

Charlie whirled around and stalked back toward her. “It is hardly early at all, as you would know if you had returned home at a decent hour last night.”

“I returned home when most of London does.” Right before the sun came up. “How would you know when I came in? It’s been many years since we lived in the same household, after all.”

Since she was eighteen and married the duke—a man much older than herself with nearly grown children. For the good of her family.

“I know because word is already spreading of what you did at the Trate ball last night!” Charlie shouted. Melisande winced and closed her eyes. “That you and Lady Trate and Mrs. Whitely danced barefoot on the grass, despite the terrible cold weather, because you were pretending to be the Three Graces or some such nonsense.”

Melisande laughed at the somewhat blurry memory. It had indeed been terribly cold in Lady Trate’s garden, but no one seemed to mind. “Oh, yes. And Freddy Mountbank insisted he would act as Paris, but he was too foxed to remember most of the myth, and he fell into the Trates’ fountain. Luckily it was mostly frozen through. So amusing.”

“It was not amusing! It was embarrassing in the extreme. Lord Milton himself asked me about it when I saw him in the park this morning. And Louise is supposed to have tea with his wife this afternoon. He is in a position to do me a great deal of good if I do not offend him.”

Melisande bit her lip to keep from laughing again. She watched as her brother dropped down heavily in the chair across from her. “Your face is quite alarmingly red, Charlie. Are you sure you feel quite all right? Do you want some wine?”

“No, I do not want any wine!” Charlie shouted. Then he gave a sudden groan and rubbed his hand wearily over his jaw. “Melisande, do you not see what you do? I am trying to build a political career, and must be seen as respectable.”

Melisande had heard all that before. “And who gave you the necessary connections to begin such a career? Who saved our faded family fortunes? My husband, that is who. I married the duke for the sake of us all. That is why our sisters are so well-married and you can follow your political aims.”

And she shuddered still, months after his death, to remember the touch of his hands on her body. Only distraction, parties and friends took that away. And even parties didn’t work so well any longer.

“I know, Melisande, and I am ever grateful,” Charles said. “But things are different now. You are a widow and my career is on its way. Our sisters have their own homes and families in the country. Louise and I would be most happy if you made your home with us for a time.”

“So you have said before,” Melisande said, suddenly feeling as weary as Charles looked. She knew exactly how she would feel in his house—like an unwelcome, barely tolerated guest whose every movement was scrutinized. Just as she had until she was widowed and at last had her own house. But she still wasn’t free to make her own decisions. Be herself. “But I can’t get in your way. You need room for your children.”

“Melisande, it is obvious you need assistance. You need looking after.”

“I am not in leading strings, Charlie,” she protested. “In fact, I am older than you.”

“But you are a female!”

“Thank you for pointing that out, Charlie. I never noticed before.”

He shook his head as his face reddened again. “You know exactly what I mean. You need help managing things. You have been running wild since the duke died, and it must cease.”

“I have nothing to do but run wild.”

“Exactly,” Charles said smugly, as if she had just proved his point. Whatever that point was. “You are ruining this family and it must stop. You must stop thinking only of yourself.”

Melisande had spent her whole life thinking of everyone but herself—of her family, of Gifford. Of his family, who now ignored her except to complain about her widow’s jointure.

“I will consider what you have said, Charlie,” she said, as she always did.

“And you will think about coming to live with us?”

That Melisande knew she would never do. But she just nodded, because if she did not Charlie would go on arguing for the rest of the day. He left soon after, and she went to the window to wave him off—and make sure he was gone.

It was a gray day to match her strange mood, chilly as the days had been for some time. A steady, cold drizzle fell from the sky, not enough to soak the people hurrying past her town house but enough to make them feel damp and irritable. A brisk wind swept along the lane, biting and fresh, a harbinger of more bad weather.

Melisande hoped it wouldn’t ruin the Brownleys’ house party she was invited to in a few days. She was rather looking forward to the chance to get out of the city.

She drew her Indian cashmere shawl closer around her shoulders and made her way up the stairs to her bedchamber, her feet feeling itchy with that old plaguing sense of restlessness. Visits from Charlie, reminders that she would never really be good enough, always did that to her.

Her maid was bustling around the luxurious blue-and-white satin chamber, laying out Melisande’s gown for the Smythe ball that night, but Melisande dismissed her. She needed to be alone, to be quiet, to try to think. She wandered around the room, fiddling with the silver ornaments on her dressing table, the silken sleeve of her ball gown, smoothing her unruly red hair, as she thought about what her brother said.

It was an old argument between them, one Melisande had ignored for as long as she could. But she knew that very soon she wouldn’t be able to ignore him any longer.

She sat down on the velvet chaise by the fire and reached for the stack of books she’d taken from the lending library. It was one of her great secrets, her love of romantic novels full of dark heroes and young ladies in peril. She could imagine herself in so many exotic places in those pages, sunny islands, Italian castles, forbidding deserts, snowy mountains—anywhere but London. Yet today even those pages couldn’t take her away.

She stared into the dancing flames. She’d always tried to do her duty by her family, thinking that one day it would be her turn to find what pleased her. But even now as a widow she wasn’t free. She had to make herself free. But how?

With a sigh, Melisande opened the book at the top of the pile. Lady Priscilla’s Escape—it sounded most appropriate. Soon she was pulled into the story of Lady Priscilla, a beautiful young heiress betrayed by her dastardly guardian and forced to flee into ruined exile in Italy.

Ruined exile...

Startled by a sudden flash of an idea, Melisande dropped the book with a clatter to the floor. It was crazy, she knew, but surely no crazier than many other ideas she’d had in her life. And certainly something had to be done if she was ever to be truly free—and in turn free her brother and his family from her. She was gossiped about now, true, but no more than any number of other ladies.

But what if she was truly, definitely ruined? “Never spoken to in Society again” ruined? It would be a challenge for a duchess, but not impossible. Everyone already thought that, because she liked to dance and laugh and drink wine, she must also be indulging in many discreet affairs. She wasn’t. In fact, the one little affair she tried after he duke died didn’t go at all well, and nothing else had gone much beyond flirtation.

Yet if she did want to be ruined, she knew who could help her. Lord Abercrombie.

Melisande frowned as she thought about him. Lord Abercrombie, a Scottish nobleman who was almost a contemporary of her husband, had pursued her for many weeks now. Sending her flowers and lavish gifts, which she sent back, asking her to dance with him at balls, dine with him in his theater box. He was handsome and wealthy, known for his lofty connections and razor-sharp intelligence. Women flocked around him, clamoring for his attention. There was always gossip about his latest amour, and it was said that Lady Evansly had tried to kill herself over him and that was why she had to go abroad so suddenly.

Melisande had turned away his attentions, which of course only seemed to make him more ardent. Somehow he made her feel vaguely queasy and frightened, as if she wanted to run away. But he would be the perfect one to ruin her utterly. Then she could go off to Italy like Lady Evansly, and live in peace at last. Charlie could disown her, and never have to see her again.

Lord Abercrombie had said he would be at Lady Brownley’s house party. She could plan it all and set it up there. It was a wild, extreme solution, but surely extreme was needed now.

If she could bear to go through with it...