Page 40 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

O ne day to win a marquess’s heart.

The ballroom was as suffocating as Rivendale had anticipated.

He had tried to refuse Arthur’s—the Marquess of Wakefield’s—invitation three times before finally capitulating to his friend’s relentless insistence that hiding only made the scandal fester.

Arthur believed that facing society head-on was the only way to prove Rivendale wasn’t crushed by recent events, that there were still plenty of respectable women willing to overlook the embarrassing wager fiasco involving the notorious Melissande Monroe, who just happened to be Arthur’s half-sister.

Rivendale supposed Arthur felt some guilt about the entire situation; if not for him, Rivendale would have never had a reason to go to France with Melissande.

But none of Arthur’s reasons truly mattered to him. He didn’t care about scandal, nor did he want any other woman.

The silence in his London house had become unbearable, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw Melissande’s laughing face.

He needed a distraction. So, he came to this ball.

And immediately regretted it.

The stares began the moment he entered—some pitying, others openly curious, a few gleefully scandalized. Conversations paused mid-sentence as he navigated his chair through the crowd. Whispers followed in his wake.

Poor Lord Rivendale. Taken in by that awful woman. A wager—can you imagine? How humiliating.

Rivendale positioned himself near the terrace doors, already calculating the least conspicuous route for a hasty retreat when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

He turned, already dreading the thought of engaging in a meaningless polite conversation, while all these people wanted to know were the sordid details of his liaison with Melissande.

Instead, Melissande herself stood before him.

She wore emerald silk that brought out the green in her dark eyes, her hair swept up in an elegant style that left her neck bare. She looked both defiant and terrified, her chin raised but her hands trembling slightly.

“How—” He couldn’t form a complete sentence. “Why are you here?”

“Wakefield owed me a favor,” she said quietly. “I asked him to arrange this meeting.”

“You could have come to my house.” His voice came out rough and brittle. “We could have had a private conversation.”

“I embarrassed you publicly.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “It seems only fair that I get to explain myself the same way. Dance with me.”

He let out a huff. “I cannot dance.”

“Then sway with me. But you can’t refuse—that will cause an even bigger scandal.” There was a hint of humor in her dark eyes, though her expression remained serious.

Against his better judgment—against every instinct screaming at him to protect what remained of his dignity—Rivendale allowed her to guide him to the center of the dance floor, where they would not disturb other couples. Instead, they twirled around them.

He rolled into the center in his chair, then stood and took Melissande in his arms.

They swayed gently, side to side, making no attempt to match the elaborate footwork of the waltz.

The whispers intensified. He could feel dozens of eyes boring into them.

“It started with the wager,” Melissande said quietly, her gaze fixed on his cravat. “I won’t lie about that. But I gave it up long before the end.”

“How long before?” His jaw was tight.

“What do you mean?”

“What actions did you take during the wager?” He kept his voice level with effort. “Which parts were manipulation and which were genuine?”

She swallowed hard, and he watched her throat work. When she met his eyes, he saw raw honesty—and shame.

“The locket. I sent Theo to retrieve it weeks before Calais. I knew it was in Paris all along. We never needed to go.”

Rivendale closed his eyes against the pain. “I see.” So everything leading up to that was a farce.

His hands tightened on her waist. “What about the first night we made love?”

She faltered, stumbling slightly. He steadied her automatically, hating that his body still responded to her presence, still wanted to protect her even as she confessed to using him.

“I came to your room with the intention of seducing you,” she said. “But Nathaniel, I would never have gone through with any of it if I truly didn’t want you. For myself.”

He released her abruptly, stepping back. They stood motionless in the middle of the dance floor while couples swirled around them.

“And why are you here now?” he asked, his voice raw. “What are your intentions this time?”

“To tell you—” She drew a shaky breath. “To tell you that I love you.”

The music stopped.

In the sudden silence, her words echoed through the entire ballroom. Conversations ceased. Every head turned toward them.

Melissande’s face went pale, but she didn’t look away from him. Instead, she raised her voice to carry clearly through the hushed room.

“I want to marry you, Rivendale. It will mean a terrible scandal—worse than anything we’ve faced so far. It will mean losing my name and handing you control of my fortune. But none of it matters without you.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I love you.”

The silence was deafening, save for the buzzing in his ears.

Rivendale stared at her—this impossible woman who had turned his life upside down, who had lied and manipulated and somehow still managed to become the most precious thing in his world. He could see genuine fear in her eyes now, vulnerability she rarely showed anyone.

She had proposed to him. In front of the entire ton . Risking everything she’d built, offering him everything she had, with no guarantee he wouldn’t use her in the cruelest possible way.

“I lived my entire life for scandal,” she said. “But this will be the last one I cause as long as you’ll have me. I will be the most proper marchioness there ever was.”

He swallowed. “Then it wouldn’t be you.”

She jolted; for the first time since their journey to France, a light danced in her eyes. She felt hope, he realized.

Rivendale let out a breath. “If I were to forgive you,” he said, a smile starting to tug at her lips. “You will lose everything. Your name. Your wealth. It will all become mine.”

“No, it won’t,” she said with a smile. “If you were some other man, perhaps. But with you, I won’t lose my identity; I will gain another.

I will still be Melissande Monroe, the scandalous heiress, only I will also be a marchioness and the Marquess of Rivendale’s wife.

I will be yours. And I trust you to keep me safe.

Therefore, I trust you to keep everything I own safe as well. ”

“Then yes,” a side of his mouth kicked up in a smile.

Melissande blinked, the ballroom finally rousing from shock, whispers traveling throughout the room.

“Yes,” he repeated, louder this time. “I want to marry you.”

She let out a little yelp and rushed into his arms.

He pulled her closer, dipped his head, and kissed her lips.

The ballroom erupted—gasps of shock, scattered applause, furious whispers, and a few delighted cackles.

Rivendale didn’t care. Let them talk. Let the scandal follow him around.

After all, he was marrying the most scandalous woman in London. He would have to get used to it.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Melissande pressed her forehead to his.

He swallowed and looked deeply into her eyes. “What about a child?”

She blinked. “Hm?”

“Are you with child?”

“Oh.” Her face turned red. “No. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” He raised a brow.

She smiled. “I realized in our time apart that… I would love to have a few babies who look like you.”

He let out a laugh, realizing he hadn’t heard the joyous sound since their separation. “I’d rather they look like you.”

She grinned and looked around the scandalized ballroom. “How about we leave and start working on that?”

Rivendale smiled, nodded, then took her into his arms and toppled back into his chair.

The end