Pynch, his man, made a wonderful pick-me-up to settle a sore head after a night of overindulgence. Soon he could go home and take the brew, perhaps go back to bed. Goddammit, but his head hurt, and he couldn’t leave just yet. Voices rose from outside the vestry, echoing off the vaulted ceiling of the old stone church. From the sound, Miss Templeton was meeting with some paternal resistance to her romantic plan. A corner of Jasper’s mouth kicked up. Perhaps her father wasn’t as swayed by butter-yellow hair as she. In any case, he’d far rather face charging Frenchies than the family and guests outside.
He sighed and stretched his long legs before him. Thus was six months’ hard work undone. Six months was the amount of time he’d taken to court Miss Templeton. A month to find a suitable lass—one from a good family, not too young, not too old, and pretty enough to bed. Three months to carefully court, flirting at balls and salons, taking her for rides in his carriage, buying her sweets and flowers and little fripperies. Then the question put to her, a satisfactory answer, and the chaste kiss on a virginal cheek. After that, the only thing left had been the calling of the banns and various purchases and arrangements made for the upcoming blissful nuptials.
What, then, had gone wrong? She’d seemed perfectly complacent to his plans. Had never once before this morning voiced any doubts. Indeed, when presented with pearl and gold earrings, one might even go so far as to say she’d been ecstatic. Whence, then, this sudden urge to marry a butter-haired curate?
This problem of losing fiancées would never have happened to his elder brother, Richard, had he lived long enough to seek his own viscountess. Perhaps it was him, Jasper thought morbidly. Something in him that was anathema to the fairer sex—at least when it came to matrimony. One couldn’t help but make note of the fact that this was the second time in less than a year that he’d been handed his congé. Of course, the first time it’d been Emeline, who—let us be fair, here—was more sister than lover. Nevertheless, a gentleman might very well—
The sound of the vestry door creaking open interrupted Jasper’s thoughts. He opened his eyes.
A tall, slim woman hesitated in the doorway. She was a friend of Emeline’s—the one whose name Jasper could never remember.iv height="0%">
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” she asked.
“No, merely resting.”
She nodded, looked quickly over her shoulder, and shut the door behind her, closeting herself quite improperly with him.
Jasper raised his eyebrows. She’d never struck him as the dramatic sort, but then his perception in this area was obviously faulty.
She stood very straight, her shoulders square, her chin lifted ever so slightly. She was a plain woman, with features that a man would be hard-pressed to remember—probably why he couldn’t remember her name now, come to think of it. Her light hair was an indeterminate color between blond and brown, and worn in a knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were a nondescript brown. Her dress was a grayish brown, with an ordinary, square-cut bodice that revealed a meager bosom. The skin there was rather fine, Jasper noted. It was that translucent bluish-white that was often compared to marble. If he peered closer, no doubt he would be able to trace the veins that ran beneath the pale, delicate skin.
Instead, he raised his eyes to her face. She’d stood there, unmoving, as he’d examined her, but a faint flush was now visible high on her cheekbones.
The sight of her discomfiture, however slight, made him feel a cad. His words, in consequence, were rather sharp. “Is there some way in which I can assist you, ma’am?”
She answered with a question of her own. “Is it true that Mary will not marry you?”
He sighed. “It appears that she has set her heart on capturing a curate, and a mere viscount will no longer do.”
She didn’t smile. “You do not love her.”
He spread his hands. “Sadly true, though it marks me as a blackguard to confess it.”
“Then I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh?”
She clasped her hands in front of her and did the impossible. She straightened farther. “I wonder if you might marry me instead.”
MELISANDE FLEMING MADE herself stand still and look Lord Vale in the eye, steadily and without any hint of girlish fluster. She wasn’t a girl, after all. She was a woman in her eight and twentieth year, well past the age of orange blossoms and spring weddings. Well past the hope of happiness, in fact. But it seemed that hope was a hardy thing, almost impossible to beat down.
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.