Page 37 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

T he fog of passion lifted slowly.

First, she heard the soft crackling of the fire inside the hearth. Then the creak of the chair floorboards beneath the wheels of Nathanial’s chair.

The scent of their sweat and passion intermingled with their perfume. Melissande took a deep breath, but beyond that, she was yet unable to move, remaining in Rivendale’s lap, her forehead resting against his shoulder.

His hands were warm on her waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the fabric of her bunched skirts.

And then a clear reason penetrated the fog completely.

The sponge.

Her entire body went rigid.

She hadn’t inserted the oil-soaked sponge before their love-making.

In the heat of their argument and her unbridled need for him, she had completely forgotten the single precaution that stood between her and disaster.

“Oh God.” The words escaped as barely more than a whisper.

“What is it?” Rivendale’s voice was thick and languid.

Melissande pulled away from him abruptly, nearly falling in her haste to dismount from his lap. She stumbled backward, her hands already working to straighten her disheveled clothing with shaking fingers.

What have I done?

She let herself get completely lost in passion to the point of not thinking about the consequences of her actions.

All her life she tried to run from her mother’s mistakes, and yet here she was. Following in her footsteps.

Except, her mother had been young and impressionable girl, seduced by a marquess when she’d made her mistake. What was Melissande’s excuse?

Passion?

The word seemed hollow.

She was a grown businesswoman who prided herself on control and intelligence. Yet she had just made the exact same mistake that had made her life infinitely more difficult.

“Melissande?” Rivendale’s tone shifted from sated to concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t—” She pressed her hands to her face, unable to look at him. “I forgot to use the sponge.”

A pause.

“I see.”

The flatness in his voice made her look up. His expression had shuttered completely, all the warmth from moments ago replaced by something cold and distant.

“You’re terrified of carrying my child.”

“Well, yes.” She couldn’t understand why he was getting upset. He wouldn’t be the one to carry the child along with the weight of disapproval from every corner.

“It’s understandable.” He started adjusting his own clothing, not meeting her eyes. “A cripple’s offspring might share his defects. Why risk it?”

Her jaw slacked. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

“Isn’t it?” His laugh was bitter. “You can barely look at me right now.”

“Because I might be with child!” The words burst from her, edged with panic she couldn’t contain.

“So what?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “So what? How can you say that so calmly?”

“Why wouldn’t I be calm?” He met her gaze steadily. “These things happen. People deal with it every day.”

“Deal with it?” Her voice came out strangled. “I can’t have a bastard child. I am a bastard. I know exactly what that life looks like.”

“Why would the child be a bastard?”

Melissande froze. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you’d never marry me? Or do you think me such a knave to never marry you?”

“Of course you wouldn’t marry me,” Melissande exclaimed. “You’re a marquess.”

“I wouldn’t?” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes suddenly blazing. “Or you hope I wouldn’t so you wouldn’t have to turn me down?”

“What are you talking about?” her mind was in complete chaos.

“I have proposed to a woman before. She was a commoner way below your station,” he clipped. “You know this.”

“Yes, and you said it was the right decision that she refused you.”

“It was the right decision—for her,” he said sharply. “But I still asked. The question is if I asked you right now, would you refuse me.”

The implications of his words were impossible to analyze, especially right now when her entire being screamed for her to run.

She couldn’t marry him. Not now, not ever. They didn’t belong.

And he knew that. Him putting the entire pressure on her seemed entirely unfair.

If they married, he would be shunned, yes. But he was already a recluse. He’d lose nothing except the weight of an opinion of people who never mattered to him anyway.

She, on the other hand, was going to lose everything. Her name, the Hades’ Hell, her fortune.

Her every step would be scrutinized as a new marchioness. Her children would be shunned, ignored, laughed at.

“I think that answers my question,” Rivendale said after a long moment.

“I didn’t say anything,” she said with exasperation.

“Exactly. Your silence tells me everything I need to know. You wouldn’t accept anything from me no matter what I offered. To have a cripple for a husband? Unthinkable.”

“Is that honestly what you think of me?” The accusation stung more from him than it would from anyone. She thought he knew her—saw her for who she really was beneath her bravado and the unbreakable facade.

“What else should I think?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You could think how complicated it is for a bastard, a woman born from a marquess and a commoner, to even contemplate a future of her possible child who would have the same parentage. How difficult it is to trust a word of a man from the world of a father who abandoned her. How impossible it would be to marry a titled lord, when everything I have I had to earn through grit and perseverance, and I would have to give it all up for the [benefit] of his name. Or how about wearing a mantle of a marchioness when I run a gaming hell and a brothel? Society would rip me apart like a pack of wolves. No, not me—but us —me and any child I might carry!”

He swallowed. “Right. I am a hindrance in your life, I see that.”

“Do you?” she whirled on him. “Because despite your righteous indignation, I don’t see you actually proposing, do I?”

“We don’t even know if you’re with child yet.”

She stilled. And his admission just confirmed her fears.

Perhaps, he was a better man than her father.

But not by much. He was ready to bear the consequences of his actions.

But beyond their brief liaison, he had no interest in her further.

He just used her body and her company when it benefited him.

But wasn’t I doing the same thing?

Her mind refused to think clearly and tears burned at the back of her eyes. From fear. []. Disappointment. Both in herself and the man she was beginning to fall for.

“No,” she agreed quietly. “We don’t.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room.

There was a long pause.

“Then I suppose we should wait to find out.” He reached for the lever of his chair and pulled, wheeling toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her throat dry.

“Away.” He paused at the threshold. “I think our adventure has come to a natural end, wouldn’t you say?”

She didn’t answer.

“When you find out whether you’re with child…” He paused and swallowed. “Let me know.”