She nodded. It was a rather regal dip of her chin. Quite refined, come to think of it. “Very well, Trevor. Might I make a suggestion?”
“I would welcome it.”
“We shall spend a great deal of time together in the next few weeks. To start with, there is the carriage ride to London. Then the preparations for the Season, not to mention all the parties and the like.”
He nodded, though he suspected she had no idea exactly how busy she would be during the Season. His sisters were not yet out, but he had friends who had told him of the military-like campaigns females waged during this time of year.
“Perhaps,” she continued, “we should delay the personal inquiries until tomorrow.”
He tilted his head. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”
“Dawn comes very early,” she said softly.
“What of it?” He rarely went to bed before three.
“Fisticuffs at dawn?” she prompted.
The duel. “I’d completely forgotten.” He studied her face, noting the fine lines of worry. “I swear I shall not hurt your cousin overmuch.”
She sighed, the sound coming from deep within her. “Go get some sleep, Mr. Anaedsley. One can only hope that the rest will revive your brain.”
Right. She thought he was going to lose. “I will not lose a fistfight to a poet. The very idea verges on insult.”
She stood up from the settee. As he was still sprawled upon it, she looked very intimidating as she glared down at him. “You have promised to rescue me from my cousin. I shall be very cross with you if your injuries tomorrow prevent that from happening.”
“But—”
“Oh, go to bed, Trevor!” she snapped. “Perhaps in the morning you will be less of a damned fool!” And with that she swept from the room.
“Impressive woman,” he said to no one at all. “Definitely worthy of a second son. Most definitely.”
He spent the next few hours musing on her charms and enjoying his host’s fine brandy. Which is why, a scant four hours later, he was squinting at the pre-dawn sky and wondering why in the devil his valet had woken him.
Four
Allow him a few masculine amusements, but in no circumstance should you participate.
Mellie wrapped her cloak tight against the morning chill. There was no mist, thank God, but the field was wet and the cow pies pungent. She had hoped that the fight would be a quiet affair. That was the whole point of having it at dawn, wasn’t it? Except it appeared that half the county had come to see the spectacle of the duke’s grandson fighting one of their own. That Ronnie wasn’t one of the local villagers didn’t seem to matter. Ronnie had been knocking about the place since she and her father had come to live here a decade ago. That made him one of the locals, though only in respect to a fight against a lord who had never been about at all.
Ronnie stood in the center of the crowd, enjoying the attention as he pumped his arms back and forth, stamped his feet, and generally milked up all the hubbub. He kept looking to her, standing with her cloak about her face, as if searching for her approval. She wasn’t going to give it, so he might as well look to the tavern maids prancing about. She’d even told him exactly that, in exactly those words, not ten minutes before when she’d tried to talk some sense into her cousin.
But the man loved the drama of anaffaired’honor—apparently it was more important when spoken in French—and that made him stubborn. The fight would proceed as planned. If only the opponent would appear.
Ronnie was in the midst of his third overloud speculation on the cowardice of the aristocracy when Mr. Anaedsley appeared. He looked well turned out as he always did, but the skin beneath his eyes was shadowed, and he shot annoyed glances at the bright sunlight.
Overindulged in her father’s brandy, had he? Well, it served him right. She had told him to go to bed. She had warned him of Ronnie’s intention to beat him insensate. If after all that, he chose to ignore her advice, then she washed her hands of him. Except, of course, she didn’t. Her belly was knotted with anxiety, and her hands gripped the edges of her cloak tight enough to poke holes in the fabric.
“Ho, ho!” Ronnie called when he spotted his opponent. “Is it a little early in the day for you? This is the time when decent folk are up and about their business.”
Loud catcalls greeted that statement, and Mellie watched Trevor wince even as he grinned with good-natured aplomb. “True enough!” he said. “I’m not one for an early day, never have been. But I’m here now. I acknowledge the grave insult I did to your person, stopping you from proposing to a woman who doesn’t want you. But I was wrong, and so I am here to atone for my sin.”
“Churl!” Ronnie said, throwing his arm forward to point hard at Trevor’s face. “You know nothing of us here. You are an interloper and a cad!”
Trevor clutched his chest as if wounded. “Oh sir, I cry guilty to being an interloper. But as for me not knowing women…” He turned and winked broadly at one of the more notorious bawds in the county. “On that mark, I say I am well versed.”
Good God, they were acting as if this were a performance at a theater. Even the bawd—Grace was her name—knew to blush prettily as she dropped into a curtsy. “Lawks, sir, but he does.”
There was a rush of bawdy comments after that, and Trevor played to every one of them. He acted like a bored roué, and Melinda found her teeth grinding in annoyance. Apparently, Ronnie didn’t like it either as he tried to regain control of the crowd.