Page 18 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

R ivendale stood at the edge of the quay, breathing in the sharp tang of salt air.

They had arrived in Dover the previous night and taken rooms at the inn by the docks.

He had ordered separate quarters, not only because propriety demanded it but also because he told himself it would ensure a decent night’s rest. Somehow, sleep had still eluded him.

After their shared night at the cramped inn, returning to solitary quarters felt strangely hollow.

He had tossed and turned all night, thoughts of Melissande keeping him restless until dawn.

At least he had ensured his servants slept well. From now on, he decided, they would always have proper quarters. Thomas was more of a friend than a servant and deserved far better than Rivendale had ever given him.

Around him, the harbor stirred to life—ships rocking with the tide, masts groaning, and gulls screaming overhead in their endless quest for scraps.

Melissande emerged from the inn, wearing an emerald traveling habit that accentuated her eyes. Despite his best efforts, Rivendale’s pulse quickened at the sight of her.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Are you?”

Rivendale hesitated, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. “I have never been on a ship before,” he admitted. “So I am justifiably nervous.”

Her face lit up with a smile. “How very exciting! I’ve been on a ship a few times, but never on a steamboat. They say it ignores the whims of the wind and guarantees we’ll be in Calais in three hours or less.”

“Guarantees, huh?” Rivendale looked at the ship with skepticism. “Let’s hope that’s true.”

Melissande let out a breath. “Should we board then?”

Rivendale nodded. “We should.”

He gestured for the porters to load their trunks.

Melissande chewed her lip as she watched them wobble along the narrow plank under the weight of the trunks. “That thing is hardly wide enough for anyone to pass. With your uncertain gait… what if you fall?”

“I’m an excellent swimmer,” he replied dryly.

“That is not funny,” she said, frowning.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but it’s true.”

Just then, Thomas appeared, wheeling forward the new chair. Rivendale fought the knot in his chest—part hope, part trepidation.

“But perhaps,” he said, gesturing to it, “this will help.”

Melissande’s eyes widened. “What is that? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Neither have I. Chaos’s newest invention—a chariot-chair.”

Her brows shot up. “A chariot-chair?”

“Yes, I just invented the name, but it suits. It’s closer to a fast-moving carriage than a bath chair for invalids.”

“Hopefully, you won’t be trying the fast-moving bit while you’re on the plank,” she said, doubt lacing her voice.

He grinned in response.

Melissande looked at him then, with a mixture of awe and amusement.

“Shall I try it?” he asked. Roger was already at his side, steadying him.

“Please don’t tell me this is the first time you’ll use it, and it’ll be on that plank.” Melissande’s brows knitted in concern.

“Very well,” Rivendale said smoothly. “I won’t tell you that.”

“Rivendale!” she cried, darting closer as he settled himself in the chair. She reached instinctively for him—or for the chair—but he caught her hands and squeezed.

“Do not worry. I tested it at home. It worked exactly as designed. It only arrived the night before we left, so I’ve yet to try it in earnest. But I will be careful. I promise.”

“Why don’t I feel reassured?” Her brows were drawn together, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Don’t you see this contraption? It is a working miracle. It is well-balanced and just narrow enough to fit on the plank.”

She nodded but still seemed unconvinced. “As narrow as it is, it will still be a challenge to maneuver it properly.”

Rivendale raised a brow, boyish, reckless courage surging within him. “I never back down from a challenge,” he said, meeting her eyes directly. “Do you?”

Her answering smile was radiant, transforming her entire face. “I don’t.”

A sailor called from the ship, “Boarding now?”

“Yes!” Rivendale answered. He had already warned the captain about his chair and his condition. Two sailors waited at the far end of the plank, ready to intervene if needed. Melissande hovered beside him, wringing her hands.

“After you,” he said, motioning her forward.

She nodded and carefully crossed the plank onto the ship. She stationed herself beside the sailors, biting her lip.

He had never seen her this nervous. Granted, he’d known her for less than a month. Still, the sheer intensity of her worry—for him —unsettled him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared like that.

He pulled the lever back, and the wheels rolled forward with a low groan. Roger hovered nearby as Rivendale steered onto the narrow gangplank. It was only a few inches wider than the chair, so he had to be very careful and precise in his movements.

As he pulled the lever again, the chair crept ahead, and a strange exhilaration filled him.

He was moving under his own power, nobody else’s hands guiding him, nobody else’s arms hauling him forward. He was crossing an obstacle he’d once thought impossible. A step toward adventure. Toward freedom.

The plank shuddered under the weight of the chair.

Each measured pull of the lever strained his arms, and each squeak of the wheels set his teeth on edge.

The ship rocked, the tide slapped against the quay, sending the chair skittering slightly with each small shift.

His palms grew slick against the grips, sweat sliding down his temples.

He didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. Every fiber of concentration was poured into guiding his miniature chariot forward.

The closer he got to the deck, the harder it became to move. His wheels were slipping back, gravity working against him while the plank swayed with every swell of the river.

Closer. Closer still. The sailors waiting on deck leaned forward, hands ready. His arms ached, but he dragged himself on, inch by inch.

“Almost there!” Melissande called, her voice taut with hope, giving him strength.

He pushed harder, jaw clenched, veins straining in his hands.

He was very close. If he reached out, he could grab the sailors’ arms… Suddenly, a wave rocked the ship, and the gangplank wobbled violently beneath him.

The chair skidded sideways, wheels squealing against wood. For one terrible heartbeat, balance deserted him. The world tilted, and he felt himself tipping into the abyss.

“Hold him!” Melissande’s cry pierced the roaring in his ears.

The sound of blood rushed through his head, drowning out all other sounds.

A scream clawed at his throat, though he didn’t know if it escaped.

And then his entire life flashed before his eyes.

No, not entire life, just brief images and snippets.

A cane lashing across his back for stumbling.

Children at Eton jeering at his twisted gait.

Laura turning away, promising to marry another man.

The smirks in the House of Lords as his legs betrayed him mid-speech.

Brawls that ended with him sprawled in the mud.

One after another, humiliation and failure spun past his eyes like cards being dealt onto the table.

And then— her .

Melissande. Face pale, eyes wide, hand reaching out.

He reached back. Something—sailors, gravity, sheer stubborn will?—yanked him forward. He shoved himself free of the chair with a desperate lurch. His legs caught the deck beneath him, barely. Momentum sent him stumbling.

Straight into her.

The ship’s hull stopped them both with a thud, her body caged between the wood and him.

For one stunned moment, the impossible was real: he hadn’t toppled over and gone overboard. He wasn’t sprawled, humiliated on the planks.

He was standing. Yes, standing. Upright. His arms braced around her, her fingers gripping his coat as if she’d never let go.

He was holding her.

It felt like a miracle.

For the first time in years—perhaps ever—something burned bright inside him.

He was alive.

But more importantly, he felt alive.

Her eyes lifted, wide, startled. Then, like sunlight breaking through clouds, laughter spilled from her lips. “You made it.”

“I did,” he rasped, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

And before he could think better of it, before reason could drag him back, he bent his head and kissed her.