50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (16 page)

Oh my.

Oh goodness.

She hadn't expected the number of people there. She hadn't realized how high the steps were before descending into the ballroom. She hadn't thought everyone would gape at her like that. Or that she'd feel like a prancing bear dressed in feathers.

This was a mistake.

A horrible, ridiculous, stupid—

Trevor started climbing the stairs. She focused on him as she might have looked at a shield or a wall that she might hide behind. If she weren't frozen in place, she would have run to him like a child trying to crawl behind a rock.

But then he smiled at her. That familiar face. Charming. Freckled. With warm brown eyes that held her gaze. She'd once hated that face because it meant he was taking away her father and leaving her with Ronnie. And before that, he'd been the spoiled prince who tugged her hair before running off to chase frogs.

She had a history with this man and a shared secret, not to mention that solid, whimsical ring about her finger. This was Trevor, and when he smiled at her, she felt herself come alive. She felt her belly soften and her shoulders ease. She was no longer frozen in place, so she moved for him, meeting him two steps below the top.

He bowed to her as she curtsied. Not so easy on the steps when her knees were still stiff. But she managed it as he took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back. Well, that's what his mouth did. But what mattered was that he managed somehow to wink at her just as he was acting the most formal of greetings.

“My Cricket Princess,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

“My Bug-Eyed Duke,” she returned.

She thought it was too quiet for anyone else to hear, but she'd forgotten about the Redhill majordomo. Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught his start of surprise. He twisted slightly to look at her, and then recalled himself.

Trevor saw it too. His eyes danced with merriment as he gently set her hand on his arm. “Allow me to introduce you to our host and hostess.”

“Of course—”

“And it's Buggy Duke. Not Bug-Eyed.”

She giggled. She couldn't stop it. “I think your ring speaks for itself. Bug-eyed.”

“Oh blast. I knew I'd fashioned that thing wrong.”

He hadn't done anything like that. He was simply talking nonsense with her as they often did. And he was distracting her from the fact that the silence that greeted her appearance was now filled with the steady murmur of talk. Whispers, chatter, outright giggles.

They were laughing at her. Her father and uncle were right. She was a laughingstock. And yet, with a cricket ring on her finger and her duke at her side, she couldn't bring herself to care. Not at this moment. Not as she curtsied to the Earl of Redhill and his countess.

Helaine pressed a kiss to her cheek, whispering into her ear. “We've almost done it. Just keep a brave front for a bit longer.”

Mellie didn't have a chance to respond as Lord Redhill turned to the musicians and gave the nod. The opening notes were struck, and immediately the center of the ballroom appeared. People slid backward as if simply pushed away.

Lord Redhill took his wife's hand, then pulled her indecently close, and together they began to dance. Melinda would normally have wanted to watch. The couple moved so beautifully through the steps, but it was her turn now. And if she was a bit reluctant, Trevor seemed to be eager.

In one motion, he took her hand and slipped his other about her waist. A moment later, he had her on the dance floor. If he hadn't held her so securely, she likely would have stumbled, but he braced her. A few notes later, she was able to relax into the motions of the dance.

Of the waltz.

In his arms.

Sweet heaven, it was glorious.

In all the excitement of the preparations, she'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be held by him. To feel the grip of his fingers and the muscular bunch of his thighs. They weren't supposed to touch leg to leg, and they didn't for the most part. But even at a proper twelve inches apart—which truthfully, they weren't—she was still aware of the strength of his legs and the thrust of his steps. Forward. Backward. Sweeping her about the room until she began to smile from the sheer exhilaration of it.

“That's better,” he said as he smiled at her.

It took her a moment to realize that he meant her expression, not the motions of the dance. “Do I look terrified?”

“No. Do you feel terrified?”

“I did. I was.”

“And now?”

Now she wanted him to kiss her. Now she was thinking of brandy in her bedroom and the press of his body against hers. “Now I hope this dance will never end.”

He tightened his arms around her, drawing her even closer. She went easily, abandoning herself to the heat of his body as he moved them about the room. She found his rhythm, she matched his steps, and then she laughed. How had she lived this long without dancing? How had she ever preferred a book in her laboratory to spinning about a room in Trevor's arms?

He slowed. His steps faltered, and then they stopped. But he didn't stop staring at her. And she did not step away from his arms.

The music had ended. Some part of her was aware of this, but he was there, and she was so close to him that she knew when he breathed. When
they
breathed.

Her heart stuttered, her chest squeezed tight, and her breath caught.

Something was blooming inside her. Something tender and horrifying and powerful all at once. It was there, swelling in her though she was terrified at the change in her soul. She was a quiet girl. A country girl of science, and yet… And now…

She felt it burst through her consciousness like a blow to the head. Or perhaps a blow to her heart because that organ abruptly lurched inside her.

Love.

She was in love.

And while she stood there gaping at him, he turned his eyes to the crowd. It took some moments before she heard what he did, before she saw what absorbed his attention.

Clapping. The crowd was clapping.

Apparently, she was a success. Everyone was smiling at her, the newest sensation of the
ton
.

“That's done it,” Trevor said with pride.

“Done what?”

He extended his arm, ready to escort her to her position on the edge of the dancing floor. Already there were a dozen gentlemen lining up to greet her.

“You're a success. And now the real work begins.”

“What?” She stumbled slightly, but he held her safe. “What work? I thought this was the hard part. This launch that made me a sensation.”

“That was Eleanor's hard part. This is mine.”

She looked at him, too many conflicting emotions rioting inside her. She was still reeling from this burst of love. She had no understanding of what he meant.

“Trevor?”

He turned her, lifting her hand to press yet another kiss onto the back of her glove.

“The hard part,” he explained. “Helping you pick one of these gentlemen to be your husband.”

“Oh,” she said.
That
hard part.

“Don't worry. Just pay attention tonight, and let me know if you think you could love any one of them.”

And then before she could say anything—before she could burst into tears—he began to make introductions.

Women gamble with hearts. Men gamble with money, for they have no hearts with which to wager.

“And this is Lord…”
Tiny Prick.
“…Tullock. We were in school together.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Smithson.”

“And beside him is another old friend, Lord…”
Smells
like
Fish.
“…Lowes. He was a genius at Latin.”

“
Quam
pulchra
es!
That means—”

That
you
try
to
bugger
every
female
you
meet.

“That I am beautiful. I am well versed in Latin, Lord Lowes,” Mellie said with a smile. “
Blandiris
me
.”

“Not flattery at all, Miss Smithson.”

Trevor held his tongue while Lord Randy Bastard scrawled his name. Probably in Latin. And then he introduced the next pair of idiots.

“Do say that we can have the honor of a dance. Do you have any left?”

Do
you
mean
to
tup
her
together? Or just make her watch the two of you?

Trevor did his best to remain congenial, but as each man stepped forward to ogle his fiancée, his thoughts became cruder and crueler until he was appalled at himself. It was not like him to think such black thoughts, and yet the parade of men bowing over Mellie made him murderous. It wasn't logical. He knew that. Damnation, he was supposed to be pondering them as potential husbands for Mellie. But the very thought of someone else touching her turned him vile.

“So sorry. Her card's all filled. Try your luck with the dowagers.”

“At last, we finally meet!” cried a too high, too sweet voice.

Bloody hell. Gargantuanly bloody hellfire cocked damn. “Oh look,” he ground out. “It's my mother.”

Mellie turned, her expression sweet and open. And all he could think was: lamb to the slaughter.

“Darling,” he said in desperation. “I think this is my dance.” He grabbed her hand and started pulling, but she remained steadfastly where she was.

“I'm not dancing this set so I can meet your friends.”

“You've met them. They're all terrible people. Come along—”

“But it's in the middle of the dance.”

“We'll join late.”

“What…”

“Trevor!” cried his mother. Bloody hell. She said his name in that tone that shot ice down his spine. Part warning, part syrupy sweet. It was like the taste of spoiled fruit that was a little too strong before it made you gag. Or worse.

All his friends—the bloody traitors—backed away. His mother was well known in the
ton
, and no man young or old stayed around if they could avoid it. She was apt to force them to dance with a buck-toothed lackwit or do the pretty at her latest afternoon tea. Or
pay
for her next afternoon tea, which had been her recent campaign until his grandfather cut off all his money.

“Well hello, Mother,” he said dryly. “Fancy meeting you here.” It was a stupid thing to say. Of course she would be here. But some madness had made him block the idea from his brain until confronted with her face to face.

“Fancy meeting your fiancée at someone else's ball!” she cried. His mother always cried. In fact, she even whispered in exclamation points.

“I wasn't aware that you were hosting a ball this Season. Has that changed? What are your ideas this year?” It was his only hope: distract her with her plans, her ideas, her anything but him. Or Mellie.

Sadly, she wasn't completely stupid. And she'd set her sights on his fiancée.

“You are the most unnatural of sons! To think that I had to wait to meet this dear woman!” She reached out to Mellie. “Come, my dear, let us converse without—”

“Oh no!” Damnation, now she had him talking in dramatic accents. “Mother, Mellie and I are about to dance. You cannot drag her away now.”

“Drag her away? Drag her away! How you think!”

Which was a sure sign that she had absolutely intended to drag Mellie aside and eviscerate her somehow.

“Mother—”

“You must tell me, Miss Smithson, how you managed to trap my son! All the ladies—”

“Mother!”

His mother blinked innocently at him.

“She did not trap me. We are in love.”

She patted his cheek. Like he was still in short coats, she patted his cheek and then made it worse by leaning forward to kiss him. He couldn't back away without appearing completely obnoxious—not that he didn't consider it—but he knew his duty. He stood still as she condescended to him in front of the entire
ton
. Then when she finally straightened, she turned a dazzling smile on Mellie.

“Trevor has always been prone to wild flights of fancy.”

“Really?” Mellie interrupted. “I've found his mind to be extremely logical. His scientific papers are very sound, especially his Elementary Histological Study of Sheep—”

“Good God, don't say that in public!” his mother gasped.

Mellie looked taken aback, but no more than he. She'd read his paper? She thought it very sound? Damn, but she was a smart woman. Sadly, that had little impact on his mother.

“We should have met earlier,” his mother said with a dramatic sigh. “That way I could have educated you on polite discourse.”

Then the delightful Mellie tilted her head and looked politely confused. “Which word do you object to? Elementary? Sheep? Histological—”

“Don't say it!”

“—means relating to tissue.”

His mother puffed herself up as large as the woman could make herself, which given that she was of slightly above average height was merely…puffy. Then she deflated with an exhausted sigh. “My dear, if you are to be my daughter-in-law, I insist you come to me for lessons. Tomorrow afternoon. We need at least four days of education before Trevor's tea party.”

His mother then nodded as if that settled things, but Mellie simply frowned at him. “Are you having a tea party?”

He shook his head slowly, knowing better than to argue, but doomed to say the truth nonetheless. “I am not aware of a party.”

“Of course you aren't!” his mother cried, heaving her admittedly way above average bosom. “It's because you refuse to read my correspondence. I have been trying and trying to gain your attention since the announcement in the paper. And to think that is how you treat your own mother!” She turned to Mellie. “I must warn you now because your blessed mother cannot: if you wish to know how a man will treat you after you're married, just look to how he responds to his mother.” She pressed a handkerchief to her lip. “You are doomed, my dear. Doomed to a forgotten and neglected—”

“I should be happy to attend Trevor's tea party,” Mellie said, smiling up at him.

Oh damn. Not the thing to say, but she didn't know that. Because his mother would take that one small admission and run with it until it spiraled out of control. “Er, Mellie—”

“Excellent!” his mother cried, clapping her hands. “Thursday afternoon. All the important people already know, but invitations will be sent tomorrow. It will be so much fun! Really, the event of the season. I think I shall set my butler to catching crickets in your honor.”

“God, Mother—” Trevor began, but the woman just kept talking.

“Come tomorrow precisely at two. Invitations and the like don't write themselves. And we must discuss your dress. I'm sure feathers are all the rage in Russia, but we can't have you trailing the things around. The dogs will eat them and then…”

“No,” Mellie said. She had yet to learn that his mother appeared to be deaf to that particular word.

“Don't worry, my dear. I'll make sure you understand everything you need to know about society—”

“No, regarding your dogs.”

Trevor had learned early to just let his mother ramble on and then mitigate the disaster afterward. It was the best he could manage. Except with one word—a word his mother was an expert at ignoring—Mellie had managed to completely thwart his mother's conversation.

“No dogs?”

“No feathers. With dogs. The two make a vile and rather explosive combination.”

His mother blinked, but she'd been in society a long time. She wasn't one to be thrown off track easily. “That's exactly what I was saying,” she said.

“And you are most correct. I wouldn't risk harming your dogs. But I promise to be there at the party, assuming Trevor sends me an invitation.” She smiled sweetly up at him.

“I have terrible penmanship,” he said solemnly. “My mother tells me so frequently.”

“So no invitation?” she asked.

“Not from me.”

“Ah.” She turned back to his mother whose mouth was hanging open in shock. “I'm so sorry, Lady Hurst. The tea party was such a fun idea.”

And then finally—like a miracle from heaven—the next set was forming. He didn't care which blackguard had scrawled his name on her card. Trevor was going to take the excuse to leave the conversation.

He grabbed her hand and set it firmly on his arm. “Our dance, my dear.”

“Really? I thought—”

“It is,” he interrupted. Then he took her hand and walked as fast as he could manage. His mother took a step after them, but she knew better than to appear like she was chasing them. Which she would be. And then…escape! A miracle, and all due to Mellie. “I could kiss you right now,” he murmured into her ear.

“Even I know that would be improper.”

“I've never seen anyone get the better of my mother like that. Never! And I've been trying for years.”

“That's because you are too honorable to circumvent her,” she said. And for a moment, he wondered if she meant it as a compliment.

“Well, not in public,” he finally admitted.

“Exactly.”

They took their positions in the country dance, side by side with their hands linked. “It won't last, you know. Right now, she is plotting how to get her tea party.”

She shrugged, and his attention was pulled to the shift and pull of the features across her bosom. Damn, but it was the most distracting gown. “I know. In truth Eleanor heard about the tea days ago, so we have already planned for it.”

“You did?”

“Of course. But I had no wish to become your mother's secretary and no time either. Eleanor has me scheduled from dawn until …well, dawn.”

“But…did Eleanor warn you about my mother?”

“Goodness,
everyone
has warned me about your mother. She is famous as a managing woman.”

Very true. “Then you don't mind?”

“The tea? Not at all. Though it was rather bad of you not to introduce us earlier. She's right about that.”

He frowned. “I was trying to save you from her.”

“She's your mother. She's due a little courtesy.”

He took a moment to absorb that, and realized to his horror that his mother had somehow won again. Because no matter what conversation he had with her, no matter that Mellie neatly put her in her place regarding the invitations, he had once again ended up in the wrong. And, apparently, he was going to a damned tea as well.

“Have I just been managed?” he mused, not at all pleased by the thought. Surprisingly, he was not horrified either. It might be fun to watch Mellie and his mother fence with one another. He'd thought his fiancée akin to a lamb to the slaughter, but she'd just proved she had teeth of her own. Just so long as he could watch from afar. From very, very far away.

“So you'll let her have her tea?” Mellie asked.

“If you want it.”

“I think it's only polite.”

It would be a nightmare, but she didn't realize that yet. Fortunately, he would be at her side the entire time and could protect her. Or so he planned as the steps of the dance began.

Then there was little time to talk as they skipped and hopped through the patterns of the dance. She moved easily, neither the worst nor the best dancer he'd ever been partnered with. But what made this moment so much more delightful was the way she seemed to relish dancing. She enjoyed a pattern that had become routine to him. She smiled brightly at him, she laughed happily when one lady was particularly dashing, and she held his hand and looked at him as if he had given her the moon.

And he wanted to. He wanted to give her the sun, moon, and stars and anything else her heart might desire. He wanted to swing her around and pull her into his arms, then kiss her senseless. And after he laid her down in a bed of silk sheets, showered her with jewels, and made her come a thousand times? Then he would sink into her and find such bliss between her thighs that—

The dance came to an end. The dance ended, and she was looking at him with a furrow between her eyes. He swallowed, forcibly bringing his mind back to the present. Then he bowed in his most respectful fashion before leading her to the edge of the ballroom where every male in London was standing and waiting for her.

“They are waiting for their time with you,” he said, his voice tight. It was an effort of will to keep his hands from becoming fists.

“Should I refuse them?”

“No,” he forced himself to say. He saw Eleanor standing nearby. He had no idea where she'd been during that blighted conversation with his mother, but she was here now, entertaining the men while they all waited for Mellie.

He turned to Mellie, choosing the brutal truth for the first time in a long time. “I cannot watch you dance with them.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry, Mellie, but they are thinking things that make me want to run them through with a sword.”

She blinked at him. “Do you even own a sword?”