Page 19 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

T he kiss had tasted like tea and honey. Her warm lips had yielded under his, her fingers clutching at his shirt. Every sensation was etched into his brain.

A gasp. His tongue had slid into her warmth, tasting every corner of her mouth and exploring her depths. And then her tongue had touched his, and he had been lost in the heady sensation that had carried him on the wings of pleasure to the gates of paradise.

Rivendale opened his eyes to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The memory of the kiss echoed in his mind as he lay in his allocated chamber in the grand mansion that Melissande’s assistant had rented for them in Calais.

Perfect . He unconsciously traced his fingers over his lips. It was absolutely perfect.

Then, of course, his leg had failed him completely. He must have strained the muscle too much while jumping to safety, causing incredible pain that had plagued him throughout their crossing.

The humiliation of it rushed back in vivid detail—Thomas and Roger having to carry him like a babe into his tiny cabin while Melissande and the other passengers looked on.

The euphoria of the kiss, the rush of finally acting on weeks of suppressed longing, was immediately followed by the mortifying reality of his condition.

He had spent the entire three-hour trip in agony, every pitch of the ship sending a spear of fire through his leg. His chair, which the sailors had thankfully saved, had to be tied somewhere on the deck and guarded by Roger, as it didn’t fit into his cramped cabin.

Melissande, as Thomas later recounted, had spent her time clinging to the rail in her own torment, retching into the sea alongside many other passengers.

When they finally arrived at the mansion, they had spent the rest of the day resting in their respective chambers, both too exhausted and battered to do more than collapse into bed.

But he had kissed her. A smile tugged at his lips despite the ache in his muscles. More importantly, she had kissed him back.

He sat up against the pillows, groaning at the tightness radiating from his damaged leg through his entire body. The simple movement sent fresh waves of discomfort through him, but his mind was too restless to remain still.

What did their kiss mean? Was she interested in a brief liaison while they were in France? Was she as infatuated with him as he was with her? Or was it just a spur-of-the-moment celebration, an award of sorts for his successful survival of the plank?

He grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in bed.

The encouraging aspect was that she hadn’t seemed repulsed by him—not during the kiss, not at any time before that, not even when he had first revealed his condition.

The troubling aspect was the uncertainty of it all. Rivendale was a man who valued order and predictability. Melissande was anything but those things.

If he had kissed an unmarried gentlewoman like that in front of an entire ship’s passengers, crew, and passersby, he would have been required to marry her.

With Melissande, he had no idea what his next steps should be. Doubts crowded in despite his best efforts to push them away.

It was entirely possible that she had simply taken pity on him and returned his kiss out of kindness. The thought made his stomach clench with dread. He couldn’t bear to make assumptions about the kiss only to be left with a broken heart.

Again.

But if he didn’t act on his feelings, he risked waiting too long and missing his opportunity entirely—the chance to be with a woman who made him feel truly alive for the first time in years.

It was more than a simple attraction, wasn’t it?

This pull toward her felt deeper, more consuming than anything he’d experienced before.

There was longing, yes. Need, absolutely.

And there were these fireworks that seemed to ignite in his body the moment she entered a room, bringing immediate color to his previously gray world.

That could only be described as either heady intoxication or infatuation. And since he hadn’t touched a strong drink in quite some time, he would have to go with the latter.

He sat up, planting his feet on the floor and waiting for the sharp pain to subside. It dulled to a more manageable ache after a moment, still pulsing from his calf and radiating through his body.

Was it worth it? Traveling across the Channel, kissing Melissande, visiting France for the first time in his adult life, only to be confined to bed once again with pain coursing through his body?

Yes, he decided without hesitation. It is absolutely worth it. And they hadn’t even begun looking for his locket yet. Their adventure had just begun.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Come in,” he called.

Thomas entered, carrying his usual morning supplies.

“Good morning, my lord.” Thomas’s voice maintained its respectful tone, but something was different about his demeanor—a spark lit his eyes, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Miss Monroe wondered if you’d be joining her for breakfast.”

Under normal circumstances, Rivendale wouldn’t even consider it. He would rather stay in bed, perhaps even take a small dose of laudanum to ease the worst of the pain and rest until his body recovered from the previous day’s ordeal.

But the ache in his leg couldn’t compare to the urgent need to see her again. His heart leaped at the mere thought of sitting across from her, watching her face, hearing her voice—hell, even arguing with her.

“Yes,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “Yes, I believe I will.”

Thomas moved around the room, gathering Rivendale’s clothes for the day while humming softly to himself.

“You seem to be in remarkably good humor this morning,” Rivendale observed as Thomas began working salve into his damaged leg.

Thomas’s hands stilled for just a moment. When Rivendale glanced up, he caught sight of a faint blush creeping up his valet’s neck. “I had a good night’s… rest, my lord.”

“Mm-hmm.” Rivendale kept his expression neutral, though he suspected Thomas’s improved mood had very little to do with sleep and much to do with his budding romance with Roger.

He didn’t press for details, however. Although Thomas was the closest thing he had to a friend, they had never been intimate enough to discuss such personal matters.

More importantly, Rivendale was acutely aware that his valet might be concerned about the implications of such a relationship. Men had been dismissed from service for far less. Or worse, prosecuted for what the law considered perverse behavior.

He’d like to think that Thomas knew Rivendale would be the last person to judge what adult men did behind closed doors. But he didn’t feel comfortable enough to push the issue. He wished he could show his valet his support, though.

Thomas helped him into fresh clothes and began carefully shaving away his morning stubble.

“I’ll be resting for the next few days, as usual, while I recover from the travel,” Rivendale said thoughtfully.

“So I won’t need your assistance as much in the evenings.

There are maids here who can bring me food and footmen to fetch water if necessary.

” He paused, meeting Thomas’s eyes. “Since we’re on something of a holiday, why don’t you take the evenings to explore Calais?

See what the city has to offer before I start attending social events where I’ll need both your and Roger’s help. ”

Thomas’s hand briefly stilled against Rivendale’s jaw. It wasn’t the first time Rivendale had given him the evening off, but it was rare to do so while he was recovering from travel—typically, that’s when he would need Thomas’s assistance the most.

“That’s very generous of you, my lord,” Thomas said quietly. “Are you certain you won’t need my help?”

“No.” Rivendale cleared his throat. “I think you and Roger deserve a few evenings for yourselves.”

Thomas’s fingers tightened on the handle of the blade, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Did he understand Rivendale’s tacit approval of their relationship? He certainly hoped so.

Thomas inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate it.”

He grabbed a towel and rubbed Rivendale’s face clean.

Rivendale studied himself in the mirror and nodded. “Help me into my chair.”

Thomas did just that, and Rivendale couldn’t suppress a slight grimace as his leg protested the movement.

Once settled, however, Rivendale felt a surge of confidence.

There was no need to hobble with his cane; he didn’t even require Thomas to push the chair.

He felt completely independent. That was, until they reached the staircase.

Rivendale’s room was on the first floor of the mansion, and while he had managed to arrange his accommodations on the ground floor at his own estate, this rented property offered no suitable rooms at ground level.

“Wait,” Rivendale said, raising a hand to halt Thomas’s progress. He ran his hands along the sides of his chair. “Chaos mentioned he’s made adjustments to help with the problem of stairs. But I haven’t had the time to test it yet.”

Both Thomas and Rivendale studied the chair from various angles, examining its mechanisms and trying to decipher how the promised modification might work. After several minutes of fruitless investigation, Rivendale sighed in defeat. “We’ll try to sort it out after breakfast.”

He didn’t want to miss breaking the fast with Melissande. The chair could wait.

At his call, Roger appeared by his side, accompanied by two footmen from the mansion’s staff. Together, the four men carefully lifted Rivendale and his chair, carrying him down the stairs.

The humiliation was crushing enough in private, but the thought of enduring this same indignity at social functions—with strangers watching and whispering—sent cold perspiration beading along his forehead.

How was he supposed to maintain any semblance of dignity or authority when he required four grown men to carry him down a simple flight of stairs?