Page 31 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

R ivendale had just reached the adjoining door, his hand raised to knock, when it swung open of its own accord. Melissande nearly collided with him in the doorway, bringing them face to face in the narrow threshold.

Her hand shot out to steady herself against his chest, and he felt the heat of her touch burn through his shirt.

She stood before him in a silk dressing gown, her dark hair loose and flowing over her shoulders.

She slowly removed her hand, her gaze roaming over his form.

Suddenly, he became acutely aware of his state of undress.

Wearing only breeches and a shirt, his hair still damp from the bath he’d taken to wash away the dust and excitement of their earlier adventure, he felt oddly timid, even though she had seen him with far less

clothing.

“Were you coming to see me?” she asked.

“Yes. I wanted to…” He paused, suddenly uncertain how to explain the restless energy that had driven him from his room, the need to see her, to speak with her—his gaze drifted to her lips—to kiss her. “What did you want?”

“Do you need assistance applying salve to your leg?” The question came out in a rush, as if she had been rehearsing it. “After all that jostling on the stairs, I thought perhaps…”

Rivendale felt warmth spread through his chest at her concern.

“No, I’m quite well, thank you.” He grimaced as pain shot up his leg as a reminder. “It is better after the bath. Though I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“Oh.” She wrung her hands together. “May I come in? To your chambers, I mean?”

“Of course.” He stepped aside immediately, gesturing for her to enter.

She moved past him into his room, and he caught the faint scent of her perfume. She settled onto the edge of his bed, and he positioned himself beside her.

The silence stretched between them for a moment. It was strange to feel so much tension after everything they’d shared together.

“The reason I was coming into your chamber,” he finally said, “is that I wanted to apologize.”

She raised her head, her brows knitted together. “For what?”

“For letting you down tonight. You’ve arranged everything—the invitation, the plan, the sharping—and in the end, I simply sat there… I wasn’t even able to retrieve the items we’d wagered when everything went wrong…”

“It’s not your fault,” she said quickly. “It’s my greed; I shouldn’t have cheated all the time.” A small smile touched her lips. “Do you want to know the ironic part?”

He cocked his head. “Tell me.”

“I hadn’t cheated the last time. The time that exposed us.” She let out a chuckle. “That was complete luck. Or was it a lack of luck?”

Rivendale laughed. “Perhaps you should have left matters to fate.”

She shrugged. “I found it quite exciting fooling everyone at the table, especially after Laurent refused to let me play. I suppose my hubris got the better of me.”

“And now your reputation as the proprietress of hell must be in ruins.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I thrive on scandal. This story will become the stuff of legend in gaming circles. Tales of the night I helped a marquess escape angry gamblers via improvised sledge will probably enhance my notoriety considerably. Besides, we left all our winnings behind, so we haven’t actually fleeced anyone. ”

“But we lost your ring,” he pointed out. “That must pain you.”

She grimaced slightly. “I don’t care about that bauble.”

Rivendale studied her face. “I find that difficult to believe. It’s the only piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen you wear consistently. It must hold significance for you.”

“The ring is… a family heirloom,” she said slowly, as if choosing each word with care.

Something tightened in his chest. He imagined losing something so valuable just because of his ineptitude. “And I was responsible for its loss—”

“It’s not mine,” she interrupted quietly.

Rivendale tilted his head, studying her profile in the firelight. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She shifted in her seat. “My father—not the man who raised me, but the one responsible for my birth…”

“Wakefield,” Rivendale supplied, remembering their earlier conversations about her parentage.

“Yes.” She nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

“That ring belongs to him. It’s traditionally passed down to the eldest child of the marquess, and since I was technically the eldest…

” She paused, her fingers twisting in the silk of her dressing gown.

“I thought I was within my rights to demand it when I learned the truth of my parentage.”

“But?” he prompted gently when she fell silent again.

She let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“The truth is, it never fit properly. Not just the size—though it was too large for my finger—but it never felt right. It chafed constantly and sat wrong somehow. Good jewelry should disappear when you wear it, becoming part of you. You shouldn’t feel its presence constantly.

This ring…” She shook her head. “I felt it every moment I wore it. Perhaps that was a sign that it didn’t truly belong to me. ”

Rivendale watched her carefully, seeing the pain she was trying so hard to conceal. “Then why did you wear it?”

“Petty pride,” she admitted. “I wanted something that connected me to that world, to the legitimacy I’d never had. Wearing it daily was my small act of defiance against a father who never acknowledged my existence.”

Rivendale’s chest constricted in pain. He couldn’t imagine. His father was also a marquess, but he had the luxury of being born to his legal wife. He cocked his head to the side in thought. In many ways, his parents had rejected him still. And no heirloom was able to fix that.

“I should probably still retrieve it,” Melissande added quietly. “If I bring Monsieur Laurent a generous gift and allow him to keep our previous winnings, I’m certain he’ll return the ring without further difficulty.”

“Why would you go to such trouble if the ring means nothing to you?”

She shrugged. “To return it to Wakefield, I suppose. Perhaps he has a personal attachment to it. If not, he can melt it down for all I care.” She raised her head and met his gaze. “It’s not like the locket you are so desperate to find. It held no sentimental value to me.”

He nodded. The locket was the only thing in this world with any value to him… well, except for the plant that now rested on his desk a few feet away.

“Do you have other leads? Ideas about where else we might find the locket?” he asked.

Melissande looked down at her hands, and he caught something that looked almost like guilt in her expression.

“There is an auction scheduled in two and a half weeks. Several pieces matching your locket’s description are listed in the catalog.

” She paused, then added quietly, “We could investigate other possibilities, but they would require traveling to Paris, and I wasn’t certain you’d be comfortable with such a journey.

My assistant is already pursuing those leads. ”

Two and a half weeks. Rivendale felt his heart lift with unexpected joy at the prospect. Two and a half more weeks in Melissande’s company in Calais, two and a half more weeks of this partnership that had already transformed his understanding of what his life could be.

“We can wait for the auction,” he said, trying to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

Another pause settled between them, and he noticed Melissande seemed almost… embarrassed? Was she blaming herself for tonight’s failure to locate his locket?

The thought that she might consider their evening a disappointment, when it had been the most alive he’d felt in years, hurt his soul.

“Did you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you regret tonight?”

She cocked her head. “Regret?”

“Yes, you seem… subdued.”

“Oh.” Melissande tried for a smile, and it came out closer to a grimace. “No. I just… I am worried about you. How do you feel? Truly?”

She worried about him? Oh, did she think he was upset about their failed attempt at finding his locket? That couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Rivendale smiled, feeling genuine happiness bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest. “Exhilarated,” he said honestly. “From the moment I met you, my life has been turned completely upside down. Several times, quite literally.”

That earned him a small smile, the first genuine one he’d seen from her since she stepped into his room.

He reached out, unable to resist touching her cheek, tilting her face so she had to meet his eyes. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft beneath his fingers.

“And I wouldn’t trade any of the days I’ve spent with you for anything,” he said with quiet intensity. “Not one moment of it.”

She looked at him searchingly, and he saw something vulnerable flicker across her features. “Do you promise that?” she whispered.

There was some deep ache beneath the question, some fear that he could not understand. He wished she would open up to him and voice all her worries.

But he could not find the right words to prompt that frank conversation. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

“I promise,” he said firmly and leaned forward to kiss her.

Her lips were soft and warm beneath his, tasting faintly of the wine they’d shared earlier. She responded immediately, her hand coming up to cradle his cheek.

But when her hand drifted lower, sliding down his chest to settle over the bulge in his

breeches, she pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.

“Well,” she murmured with a hint of teasing, “that was fast.”

Before he could form a coherent response, she kissed him again, deeper this time, her fingers working at the falls of his breeches.

And Rivendale found himself thinking, not for the first time, that Melissande Monroe was the most dangerous and wonderful thing that had ever happened to him.

The bed creaked beneath them as Melissande moved closer, her deft fingers working at the waistband of his breeches.