Page 8 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

M elissande hadn’t expected to be admitted to Rivendale’s home.

She had prepared to fight her way in with charm, bravado, and feigned ignorance.

She was rehearsing speeches while sitting in the carriage with a potted plant on her lap, crafting arguments to persuade the servants who undoubtedly guarded their reclusive master.

And yet, the butler—a tall, thin, pale man with a long, pointed nose—did not so much as blink before executing a precise bow and stepping aside.

Melissande, ready to barge into the house without invitation, paused in confusion.

He did not inquire about her business or even question her presence. He simply stepped aside, glanced at the potted cereus with what seemed like a smirk, and murmured, “If you’ll follow me, Miss Monroe.”

The lack of resistance puzzled her.

The last time—and the first time—she had seen this man, he had looked barely animate. He had been the color of the marble floor, drained of vitality, his features even, with no emotion in his eyes.

Now, though, something seemed different about his demeanor.

A flicker of life shone in his eyes, and for a moment, she wondered if it was just the sunlight bringing warmth to his dark irises.

After all, the last time they’d met, a storm had raged outside, and the candle had gone out the moment she entered.

Or perhaps, she thought with a flutter of hope that she tried to suppress, he was simply glad to see her. Rivendale seemed like a recluse, and she imagined not many visitors came to his sickbed.

No matter how surly and rude he was, she imagined the servants might have felt sympathy for him. Or perhaps it was precisely because of his rudeness that they were relieved to see someone else deal with him for a while.

As they moved through the house, she realized the butler was not leading her upstairs to what she assumed would be the bedchambers. If Rivendale were badly injured, surely he’d be in his bed?

Instead, they proceeded down the main corridor to the right, past the formal drawing room with its shrouded furniture, past the grand staircase, and along the long, dark corridor toward the rear of the house.

Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the smooth ceramic pot in her hands, her palms growing damp within her kid gloves. Where was he leading her?

The house was quiet— too quiet —so that only their footsteps echoed in the corridor. Accustomed to the constant bustle of Hades’ Hell, Melissande couldn’t imagine living in a state of complete silence.

The butler paused before a heavy oak door and knocked twice.

“Come,” a harsh, low voice growled from within, sending a shiver through Melissande.

She straightened her spine. Do not cower, you fool.

The butler opened the door and announced, “Miss Melissande Monroe.”

Stepping into the room, Melissande frowned.

It wasn’t the sickroom she had expected. It was a study.

The room was large, much larger than her office, lined floor to ceiling with books in leather bindings. A hearth stood across the room, a smoldering fire dancing within. Although there was a window, not enough sunlight filtered inside to illuminate the spacious area properly.

And there, behind an enormous mahogany desk that dominated the center of the room, sat the Marquess of Rivendale himself.

Surrounded by ledgers, parchment, and a half-drunk cup of something steaming, he raised his gaze from the papers he’d been perusing before her interruption.

A pair of spectacles rested halfway down his aristocratic nose, lending him an unexpectedly scholarly air.

His dark hair was disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through it multiple times during the day.

He was very much not confined to a sickbed.

He was working!

And she had spent three long days and nights wracked with guilt and twisted with worry, imagining him lying in bed with a broken leg and shaking with fever.

Instead, he looked well. Better than well, if she were being honest. He looked vital, alert, and… annoyed at her visit.

“Not you again,” he said on a sigh.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said brightly, ignoring the frigid greeting if one could even call it that.

It was a gentlemanly thing to stand when a lady entered the room.

Of course, he didn’t consider her a lady, but he hadn’t even attempted to stand.

She had expected his gentlemanly manners to at least jolt him for a moment. Alas, he was rooted to his chair.

“What are you doing, and why the hell did Mr. Craig even allow you in?” He glanced behind her, as if expecting the butler to appear and defend his actions.

“The butler was very welcoming,” Melissande replied. “Unlike the host.”

“Might you consider that a sign you are, indeed, unwelcome?” he asked dryly.

Ignoring his rude question, Melissande approached his desk. “I brought you a gift.”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression settling into lines of weary resignation.

“If it’s an apology for your reckless behavior,” he said with the patience of a man explaining something to a particularly slow child, “then please take it with you when you leave, because it will not be accepted.”

Why was he still so mad at her? He seemed neither injured nor sick. Yes, she had been reckless, but she couldn’t imagine this was his first fall off a horse, nor would it be the last.

Was his pride hurt because she’d witnessed his tumble? Was that why he was so dismissive? Was he trying to forget the embarrassing event?

Some aristocrats were so petulant, with egos larger than their common sense.

Melissande didn’t back down. If he was angry with her, at least it was a feeling. A strong feeling. And any feeling was better than indifference. In her eyes, that was progress.

“It’s not an apology,” she said, setting the ceramic pot down on his polished desk, positioning it carefully among his papers so he couldn’t ignore its presence.

The plant itself was unremarkable to look at—a collection of long, flat, prickly leaves joined at odd angles.

It was an utterly ordinary, supremely uninteresting botanical specimen.

That was precisely why she chose this plant, and not any other, as her offering.

“It is a get-well present, which I assume you don’t need since you seem to be in fine health. However, it could serve as a reminder of an enigmatic hellion who nearly killed you with her horse.”

He studied the offering without enthusiasm, his dark eyes moving over the plain terracotta pot and its equally plain contents with a look of disgust on his face as if she had offered him a piece of horse manure.

“I have no patience for flowers, Miss Monroe,” he said finally, his eyes still fixed on the simple plant.

“It’s a good thing, then,” she replied, settling into the leather chair across from his desk without waiting for an invitation, “that this particular specimen doesn’t flower. At least, I haven’t observed it to.”

The plant had been a gift almost three years ago from a botanist and wealthy collector of exotic plants who had lost a considerable sum at her tables and had attempted to curry favor with the unusual present.

“The Night-Blooming Cereus,” he had called it with theatrical flourish, and now Melissande wondered if it was perhaps misnamed.

Or perhaps the botanist had lied to her about what the flower was, because Melissande’s perfume was supposedly made from this rare, exotic flower.

Yet the scent coming from the plant resembled that of ordinary grass.

But it required minimal light, almost no care, and lived a long life. Or so she had been told.

After seeing Rivendale’s dwelling for the first time, Melissande concluded that his house would be a perfect home for this undemanding plant. More importantly, this plant reminded her of him.

Long-limbed, prickly, plain, but with something odd and curious about him that she couldn’t turn away from.

“My townhouse has precious little light,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the book-lined walls and heavy draperies. “Most plants require more illumination than I’m prepared to provide.”

“I noticed,” she said, allowing her gaze to sweep the room.

There were no plants in this study, and she supposed there were none anywhere else in the house.

But it wasn’t as though he would be the one required to take care of it.

His servants would. “This particular one thrives on darkness and…” Her eyes returned to meet his, and she smiled. “Neglect.”

A beat passed in silence as the marquess studied the plant while Melissande studied him.

He wore a well-tailored morning coat in deep blue that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, paired with a crisp white shirt open at the collar, with no cravat in sight, which made his olive complexion stand out.

He probably spent a lot of time outdoors, she mused. Shortly after the wager, she had learned as much information as she could find about the marquess, and everything she heard indicated that he had spent many years without setting foot in London.

That explained his tanned complexion, especially compared to his pasty counterparts who spent most of their days in gentlemen’s clubs, the House of Lords, ballrooms, and gaming hells—though any tan was in short supply in England.

“You seem well,” she observed.

He looked up at her sharply. “Why wouldn’t I be?” A frown creased his face, tension evident in his jaw.

“Because of your fall…” she replied slowly, surprised that he’d even questioned her. “You seemed to limp and struggled to get your leg over a horse. I was concerned you might have broken a foot or something else.”

His brow furrowed briefly, and she caught a flicker of something in his expression… Perhaps surprise or confusion? But it passed so quickly she might have imagined it, and when he spoke, his voice was perfectly controlled.

“As you can see, I am quite intact. Though if I had landed less fortunately, I could have broken my neck.”

Melissande flinched inwardly but forced her features to remain calm. “Oh, come now, my lord, you’re an accomplished rider. I am certain I couldn’t have caused any real harm.”

“Is that why you came here with your wilting flower, to tell me that I was unharmed?”

Melissande shot to her feet. His tone bordered on hostility, and quite frankly, even if she had been careless, she didn’t deserve such rude treatment.

“I came here to apologize,” she said tightly, “although I do not believe I need to. What occurred that morning was an accident. I brought you a gift to cheer you up on your sickbed, although I can see that you’re in quite good health and quite possibly unable to experience any cheer in your life. ”

“Is that all?” he asked coolly.

“No, that is not all. As much as you try to treat me with disrespect because of the circumstances of my birth, I’d say your ungentlemanly behavior reflects more upon your manners than upon me.

I tried to be welcoming and polite, my lord ,” she put undue emphasis on his honorific, “but I see that you are undeserving of my efforts.”

“Finally,” the marquess said, leaning back in his chair, “something we both agree on. Now, would you like me to call my butler to show you out of my house, or can you find your own way?”

Melissande couldn’t believe the rudeness of the man.

More importantly, she couldn’t believe that she had even considered withdrawing from the wager because she was afraid she’d gone too far, that she thought this conceited beast of a man didn’t deserve the humiliation that came with her wager.

Oh, he deserved it!

And more.

He deserved to stand before her on his knees, groveling in front of a curious crowd. And she would make sure to get exactly that.

She turned on her heel and stalked away.