To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)(8)

She paused to take a tiny bite of boiled carrot and looked to her husband for his concurrence.

Harold shook his head. He had their father’s heavy jowls and thinning light brown hair, covered now with a gray wig. “That gel ought to be put on bread and water until she comes to her senses. Throwing over a viscount. Foolish, is what it is. Foolish!”

Gertrude nodded. “I think she must be insane.”

Harold perked up at this. He was always morbidly interested in disease. “Does lunacy run in the family?”

Melisande felt a nudge against her leg. She looked down to see a small black nose poking out from beneath the table edge. She cut off another piece of beef and held it under the table. Both nose and beef disappeared.

“I do not know if there is lunacy in that family, but I would not be surprised,” Gertrude replied. “No, not surprised at all. Of course, there is no lunacy on our side of the family, but the Templetons cannot say the same, I’m afraid.”

Melisande used the tines of her fork to scoot the peas to the edge of her plate, feeling rather sorry for Mary. Mary had only followed her heart, after all. She felt a paw against her knee, but this time she ignored it. “I believe that Mary Templeton is in love with the curate.”

Gertrude’s eyes widened like boiled gooseberries. “I don’t think that pertains.” She appealed to her husband. “Do you think that pertains, Mr. Fleming?”

“No, it does not pertain at all,” Harold replied predictably. “The chit had a satisfactory match, and she threw it away on a curate.” He chewed meditatively for a moment. “Vale is well rid of her, in my opinion. Might’ve brought a bad strain of insanity into his bloodline. Not good. Not good at all. Better for him to find a wife elsewhere.”

“As to that . . .” Melisande cleared her throat. She would find no better opening. Best to get it over with. “I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you both.”

“Yes, dear?” Gertrude was sawing at the lump of beef on her plate and didn’t look up.

Melisande took a deep breath and stated it bluntly, because really, there didn’t seem to be any other way to do it. Her left hand lay in her lap, and she felt the comforting touch of a warm tongue. “Lord Vale and I came to an understanding today. We are going to be married.”

Gertrude dropped her knife.

Harold choked on the sip of wine he’d taken.

Melisande winced. “I thought you should know.”

“Married?” Gertrude said. “To Lord Vale? Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale?” she clarified as if there might be another Lord Vale in England.

“Yes.”“Yesnt>

“Ah.” Harold looked at his wife. Gertrude stared back at him, quite obviously at a loss for words. He turned to Melisande. “Are you quite sure? Might you have mistaken a look or . . .” His sentence trailed away. It was probably quite hard to think of what else might be mistaken for a marriage proposal.

“I am sure,” she said quietly but clearly. Her words were steady, though her heart was singing inside. “Lord Vale said he would call upon you in three days to settle the matter.”

“I see.” Harold stared in consternation at his boiled English beef, as if it had turned to Spanish stewed squid. “Well. Then I offer my congratulations, my dear. I wish you every happiness with Lord Vale.” He blinked and looked up at her, his brown eyes uncertain. He’d never really understood her, poor man, but she knew he cared for her. “If you are sure?”

Melisande smiled at him. However little they had in common, Harold was still her brother, and she loved him. “I am.”

He nodded, though he still looked worried. “Then I shall send a missive informing Lord Vale that I will be glad to receive him.”

“Thank you, Harold.” Melisande aligned her fork and knife precisely on her plate. “Now, if you will excuse me, it’s been a long day.”

She rose from the table, conscious that the minute she exited the room, Harold and Gertrude would discuss the matter. The skitter of claws against the wood floor trailed her as she entered the dim hallway—Gertrude’s economy of candles prevailed here as well.

Their amazement was only to be expected, really. Melisande had shown no interest in matrimony for many years, not since her disastrous engagement to Timothy so long ago. Strange, to think now how devastated she’d been when Timothy had left her. All that she’d lost had been unbearable. Her emotions had been sharp and burning then, so awful that she’d thought she might die from his rejection. The pain had been physical, a deep cutting thing that had made her chest ache and her head pound. She never wanted to feel such agony again.

Melisande rounded a corner and mounted the stairs. Since Timothy, she’d had few suitors and none of them serious. Harold and Gertrude had probably long resigned themselves to her living with them for the rest of her natural life. She was grateful that they had never shown any aversion to her constant company. Unlike many spinsters, she’d not been made to feel a burden or out of place.

In the upper hall, her room was the first around a curve to the right. She shut the door, and Mouse, her little terrier, jumped onto the bed. He turned three times, then lay down on the counterpane and looked at her.

“An exhausting day for you as well, Sir Mouse?” Melisande inquired.

The dog tilted his head at her voice, his black bead eyes alert, his button ears—one white, the other brown—pricked forward. The fire was burning low in the grate, and she used a taper to light several candles around the small bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, yet each piece was chosen carefully. The bed was narrow, but the delicately carved posts were a rich, golden brown. The counterpane was a plain white, but the sheets hidden underneath were made of the finest silk. There was only one chair in front of thshun fronte fireplace, but the arms were gilt, the seat richly embroidered in gold and purple. This was her refuge from the world. The place where she could simply be herself.