Page 4 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

S eventy-eight Days to Win the Marquess’s Heart…

Morning rides were Rivendale’s favorite activity of the day, perhaps even of his entire existence.

He loved being outdoors, breathing in the fresh air, and enjoying the scenery. He cherished the exercise and relished his independence from his servants, his bath chair, and his cane.

More importantly, he loved feeling just like everyone else.

Normal.

With the leather straps securing his thigh to keep his right leg locked in place, the stirrup adjusted just so, and the saddle custom-built to hold his cursed body in position, he could ride in a crowded park without standing out.

But the years of solitary existence had made it difficult for him to venture out among the crowds. Neither he nor his horse was accustomed to bustling streets; they both preferred solitude.

And he still hadn’t fully regained his strength after the long journey from his Northern estate to London.

He didn’t want to risk a cramp during one of his outings, especially without the ability to make a quick and stealthy escape.

The only reason he had come to London was to find the locket that had been stolen from him years ago. He had people looking for it, hunting down the thief right at this moment. And once he found it, he could retire back in his estate…

That’s all he wanted.

Right?

Rivendale had to question his own motives because, in the last few weeks, other goals and ideas had come to the forefront of his mind.

His recent trip to visit his younger brother, who had already managed to sire three children with a fourth on the way in just five years of marriage, had awakened a yearning in his chest. For a family of his own.

For a supportive wife. Children. Laughter filling his home.

Or, if not a family, then at least a connection.

Companionship.

The way his brother looked at his wife, the way they seemed to communicate without words and share jokes that only they understood, was rather endearing, even if annoying.

Rivendale decided he wanted that.

He knew love matches were few and far between, so he wasn’t fanciful enough to believe he would find it.

But he knew he could make a beneficial match for both parties.

Instead of seeking a mutually advantageous match with someone who just wanted to be a marchioness, he could marry someone who was ruined, perhaps, or destitute, or on the shelf.

They could save each other from loneliness and build a family of their own.

He wasn’t seeking pity as the foundation of their union, though. He hoped for more than that. If not love and passion, then at least friendship.

There was bound to be a woman who could overlook his deficiencies, look past his physical appearance and appreciate him for who he was within. Granted, he did not have much to offer to such a woman.

He was surly, temperamental, often irritable, and unrefined.

He would be generous to her…

Was that it? Were his title and wealth truly all he could offer?

Sometimes, on crisp, fresh mornings during long, pleasant rides, when he was in a good mood and not as jaded as later in the day, he remembered a woman who had overlooked all that.

She had not been disgusted by him and even claimed to love him.

Was there a possibility that another woman like her could exist?

And could she be among the ton ?

Of course, to find her, he’d need to actually appear among the ton .

If not at the ball, then at least during a musicale or a stroll in Hyde Park.

He would have to endure the stares, tolerate the questions about his long absence and eventual return, and fend off the attempts of desperate matchmaking mamas whose sole purpose in life was to make their daughters into marchionesses.

While finding a marchioness was indeed his goal, most importantly, he hoped to find a genuine soul—someone who wouldn’t run away from him screaming on the night of their wedding.

His leg gave a dull ache, muscles spasming, and he gritted his teeth.

Perhaps it would be easier to acquire a mistress instead. That way, there’d be no risk of birthing heirs who might turn out exactly like him.

But it didn’t seem any easier to find a genuine connection with someone of a lower station. A mistress could easily pretend affection to get what she wanted, only to silently lament her poor fortune at having to bed a cripple.

His stallion, Knight, snorted and shifted beneath him, sensing Rivendale’s restless mood. Knight was often attuned to his master’s feelings. Young and temperamental, he was also skittish—another reason why Rivendale preferred solitary outings.

Rivendale patted Knight’s dark mane.

“I agree,” he said in a low, contemplative voice. “We should be heading back.”

A dull ache was beginning to pulse in his leg. Lost in thought, he had already overdone his morning exercise.

I am supposed to be recovering from a long journey, not injuring myself further.

Rivendale urged Knight from a trot into a canter.

The prospect of finding a bride seemed daunting.

Although for the last few days, he hadn’t been able to shake the vision of a woman who didn’t meet any of his requirements. She wasn’t a damsel in distress. She wasn’t in need of saving, and her fortune probably exceeded his. She certainly wasn’t looking to marry.

Miss Melissande Monroe.

After she’d unceremoniously burst into his house and invited him into her chaotic world, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.

She was bold, full of spirit and self-confidence. Self-sufficient, scandalous, and outspoken, she would be the kind of woman to turn his quiet, ordered life upside down.

Rivendale hissed from a sudden cramp in his right leg. He slowed his mount and undid the strap. He groaned in frustration, slowly rubbing his thigh, forcing more blood flow down his leg.

No, Miss Monroe would not be interested in a man like him.

He let out a frustrated sigh, exasperated with himself and his own thoughts. She was absolutely wrong for him. She was loud, audacious, and uncouth. She was not fit to be a marchioness.

And she would certainly not be satisfied with being his mistress.

Would she be open to a brief liaison?

He wrinkled his nose. Was that what he was even looking for?

He raised his head just in time to spot a solitary figure on horseback ahead, moving toward him at an unhurried pace.

Oh, great, just what he needed. Another rider.

The ache in his calf intensified, causing him to stiffen.

The moment the rider drew closer, he immediately recognized her.

Miss Melissande Monroe.

His heart leapt in his chest.

She slowed her pace as she saw him, and as she drew nearer, she threw back the hood of her cloak, allowing her raven-black hair to fall in messy locks onto her shoulders.

She smiled, her green eyes glinting in the morning light.

He couldn’t imagine the proprietress of a gaming hell being the type of person to ride in the mornings. He had always envisioned her as a creature of the night. Yet here she was, riding toward him with a wide smile on her face.

Was this just a coincidence? Or was she seeking him out?

What a fanciful thought. There was no reason for her to do so.

But he was glad to see her, damn it all. Glad, despite every logical reason to feel otherwise. His pulse quickened at her approach, his body responding to her presence with an eagerness that infuriated him. He was reacting to the mere sight of her like a lovesick schoolboy.

The conflicting emotions—annoyance at her intrusion, pleasure at her presence, and fury at his own weakness—crashed together in his chest.

“Lord Rivendale,” she called, inclining her head. “What a pleasure.”

“Miss Monroe,” he greeted through gritted teeth.

“What an extraordinary coincidence, my lord,” she said, turning her horse to face the same direction he was facing.

Was she planning to ride alongside him? As if in answer to his thoughts, she nudged her horse slowly to a trot, and he was obliged to follow.

“Is it,” he replied coolly, “or is this another attempt to lure me into your hell?”

She sputtered a laugh. “Please, my lord. You truly do not think I am so desperate for patrons? If you did come to my establishment, you’d quickly notice that we are not starved for clients.”

“Is that so?” He looked up at the sky, trying to ascertain the time.

He would have reached into his pocket for his timepiece, but it seemed like it would require extraordinary effort at the moment.

“Because if that’s true, I would expect you to be resting at home at this hour of the morning, sleeping after a hard night’s work. ”

She lifted her shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Are you surprised to see me during daylight?”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps.”

Her smile turned sensual. “Oh, I am full of surprises.”

“I do not doubt it,” he muttered under his breath, then urged his stallion forward, hoping to leave her before his treacherous body betrayed him further. The morning air suddenly felt too thin. “If you’ll excuse me, I intend to finish my ride.”

“Another coincidence!” she exclaimed merrily. “Me too, and I am headed the same way.”

“Indeed.” He was beginning to think this meeting was not a coincidence at all and that she had something else planned. Whatever her plans were, he was too tired and in too much pain to tolerate her games. “I prefer riding alone.”

“How tragic,” she replied airily, bringing her mare alongside his. Her mount was a spirited chestnut that seemed to dance with barely contained energy. Much like its rider. “Allow me to remedy that solitary existence of yours.”

His grip on the reins tightened until his knuckles ached, the leather cutting into his gloves. Did she ever relent? Did she ever simply accept a dismissal and retreat like any sensible person would?

“I fail to see how your company would remedy anything,” he said, his voice sharp. “If anything, it seems to complicate matters considerably.”