“Indeed, my lord.”
Jasper frowned at the ceiling. “Pynch, you are not to agree with me when I compare myself to a rotten egg.”
“No, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.”
“One can only pray that Miss Fleming will not meet any curates in the coming weeks before the wedding. Especially yellow-haired ones.”
“Quite, my lord.”
“D’you know,” Jasper said musingly, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a curate I liked.”
“Indeed, my lord?”
“They always seem to be lacking a chin.” Jasper fingered his own rather long chin. “Perhaps it’s some type of necessary requirement to enter the English clergy. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Possible, yes. Likely, no, my lord.”
“Hmm.”
On the other side of the room, Pynch transferred a stack of linens to the top shelf of the wardrobe. “Will you be at home today, my lord?”
squo;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.
While he was just the opposite.
She inhaled, tightening her fingers to still their nervous trembling. She would have only this one chance, and she mustn’t bungle it.
“I am Melisande Fleming. My father was Ernest Fleming of the Northumberland Flemings.” Her family was old and well respected, and she didn’t deign to elaborate. If he hadn’t heard of them before this, her protestations of respectability would do her no good now. “Father is dead, but I have two brothers, Ernest and Harold. My mother was a Prussian émigré, and she is also dead. You may remember that I am friends with Lady Emeline, who—”
“Yes, yes.” He lifted his hand from his face to wave away her credentials. “I know who you are, I just didn’t know . . .”
“My name.”
He inclined his head. “Quite. As I said—an idiot.”
She swallowed. “May I have your answer?”
“It’s just that”—he shook his head and gestured vaguely with long fingers—“I know I had too much to drink last night and I’m still a little dazed by Miss Templeton’s defection, so my mental facilities may not yet be up to par, but I don’t see why you’d want to marry me.”
“You are a viscount, my lord. False modesty ill becomes you.”
His wide mouth curved in a faint smile. “Rather tart-tongued, aren’t you, for a lady seeking a gentleman’s hand?”
She felt the heat rise in her neck and cheeks and had to fight the urge to simply fling open the door and run.
“Why,” he a wh">“Why,sked softly, “amongst all the other viscounts in the world, why marry me?”
“You are an honorable man. I know this from Emeline.” Melisande stepped cautiously, picking and choosing her words with care. “From the brevity of your engagement to Mary, you are anxious to wed, are you not?”