The Mad Lord's Daughter Page 4

  “Miss Atwell.”

  Her head snapped up. “Yes, Miss Stanhope?”

  “I have the distinct feeling you were not listening to me.”

  And then, feeling a slight edge of irritation, she repeated precisely what her chaperone had been saying. “One mustn’t clap until the conductor drops his baton. To do so is the most obvious sign of ignorance.”

  The older woman’s cheeks grew a bit pink, and Melissa felt immediate remorse. “I am simply trying to help,” Miss Stanhope said.

  Melissa held back a sigh. “I do know that. It is only that I’ve heard such lectures my entire life. I want to start doing things, not just talking about them.”

  “Of course you do, dear,” Miss Stanhope said kindly. “But I wonder if you would bear with me for perhaps a few more minutes. I’ve asked your cousin to come in this morning. Ah, here he is now.”

  Yes, Melissa thought, here he was. This burst of energy and fresh air, this young, vigorous man, this stranger whose eyes could be cold or warm, but were always slightly disconcerting.

  “How may I be of help?” he asked, striding forward and giving the women a small bow, a rakish grin on his face.

  “You may escort your cousin to the door and return,” Miss Stanhope said.

  Melissa stiffened and immediately fought the panic building in her. She hated the thought of touching someone, even with her protective gloves on. “Of . . . Of course,” she said, and began to stand until she noticed Miss Stanhope’s staying hand.

  “Please let Lord Willington assist you,” she said gently.

  It was a simple thing, really. She need only place her gloved hand into his. He waited patiently, hand extended, that intense look on his face once more. Melissa stared at his hand as if it were a coiled snake ready to strike.

  “Miss Atwell,” her cousin said. “Will you please join me for a trip to the door.”

  Feeling foolish, Melissa forced herself to place her hand in his and stood. His hand was large and strong and solid, and he held hers as if this wasn’t a momentous event, as if this was something one did every day. And, of course, for most people that would be true. For Melissa, who couldn’t remember the last time she’d voluntarily touched another person, it was disconcerting indeed. He then placed her hand in the crook of his arm rather forcibly, and began walking, practically dragging her along, his arm holding her hand like a vise while she tried to tug it free.

  “Can we please try that again,” Miss Stanhope said. “And this time, please do try not to look at your cousin’s hand as if it is holding something offensive.”

  Melissa pressed her lips together and sat.

  “Miss Atwell,” her cousin said, holding out his hand. This time, there was only the slightest hesitation before she placed her hand in his. She was lifting herself when Miss Stanhope said, “Again please.”

  Something passed through Lord Willington’s expression, something that looked too much like the pity she’d seen in the Bamburgh servants’ eyes far too many times. Lifting her chin, she slapped her hand into his extended one, rose, then grabbed his arm almost defiantly. She could feel his muscle flex beneath her glove, could feel his heat, and she fought the impulse to pull away again.

  “Again. And this time without the violence,” Miss Stanhope said, her voice tinged with humor.

  Melissa turned toward her chaperone in a quick, angry movement. “Really, Miss Stanhope, I do understand why you are insisting on this exercise, but I can assure you that I will be fine tonight when Lord Willington escorts me to my seat. I feel rather ridiculous,” she said, but she sat anyway, her posture rigid with anger.

  “Miss Atwell, may I escort you to the door.” He stood before her, one eyebrow raised in challenge, and held his hand out to her.

  She gave him the full effect of her smile and rather enjoyed the stunned look on his face when she did so. “It would be my pleasure,” she said in her calmest tone. She took his hand and rose gracefully, then allowed him to place her hand in the crook of his arm.

  “Much better,” Miss Stanhope declared, as if Melissa had done something truly remarkable. “You mustn’t hesitate, else gentlemen will either think you unpardonably rude or themselves offensive in some way.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that,” John quipped with a grin.

  “No, we wouldn’t,” the older woman agreed. “Now.” She took a bracing breath. “Would you please stand next to me, my lord, and face your cousin.” He did so, giving Melissa a wink. She couldn’t help but smile again.

  “Miss Atwell, I would like to present you with Lord Willington. Lord Willington, Miss Atwell, Lord Braddock’s niece, who is here for her first season.”

  Again, John held out his hand, and Melissa, without even a smidgeon of hesitation, placed her hand into his, wincing only when it appeared he was about to kiss her. Instead, he simply bowed over her hand, released it, and stepped back.

  “You flinched,” he said, and Melissa pursed her lips.

  “I thought you were about to . . .”

  “I was. Until you flinched.”

  “I did not flinch. And a gentleman should not kiss a young woman’s hand during an initial introduction. Isn’t that right, Miss Stanhope?”

  “That is true,” her chaperone agreed, “but there are some cheeky young men who do not follow such rules, and you must be prepared. As long as you are wearing your gloves, you may allow it, but you are perfectly in your rights to glare at any young man who is so forward.” To show her the look, Miss Stanhope glared at John.

  John stepped back in mock fear. “If you could master such a look, dear cousin, no man would ever attempt such a kiss again.”

  To Melissa’s surprise, Miss Stanhope laughed.

  “Miss Stanhope?” A young footman stood at the entrance. “Lord Braddock would like to see you in his study.”

  “If you will excuse me,” she said. She looked from one to the other as if uncertain whether to leave. “You may continue practicing,” she said, following in the servant’s wake.

  “I’m not a child,” Melissa grumbled, knowing she sounded very much like a child.

  “So. It’s true,” John said when Miss Stanhope was gone.

  “What is true?”

  “My father told me you’d stayed in a suite of rooms for years, that you’ve never been in the world. I find that completely fascinating.”

  Melissa stared at him. He appeared sincere, but she could not be certain. Small nuances in conversation that seemed so easy for other people to identify were quite difficult for her.

  “There you go, staring. You’re going to have to find a way to stop doing that,” John said.

  “Was I staring?” Melissa said, mortified. “I thought I was just looking.”

  He was instantly remorseful. “No, no. You weren’t staring. Well, perhaps a bit. You do have this rather intense way of looking at a chap. I suppose it is because of your lack of experience dealing with different people. Truly, you are remarkable.”

  “Oh.” She immediately dropped her gaze and looked down, only to have John laugh aloud. “I do wish you would stop doing that.”

  “What?” he asked, all innocence.

  “Laughing at me. Even when you’re not laughing at me, you’re laughing at me. Like now,” she said accusingly, pointing a finger at him. “Your eyes. You are laughing at me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he admitted easily. “I am. You must understand that I’ve never met anyone quite like you. As a man of science, I find your circumstances quite interesting.”

  She suddenly felt rather crestfallen. She’d never thought of herself as different or strange. It had never occurred to her that when she finally did go into society, it would be difficult. After all, her father had hired the best governesses and tutors to make certain she would know what to do. “Am I so very unusual?”

  “Of course. But in a very nice way. You see, women are a deceptive bunch, never saying what they mean, always hiding what they’re feeling. You, on the other h
and, are delightfully easy to read.” He peered at her face. “Right now, for instance, you are feeling quite self-conscious and embarrassed that I’m staring at you.”

  “I fear I shall be an utter failure and embarrass Miss Stanhope, as well as my uncle.”

  John shrugged, as if such an occurrence wasn’t in the least consequential. “What is the worst that could happen? You refuse to give your hand to some oily gentleman who is only interested in your dowry? I hardly think that would be a tragedy.”

  “But what if I refuse to give my hand to a man who would otherwise have fallen madly in love with me?” Honestly, Melissa had never considered such a thought. She’d never considered leaving Bamburgh, never mind falling in love and marrying. Such things always seemed to be reserved for characters in the books she’d read, not for her.

  John threw back his head and laughed, and Melissa wasn’t certain whether she should be insulted or laugh with him. Was it so ridiculous that someone would fall in love with her? It suddenly seemed as if it were something she very much would like. She didn’t want to be left alone to molder away into her old age. Did she?

  “Love,” he said, still sputtering. “Men don’t fall in love, my dear. They only want two things. And money is one of them.”

  “And the other?”

  “Good God, you cannot be that . . .” He stared at her again, and Melissa thought she saw another bit of pity. “Then again you probably are,” he muttered.

  “I am what?”

  “Innocent. A man wants women, especially beautiful ones like you. He’ll want to . . . do things.”

  Melissa felt her cheeks turn pink. “I may be innocent, but I’m not stupid. You are talking about fornication, are you not?” She felt ridiculously proud that she did know what he was referring to—which probably was even more a mark of just how naïve she was.

  He let out a choking sound. “Yes. I was.”

  “Men want only money and to fornicate?”

  It was his turn to blush, something that Melissa found extremely satisfying. “I suppose that is putting matters a bit simplistically, but yes, that’s about right.”

  “So I cannot expect a man to fall in love with me?”

  “Love between a man and a woman does not exist,” he said.

  “That’s not true. My father loved my mother very much. He spoke of her all the time, spoke of how he loved her. And I loved my father. I am a woman, and he is a man.”

  “Paternal love is a different thing entirely. We are conditioned to love our children. I am speaking of romantic love. I don’t mean to be cruel or indelicate, but it is far easier to love a ghost than a real woman. Love, or what we think of as love, does not last longer than the day your heir is born. And then you find what real love is.”

  Melissa smiled and shook her head. “Do you truly believe that? That all these people who pair up are doomed to be unhappy and live a life without love?”

  “Yes. And that such a life is not the tragedy romantics like you make it out to be. The real tragedy is the poor souls who believe in love wholeheartedly, only to be bitterly disappointed time after time.”

  Melissa tilted her head. “An interesting theory, but I think it’s complete hogwash. I think you believe this only because you have not fallen in love yourself.”

  “Not theory. Fact. It’s been proven again and again. And I refuse to fall in love, for I recognize that state of mind for what it is, a transient emotion fueled by lust.”

  “So all the poets, even Shakespeare himself, were wrong. Everyone who believes he or she loves someone is delusional. Is that what you are saying?”

  He shook his head, his gray eyes sparking with passion for his subject. “Not at all. People do believe they are in love. What they don’t recognize is that real love, such as the love of a mother for her child, lasts. But the love between a man and a woman is a fantasy, and one we cling to rather pathetically while our souls slowly wither and die from our disappointed expectations.”

  It was Melissa’s turn to laugh. “You cannot be serious. You are jesting with me.”

  “Not at all,” he said with complete earnestness. “I am a man of science. I observe behaviors, of animals, of humans. And my conclusion, and that of my father as well, is that the idea of romantic love is false. It simply does not exist.”

  For some reason, Melissa felt unaccountably sad. Not because he had convinced her—he had not—but because he seemed to believe this nonsense so wholeheartedly. He was dooming himself forever to be unloved.

  “I think you are wrong. I think you cannot escape love. Even you. I do hope I’m around to watch it happen. I shall delight in it.”

  “You will have a long wait, I fear. In the meantime, I shall help you find your own path to disillusionment and heartbreak if you wish. I know quite a few eligible bachelors who are certain to fall at your feet and beg for your hand in marriage.”

  Melissa smiled. “Will I have to actually give them my hand?”

  “I’m afraid, dear cousin, you will have to give them more than that. But for now, let’s work on your not flinching when a man escorts you about a room.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, but couldn’t help smiling. She only hoped that all young men were as entertaining as her cousin.

  Lord Braddock found the recent turn of events extremely unsettling. For years, it had just been himself and John, and he was happy for it. His wife, God rest her soul, had died more than twenty years ago, and he’d had no desire to go out and find another. Henrietta had been a mistake and it was more than that she had not enjoyed the marriage bed. The thought of begging another wife to lie with him was quite more than he could bear. It was humiliating, unmanning, and frustrating beyond tolerance. He’d never forced her, but rutting above a woman lying unmoving beneath you wasn’t particularly enjoyable, despite the sexual release it afforded him.

  No, he was quite happy with his mistress. She was not demanding, but was very willing when he was in London, which was most of the time these days, thanks to his duties in the House of Lords. No, Martha was the perfect woman. She never demanded anything but pleasure. She was never jealous, never spoke of love or missing him or any other such nonsense.

  Frankly, he would be quite content to enter his old age living in his town house or manor in Cambridge and never returning to his country estate. John thrived there, but Lord Braddock felt as if he were suffocating.

  “You needed to see me, my lord?” Miss Stanhope said, striding into the room without even a knock. This was precisely the type of woman he liked to avoid, the very type that fancied themselves in love with him, who would beg for love, then lie like a corpse in the marriage bed. He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

  It wasn’t as if Miss Stanhope wasn’t desirable; she was. But she wasn’t the type of woman one tupped and then said good-bye to. If he ever got her into his bed—which he had absolutely no intention of doing—he’d be forced to marry her. No doubt she’d want children, despite her age, and expect affection and attention. He was done with all that, thank God.

  “Yes, I wanted to speak to you about whom you plan to introduce Melissa to once the season does start. My son has come up with a rather lengthy list of prospects. I’m familiar with many of the families, if not the young men themselves, and wonder if you could offer any insight of your own.”

  She pinched her nose unattractively, no doubt uncomfortable since their confrontation about her smile and trying desperately not to make any expression remotely similar to a smile. She wore a stiff, unrelentingly gray gown that covered her from her toes to her chin, with almost no adornment but for a small ruby pin by her throat. He wondered idly who had given it to her, for it was not an inexpensive piece.

  “If you have the list, I will look at it later,” she said, thrusting a hand out, much like a schoolmistress would to take an assignment.

  “I would like your immediate opinion, if you don’t mind.”

  This seemed to fluster her for some reason, and her cheeks, whi
ch were a tad too sharp in her otherwise pretty face, turned pink. “I’ve left your son with Miss Atwell alone in the library.”

  “And?”

  “And it is certainly not proper for them to be alone together.”

  Lord Braddock narrowed his eyes. He knew precisely what she was implying, and he didn’t care for it. “Why ever not? They are cousins.”

  She let out a small huff of air through her nose, like a miffed little dragon. “They are not cousins, and your son is aware they are not. It is not at all proper for an unrelated, unmarried man and woman to be alone together for an extended amount of time.”

  Lord Braddock folded his hands in front of him on his desk, and something about his demeanor must have disturbed Miss Stanhope, for she stiffened ever so slightly. He supposed, he thought placidly, that she detected his anger.

  “My son, Miss Stanhope, is perhaps the most honorable and trustworthy man I know—including myself. He is fully aware of Melissa’s situation and would die before compromising her or disobeying me. I would trust him with my life.”

  Miss Stanhope looked both chagrined and startled by his ferocity. “I certainly did not mean to suggest . . .” She stopped, because that was precisely what she had done—suggested that his son would dishonor him. “I believe you are being imprudent,” she said, lifting her chin. “To trust them is one thing; to thrust them together in this way is foolhardy. You must know that it only takes the hint of impropriety for tongues to wag and for reputations to be ruined.”

  What a brave little dragon she was, Lord Braddock thought, and wondered if that was why she was still unmarried. Had someone spread idle gossip about her? If someone had, he hadn’t heard of it, not that he ever paid much attention to such stuff. But when he’d been making inquiries about who might make his niece an excellent chaperone, Miss Stanhope’s name had come up more than once.

  “In my house,” he said succinctly, “there are no wagging tongues, Miss Stanhope. My son has earned my trust; I do not give it freely. And do not think I am blind to Melissa’s feminine attributes. It is for precisely this reason that my son is so important to her finding a proper match. He is her guardian, and as I have appointed him as such, I will not allow you or anyone else to spread false rumors about him or besmirch his character.”