But when it came to actually creating these gems of written correspondence, he failed utterly. They contained statements like: “I went to the tailor today. He says I am a fit man.” Short, simple sentences less eloquent than his tailor bill. Clearly, she’d engaged herself to a dullard.
At least he had accomplished something. In the two weeks that he had been prevented from seeing Mellie, he had sent the announcement of their engagement to the papers. It had been published the next day with more eloquence than he could manage. At which point he had been flooded with invitations and visits from friends all wanting to know about his mysterious love affair.
He’d promised Eleanor to keep his answers short, giving only the barest details, all in anticipation of tonight’s first ball where Mellie would be “revealed” to the world at large. Or at least to theton. Lady Redhill had been prevailed upon to give the ball. And as she was also the woman who designed Mellie’s clothes, everyone anticipated a grand theme. Or at least a spectacle.
What Mellie thought of this was a complete mystery to him, for as bad as he was at writing, she was arguably worse. She told him in equally simple sentences about this fitting or that visit to the milliner. She spoke in numbers more than words, as if life were some sort of mathematical formula.
“We had three trips today. I bought four hats and a pair of new walking boots. The cost is the equivalent of two downstairs maids for a year. Or a month’s worth of my father’s chemicals. I cannot think this is necessary, but Eleanor told me twenty-two times this morning that it is.”
There was only one missive from her that raised her above her normal level of accounting. In desperation for something to write to her, he had asked about her choices in dress. Her answer had been vague. She had indeed said that she enjoyed the process, which surprised him as much as it appeared to surprise her.
And then he was subjected to two pages of detailed notes on the chemical treatment of fabrics. Apparently, she and the duchess had found a common interest in the creation of cloth. Mellie had recorded a small portion of their discourse, and he had to dredge up all he remembered of various chemicals and cotton to follow her missive. In the end, he had encouraged her to record her thoughts for the next time she spoke with her uncle about their mill. And then he had asked her about her new boots. Thankfully, her comments on footwear were easier to understand: she disliked footwear that pinched. Fortunately, dancing slippers did not have this problem.
Good God, would they ever be able to convince anyone that they were in love? If their letters were proof of anything, it was that the two of them were the most unloving couple in London. And given the level of animosity between couples in theton, that was a bleak assessment indeed.
Or so he thought until he presented himself at the ducal mansion at precisely five of the clock. They were to have a light meal before the ball began at seven. But when he arrived, no one was about. Not even Seelye. Apparently, the man had been recruited to help supervise the extra staff hired for the Redhill ball. A mottled-skinned maid too young to be anything but an apprentice opened the door. She’d shown him into the main parlor, forgot to take his hand and gloves, and then ducked away without saying a word.
And then he’d stood there in the parlor, fidgeting with his hat brim while worrying about the coming hours. Would Mellie be up to the task? Was he up to the task? Or would everyone see that they were complete frauds the very first moment they were seen together? What if Eleanor had exhausted her? What if—
“Good evening, Mr. Anaedsley. I see that your tailor was correct. You are indeed a very fit man.”
He spun around at the sound her voice. It was richer than he remembered. Her vowels were smooth, her expression even more so. She stood there at the entrance to the parlor looking like…like…
He blinked.
“What are you wearing?”
“Don’t you like it?” she asked, a tremor of worry in her voice. She raised her arms and spun slowly before him. “The duchess was adamant that this was the perfect thing to wear. Eleanor thinks it will become all the rage. And Helaine—that’s Lady Redhill—said it was her greatest design. Do you think…I mean…is it too much?”
He stared, completely at a loss for words. She was wearing feathers. She was wearing a lot of feathers. As in, from birds. He was sure there was fabric beneath the plumage, but he couldn’t see it. Which meant she looked as if a stiff breeze would leave her completely naked. Worse, the feathers were of a smallish sort so they seemed to hug her body. It would be suggestive enough if she had a waifish appearance, but Mellie was sturdier than that. She wascurvierthan that. In truth, her body was more of the lush, Rubenesque variety. Full breasts, neat waist, and the kind of hips that made a man think of grabbing hold and thrusting like a beast in heat.
Good God, he wanted to pull off every one of those feathers with his teeth before he—
“There’s a cloak for travel,” she said, “and it’s hard to sit down without crushing things.” Then she flashed him a shy smile. “But it’s fun. Or at least…I thought so.” Her voice trailed away on a mournful note, and he rushed to reassure her.
“No, no,” he said, his voice coming out thick with lust. “I mean, it’s…”Suggestive. Indecent. Licentious.“I…um…”
She dropped her arms and stared at the floor. “I know it’s awful,” she said.
“Er…what?”
“Crickets don’t have feathers. I told them that, but they kept saying that no one would care. And it’s mostly brown and green feathers.”
Yes, that was certainly true. Not that he’d noticed. He was too busy thinking of ways he could accidentally brush across her breasts. Would the feathers break? Fall off? What would be revealed beneath?
“Tabitha suggested we use real cricket wings, but I thought that was too much. Feathers are bad enough. I didn’t want to wear real wings.”
“I can certainly understand that.”
“Trevor?”
“I think you are going to be quite the sensation tonight,” he said in all honesty. “I think the men will flock to you, and I am very grateful to have already announced our engagement. That gives me an excuse to stand by your side and keep the blighters away.”
“But not all of them right?” she pressed. “I still have to marry one.”
Like hell—oh, right. Their ruse. Of course. Suddenly, finding her a husband didn’t seem like so daunting a task. Except he had the most desperate urge to hide her upstairs and never let her out. He didn’t want any other man to see the treasure he’d found in her. And the idea of handing her over to one of the lust-addled men she’d meet tonight made him physically ill. It didn’t matter that he was one of the lust-addled in question. He simply did not like the idea of anyone else seeing her as such a…a…
“Bloody hell, you’re a beauty. Worse, you’re to be a sensation as well.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “This is going to be damned difficult.”