He cocked his head. “It would certainly appear so.”
She nodded. “And I wish to have my own household instead of living on the generosity of my brothers.” A partial truth.
“You have no monies of your own?”
“I have an excellent dowry and monies that are mine besides that. But an unmarried lady can hardly live by herself.”
“True.”
He contemplated her, apparently quite content to have her stand before him like a petitioner before the king. After a bit, he nodded and stood, his height forcing her to look up. She might be a tall woman, but he was a taller man.
“Forgive me, but I must be blunt in order to avert an embarrassing misunderstanding later. I wish a real marriage. A marriage that, with God’s grace, will produce children begot in a shared marriage bed.” He smiled charmingly, his turquoise eyes glinting just a little. “Is that also what you seek?”
She held his eyes, not daring to hope. “Yes.”
He bowed his head. “Then, Miss Fleming, I am honored to accept your offer of marriage.”
Her chest felt constricted, and at the same time it was as if a fluttering wild thing beat against her rib cage, struggling to burst free and go flying about the room in joy.
Melisande held out her hand. “Thank you, my lord.”
He smiled quizzically at her proffered hand and then took it. But instead of shaking to seal the bargain, he bent his head over her knuckles, and she felt the soft brush of his warm lips. She repressed a shudder of longing at the simple touch.
He straightened. “I only hope that you will still thank me after our wedding day, Miss Fleming.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he was already turning away. “I’m afraid I have an awful head. I’ll call on your brother in three days, shall I? I must play the forsaken lover for at least three days, don’t you think? Any shorter a period and it might reflect badly on Miss Templeton.”
With an ironic smile, he gently closed the door behind him.
Melisande let her shoulders slump with the release of tension. She stared at the door a moment and then looked around the room. It was ordinary, small and a bit untidy. Not the sort of place one would associate with her world turning upside down. And yet—unless the last quarter hour had been a waking dream—this was the place that had seen her life take a new and completely unexpected diversion.
She examined the back of her hand. There was no mark to show where he had kissed her. She’d known Jasper Renshaw, Lord Vale, for years, but in all that time, he’d never hsho he’d nad occasion to touch her. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like when he touched his lips to hers. Her body trembled at the thought.
Then she straightened her back again, smoothed her already smooth skirts, and ran her fingertips across her hair to make sure everything was in order. Thus settled, she began to leave the room, but as she moved, her foot struck something. A silver button lay on the flagstones, hidden by her skirts until she’d stepped forward. Melisande picked it up and turned it slowly in her fingers. The letter V was embossed in the silver. She stared at it a moment before hiding the button up her sleeve.
Then she walked from the church vestry.
“PYNCH, HAVE YOU ever heard of a man losing a bride and gaining a fiancée on the same day?” Jasper asked idly later that afternoon.
He was lounging in his specially made, very large tin bathtub.
Pynch, his valet, was over in the corner of the room, messing about with the clothes in the dresser. He replied without turning. “No, my lord.”
“I think, then, that perhaps I am the first in history to do so. London should put up a statue in my honor. Small children could come and gape whilst their nannies admonish them not to follow in my fickle footsteps.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Pynch replied in a monotone.
Pynch’s voice was the perfect tone for a superior manservant—smooth, evenly deep, and unruffled—which was just as well since the rest of him wasn’t much like a superior manservant at all. Pynch was a big man. A very big man. Shoulders like an ox, hands that could easily span a dinner plate, a neck as thick as Jasper’s thigh, and a big bald dome of a head. What Pynch looked like was a grenadier, a heavy infantryman used by the army to charge breaches in the enemy line.
As it happened, a grenadier was exactly what Pynch had originally been in His Majesty’s army. That was before he’d had a slight difference of opinion with his sergeant, which had resulted in Pynch spending a day in the stocks. Jasper had actually first seen Pynch in the stocks, stoically receiving spoiled vegetables to the face. This sight had so impressed Jasper that immediately upon Pynch’s liberation, Jasper had offered him the position of his batman. Pynch had readily accepted the offer. Two years later, when Jasper had sold his commission, he’d also bought out Pynch and Pynch had returned to England with him as his valet. A satisfactory series of events all around, Jasper reflected as he stuck a foot out of his bath and flicked a droplet of water from his big toe.
“Have you sent that letter to Miss Fleming?” He’d dashed off a missive politely stating that he’d call on her brother in three days if she did not signify a change of mind in the meantime.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Good. I think this engagement will take. I have a feeling about it.”
“A feeling, my lord?”