Page 34 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)
F orty-Six Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart…
“Another one of your erotic novels?”
Melissande whirled at the sound of his voice, not expecting it to be right behind her ear. Rivendale had left his chariot-chair outside the narrow bookshop and now stood tall before her.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she said, catching her breath.
“How refreshingly bold of you to admit it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m ashamed of my reading preferences? I’m not. Perhaps you should try one. You might learn something.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Are you suggesting I have a great deal to learn?”
She let her gaze roam deliberately over his form. “Are you suggesting you don’t?”
With startling quickness, he plucked the book from her hands. “Give me that, then. I’ll take your expert advice.”
As she laughed, her gaze drifted away from him, and from the corner of her eye, she spotted the deep red cover of a book she had been searching for.
“What is it?” he asked, following her gaze.
Her lips curved into a sheepish smile. “That book there. I always search for it in every bookshop I visit.” She walked toward it, her finger caressing the spine.
His eyebrows rose. “Something special?”
“Very. It’s my great-grandmother’s novel.”
A wicked half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Also erotic?”
Melissande wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He let out a laugh. “Is there anything I should learn from it?”
“Ugh…” Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is my great-grandmother. And I hear she wrote the novel based on real events.” She pulled a face. “I don’t need to know the details of her intimate life. Absolutely not.” She shuddered theatrically.
He laughed low and rough, then reached past her and seized the red leather volume. “Perfect. Time to expand my education.”
“What?” A horrified breath escaped her lips.
“I am going to get this book and learn something from it, as you suggested.”
“Not that book!”
“Especially that book.”
Despite her protests, he carried the little red book to the counter. “Remind me to go to the optician and get a new pair of spectacles just for this.”
“I will not!” Melissande tried to snatch the book from his grasp one last time but failed. He had bought the book.
Lord help her.
* * *
Forty-Three Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart…
Rivendale’s new spectacles made him look devastatingly handsome and rather scholarly as he sat in the copper bath, steam curling around him while he read her great-grandmother’s scandalous novel.
Melissande entered his chamber without knocking, but he didn’t even glance up, though a smile played on his lips.
Water droplets clung to his powerful chest as he casually turned the page.
“You’re actually reading it?” she grumbled.
He looked up, his brow arched. “You were absolutely right. I have a tremendous amount to learn from this book.”
“Stop.” She advanced on him, half-laughing, half-horrified.
“She is an excellent writer, your great-grandmother. No hot pokers in her prose. Listen to this passage: ‘He spread her before him like a feast—’”
She lunged for the book with a strangled protest.
He caught her wrist and tugged her off balance, toppling her into the bath fully clothed.
She let out a yelp and laughed as she tumbled against his warm, wet chest, her skirts sinking into the bathwater.
His lips found hers in an urgent kiss. Her hair fell loose from its style, and her day dress became drenched, but she didn’t mind.
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.
* * *
Thirty-Eight Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart
Melissande’s dress was damp from the rain as she climbed back into their carriage after leaving Monsieur Laurent’s house. It clung to her form, accentuating her curves and making Rivendale’s mouth water.
“How did the negotiation proceed?” he asked as she settled beside him, rainwater dripping from her bonnet.
“Perfectly.” She grinned and opened her palm to reveal the ruby ring. “One expensive painting, a bit of groveling, and some flirting in exchange for a family heirloom.”
He shook his head, his lips pursed. She had insisted that he not accompany her inside, and he understood why. Had she flirted in his presence and Monsieur Laurent responded, he might have ended up biting the man’s nose off. “A high price for an item you insist you won’t keep.”
She shrugged. “Not having it on my finger these past weeks made me realize how foreign it always felt. It never belonged to me because it was never mine. I’ll return it to Wakefield when we reach England.”
When we reach England.
The thought weighed on him like a stone. The journey back home was inevitable. And it would most likely mark the end of their liaison.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing the shift in his mood.
Rivendale decided they needed levity instead of his grim thoughts. “I was contemplating one of the techniques from your great-grandmother’s book. Something we might attempt once we return to our rooms—”
She buried her face in her gloved hands. “I am burning that book as soon as we get to our chambers.”
He leaned closer, whispering in her ear, “Not until I complete my education. Besides, you’ll be reaping all the benefits of my acquired knowledge.”
* * *
Thirty-Four Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart
Slick with sweat and gasping for breath, Melissande leaned against Rivendale’s chest. “That,” she panted, “was incredible.”
He smiled lazily and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “You can thank your great-grandmother’s wonderfully detailed instructions for that.”
Melissande groaned and pulled the sheet over her head. “If you mention her again, I swear I’ll never kiss you again.”
He playfully yanked the sheet away and kissed her deeply. “Wait until you find out what else I learned from chapter seven.”
* * *
Thirty days to win the marquess’s heart.
The past few days had been a compilation of moments of pure bliss that Melissande never wanted to end.
But everything must come to an end, including this journey.
She knew that.
Yet, she struggled to accept it, even as she stared at the note that confirmed her fears.
Found it. The locket is with me. Returning to England.
Theo.
Letters blurring before her eyes, Melissande crumpled the note in her gloved hand and tossed it into the fire.
It was over. Rivendale’s quest had been fulfilled, even if he didn’t know that.
He also did not realize that the entire trip had been unnecessary. Melissande had drawn him into this journey for her own nefarious purposes, which no longer mattered.
They no longer needed to attend the auction—in fact, they never needed to go at all. Yet she had convinced herself there was a chance she could have been wrong, that she might have found Rivendale’s locket in Calais, despite it all being a deception from the start.
Now, she no longer had even that sliver of deniability.
She could not indulge in “what if” scenarios, nor could she hope for a different outcome.
The locket was with Theo, on its way to England.
And they should be, too.
“Are you ready?” Rivendale peeked into her chamber, looking handsome in all black, save for a crisp white shirt and cravat.
She nodded. “Yes.”
But we don’t need to go anywhere. I’ve found your locket.
She should have said that, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to voice those words.
Just one more night, she told herself. One night to bloom, and then she could reveal the truth and watch their connection wither away.
* * *
Rivendale had felt a strange tension all evening, like the peculiar hush before a storm.
He couldn’t determine if it stemmed from Melissande’s somber mood, from the knowledge that this auction represented their last chance to find his locket, or from the simple fact that what came after tonight remained entirely unknown.
It was the same dread he remembered from Sunday evenings before school. The same feeling of a crisp, cool breeze in late summer that signaled winter’s approach. The same stillness of early morning, just before the household stirred to life.
The beginning of an end.
And when he looked at Melissande now, he felt the same melancholy.
Melissande wore a dark green gown that complemented her emerald-green eyes. Her hair was swept up in an elegant coiffure, two rebellious curls framing her face.
Rivendale stole every moment he could to study her profile in the candlelight, cataloging the curve of her neck, the fullness of her lips, the deep thoughtfulness in her eyes. He was memorizing her, he realized, storing these details away for a future when she might no longer be beside him.
In the stillness of the auction room, his mind worked furiously on the problem of how to keep Melissande in his life beyond this Continental interlude.
Surely they could continue their liaison in London. There was no reason their arrangement had to end simply because they were back on English soil. They could maintain their romance for as long as they both desired it.
But that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Desire.
Melissande had numerous suitors—men of wealth and standing who pursued her constantly. What made him think she would choose to continue with him—a crippled marquess who couldn’t even dance with her at a ball—when she could have any man she wanted at any time?
Still, he had to try. If he didn’t at least attempt to secure more time with her, he would spend the rest of his life regretting his cowardice.
But what could he offer her that no other man could provide?
Aside from lovemaking—something she could find elsewhere with far less complication—what did he, specifically, bring to her life that was irreplaceable?
Love , his heart whispered with desperate hope.
He nearly choked on the wine he’d been sipping.
That only worked if she felt the same way about him. If this was merely a convenient arrangement for her, a pleasant way to pass time in France, then declarations of love would only embarrass them both.
Wait .