Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London) Page 6

  “Well, should he be found, you have our full permission to have him hanged for his crimes,” George growled, eyes flashing. “Now,” he said, settling himself once again, “we have verified that the estate has been well run and productive in your care, and as long as it remains thus, we are quite happy for things to continue as they are. Of course, we should much prefer it if you married,” he said pointedly, “but should you choose to remain unwed and childless, the earldom will simply revert to the Crown upon your death.”

  Mélisande stared, unbelieving. If nothing else, she’d expected a command to find a husband within a certain amount of time. “I may remain unwed?”

  “The choice is yours,” he confirmed. “There is one condition. Should you decide to take a husband, he must meet with my approval prior to the nuptials. Your mother entrusted me to see to it no scoundrel takes advantage of you; thus, I have determined your husband shall have no claim to the title, but that it shall instead pass to your eldest son immediately upon his coming of age. We have, as such, created you the new Countess of Wilmington.”

  It was almost too much to fathom. I’m free...

  On impulse, she went to him and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Uncle George, thank you!” she whispered, tears of relief filling her eyes.

  “There now,” he said gruffly, patting her back. “I expect you’ll find a suitable husband soon enough. You’re a pretty thing, even in mourning, and should have no trouble at all in that regard. You’ll smile at him and be married within the year.”

  Mélisande disagreed. No man would ever inspire her to give up her autonomy, now that it was hers. The only one with any chance of convincing her otherwise was long gone and far away, but she didn’t dare break Uncle George’s jovial mood by saying it. Keeping her contrary notions to herself, she departed, feeling light for the first time in almost a year.

  Sweeping into her chambers triumphantly, she lifted her skirts and tore off her panniers, vowing to never again wear the beastly things. “Burn them, Marie,” she commanded her startled maid, giving the metal baskets a good shake before dumping them on the floor. “I never want to see them again.”

  Immediately, she began writing letters. The first was a cheerful missive to David. The second was to her dressmaker.

  This Season is going to be very different.

  The following week, Mélisande sipped her tea and waited—delightfully unchaperoned—in David’s townhouse parlor.

  “Congratulations on escaping the noose,” David said from the doorway. “I anticipate a general uproar when it becomes public knowledge. No doubt there’ll be some strong protest at court.”

  “I don’t see why there should be,” she grumbled. “Female autonomy is certainly nothing new. After all, was there not an unwed woman on England’s throne more than a century ago? And like that illustrious queen, I also plan to announce that I have no intention of ever marrying.”

  “Then let us hope the number of suicides among your admirers does not forever earn the enmity of your fellow sex,” he quipped, taking a scone from the tray. “Though I expect you’ve earned that already. I also expect you know your announcement will do nothing to dissuade fortune-hunting males from pursuit. Your wealth and title are simply too enticing a lure.”

  “I’m well aware of the wolves wearing sheep’s wool, thanks to you,” she scolded without rancor, waiting for him to take a bite before continuing. “But I didn’t come to discuss them. I came to ask the name of your mistress’s mantua-maker.”

  The fit of coughing and cursing that followed her request was well worth the trip across town.

  “I beg your pardon?” David asked, his voice a full octave higher than before. His brows lowered. “Melly, what have you done?”

  “Your concern is touching,” she said, flicking a stray bit of crumpet off her sleeve. “But I’ve ‘done’ nothing untoward. I merely want a new wardrobe for the Season, and my current mantua-maker has refused to outfit me.” At his dubious look, she elaborated. “Apparently, she has very definite opinions on what an unmarried lady ought to wear.”

  His bark of laughter brought a frown to her face. “I fail to see the humor. As I’m not planning to marry, I don’t see why I should refrain from dressing as I please. And it’s not as if I asked her to put me in anything inappropriate. It’s just that my design ideas are not precisely in step with current fashion. She won’t do what I want for fear of losing her other customers. Neither will any of the other mantua-makers of my acquaintance. I need someone willing to be a little adventurous.”

  “I see. Rebelling against the institution of marriage isn’t enough for you. Now you must take on fashion as well.”

  Arching a brow in answer, she waited.

  “Very well,” he sighed after a moment. “I’ve sent my, erm, female friends to Madame de Favriele on Bond Street for the past two years. Hers is a small establishment compared to some of the more popular ones, and she is not yet well known in London, but she is a most excellent mantua-maker nonetheless. And she won’t refuse the commission, no matter how outré your ideas.”

  “I knew you would have a solution! Thank you, David!” Mélisande cheered, smiling again.

  “Don’t thank me until after you’ve gotten the bill,” he answered. “Her shop may be small, but her services are not, I fear, inexpensive.”

  The new Countess of Wilmington set Society on its ear that Season. As soon as the deep mourning period ended, Mélisande began wearing the new gowns she herself had helped design—gowns in rich, bright silks and brocades, gowns shockingly sans panniers. She played chess, whist, and Bragg to her heart’s content, and when she danced, she enjoyed herself thoroughly, uncaring of the black looks from those displeased by her bold conduct.

  “Life is far too short to waste appeasing people I care nothing about,” she explained to a concerned Reggie after a particularly scandalous incident involving the Duke of Devonshire.

  “You played chess with a married man—alone—until nearly dawn to determine whether or not you would agree to breed a bloody horse!”

  The unpleasant prickle of anger heated Mélisande’s cheeks. “If I choose to discuss the future of my racing stock with another breeder, it is no business of yours! And we were not alone!”

  “You might as well have been.” Reggie raised one finger. “A footman. A single footman! It’ll be a miracle if Lady Devonshire hasn’t already begun demanding that her friends ostracize you.”

  “Lady Devonshire knew of our whereabouts the entire time. It was her footman,” she replied, bored of his harranguing. “And since when did you appoint yourself my chaperone?”

  “That’s not nearly the half of it,” he continued, igoring her. “Your personal war with Herrington must also end. You will stop provoking him immediately.”

  A sigh of irritation escaped her.

  “I mean it, Melly! You took my pipe and blew it out in his face—in front of an entire roomful of people at Tynwick’s. I’ve never seen him so enraged. You went too far!”

  For a moment, Mélisande had difficulty containing her laughter. Never would she forget the look on her bête noire’s face.

  “Damn it, this is no time for jests,” he growled. “I intervened before he could commit some unforgivable offense, but what if I hadn’t been present?”

  “I should have handled it myself, of course,” she answered, shrugging a careless shoulder. “Reggie, you were there, you heard the man insult me in front of everyone. He practically begged for retaliation. I merely returned his insult. And I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, anyway. You dislike him as much as I.”

  “That isn’t the point!”

  “Then what is the point, pray tell?” she demanded, exasperated. “You’ve become such a prig of late! You used to enjoy tweaking his nose right along with me.”

  “Yes, well, that was before nearly having to challenge him to a duel on your behalf. As fond of you as I am, I’ve no desire to die defending your honor. And neither does Pelham. And
yes, he and I are in complete agreement regarding the matter.”

  “You’ve spoken with David about this?” she demanded, scowling.

  “I have,” he clipped. “About this and many other things involving your recent behavior. He’s very concerned that you draw too much attention to yourself, attention that could be to your detriment.”

  Apprehension quickened her pulse. Did David tell him? Does he know? Searching Reggie’s eyes, however, she saw no condemnation, no disgust. Only worry. Her secret was still safe, then.

  “I see. It appears I have not one but two self-appointed chaperones.” Settling herself in a chair, she peered up at him. “One a known rakehell and the other fast becoming a degenerate right along with him. Yet, with me, you behave as though you belong in a cassock. If you’re not careful, I’m going to start calling you Father Stanton.”

  Crossing the room, Reggie sat opposite and stared soberly into her eyes. “Melly, I know you’ve been given the title in your own right, but that won’t stop King George from marrying you off, should you become troublesome. You may be his godchild, but that does not make you immune to his wrath or his will.”

  Though she did not like it, Mélisande knew he was right. It wasn’t worth the risk. “Very well. You may tell your fellow curate that I shall endeavor to use more discretion.” Her lips quirked upward. “When next I see him, I shall ask David to say a prayer of petition to the Almighty to keep Herrington out of my path for the remainder of the Season.”

  THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

  London, 1750

  STAMMA IS COMING back! Folding the letter, Mélisande immediately set forth to arrange another one of her now famous parties.

  I’ll invite that fellow from Germany...Kesselman. He played an excellent match at the Sheffields’ ball last June. Georgiana just told me he’s a guest of Lord and Lady Renquist.

  It would be just the thing to snap her friend out of his morose mood.

  After Stamma’s demoralizing chess defeat at the hands of that upstart François-André Philidor, he’d left for the Continent to lick his wounds, depriving her of his company. It had been a sore blow, for she had few enough true friends these days. Having him back would be a delight.

  As would having another female in the house. Reggie’s sister Charlotte would be here tomorrow. With Lord Stanton away overseas, his stepmother expecting another child any day now, and his only other female relatives a pair of ancient aunts currently living in Bath, Reggie had asked her to oversee the girl’s debut.

  It surprised her how much she found herself looking forward to the task.

  And it was with great anticipation that she also looked to the first ball of the Season, to be held in just three days. Her wardrobe was practically bursting with glorious new gowns. There was one in particular she could hardly wait to wear. The mere thought of it made her chuckle wickedly.

  On impulse, she walked over to the wardrobe, flung open its doors, and fingered the midnight silk. The first ball would definitely set the tone for the rest of the Season.

  Reggie’d better have practiced the steps while moldering away in the country, she thought. I’ll skewer him alive if he bungles it.

  The road was clogged with coaches wending their slow way to Hawthorne Manor. Mélisande waited impatiently, fidgeting with excitement as they inched closer.

  David eyed her busy hands and tapping feet with a droll expression. “For someone determined never to wed, you certainly seem eager to rejoin the fray. Have you decided to participate in the husband hunt, then?”

  Mélisande looked back at him with unconcealed irritation. “You of all people know I’ve no intention of doing any such thing. I refuse to parade myself before a gaggle of fortune-seeking imbeciles with the purpose of bagging one of them and dragging his mercenary hide to the altar.”

  “No, but you’re perfectly happy to bait the poor ‘fortune-seeking imbeciles,’ aren’t you?” He chuckled. “Rather like dangling a piece of raw beef before a pack of hungry dogs without ever intending to actually feed them. Just be careful you don’t get bitten.”

  She made to protest, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand, grinning.

  “I know you far too well, Melly. For you, the thrill is in the chase and in being chased, not in the catch. Relax. I know when a battle is lost, and this is one of those times. You, my dear, are a lost cause. Thus, I concede. Gracefully.” His salute was indeed graceful—and purely mocking.

  “Well, at least you know when to give up.” She sniffed. Relaxing back against the cushioned seat, she winked at her fellow conspirator, Charlotte, who sat listening to their banter with round, sparkling eyes. “Unlike some,” she added, arching a brow at Reggie.

  Though Reggie held his tongue, she knew he objected mightily. Especially the part involving Charlotte. Any moment now, he would try to convince her to—

  “I’m still not entirely certain this is a good idea,” Reggie ventured weakly, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s Charlotte’s debut, after all. The dance is too provocative. I just don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

  “We’ve been over this.” Mélisande rolled her eyes. “You’ll be right there alongside her to act as chaperone. It’s an excellent strategy to ensure she stands out from the rest of the debutantes. And you watch—she’ll skim off the cream of the eligibles all for herself. You’ll see. It’ll work perfectly!”

  The carriage finally rolled to a stop, and Mélisande stepped down. Smiling, she carefully arranged her skirts, ignoring the startled murmurs of the lookers-on. The moment she’d laid eyes on the finished gown, she’d known it would cause a sensation.

  The garment boasted only a hint of padding at the hips instead of the enormous panniers favored this Season, and rather than the typical front lacing, it was held together by a row of tiny silver buttons at the back. There was nothing to mask her natural silhouette—no stomacher and no shoulder pleats. The midnight-blue silk hugged her every curve before flaring out into fullness at the hips. Filmy layers of les engageantes fluttered at her elbows, and tiny diamonds sewn into the fabric of her ensemble glittered in the torchlight like stars in a clear night sky.

  Raising her chin, she gazed out at the crowd, surveying the field of battle.

  When Charlotte alighted, she presented a startling contrast dressed in palest mauve and pearls, her honey-blonde hair arranged in a profusion of riotous curls. She was a delightful confection, all rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Her naïveté shone so brightly that it must surely be visible from a good league away. It made Mélisande smile to think she’d once been thus.

  “Melly, my dear! So good of you to come!” Lord Ludley boomed, beaming from ear to ear as they approached.

  She cast her host a glittering smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Luddy. It would require last rites being read for me to be anywhere but here.” She inclined her head politely to Lady Ludley, who smiled in welcome.

  “Pelham, Stanton,” Ludley addressed the young men. He stopped when he saw Charlotte, his brows lifting. “Surely this is not your little sister!” he exclaimed, looking to Reggie with mock amazement. “She looks far too angelic to be related to you, you young rascal!”

  Charlotte curtsied, a faint blush of pleasure tinting her cheeks.

  Reggie’s chest puffed out. “This is indeed my youngest sister, Miss Charlotte Stanton.”

  “Miss Stanton,” Ludley murmured, bowing, “it is an honor to have you as our guest.”

  “The honor is mine,” the girl replied.

  Mélisande longed to get the social niceties over with as quickly as possible. A good round of chess or perhaps a few hands of Bragg was what she needed to settle the nerves and pass the time until the waltz.

  Catching sight of a familiar face, she barely refrained from making an audible sound of displeasure.

  Herrington’s odd, amber eyes bored into her. Even at this distance, she felt the disapproval radiating from him. Memory took her back to when she’d first met her bête noire. She’d bee
n minding her own business, playing cards with friends, when he’d rudely interrupted their game.

  His arrogant words still stuck in her craw: An earl’s daughter should be in the ballroom dancing with a proper gentleman, not associating with this lot of devils.

  Heart still aching over her father’s recent death, her response had been cutting: If I prefer to associate with devils, it is because I find the company of prudish clergymen uninspiring and tedious. I suggest you preach elsewhere, for I’m neither your wife nor daughter to correct.

  Red-faced, Herrington had departed with indignant haste.

  But that had not been the end of it. Oh, no. On every possible occasion thereafter, the ill-mannered brute had haunted her steps, harassing her with critical comments regarding her behavior. He’d become the proverbial burr beneath her saddle, souring many an evening’s good pleasure.

  In return, she did her best to shock and annoy her priggish detractor whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  Mélisande turned away. This was one evening he wouldn’t spoil.

  Champagne in hand, Alessandro wandered aimlessly, listening to snatches of conversation, looking for someone worthy of his attention. Ludley had made it clear that he expected him to live up to his reputation, and he did not want to disappoint his host.

  A woman’s laughter reached his ears from a few yards away, and a feathery finger tickled down his spine at the sound of it, stopping him dead in his tracks. Rich and throaty, it was a siren’s call, utterly irresistible. Turning, he sought out the owner of that marvelous laugh.

  To his disappointment, he saw only her back—but it was a very lovely back. The gleaming mass of her dark hair was swept high and smoothly bound into a twist, leaving her neck exposed, save for the sapphires and diamonds that graced it. He noted her delicious silhouette was conspicuously devoid of panniers.