Page 38 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

F ifteen days to win a marquess’s heart.

Melissande turned the locket over between her fingers for the hundredth time that day, watching firelight catch on the delicate gold filigree.

The locket was beautiful, three bright stones set in the golden frame.

She didn’t dare open it and look upon the miniature he’d searched for so long.

They had returned to London separately. He’d collected his belongings and departed the Calais house the very morning after their argument, leaving before she even left her bedroom.

He hadn’t even left her a note.

If it weren’t for Thomas and Roger appearing at her doorstep, followed by Mr. Wilson mumbling awkward goodbyes, she wouldn’t have known he was leaving at all.

What a coward .

No, a knave. An absolute cad, to simply disappear without a word after everything they’d shared.

Of course, it was she who had told him that marrying him would mean losing everything that ever mattered to her. That he wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

She hadn’t said it in exactly those words, but the implication had been clear enough.

But his parting words had cut just as deep. Our adventure has come to a natural end.

That was it, then. He didn’t want her anymore.

Perhaps he’d never truly wanted her to begin with. She’d practically forced him to spend time with her through her scheming. Pushed him into her bed through sheer proximity and opportunity. What man would refuse what was so freely offered?

The spiral of her thoughts was interrupted by a sharp knock.

She looked up to find Gareth filling her doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the light from the corridor.

“Come in, Gareth,” she said, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. “Is something the matter?”

He entered, Bear padding in behind him. The enormous dog immediately rounded the desk to place his great head on her knees, dark eyes begging for affection. Melissande obligingly scratched behind his ears.

“Theo says you’ve been skulking in the dark like a wraith all night again,” Gareth said without preamble, settling his bulk into the chair across from her desk.

Melissande scowled. “I am not skulking.”

“You’ve barely set foot on the gaming floor since you returned from France.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy the stench of cigars lately.

” It was true enough—her stomach had been unsettled for days, though whether from nerves or something more concerning, she couldn’t say.

And she didn’t want to be reminded that the last card game she’d played had been with Rivendale at her side.

“Mm-hmm.” Gareth’s rumbled low.

“What do you want me to say, Gareth?” She let out a long breath, continuing to pet Bear’s soft fur. “That I’m miserable?”

“I want the truth.”

Melissande grimaced. “I’m not certain I know what the truth is anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment, studying her with those perceptive eyes that knew her too well. “Do you believe you’re with child?”

She tensed, her hand stilling on Bear’s head. The dog whined softly.

“I… I don’t know. I could be. I’m too frightened to consult a physician, and it’s too early to be certain either way.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head.

“Why are you so afraid of the possibility?” Gareth’s voice was gentle, non-judgmental. “You’re a wealthy woman, Melys. You have a family who loves you, friends who would support you. Whatever you decide, any child of yours will have a wonderful life.”

She swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat. “I don’t want it to be a bastard.”

Gareth said nothing, simply waited with that infinite patience that made him such a good friend.

Melissande shifted uncomfortably in her chair, unable to meet his eyes. “We’ve been friends for a long time, haven’t we?”

“Aye, we have.”

“And you’ve offered, more than once, to marry me if I wished it.”

He nodded slowly. “Without question.”

She licked her lips, hating herself for even asking but unable to stop the words. “So if I were with child… another man’s child… would you still marry me?”

“To spare your child the stigma of being a bastard?” he prompted, his tone neutral.

Melissande nodded.

Gareth’s chuckle was wistful, sad even. “Aye. Without question. I’d marry you tomorrow if that’s what you wanted.”

Relief flooded through her for one brief moment. Then he continued, “But that’s not what you want.”

Her breath caught. “What do I want then?”

He leaned back in his chair, one corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing half-smile. “You want him.”

* * *

Fourteen days to win a marquess’s heart.

Rivendale had shut himself away in his London house for days. The journey from Calais had left him aching in every bone, but it was not the pain that kept him confined. It was the fear and uncertainty.

He couldn’t leave without finding out from Melissande whether she was with child or not. And he didn’t dare go to her and have a conversation he wanted—nay, needed—to have with her.

In the meantime, he simply suffered.

The bed was too wide. The townhouse too quiet.

The plant on his desk stood tall and bloomless, mocking him.

He told himself it was over. He told himself he was a fool for thinking otherwise.

He should have left already, and if Melissande wanted him she would let him know.

But after experiencing the happiness beside her that he had never experienced before, he felt reluctant to give up so easily.

He wanted to fight for her, except he felt completely worthless. There was nothing he could offer her that would outweigh the drawbacks that being with him would cause her.

“My lord,” his butler appeared at the door after his customary two knocks.

“Yes?”

“You have a visitor, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“A gentleman,” he said with a particular tone that said whoever the visitor was he wasn’t a gentleman at all. “By the name of Gareth Owens.”

The name was unfamiliar to him.

“Let him in,” he said.

The door opened, and in stepped a man Rivendale had never seen before.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark features, and at his side padded a massive black dog whose amber eyes glowed in the firelight.

The beast sat immediately when the man murmured a quiet command in what sounded like a Welsh language.

“Who the devil are you?” Rivendale barked.

The stranger’s voice was low, laced with a melodious accent. He was right, Welsh. “A friend of Melissande’s. Name’s Gareth.”

Rivendale nearly shot off his chair, but he forced himself to sit still, his knuckles white from gripping the arms of his chair.

Was she all right? Did she send this man to deliver the news about the possible child?

And did she have to send a man this large and menacing?

A man, no doubt, more than capable of protecting Melissande more than Rivendale ever could.

“How is she?” he asked.

Gareth stepped closer, his presence shrinking the room. “Not well.”

Rivendale shot up now, his high giving a dull ache. “Is she ill? Where is she? What happened?”

The man raised a brow, and reared back in surprise. The dog barked by his side. “She is not ill, although it is good to see that you actually care about her.”

“Of course, I care about her,” Rivendale growled. “Tell ma what happened? Is it the child?”

“No.”

The man’s answers infuriated Rivendale. “She is not with child?”

“That’s not why I am here..”

“Well, why are you here?” Rivendale growled. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that you left her, leaving her a wreck and now you sit here in your dark, musty corner, like a coward that you are.”

“A wreck?” The word left on a strangled breath. Rivendale settled back into a chair, his thigh pulsing. “She is the one who didn’t want me.”

“Is that what you believe?” The man’s lip curled. “I thought you toff’s were supposed to be smart?”

Rivendale had no will to get offended. “That’s what she told me. She said I would only be hindrance to her already perfect existence.”

“Right.” Gareth pursed his lips. “Perfect. Is that why she hasn’t been eating or sleeping ever since she came back from Calais? She buries herself in work, when she isn’t wallowing in self-pity.”

Rivendale’s pulse hammered. “Is she… with child?”

Gareth’s eyes narrowed. “Is that the only reason you’d marry her, you knave?”

“No!” Rivendale surged to his feet again, bracing against his desk. “I would take her, child or not. I would marry her tomorrow if I could. It’s she who doesn’t want me. She said—”

“She said it because of her history,” Gareth cut in.

“Because she was born of ruin and swore never to repeat it. Because the father that accepted her wasn’t the father responsible for her birth.

Because she was never accepted by the very people to whom you belong and you tossed her aside like them, proving her right. ”

“I haven’t tossed her aside.”

“Then what the hell are you still doing here?” he shouted.

Rivendale staggered back, breath ragged. Gareth was seething, his face red. His dog growled lightly by his side.

“You love her,” Rivendale realized.

“I do,” he admitted easily. The way Rivendale never could. “And you better gather your wits and do right by her. Or it won’t be words between us next time.” He leaned forward and dropped a rectangular box onto Rivendale’s desk.

Then he turned away and gave a sharp whistle. The dog rose, and they both left, leaving only the faint scent of wet dog and confusion in his wake.

Rivendale stood frozen for a long moment before he reached out and opened the box.

Inside, rested his long lost locket.