Page 21 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

R ivendale hadn’t joined Melissande for supper.

Not today, and not for the last five days.

In fact, he had barely left his room. When he did, it was only under the supervision of his valet.

She’d entertained herself as much as she could—going for walks, visiting a modiste, shopping, taking a ride every morning—but none of these activities satisfied her spirit.

Melissande had never felt so distressed over someone not joining her for suppers or outings, and she couldn’t quite explain why. She paced the length of her chamber, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

Yes, time was ticking. She had to make Rivendale fall in love with her in less than two months, but it wasn’t an impossible feat. She’d made men fall at her feet in even less time.

But those men were dandies, rakes, and scoundrels.

Rivendale was not one of those men.

He didn’t freely give affection, nor was he looking for it. He was reserved, harsh, and quiet.

And if he were ever to fall in love, she wasn’t certain he’d even say it out loud.

Yet, he’d kissed her.

She paused mid-step, touching her fingers to her lips. The memory sent warmth spiraling through her chest.

He had done it in a moment of complete joy and excitement as he boarded the ship on his miraculous contraption. Still, it was a step in the right direction.

And she had a slew of activities planned for them in France. Plenty of time and opportunities to grow closer together. To make him open up to her.

If only he would join her!

At least once.

Their dinner and card game with the collector was coming up in just two days. She needed him to join her there, or all her plans would crumble.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she resumed her restless pacing.

It wasn’t just that he’d missed suppers. He’d let Thomas and Roger go for late evening strolls every night and locked himself in his room alone. Isolated.

What if he was in pain?

What if he needed help while his trusted valet and a footman were nowhere to be found?

As if in confirmation of her thoughts, there was a loud crash in the dressing room that connected her chamber to his via adjoining doors, followed by a muffled curse that made her heart leap into her throat.

Melissande jumped up and bolted into his room.

Rivendale stood there in a single nightshirt, engulfed in darkness, with only a dim light from her room illuminating his form. He leaned heavily against the wall beside the tiny side table, his broad shoulders rigid with pain. Jars and other items lay scattered at his feet.

“What’s wrong?” She dashed toward him, then dropped to her knees and began collecting the overturned jars.

“I was just looking for a salve,” he admitted through gritted teeth.

A salve? She glanced up at him, noting the tight lines around his eyes and the way his jaw clenched with each shallow breath. “What does it look like?”

He let out a pained breath, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.

“I have no idea. Thomas is the one who rubs it into my leg. I’ve never…

” He paused, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“I’ve never paid attention to what it looks like.

” He covered his cheek with his hand as if urging it to stop twitching.

She rose slowly, her hands full of rescued containers. “Well, Thomas is not here now.”

“I know.” He turned away from her.

“You should have made him rub the salve before he left,” she noted, setting the items carefully on the table. “He probably won’t be back for a long time.”

“I usually do, but I was not in the mood today,” he grumbled under his breath.

Are you in the mood now, you stubborn man? “And if, by some miracle, they come back early today, you’ll disturb their romantic rendezvous,” she huffed.

“I wouldn’t want to—” Rivendale’s head snapped up. “You know?”

Melissande frowned. “Do I know what?”

“That Thomas and Roger…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with one hand.

Melissande froze. Oh, no, have I said too much? Did the revelation anger him? No, surely not. It seemed that he was aware of what was going on. “That Thomas and Roger can’t take their eyes off each other?” she supplied carefully.

Rivendale let out a breath. “Yes. They are not very discreet, are they?”

“I have a knack for noticing sizzling tension between people.” She threw him a sidelong glance, and he reciprocated with a scowling look of his own. No, no tension here. She cleared her throat. “It helps me pair off my clients.”

“Ah, at the brothel,” he said between clenched teeth, though whether from pain or distaste, she couldn’t tell.

“Don’t be so cynical, my lord,” she replied with a deliberately mocking lilt. “Everyone deserves love.”

“Somehow I doubt love is the currency you deal in.” He turned slowly, favoring his injured leg as he pressed his back fully against the wall.

“You’re right.” She smiled at him sweetly. “I deal in pleasure. And pleasure occasionally leads to love. Even when it doesn’t, it still brightens one’s life, if only for a moment.”

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I wouldn’t know.”

Melissande felt something shift in her chest. What did he mean by that? She didn’t quite know how to process his words, so she decided to shift the subject. “Now, do you think you will recognize the salve if you see it?”

He glanced at the jumbled collection on the table with a grimace. “I might recognize the scent. I was going to open and inspect them when…” He gestured at the floor. “Well, you know.”

“Hm.” Melissande surveyed the room, then fetched a chair and dragged it toward him. “Sit. I have a feeling this might take a while.”

He fell into it with an audible oomph, the chair creaking beneath his weight.

“Wait here,” she said with a wink and moved toward her bedchamber.

“As if I can go anywhere,” he muttered to himself.

Melissande picked up a candle from her bedside and brought it into the dressing room, placing it carefully on the side table.

She began opening one jar after the next, bringing each to her nose before extending them toward him: shaving cream, soap, a balm for cuts and scrapes, something she couldn’t even identify with its cloying, medicinal scent.

When she brought another container to his nose, he inhaled deeply and nodded with visible relief. “That’s it!”

“Do you want me to help you back into bed?” She didn’t intend for the question to be suggestive; she was trying to be helpful. But when Rivendale met her gaze, something sensual lurked in his dark eyes.

“No.” He snatched the jar out of her hands. “I’ll just apply it here.”

She watched as he opened the container, applied some salve to his fingers, then reached down toward his calf.

The groan that escaped him was raw with pain, and his face contorted as he attempted to rub the salve into his leg.

Either his legs were too long, his back too rigid, or his touch too firm. Whatever it was, it became clear to Melissande that he would suffer greatly on his own.

Taking pity on him, she sank to her knees before him. “Give me the salve.”

His hand froze mid-motion, and his head snapped up to stare at her with wide, startled eyes. “What are you doing?”

Her lips twitched; his expression of surprise was so comical.

Was it the thought of her touching his skin that seemed so scandalous to him? Or was it the image of her on her knees before him that rattled him so? She found the thought alluring. Perhaps I should rattle him more.

“I am going to rub that salve into your leg,” she stated, extending her hand expectantly.

“No.” The word came out strangled as he jerked the salve out of her reach, holding it over his head. “You won’t.”

Melissande hid a smile. “Oh, no? I suppose you’re well enough to do it on your own then?”

He flinched, his jaw working silently for a moment. “I can manage.”

Melissande straightened and shifted closer, positioning herself between his knees as she leaned in.

“Go on then,” she said when their faces were mere inches apart. “I won’t leave until I see you get some sort of… relief.”

His breathing had become noticeably uneven. He held her gaze, and she caught the flicker of something wicked lurking in those dark eyes of his. “I’ve been getting relief on my own for a long time before you came along,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

Melissande raised a brow. Was the double meaning of his words intentional? Was the stuffy marquess trying to rattle her in return?

She felt her pulse quicken at the idea that he dared to challenge her. “You haven’t known true relief until you’ve experienced it from my hands,” she said in a breathy, sensual voice. She flicked her gaze suggestively to his crotch before meeting his gaze again.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their mingled breathing and the soft hiss of the candle flame.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his gaze still locked with hers, he planted the jar of salve into her hand, lingering there, sending heat rushing through her body. When he spoke, his voice was rough with something that made her stomach flutter, “Then perhaps you should show me.”