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 havenotaged, 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.
