Page 17 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

M elissande woke slowly, first aware of warmth, then of the steady rise and fall of breathing that wasn’t her own. A hot, heavy arm lay around her waist, and something even hotter poked her in the thigh.

Hot poker indeed.

The events of the previous evening came flooding back—the impossible sleeping arrangements, Rivendale’s bathing, the embarrassing novel, and how they had both lain stiffly on opposite edges of the bed until exhaustion finally claimed them.

She didn’t even remember how or when she had managed to fall asleep.

Now, she found herself curved against Rivendale’s side, warm and comfortable.

Yet all she wanted to do was turn in the circle of his arms, cover his body with hers, and straddle his hips. She wanted to feel his cock against her core. Then slowly, she wanted him to fill her completely.

She groaned inwardly.

His arm tightened reflexively, as if in answer to her thoughts, drawing her closer, and she couldn’t suppress the soft sound that escaped her lips.

He froze instantly, his breathing changing, and she knew he was awake. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then he abruptly released her and sat up on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his disheveled hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to… I was asleep. I didn’t intend…”

Melissande pulled the sheet higher, suddenly aware of her state of undress as she studied his form. She had been right about him, after all. He was indeed wearing a hideous nightshirt. “No need to apologize,” she managed in a hoarse voice, clearing her throat. “You were asleep. We both were.”

“Yes, well…” He struggled for words, his shoulders tense. “It was still incredibly inappropriate of me.”

Inappropriate? Yes. Utterly delicious? Yes, yes, yes.

You didn’t have to roll away, she wanted to say. We could have spent the morning in each other’s arms.

It was so easy to flirt with the patrons in Hades’ Hell. She could walk up to anyone and kiss them on the lips, knowing the response would be positive.

With Rivendale, however, she felt incredibly shy.

She studied his profile in the pale morning light, silent.

His eyelashes were unfairly long, she noticed for the first time, dark and thick, making his dark eyes pop. His nose was perfectly straight and aristocratic, and his mouth… full. Sinful.

The stubble shadowing his jaw made him look less like the controlled nobleman she knew. She found she preferred this version of him—rumpled, rugged… human.

“I need to…” He stood carefully and looked around the room, searching for his things, then took a step forward.

“You can stand on your own,” she observed. She’d never seen him stand without leaning against something.

He turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Pardon me?”

“Without a cane,” she clarified. “You can stand without a cane.”

He glanced down at his feet, as if needing to verify this fact for himself. “Yes,” he said finally. “I can. I can walk without it as well. Not far, and not for long, but… yes.”

To demonstrate, he took several careful steps toward the chair that held his clothing. His right leg moved differently from his left, making a slight arc before completing each step. He reached the chair, grabbed it by the arms, and collapsed into it.

When he looked up at Melissande, his face was impassive.

He was waiting, she realized. Waiting for her reaction, for the disgust or pity he clearly expected.

“Is that it?” she asked gently. “Is that as far as you can go?”

“No.” His voice was carefully neutral. “But the more I strain it, the more it pains me later. And I’d rather it didn’t hurt unnecessarily.”

“Has it always been this way?”

He nodded slowly, tugging on his breeches with the careful, methodical movements of someone long accustomed to accommodating physical limitations. “As long as I can remember. I was born sickly—couldn’t walk until I was three or four. My parents didn’t think I would survive long.”

“That… it must have been heartbreaking.”

He raised his head, confusion on his face. “For me?”

“No, for your parents.”

There was a flicker of some emotion on his face, but he carefully hid it behind a blank facade.

“I don’t think so. They gave up on me fairly early.

” His tone was matter-of-fact, but she caught the underlying pain he was trying to hide.

“So much so that they spent the next ten years hoping to birth an heir… or rather a spare, I suppose.”

Ten years. His parents had spent ten years hoping for a replacement, waiting for him to die. The cruelty of it squeezed at her heart.

“I grew up in the stables. In fact, I loved the horses so much, I think I started riding them before I learned how to walk.” He shrugged. “One could say I still haven’t learned. Not properly anyway.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “I knew you were an excellent rider.”

He let out something between a laugh and a snort. “Not when a scandalous hell owner is charging at me full speed.”

She laughed. “I live to challenge you.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a smile. “That you do.”

Now that she saw his deliberate half-smile, she realized she had been right before.

She hadn’t truly noticed it until now; it just seemed odd to her somehow.

But his infirmity wasn’t contained to his leg.

His facial muscles were limited in motion as well.

It wasn’t as obvious, and at first glance, it just made him unique. It still did.

Except she realized it was a part of his affliction.

“So you have a younger brother,” she said carefully.

“Yes. And several sisters. They’re all married now, scattered across England with families of their own.” He started pulling on his stockings. “What about you? Do you have siblings?”

The change of subject was clearly deliberate, and she allowed it, sensing his discomfort. “Yes,” she said with a soft laugh. “Quite a few, actually.”

“Really? And none of them were jealous that you got to run the hell?”

She considered this seriously. “Perhaps Elise—she’s the youngest. But she’s always looked up to me, wanting to be just like me.

So I don’t take offense. The others never seemed to want the burden.

I was always the one following my grandfather around, learning to play cards, to count the money, to decorate the hell.

The rest had their own interests, their own paths. ”

“Where are they now?” he asked.

A smile tugged at her lips, as it always did when she spoke of her family.

“My brothers are training to take over our father’s shipping business in different parts of the world.

One sister is married and living in the countryside.

Elise is studying in Geneva. They’re all accomplished and thriving in their own ways. ”

“Do you miss them?” he asked, a strange weight in his gaze. Did he not miss his family? Was that why?

“I do. I miss the chaos of a large family—the noise, the laughter, the way there was always someone to talk to. But Hades’ Hell has become my family in many ways.”

She twisted the ruby ring on her thumb absently. “Though I do have one more sibling I haven’t mentioned. A half-brother.”

His attention sharpened. “Half-brother?”

“Yes. I only met him a few weeks ago. He didn’t even know I existed until then.”

Rivendale frowned, pausing in his dressing. “How is that possible?”

She hesitated.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he assured her.

She pursed her lips in thought. It wasn’t exactly a secret, though not many people knew. “I’m… I’m a bastard.”

“A bastard.” He went still. “Is your father—?”

“My sire,” she corrected firmly, “the man responsible for my birth, was the Marquess of Wakefield.”

He raised his brows, understanding dawning. “The current marquess, Arthur Thornton, is your half-brother.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Though, as I said, I barely know him. I never knew our father either, and by all accounts, I’m fortunate in that.” Her voice hardened slightly. “My mother married my stepfather when I was six, and he’s been the man I call father ever since.”

“He treated you fairly,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“He loves me as his own daughter. But… my mother was very young when I was born. Naive. She was heartbroken when Wakefield abandoned her. I was raised by my grandparents.” She smiled. “I practically lived in Hades’ Hell.”

Rivendale’s frown deepened. “Surely that wasn’t… I mean, filled with drunkards and criminals and… well, it hardly seems the proper environment for a child.”

Melissande laughed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t seem that way from the outside. But I loved it. Still do, obviously. The people there protected me, taught me, and made me who I am. Since I took over from my grandfather, people keep saying I was born for this life. In a way, I suppose it’s true.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Rivendale stood carefully, making his way across the small space. Melissande quickly threw her dressing gown over her nightclothes and moved to her valise.

She heard the low murmur of voices.

“I’ll leave you to dress,” he said once the door closed. “We can set out for Dover after breakfast.”

* * *

Rivendale made his way carefully to Thomas and Roger’s quarters with Roger’s help, grateful for the reprieve from Melissande’s presence.

The small room was already immaculate; his servants had clearly risen early to clean up after their cramped night.

Thomas stood ready with fresh linens and his shaving kit.

He had a big smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

He was in a good mood. Rivendale, by contrast, felt melancholy after the morning’s conversation about families and was surly for other reasons.

“Good morning, my lord,” Thomas said quietly as he moved to help him out of his wrinkled clothes. “I trust you slept well?”

Well? If only Thomas knew how far from well his night had been. He had lain rigid for hours, acutely aware of every breath Melissande drew, attuned to every subtle shift of her body beside him. When sleep finally claimed him, his dreams were filled with sinful activities that left him aching.

He woke unrested—worse, with a punishing erection that refused to abate.

He could not spend more nights in the same bed with her, or he would burst. However, the feeling of waking up with her in his arms was like no other.

Her scent still clung to his nightshirt, and the memory of her soft, warm body lingered in his mind.

The involuntary sound she’d made when he’d pulled her closer made his jaw clench and his cock awaken with renewed desire.

He desperately needed to relieve himself, or he would grow even more irritable than usual.

“Well enough,” he lied, settling into the chair so Thomas could begin his morning routine. “And you? I apologize for the… inconvenient arrangements.”

“Think nothing of it, my lord. Roger and I managed perfectly well.” Thomas worked the shaving soap into a lather. “Though I confess, we were both grateful when Miss Monroe offered even better accommodations for us.”

Rivendale stilled Thomas’s hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“Her driver, Brown, came by last evening after you’d retired. He said Miss Monroe had arranged rooms for all of us at the Stonebridge Inn. One room for the drivers, one for us. Spacious, comfortable beds, proper meals. Very generous of her, if I may say so.”

“She arranged… for all of you?” Rivendale let go of the valet’s hand, allowing him to resume his work.

“Yes, my lord. She insisted we endure a half-hour’s drive for the sake of a proper night’s rest. I hesitated at first, but she was right. Quite thoughtful, really. We returned early this morning, refreshed and ready for the journey ahead.”

Two thoughts hit Rivendale at once.

The first wasn’t truly a thought but rather a crushing weight of shame.

While he had wallowed in his own discomfort, fixated on the awkwardness of sharing a bed with Melissande, she had been concerned about their servants’ welfare.

Their servants—not just hers. She had quietly solved the problem he hadn’t even considered and done so with ease and grace, without consulting him or making a show of her generosity.

He remembered how offended she had been last night when the innkeeper suggested the servants sleep in a carriage, while Rivendale hadn’t even flinched at the notion.

The truth was, he had never spared a thought for the servants’ accommodations at all.

He simply accepted whatever arrangements were standard: servants’ quarters, wherever those might be.

The second realization was more of a question.

If Thomas and Roger had left for Stonebridge and spent the night there, then there had been a perfectly comfortable empty room here all along.

Which begged the question—why the hell had he and Melissande spent the entire night crammed into one bed?