Page 35 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

He paused mid-thought, his brow furrowing. Did he love her?

Was this burning sensation in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again actually love? Sweat covered his palms despite the coolness of the room; his throat felt inexplicably tight.

He wanted her. That much was obvious and had been from the very beginning.

He wished he could spend every waking hour in her presence, and when he didn’t, he thought about her constantly.

He was willing to overturn every aspect of his carefully ordered life if it would make her smile.

He enjoyed their verbal sparring, her teasing, the way she needled him about his stuffiness and excessive propriety.

He appreciated the quiet moments as much as the passionate ones—sitting together reading, walking through unfamiliar streets, breaking fast together, and having quiet morning conversations.

And he wanted to wake beside her every morning for the rest of his life.

But could she say the same about him? Or was he simply a temporary diversion, an amusing project to occupy her time abroad?

“Lot forty-seven, gentlemen and ladies. Do I hear two hundred?”

The auctioneer’s voice broke through his reverie. Rivendale exchanged a small smile with Melissande, who seemed engrossed in the auction’s proceedings.

Jewelry, artwork, decorative objects—all were presented, bid upon, and sold to eager collectors. But his locket never appeared on the auction block.

When the final lot had been sold and the crowd began to disperse, Melissande turned to him with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry your locket wasn’t here.”

“You had no way of knowing,” he answered, oddly content that the locket he was so eager to find was still missing.

For all he knew, it wasn’t even in France anymore. Melissande had insisted she was following a credible trail, and he trusted her completely. But truth be told, although he was still adamant about recovering his locket, he had found something far more precious.

Melissande.

And if keeping her in his life meant never finding the locket, he would be content with that. The memories that the locket represented would remain in his heart regardless of whether he possessed the physical object. But Melissande… She was real, tangible, irreplaceable.

They gathered their things and made their way toward the exit.

“Do you mind if we walk back to our lodgings?” Rivendale asked suddenly. “The evening is pleasant, and I find I’m not quite ready to return yet.”

The truth was more complicated. He didn’t want to make a spectacle of being lifted in and out of the carriage again. He wanted to walk—rather, roll—through the streets of Calais with Melissande beside him, savoring what might be one of their last evenings together.

“Of course,” she agreed readily.

Having dismissed the driver, they began walking in companionable silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

“Melissande,” he finally said, deciding to ask her the questions weighing on his mind.

“Yes?”

“When we return to England…” He paused, trying to find the right words for what he needed to say.

A sound behind them made him turn around. Footsteps?

Not a leisurely walk, but rather the hurried approach of people on a mission.

Three figures detached themselves from the shadows. Even in the dim light, the knives in their hands caught the weak glow of the moonlight.

“Your purse and jewels,” the tallest man demanded in rough French. “Quickly.”

Melissande’s reticule dangled from her wrist by its silk cord. “Take it,” she said immediately, her tone calm. She held it out toward them, but when the man reached for it, his hand shot past the small bag and clamped around her wrist, yanking her against his chest.

“Release her,” Rivendale commanded.

The thug grinned, revealing gaps where teeth should have been. “And what are you going to do, you lame cripple?”

Rivendale pulled the lever on his chair, lunging forward. The heavy wheel rolled directly onto the man’s boot, his full weight behind it.

With a scream, the man’s grip on Melissande loosened. She broke free, and Rivendale pulled out his walking stick and swung it into the thug’s knee. The man staggered, cursing viciously.

The second attacker darted in from the side, knife raised. Rivendale jerked the chair around and drove straight at him. The wheel slammed into the man’s shins with a sickening crack. He doubled over with a howl of pain.

When the third man approached Melissande, she had regained her composure. With a smooth motion, she withdrew the small muff pistol from her reticule and pressed the short barrel firmly against the hollow of the bandit’s throat.

“Come any closer,” she warned, “and I will paint this alley with your blood.”

The man froze completely. His eyes crossed slightly as he stared down at the pistol barrel. His companion, still hopping on one injured foot, swore in disbelief.

Melissande cocked her pistol with an audible click. “Gentlemen,” she said crisply, “unless you are particularly eager to have a new hole in your body, I strongly suggest you run. Now.”

The men shared a bewildered look before taking a hesitant step backward, then another.

“Well?” Rivendale asked, and with a muttered curse, they all bolted or hobbled down the alley.

Rivendale released a harsh breath once the men disappeared behind the corner. He turned to Melissande, his gaze roaming over her form. “Are you hurt?”

She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “No.”

“Are you certain?” His voice was edged with a panic he couldn’t quite suppress.

She nodded, though he could see a slight tremor in her hands. “Shaken, perhaps, but unharmed.”

Rivendale cursed under his breath. This was all his fault.

He was the one who had suggested a walk, who had wanted to spend an evening strolling through the streets of Calais.

And he hadn’t even been able to protect her.

If she hadn’t been carrying that pistol, if she hadn’t been so quick-thinking, this confrontation would have ended very differently.

All his old fears about his inadequacy came rushing back.

He was a cripple who couldn’t even keep her safe during a simple walk.

What made him think he could offer her any kind of life together?

She deserved a man who could dance with her, who could sweep her into his arms if danger threatened, who didn’t require a chair to navigate the world.

He closed his eyes briefly, forcing down the wave of self-loathing that threatened to overwhelm him. Now was not the time for recriminations.

“Let’s go,” he said roughly, reaching for her hand. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”