Page 14 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

S ixty Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart…

Melissande had arrived at Rivendale’s estate early in the morning in her finest traveling carriage, trunks loaded, valise at her side, and clad in her most flattering traveling habit. She had perfumed herself, arranged her hair in careful locks, and spread Theo’s map across her lap.

She was ready to seduce the marquess in the intimate confines of her luxurious conveyance.

Except she hadn’t counted on him deciding to ride alongside her carriage on horseback.

The stubborn man hadn’t even considered joining her in the carriage, not for a single mile.

Melissande could hardly imagine fostering intimacy—much less love—when there was a literal wall between them.

He had brought his own carriage as well, though she had no idea why.

His valet rode inside it, yet he could have used Melissande’s carriage or joined the marquess on horseback, much like his footman did.

A cart was harnessed behind, some bulky contraption hidden beneath a canvas cloth.

Perhaps that, along with the marquess’s trunks, required the use of his carriage.

Meanwhile, Rivendale rode outside, stiff-backed and severe, as though carved from the same stone as the cliffs of Dover they were bound for.

Melissande shifted restlessly against her velvet cushions. Travel was always tedious, but she had expected this journey to be anything but dull.

She had brought a book, but reading more than a few pages left her feeling queasy. Aside from tormenting the good marquess and staring out the window, she had little else to occupy her.

For a while, the road stretched quietly. She stared at the map spread across her lap, her gloves tracing the scribbled notes attached to it in Theodosia’s handwriting.

She’d marked every inn along the road, adding little notes either exalting their virtues or condemning their flaws. Apparently, the Swan and Cross Inn in Dartford served excellent pie.

It would be too early on their route to stop there for the night, but they could surely pause for a midday replenishment.

The Hare and Piper was small and drafty.

The Aylesford Inn was dirty with terrible food.

The Pea Pod was tiny and held only six rooms overall, but was comfortable and tidy.

Although farther down the road, the Stonebridge Inn was spacious, luxurious, and almost empty due to its high prices. Just as Melissande preferred.

She closed the map with a sigh. At their pace, they wouldn’t reach Stonebridge until nightfall.

No wonder Rivendale claimed his recovery took so long; six hours astride a horse would cripple anyone.

She was perfectly whole and couldn’t imagine it.

Yet still, he rode, tall and unyielding, not even pretending to notice her.

Intolerable .

She flung open the carriage window, letting in a rush of cold air.

Rivendale was only a few feet ahead. She called to him, certain he would hear her, but he ignored her completely.

She tried again. Nothing.

This won’t do at all . She watched him through the window with growing frustration. How am I to ensnare a man who refuses to acknowledge my existence?

When he next passed the window, Melissande rapped on the ceiling, asking her driver to slow down. Once he did, she hauled herself up and leaned halfway out of the carriage window, her elbows braced on the sill.

“My lord,” she called over the clatter of hooves and wind, “are you so terrified of my company that you choose damp and chill over the warm comfort of my carriage?”

At last, he looked her way, though his expression was thunderous. “What in the devil are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention. Obviously, it worked.” Wind whipped in her face, and her coiffure came undone, but she refused to yield.

“You’ll fall right out!” he barked.

“How else am I to get your attention when you’re ignoring my existence?”

“You don’t. My attention should be on the road,” he said. “Now get back inside.”

She ignored him. “You’ve said your limb troubles you, yet you prefer aggravating it on horseback rather than resting in my carriage?”

“My saddle supports my back and legs. The narrow benches in your carriage do not.”

At least he’d given her an actual answer for once.

She arched a brow. “But my carriage has velvet cushions. Plush. Inviting. Tempting.”

“Then you’ll enjoy them all the more by yourself.”

“I do not mind sharing,” she said with a smile.

“I’m sure you don’t.”

He turned away, ready to ride off, but she was not quite ready to give up the fight. “So it is fear, then. Admit it, you are afraid of me.”

“Terrified,” he said, without hesitation. “Unfortunately for you, fear trumps comfort, Miss Monroe.”

Melissande let out a laugh. “At least you’re honest. Most men wouldn’t admit to being frightened by a woman. In fact, I admire—”

The wheels jostled through a rut, and she grabbed the frame to keep her balance. He noticed immediately, his arm shooting out to catch her.

“I told you, you will fall right out!” he snapped. Then muttered under his breath, “Obstinate woman.”

“I knew you’d catch me,” she countered, flicking wind-tangled hair from her face.

He shook his head. “I won’t.”

“Liar,” she called, but withdrew back into the carriage before he could retort.

She pushed the hair away from her face only to realize it was badly tangled from the wind.

Well, now she had something to do—untangle her locks for the next leg of the trip. She took out a small mirror from her valise and glanced at her reflection. Heavens, she looked a fright.

No wonder Rivendale was quick to ignore her.

She tried to work her fingers through the snarls, but to no avail.

In the mirror’s reflection, she glimpsed Rivendale’s carriage trailing behind. His footman rode close, merrily chatting through the window, while the valet gazed back at him, utterly transfixed.

A smile curved Melissande’s lips. Was that how she looked when gazing at the marquess? At least the footman seemed to appreciate the valet’s rapt attention… unlike some people.

With a long-suffering sigh, she sank into the cushions, drew out her comb, and set about taming her hair.

* * *

They stopped at the Dartford Inn, as Theo had suggested, to change horses, sample the meat pies, and have a bit of a rest.

Melissande stepped down from the carriage and stretched. Sitting in one position for a few hours was no easy feat, which was one reason she disliked traveling. Another reason was the mind-numbing boredom.

Across the way, the footman was helping Rivendale dismount. The marquess’s jaw tightened, his grip on the saddle white-knuckled. He was in pain.

Melissande flinched. She couldn’t imagine what it took for him to sit straight in the saddle for so long. All because she had goaded him into coming with her to France.

She felt a pang of guilt.

But he’d decided to come with her of his own accord.

He wanted to be here.

Aside from her goading, he clearly had his own motives for taking this trip, tied to, no doubt, the locket he was searching for.

It must have been a very valuable locket.

Melissande moved toward the inn. She didn’t have time to linger and contemplate the marquess’s motives. They needed to be quick if they wanted to reach the Stonebridge Inn by nightfall.

Hurrying inside, she ordered six meat pies and tankards of ale. Glancing out the window while her order was being prepared, she saw that the horses were already being hitched, while both the footman and the valet were helping Rivendale get to the stone bench by the wall of the inn.

He sat down, stretching out his aching leg.

“Here’s your food, Miss,” the innkeeper’s wife called.

Melissande took the cloth-wrapped pies, hugging them close to her chest, then grabbed six tankards of ale, three in each hand. She thanked the innkeeper’s wife, who looked slightly bewildered at the sight, and hurried out the door.

“Oh, my God, Miss!” Rivendale’s footman dashed toward her when he saw her hauling the food. He offered to take the pies, but she handed him only three tankards of ale.

“You can give one to the marquess, one to the valet, and keep one for yourself,” she called as she walked toward the carriage drivers who were finishing up hitching the horses. She handed her driver his ale and let him pluck a pie from her arms.

“Here’s a morsel for you, Mr. Brown,” she said. “To tide you over.”

“Thank you, dear Meli. And how are you faring today?”

“I am rather bored. Never liked long journeys.”

“Oh, I know you don’t,” he laughed, biting into his pie.

Rivendale’s driver watched with incredulity, clearly unused to such exchanges.

“And this is for you, Mr—” She handed him his ale. “Apologies, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Mr. Wilson, my lady,” he said with a bow while taking a pie from her hands.

Melissande let out a chuckle. “Oh, I am not a lady, Mr. Wilson. You may call me Miss Monroe or Melissande, if you wish. Many people simply use my name or some short variation of it.”

“Of course, Miss Monroe,” he replied with a careful bow.

How formal. Of course, he had to be. He was part of the marquess’s household, unlike the rough drivers of Hades’ Hell with whom Melissande had grown up.

“Mind you don’t devour those pies too quickly,” Melissande called to Mr. Brown with a teasing smile. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of your unfortunate encounter with that stubborn piece of bread!”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned to Mr. Wilson, no doubt recounting the tale of how Melissande had come to his rescue on their last journey.

Melissande handed the pies to Rivendale’s valet, Thomas, and footman, Roger—finally learning their names—then sank onto the bench beside the marquess. She settled a pie gently on his lap and took a hearty bite of her own.

He was watching her, an unreadable look flickering across his features, as if she were a puzzle that needed solving.

She ignored it entirely, enjoying her food.

Theo had been right. The pies were incredible.

When her pie was almost gone, and the hunger was no longer gnawing at her stomach, she relaxed in her seat and glanced at Rivendale.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“How do I feel?” He frowned, as if not comprehending the question.

“Yes, your leg. Does it hurt?”

“Oh, that.” He frowned. “It aches. But it will continue doing so for the rest of the journey. I am used to it.”

“It must be a very important locket,” she said, “if you’re willing to travel to France and tolerate my company to get it.” She meant it as a joke, but he didn’t smile.

His face was impassive as he said, “The locket is a family heirloom, but what’s important to me is its contents.”

Finally, a conversation. She leaned forward eagerly. “A miniature?”

“Exactly.” He nodded.

“Someone you loved, then?” A woman, perhaps. His first love?

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Someone who loved me in return. Unconditionally.”

There was something in his voice—not the cold aristocratic drawl she had grown accustomed to, but something more raw, more human. And the way he emphasized the word unconditionally let her know it was something he cherished most about that woman.

“You lost her,” she prodded gently.

“Hm?” Rivendale raised his head.

“This woman who loved you unconditionally. How did you lose her?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it vanished quicker than she could blink. Melissande had begun to believe he was incapable of smiling. He choked on a bite of the pie and washed it down with ale. “Died,” he said, his voice still thick. “About a decade ago.”

Melissande almost regretted the question. She didn’t want to cause him pain by dredging up old memories. But she was also very curious about him. If he were willing to speak about her, his long-lost beloved, then at least she’d know something real about him. Something of substance.

And remembering people one used to love, no matter how painful, could also be pleasant. Couldn’t it?

“I am sorry,” she said sincerely.

He inclined his head slightly. “Thank you.”

He finished his pie and dusted his hands. “Roger,” he called. “Get ready to leave.”

And just like that, their brief conversation was over.