To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)(3)

What she had just proposed was ridiculous. Lord Vale was a wealthy man. A titled man. A man in the prime of his life. In short, a man who could have his pick of simpering girls, both younger and more beautiful than she. Even if he had just been left at the altar for a penniless curate.

So Melisande braced herself for laughter, scorn, or—worst of all—pity.

Instead, Lord Vale simply looked at her. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. His beautiful blue eyes were a trifle bloodshot, and from the way he’d been holding his head when she entered the room, leded the she suspected that he might have overcelebrated his impending nuptials the night before.

He lounged in his chair, his long muscular legs sprawled before him, taking up much more space than he should. He stared at her with those shockingly bright green-blue eyes. They were luminescent—even whilst bloodshot—but they were the only thing about him that could be called lovely. His face was long, creased with deep lines around the eyes and mouth. His nose was long, too, as well as overlarge. His eyelids drooped at the corners as if he were perpetually sleepy. And his hair . . . actually, his hair was rather nice, curly and thick, and a lovely reddish brown color. It would’ve looked boyish, perhaps even effeminate, on any other man.

She’d nearly not come to his wedding today. Mary was a distant cousin, one she’d spoken to only once or twice in her life. But Gertrude, Melisande’s sister-in-law, had felt ill this morning and insisted that Melisande come to represent their branch of the family. So here she was, having just made the most reckless move of her life.

How odd fate was.

Finally, Lord Vale stirred. He rubbed a large bony hand down his face and then looked at her through long, spread fingers. “I’m an idiot—you must forgive me—but for the life of me I can’t remember your name.”

Naturally. She’d always been the type to hover round the edges of a crowd. Never in the center, never drawing attention to herself.

While he was just the opposite.

She inhaled, tightening her fingers to still their nervous trembling. She would have only this one chance, and she mustn’t bungle it.

“I am Melisande Fleming. My father was Ernest Fleming of the Northumberland Flemings.” Her family was old and well respected, and she didn’t deign to elaborate. If he hadn’t heard of them before this, her protestations of respectability would do her no good now. “Father is dead, but I have two brothers, Ernest and Harold. My mother was a Prussian émigré, and she is also dead. You may remember that I am friends with Lady Emeline, who—”

“Yes, yes.” He lifted his hand from his face to wave away her credentials. “I know who you are, I just didn’t know . . .”

“My name.”

He inclined his head. “Quite. As I said—an idiot.”

She swallowed. “May I have your answer?”

“It’s just that”—he shook his head and gestured vaguely with long fingers—“I know I had too much to drink last night and I’m still a little dazed by Miss Templeton’s defection, so my mental facilities may not yet be up to par, but I don’t see why you’d want to marry me.”

“You are a viscount, my lord. False modesty ill becomes you.”

His wide mouth curved in a faint smile. “Rather tart-tongued, aren’t you, for a lady seeking a gentleman’s hand?”

She felt the heat rise in her neck and cheeks and had to fight the urge to simply fling open the door and run.

“Why,” he a wh">“Why,sked softly, “amongst all the other viscounts in the world, why marry me?”

“You are an honorable man. I know this from Emeline.” Melisande stepped cautiously, picking and choosing her words with care. “From the brevity of your engagement to Mary, you are anxious to wed, are you not?”

He cocked his head. “It would certainly appear so.”

She nodded. “And I wish to have my own household instead of living on the generosity of my brothers.” A partial truth.

“You have no monies of your own?”

“I have an excellent dowry and monies that are mine besides that. But an unmarried lady can hardly live by herself.”

“True.”

He contemplated her, apparently quite content to have her stand before him like a petitioner before the king. After a bit, he nodded and stood, his height forcing her to look up. She might be a tall woman, but he was a taller man.

“Forgive me, but I must be blunt in order to avert an embarrassing misunderstanding later. I wish a real marriage. A marriage that, with God’s grace, will produce children begot in a shared marriage bed.” He smiled charmingly, his turquoise eyes glinting just a little. “Is that also what you seek?”

She held his eyes, not daring to hope. “Yes.”

He bowed his head. “Then, Miss Fleming, I am honored to accept your offer of marriage.”

Her chest felt constricted, and at the same time it was as if a fluttering wild thing beat against her rib cage, struggling to burst free and go flying about the room in joy.

Melisande held out her hand. “Thank you, my lord.”

He smiled quizzically at her proffered hand and then took it. But instead of shaking to seal the bargain, he bent his head over her knuckles, and she felt the soft brush of his warm lips. She repressed a shudder of longing at the simple touch.