Page 20 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

By the time they reached the breakfast room, Rivendale’s mood had soured considerably. Yet the moment he rolled through the doorway and caught sight of Melissande, every other concern faded into insignificance.

She sat at a table near the tall windows, morning light streaming around her like a golden halo. Her pitch-black hair gleamed with blue-black highlights where the sun caught it, and she was absorbed in reading what appeared to be a letter, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

His breath caught in his throat, and he felt that now-familiar rush of heat and longing that accompanied her mere presence.

She was beautiful, yes, but it was more than that.

Something about the way she held herself, the way she moved, and the wicked sparkle in her dark eyes made his pulse race and his thoughts scatter.

She glanced up at the sound of his approach, and her face immediately brightened with a smile that made his heart skip several beats. “You look quite dapper in your chariot-chair,” she said, her tone warm and teasing.

“Thank you,” he managed, clearing his throat and maneuvering to the far corner of the table where a place had been set for him.

A young maid appeared almost immediately with a tray of food—fresh bread, delicate pastries that looked nothing like the heavy English fare he was accustomed to, preserves in small crystal pots, and several types of cheese.

He selected a piece of the bread somewhat skeptically, then felt his eyes widen as he took his first bite.

The flavor was light and complex, with a subtle sweetness that enhanced rather than masked the grain. The texture was perfect—crispy on the outside and impossibly tender within.

Melissande grinned. “Didn’t I tell you? The bread here is simply extraordinary.”

“It truly is,” he agreed, reaching for another piece. But as he leaned forward, a sharp pain shot through his leg, and he couldn’t entirely suppress his grimace.

Melissande noticed instantly. She froze for a moment, her gaze filled with worry. But as Rivendale silently continued to eat, she decided to remain silent, for which he was thankful.

If she commented on his condition every time he flinched, it would occupy the majority of their conversations, and that was the last thing he wanted.

They ate in companionable silence for a little while.

His pain subsided somewhat, and he found himself watching the way she ate—not with the careful, measured bites expected of a lady, but with genuine enjoyment and appreciation for the food.

There was something deeply sensual about it, the way her lips curved around each morsel, the small sounds of pleasure she made when tasting something particularly delicious.

The sight sent an unexpected surge of heat through him, pooling low in his belly and tenting his breeches.

“We have quite a few things to accomplish while we’re in Calais,” she said suddenly, interrupting his entirely inappropriate thoughts.

“I received an invitation on your behalf to Monsieur Dubois’s dinner party—the infamous collector who might have your locket in his possession.

He is known for neither parting with nor even displaying his treasures to strangers.

The only way to see his collection—and the only opportunity to acquire them—is during an exclusive card game that happens after the dinner party, to which, of course, you’re also invited.

” She paused, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“The interesting thing is, he doesn’t accept money as stakes.

Only jewelry, art, and other items of similar value.

We’ll need to find something to wager. And since dinner is in a week, we need to do it fast.”

Rivendale frowned. “Couldn’t you have mentioned this earlier? I would have brought a few expendable heirlooms with me.”

“I didn’t know he would require anything other than currency. I only received the invitation this morning.” She pushed the cream-colored card across the table toward him.

Rivendale examined the note and read the contents in French: The honor of your company is most respectfully requested for an evening of food and a gentleman’s card game.

Gentlemen’s card game? “Besides,” he added, slightly embarrassed, “I don’t gamble. I’m not particularly skilled at cards.”

“Please.” She waved away his concern as if it were a minor inconvenience. “It’s simple enough once you understand the principles.”

“For you, perhaps. You own a gaming establishment. You probably learned to gamble when you were five.”

“Three,” she corrected, flashing a smile that made Rivendale catch his breath.

Then her words registered in his mind. Three? What kind of parents taught their child to gamble at three?

“And I didn’t hold a deck until I was fifteen,” he countered.

“Fair point,” she conceded. “Well, you don’t have to win. I can win all your riches for you.”

“I’d prefer not to play at all.”

“That’s fine.” She raised a hand in surrender.

“But we still need to acquire something suitable for me to wager.” She rubbed the ruby ring on her thumb restlessly—he’d noticed it was the only piece of jewelry she wore consistently.

“We can visit a few jewelry and art shops before dinner and purchase some appropriate items,” Melissande continued with a shrug.

“One or two trinkets will do. I’m not planning on losing any of them. ”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to leave this house for several days,” Rivendale admitted reluctantly. “I need time to recover from the exertions of travel.”

She studied him with furrowed brows. “Do you need to call a doctor or—?”

He couldn’t help but feel warmth from her concern. She cared about him, and just knowing that gave him strength. “I just need rest. Preferably until the night of this collector’s dinner.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but she decided not to argue. “Very well. Then you can have your rest. I will handle the antiquities hunt.”

“You can make the purchases on my credit,” Rivendale offered.

She laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “I have my own funds, thank you. No need to worry.”

“I know you do, but since this is for my benefit, I wouldn’t want you to spend your own money.”

Her smile turned gentle. “And since I have no desire to be stopped and questioned for spending a marquess’s money without any legal connection to you, I shall respectfully decline.”

She hadn’t intended her words to be demeaning; that much was obvious. However, the implications of her words were clear.

She didn’t want to appear to be his kept woman, much less actually be one. She was fiercely independent and proudly self-sufficient. She didn’t need his money and couldn’t acquire his title.

What did he have to offer her, then?

What could a damaged, encumbered man like him possibly provide that would interest a woman who had built her own empire, possessed more money than most could imagine, and answered to no one?

The answer, he realized with growing despair, was absolutely nothing at all.