Chapter Nine

Two days later, Melissa stood in the green-and-gold drawing room at Cranleigh Manor and came to the shocking conclusion that desperation, not love, was the most powerful of all emotions.

Until a very short while ago, she never would have guessed.

She’d believed, as had her mother, that nothing could match the power of love.

Now she knew better.

Sir Hartle Hutsby occupied her late father’s favorite chair by the fire and to her horror, in the light of the crackling flames, he looked even older than the room’s faded and frayed silk-covered wall behind him. Clearly an ancient, his skin appeared almost translucent and she could see every blue vein in his face and on his hands.

She didn’t want to consider what she’d find if she could see more of his bared flesh.

The prospect was one she hoped to avoid at all costs.

Especially as his eyes seemed to have not aged, his gaze sharp and decidedly lusty as he eyed her up and down. He wasn’t even listening to her stepmother’s fawning attentions. Her assurance that Melissa would indeed become his third wife.

“I will not do it,” Melissa said. “I made that clear before we went to London and I am repeating it here and now.”

“The matter is already settled.” Lady Clarice rested a hand on the back of Sir Hartle’s chair. “You should be ecstatic. You shall be the new lady of Rosedale Hall. A Tudor treasure.”

And owned by a man who could be a Tudor.

“I do not care,” Melissa said aloud. She felt the floor shifting beneath her feet, tilting and rolling as if she stood on a ship. A wave of dizziness also seized her, so she put a hand to her breast and inhaled deeply through her nose.

When she trusted herself to speak again, she ignored her stepmother and fixed her attention on her white-haired suitor.

“Sir Hartle, you have my most profound regrets. I do not wish to be rude, but I must be honest. I cannot marry you.”

“I am saddened that you feel that way, my dear.” His voice sounded like the rattle of dead and dried leaves skittering over cold, winter-hardened ground. “I shall endeavor to convince you otherwise.”

“That would be quite impossible.”

“You must marry him, Mellie.” June, the eldest of her three stepsisters, crossed the room to stand on the other side of Sir Hartle’s chair. “Everything is arranged.”

“That’s true.” Her other stepsisters, April and May, beamed at her, answering as one from near the window. “Sir Hartle has a special license.”

“He can toss it in the fire.” Melissa set her hands on her hips. “It is worthless. I will not change my mind.”

“Ah, but many pleasures await you at Rosedale.” Sir Hartle held her gaze, proving that persistence was his maxim.

Unfortunately, the glint in his eye told her more, revealing just the sort of ‘pleasures’ he meant.

She shuddered, not even wanting to imagine his touch.

Growing old with a man she loved would be something else entirely. She’d see it as a wondrous journey, every day of such a shared life, a privilege to cherish. But to hand her youth to a man more than three times her age?

That would break her, crushing her soul.

So she looked about, wondering – for only about the thousandth time that day – where Lucian of Lyongate had taken himself? He’d sworn to follow her stepmother’s carriage from London to Cranleigh, keeping her ever in sight, and then to rush in and save her like a knight in shining armor on a dazzling white steed.

But after the first few miles outside of London, she’d lost track of his carriage – if the vehicle she’d noticed keeping pace a bit behind them, had indeed been his.

She had no way of knowing.

And now…

She was nearing a dangerous precipice.

Mercy, her stepmother’s staff had even cleared out her rooms during their London stay. Her bags were in a pile near the manor’s main door, her bedchamber as soulless and ‘pristine’ as if she’d never spent an hour within her own walls, much less having slept there for all the years of her life.

They expected her to go with Sir Hartle to Rosedale Hall, to stay there to await her pending marriage to him.

Now she knew the real reason for attending the Merrivales’ ball.

Lady Clarice needed her gone so her minions could do her dirty work.

Well, she wasn’t going to play along.

Nor would she leave willingly. Leastways she wasn’t going to Sir Hartle’s Tudor pile, glorious or otherwise.

She might love old and crumbling, even quaint and ancient. But not when it came to men.

She certainly didn’t want a falling-apart and creaky husband.

“Enough.” Her stepmother’s tone held ice. Her eyes were even frostier. “I will not order your things taken back to your rooms. You will accompany Sir Hartle to his home now, this day, and you shall remain there until you become his wife. That will be soon, and thereafter you will bear his children there.”

Melissa inhaled deeply, desperation rising. “Even if I wished to marry Sir Hartle, I couldn’t. I am not a virgin.”

Lady Clarice’s eyes widened.

Her three daughters giggled.

Sir Hartle leaned forward and smiled. “That is not a problem at all, my dear,” he said, his rattling-leaves voice overly loud in the silent room. “At my age, a virgin is more a nuisance than a pleasure.”

Sitting back, he chuckled, a sound more terrible than his voice. “Indeed, I prefer lusty, experienced women.”

Melissa stared at him, feeling as if the drawing room’s green-and-gold patterned carpet had opened beneath her. How startling that she was still standing firm and tall, hadn’t plunged into a deep, dark pit. The hell that awaited desperation-driven liars.

She was most certainly pure.

Mercy, she’d never even been kissed.

And however could she have known her aged suitor did not want a virgin?

Feeling ill, she drew another long, spine-strengthening breath and threw caution to the wind, no longer caring what came of her boldness.

“Even so, Sir Hartle, but I must warn you that I may well be in a certain condition.” She clasped her hands before her and forced a smile. “You would not be the father.”

There.

She’d just proved her earlier conclusion.

Desperation topped all other emotions.

It was also about to earn her the wrath of her stepmother for Lady Clarice’s eyes were narrowing to slits as she left Sir Hartle’s chair and came to stand toe-to-toe before Melissa.

“I do not believe you,” she said, her tone icy as she gripped Melissa’s wrist. “You are lying.”

~*~

“Nae, she isn’t,” a deep, very Scottish voice asserted from the door.

“Lucian!” Melissa broke free of her stepmother’s grasp to turn and see him stride into the drawing room.

Despite his sudden, unannounced appearance, he commanded an air of authority that made the room his, as if he were about to address guests to his own home in distant Scotland. More than that, he caused brows to fly upward and jaws to drop because he was attired as a Highlander of old, right down to the enormous and deadly-looking long sword strapped to his kilted hip.

Melissa’s heart tumbled. “Lucian, you’re here…”

She shook her head, her throat thickening.

He smiled at her. “Did you doubt me?”’

Lady Clarice stared at him, her face now mottled. “What is the meaning of this?”

From his chair, Sir Hartle sunk into the throes of a coughing fit. “My good man,” he spluttered, his eyes watering. “Are you not the Black Lyon?”

“Himself, indeed,” Lucian spoke with all the richness of his heathered homeland in those two proud words. “Angus Lucian Duncan Forbes MacRae, the Black Lyon and Laird of Lyongate Hall in Scotland.”

“The Highlander from Merrivales,” Lady May gushed, placing a hand to her artfully displayed breasts as she slid a sideways look at her sisters Lady June and Lady April. “We met in London, at the Merrivales’ ball,” she added, sneakily tugging down her gown’s deeply-cut bodice to reveal the top crests of her pink nipples.

“Surely you remember?” Her voice turned breathy, her gaze locking on Lucian as if no one else was present.

“Lady…” He addressed Lady May, but strode over to Melissa, tucking her hand in his arm. “All I recall of that night is removing your lovely stepsister, Lady Melissa to my own townhouse for an hour or so of much-enjoyed privacy.”

“Oh!” Lady May dropped her hand from her bodice, her quick movement causing her entire left nipple to pop over the bodice edge. “We didn’t notice.”

“Nae?” Lucian drew Melissa closer, not even glancing at her step-sister’s thrusting nipple.

Instead, he turned to Lady Clarice, his smile gone. “If your memory of the night also fails, ask anyone who attended the ball. Our absence was noted by many. We were also seen entering my townhouse.”

He glanced at Melissa, his smile returning. “All London speaks of the scandal.”

Lady Clarice folded her arms. “I do not believe a word.”

“That, dear lady, is of no consequence.”

“It will be when I have you escorted from my home.” Her lips tightened.

“And who shall do the honors?” Lucian set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “The manservant who ran when I let myself in?”

“See here, young man.” Sir Hartle stood, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “No one wants any trouble, especially not with ladies present.”

Lady Clarice glared at him. “There will not be any trouble because Lord MacRae is leaving. I shall see him out myself.”

“That willnae be necessary,” Lucian’s burr deepened, the steel beneath the softness of his Highland voice unmistakable. “Though I will be going, indeed.

“When I’m ready…” He brought Melissa’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I shall leave in the company of the young lady who is soon to be my wife.”

“Your wife?” Lady Clarice looked from his bitter earnest face to Melissa and then back to him.

“So I said.” He sounded entirely calm. “She told you true. I have compromised her in the most intimate way and she could well already be carrying my heir.”

Lady Clarice looked near to fainting. Swaying, she placed a hand on a table to steady herself.

Her daughters exchanged glances, their faces a mix of shock and annoyance.

Sir Hartle leaned on his walking stick, seemingly resigned.

“I told you I couldn’t marry him.” Melissa flashed a glance at her would-be suitor, then pinned her stepmother with a stare, desperation helping her now.

Her heart thundered madly.

More thoughts than she could sort whirled through her mind, but only one stood clear…

Her Highlander had come for her, and in the most thrilling way. She wasn’t about to complain, though she doubted he really meant a word. Gallant that he was, he only sought to help her. Even so, a small part of her – no, a great, gigantic piece of her – wished so badly that he did want to marry her.

“You’d best explain what this is about, Lord MacRae,” her stepmother said then, her voice almost shrill. “I have already asked and you haven’t had the decency to respond. Please do so now before I lose my patience.”

“You will be losing more than that, lady.” He nodded past her to Sir Hartle and then to her three now-silent daughters. “It would be wise if everyone else leaves the room before we speak.”

To Melissa’s amazement, Sir Hartle chuckled and made for the door. At the threshold, he paused to look back at her and Lucian.

“Young lady, I will not lie.” His watery eyes gleamed. “I am greatly disappointed that you are to wed another.” His gaze flicked to Lucian. “However, I am not so old and scattered that I’ve lost the knack to recognize true love when I see it.

“I did love once,” he admitted, a look of reminiscence crossing his face as he slowly shook his head. “She was my first wife and I never have forgotten her.

“I wish you both well, and much happiness,” he finished.

And then he was gone, his footsteps and the tap-tapping of his cane loud in the ensuing silence.

“How dare you!” Lady Clarice flew at Lucian, grasping the folds of his plaid and shaking her fists. “You have ruined my stepdaughter. No one will take her now. Sir Hartle-”

“He will find another young miss to enjoy his Tudor home and his wealth.” Lucian disentangled himself from her grip. “Lady Melissa is no longer your concern.

“Though…” He paused to readjust his plaid. “I will have words with you. Alone, without your daughters in the room.”

She huffed. “Anything you wish to say to me, my daughters can hear.”

“I think not, my lady.” He turned to the girls, nodded once toward the door.

To Melissa’s surprise, they left. She started to follow, but he reached for her arm, stopping her.

“You remain,” he said, his voice low and sounding almost dangerous.

“As you wish,” she agreed, looking from his fierce-set face to her stepmother’s livid one.

“You tread on thin ice, Scotsman.” Lady Clarice’s features tightened as she watched him stride to the door and lock it. “I am not accustomed to such ill manners.

“Nor will I tolerate rudeness in my home,” she added when he returned.

“Cranleigh Manor will no’ be yours much longer,” he said, meeting her gaze. “But before we discuss the matter-”

“We have nothing to discuss.” Lady Clarice folded her arms.

“Aye, we do.” Lucian folded his arms. “We shall start with Brighton.”