50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (2 page)

Then another voice interrupted the excitement—a man's voice, deep and slow, but no less clear. “Oh, for God's sake, just let him look. He's been prattling on about the color of her eyes for three days.”

“My eyes?” Miss Smithson cried.

“Yes,” said Ronnie, the word clipped and his expression intent.

And sure enough, as everyone watched, Ronnie took hold of Miss Smithson's head in his massive paws and turned her into and out of the sunlight.

Back somewhere in the hall, Mr. Smithson snorted as he bent to recover his fallen notebook. The newcomer—presumably Ronnie's father—echoed the sound before asking after some new shipment to the Smithson's wine cellar. Trevor, on the other hand, didn't relax until he saw the butler calmly turn aside to hand off hats and coats to a waiting footman. Family might well discount the danger, but servants always knew. If the Smithson's butler saw nothing untoward, then Trevor could relax his fist.

He did, easing his grip on her elbow as well. But he stayed right by her side while her bizarre cousin continued to twist her head one way and the other as he stared intently at her face.

Meanwhile, Miss Smithson rapidly got tired of being manhandled. “They're brown, Ronnie,” she snapped as she tried to pull away. She had more hope of pushing aside a boulder.

“Of course they're brown,” her cousin agreed. And yet he continued to study her as…well, as Mr. Smithson studied his insects. “To the baker, they're brown. To a lovesick stable boy, they're brown. But to me, sweet Mellie, they are decidedly more interesting than
brown
.” He actually sneered the color.

Trevor felt his irritation run away with him. Was the man a Bedlamite? “But they
are
brown,” he said.

The behemoth shot him a triumphant glare. “Exactly my point.”

Miss Smithson made a very loud sigh. “Ronnie—”

“You see,” her cousin continued, riding directly over her words. “Your eyes are a kind of mink color in darkness—”

“You can't see them in the dark,” she said. Exactly what Trevor would have said.

“In shadow then. But in the sun…” He twisted her head such that the light fell directly on her face. Then he exhaled as one might breathe when in the Sistine Chapel—with awe and amazement. “I was thinking mahogany, but that's not it, not it at all. They're like cat's eyes.”

Miss Smithson pursed her lips. “Yellow and slitted?”

“Not a real cat. The stone. Cat's eye stones. Brown, but with striations of gold, not in a slitted line, but more like in a circle. A radiating circle. No, that's not right.” He dropped his hands with a huff. “It's most difficult.”

Finally released from her cousin's grip, Miss Smithson took a deep breath and straightened upright. She wasn't that tall, but she did have a fierce expression in her eyes—her golden-brown eyes, he reluctantly noted—as she glared at her cousin.

“Ronnie, you didn't have to grab me like that. You could have just asked me to step into the sunlight.”

“What?” her cousin said, his brow furrowed in thought. “Your eyes are most difficult, you know. I would just call them cat's eye brown, but that's a double metaphor, you know. The stone is a metaphor for the animal. And the stone would be a metaphor for your eyes. Bad poetry, that.”

“Yes,” Miss Smithson said, obviously not caring in the least. “Very bad.”

“I'd use the chrysoberyl and say damn to the boys who'd have to look up the word, but it would be impossible to rhyme. And besides, the word looks so odd on the page. No one would know how to pronounce it, and the moment they're thinking of that, they've lost the beauty of the poetry.” Then he looked back at her. “Though, of course, you know what chrysoberyl is, and the poem is for you—”

“I also know what color my eyes are,” she said as she turned to the house. Then she paused to shoot her cousin an irritated glower. “May I go inside now?”

Her sarcasm was lost on the bear suddenly looking at her bonnet. “There's a hole in your bonnet. Did you not notice?”

Which is the exact moment that Miss Smithson's anger shifted right back to Trevor. Her gaze caught his, and he would swear those gold and mahogany eyes shot darts at him. “Yes, Ronnie, I knew.”

“Oh. Is it a new female style? To punch holes—”

“No, Ronnie.” Stomping past Trevor, she ripped off her broken bonnet and handed it to the butler. “Come inside, Ronnie. You've seen what…” And then she took a quick step forward, her gaze shooting down the hall. “No, Papa! You promised I could be there!”

It took a moment for Trevor to realize what had happened. Looking far down the hallway, he saw Miss Smithson's father and uncle as they headed for the laboratory.

“You children amuse yourselves for a bit, will you?” came her father's answer.

Meanwhile, Trevor naturally took steps to follow them. After all, the happiest days of his life had been spent in Mr. Smithson's laboratory. Not here, of course. The Smithsons hadn't come into their money until recently. But years ago, Mr. Smithson had been his tutor, and the laboratory had been on Trevor's estate. But here or there, the principle was the same: science, experimentation, and a place where a man could cut or boil or blow things up in perfect peace. And Mr. Smithson had said he was welcome at any time.

“Don't you dare,” hissed the lady from beside him.

“But—”

“If you abandon me to Ronnie, then I swear I shall find a way to pour itching powder onto all your clothes. I'll bleach your cravats white. And…and I'll—”

He held up his hand before she could think of more dastardly things to do with his attire. “I believe your father said we should amuse ourselves.”

She folded her arms right beneath her bosom. It would have been quite attractive if she weren't glaring at him. “Do not leave—”

“And I, for one, believe I shall be best amused in the laboratory.”

“Of all the selfish—”

“You as well, I think. Isn't that what you wanted, Miss Smithson? To go into the laboratory with your father and uncle? To explain something to them, I believe. About a frippery?”

“It's not a frippery!”

He held up his hands, seeing that she had completely lost her temper. And no wonder, what with being manhandled by her cousin for her eye color. “Whatever it is, you will best be entertained in the laboratory, yes?” He held out his arm. “Shall we go?”

She hesitated, biting her lip before looking at him with disturbingly real tears in her eyes. “Please, sir. Please, I beg of you. Can you not just leave and come back tomorrow? You have overset everything!”

He huffed, disturbed that she seemed sincere in her distress. “What exactly have I overset?”

She pressed her lips together, clearly unwilling to tell. But in this, the mystery was solved by the no-longer-distracted Ronnie.

“Oh, she wants to show us her formula for a new women's cream. Big secret. Excellent market potential. Women by the scores will be buying it.”

She spun around, her mouth ajar. “Ronnie!”

The bear simply shrugged. “Well, it's not as if the lordling is going to manufacture it himself.”

A women's cream? Certainly not. But he didn't say that aloud, as he would likely learn more if he kept silent. And sure enough, the argument continued without him prompting it at all.

“That's not the point!” Miss Smithson exclaimed. “This is my formula. I should be the one who decides who gets to know about it. And most especially, how I will sell it.”

Clearly, he was not to be included in her intimate circle.

The bear merely smiled as he leaned against the wall. “What she doesn't realize is that she doesn't need to prove her formula. Father likes the idea and thinks it a capital thing to take to market.”

“He does?” she cried, clearly excited. “But that's…that's—”

“Capital!” Trevor completed when the appropriate word seemed to escape her. “It means you need not demonstrate your formula. Your uncle is ready to market it whether or not I find out about it.” Which meant that she would go back to not throwing him out, and he could happily spend the next few days in the laboratory with her father.

“Not exactly,” interrupted Ronnie. Irritating fellow.

“What?” Miss Smithson asked. “What do you mean?”

“Weeeell,” answered her cousin, slowing down his words in the way of a natural-born storyteller. “We need the formula.”

The lady shook her head. “Not until…until…” She glanced his way, clearly uncomfortable with speaking such personal details in front of him. Fortunately, Ronnie had no such qualms.

“She won't give over the formula unless the profits go to her.”

“Well, that seems fair,” Trevor said. After all, that was the point of creating a new product, wasn't it?

“Of course it's fair!” she said. “But Papa thinks a lady shouldn't have her own money. Shouldn't run a factory or be known to create formulas.”

Trevor nodded. “Well, it is somewhat unusual. I wouldn't think you'd want to run the factory in any event. Nasty places, noisy and crammed full with unwashed people.”

She rounded on him. “That's not the point!”

“But it is the point,” interrupted Ronnie. “What you want is unnatural, Mellie.”

Trevor heard her grind her teeth. It was quite audible. And then she spoke, each word spit out like tiny rocks.

“I won't give over the formula any other way.”

“And neither of our fathers will put the money in your name.”

She exhaled slowly. Loudly. “Ronnie—”

“But there is one way you can have what you want. One solution that will make everyone happy.” He stepped closer, his eyes wide and his expression earnest. And he was such a large man that he by necessity shouldered Trevor aside even as he blocked the sun from the room.

“Ronnie,” she began, clearly knowing what was about to happen. But Trevor didn't know. And he was suddenly very interested to find out.

“It's our destiny. Has been since the day I was born.”

“No—”

The man dropped down to one knee. He went hard, the thud of impact on the marble echoed in the foyer, but the bear didn't even wince. His eyes were all for his cousin as he captured her hands.

“Marry me, Mellie. I could tell you as many romantic things as you want. I can talk about your beauty and write poetry—”

“You have been writing—”

“But that hasn't worked. So let me speak as my father does. Marry me, and the business will naturally come to both of us. I'll let you have all the money you want. You can run it or hire someone else to do it. You can have as large a laboratory as you like. Your own place, and you won't have to keep cleaning up your father's messes.”

Trevor could see that she wanted to stop him. He saw her lashes blink away tears, not of love, but of frustration and despair. And yet, she didn't say anything, and the damned poet kept talking.

“I love you, Mellie. I always have. And even if you don't feel the same way right now, even you must see how very perfect we are for one another. Please,” he said as he pressed his mouth to her knuckles. “Please be my bride.”

Which is when—for no reason whatsoever—Trevor punched the man, knocking him flat.

Rakes, like all men, are guided by their own bizarre code, incomprehensible even to themselves.

Mellie squeaked in alarm, and she was not a woman who usually made animal sounds. Which made her all the more furious with the situation. Ronnie lay sprawled on the ground, a look of total shock on his face. Lord Charming stood over her cousin, his expression equally startled, though she detected a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that belied his whispered, “Bloody hell.”

She felt a hysterical giggle rise in her throat, but quickly swallowed it down. This was not a good situation. Not a good one at all, and yet how many times had she wanted to plant a facer to her cousin? Too many to count. That it had come during yet another of Ronnie's proposals was beyond perfect.

Except it wasn't perfect. Ronnie was likely to be her husband, and she couldn't really approve of people flattening him. So she schooled her face to be serious. “Mr. Anaedsley, I hardly think—”

“Sir, you are a cad and a…a monster!” Ronnie cried as he rubbed at his swelling jaw. “I was proposing!”

“I know,” Mr. Anaedsley returned. “
Everybody
knows,” he said as he looked pointedly at the servants dotting the hallway. What Mr. Anaedsley didn't realize is that Ronnie loved an audience for his romantic gestures. The more, the merrier.

“You haven't the right to interfere!” Ronnie gasped. Oh dear. He was exercising his righteous indignation, and that never ended well.

“Never mind that, Ronnie,” she said as she reached forward to help her cousin stand. Or so she tried, but Mr. Anaedsley blocked her path. And when she attempted to move around him, he shifted to stop her. “Mr. Anaedsley, I assure you, this is not helpful.”

He flashed her an odd look—part rueful chagrin, part gleeful miscreant. “You did beg me not to abandon you to your cousin's attention.”

“I did not!” she said, though she wondered if perhaps she had.

Meanwhile, Ronnie was rising to his full and impressive height. His brows were drawn together, and his lips were curled back into a sneer. He looked fierce, and she took a step backward in surprise.

“Step away, Sir Monster,” her cousin intoned, his tone dire.

Sir
Monster?

The appellation obviously had no effect on Mr. Anaedsley. He simply raised his brows and shrugged. “I must insist that you stop importuning your cousin. She is not amenable to your suit, and—”

“Do we fight as gentlemen? Or as brutes?” Her cousin's voice had dropped to a velvet threat, both soft and cold. It sounded very dramatic. And wholly unnecessary.

Melinda pasted on a placating smile. “Perhaps we should all retire to the parlor for some refreshments. Ronnie, I have especially requested those cakes you like—”

“I have no interest in cakes, my Mellie,” he answered as he lifted his fists.

Damn it, this was spiraling out of control. First, she hated it when he called her “my Mellie.” And second, it was clear he intended to brawl in the foyer.

Mr. Anaedsley must have seen it too. She watched him grimace in distaste, even as his fists came up in a defensive posture. Sadly, he had no way of knowing that Ronnie was extremely accomplished with his fists. And given his size advantage, Mr. Anaedsley was soon to be in a bad way.

Which meant she had to stop this now. Gathering all the strength she could muster in her voice, she snapped out her words like a sergeant issuing orders. “Ronald Gregory Smithson, you will cease this ridiculousness right now! You will not resort to fisticuffs in my hallway. Not in front of the servants and not with a future duke!”

Something flickered in Ronnie's eyes. Something wild and manic. It was in his gaze, in the pull of his lips back from his teeth, and in the way he suddenly opened his fists as if his fingers had springs. She didn't know what it was. Her cousin was prone to many romantic fits, but this was new. And she didn't completely trust new.

“Ronnie—” she began.

“As gentlemen then,” her cousin said. And faster than she thought possible, he grabbed a pair of gloves off the table and smacked them across Mr. Anaedsley's face.

Whack!

The sound was floppy but no less loud as it reverberated off the marble floor and wood paneling. Melinda gasped, her gaze riveting to the red mark on Mr. Anaedsley's cheek.

“Oh no,” she moaned, but Lord Charming smiled, though his eyes glittered menacingly. Melinda stepped forward. “Um, perhaps—”

“You're not supposed to use my gloves, you idiot. You're supposed to use your own.”

Everyone looked to the pair of gloves in Ronnie's hand. Sure enough, they were Mr. Anaedsley's calfskin pair, not Ronnie's black leather pair.

Without a word, Ronnie set the calfskin aside, then moved for his own hat and gloves.

Mr. Anaedsley's voice cut cold and low through the hall. “Don't reach for those unless you mean it. Unless you mean pistols at dawn.”

Ronnie would do it. Melinda knew without a shadow of a doubt that Ronnie would fight in some misguided romantic idea of a duel. And he would die that way. Or Mr. Anaedsley would, which would be especially awkward, as he was the grandson of a duke.

“Don't even think it,” she said. “Either of you. Ronnie, if you so much as touch your gloves, I swear, I will…I will…” Damnation, it had to be something romantic, something appealing to his chivalric code. “I will drown myself in the lake.”

That got both their attention. Ronnie's eyes widened and a softness came into them. “Would you? Would you really, my Mellie?” Lord, he actually sounded hopeful.

Mr. Anaedsley merely snorted. “There isn't a lake for miles.”

Well, as if that was anything to the point! Didn't he understand she was trying to avoid backing Ronnie into a corner? “But there are streams.”

“Not deep ones.”

“They have rocks. I could dash my brains upon one.”

“Of all the—”

“You won't if I win,” Ronnie said, pulling himself up to his full height. “You'll see me defeat the monster and—”

“And jump from the tallest tree to dash my brains out upon the rocks. I despise violence. It is my guiding principle. If you fight, then I shall kill myself.”

Mr. Anaedsley regarded her with a smirk trembling at the edge of his lips. “You do understand that killing oneself is still considered violence.”

She glared at the man. “I am most determined.”

“And what of my honor?” he challenged. “I have been insulted.” He touched his reddened cheek for emphasis.

“You have no honor,” bellowed Ronnie. And given his girth, he had quite a bellow. It made everyone in the hall flinch.

Meanwhile, Lord Charming straightened in mock horror. “What a dishonorable thing to say! You, sir, are no gentleman!”

“Oh, stop goading him!” Melinda snapped. “He's quite serious. That's
his
guiding principle.”

Mr. Anaedsley frowned. “Being serious? How is that a—”

“Deadly serious.” She spoke it in accents of doom merely because she knew it would please her cousin and hopefully shift his thoughts away from duels. And in the meantime, maybe Mr. Anaedsley would take the hint. Ronnie was fully idiotic enough to follow through with an affair of honor if they didn't turn his thoughts aside. “Why I remember once when—”

Smack!

This time the sound wasn't floppy. It was the hard clap of something hitting a man's palm. It was loud and sharp, and it was Ronnie's gloves as Mr. Anaedsley caught them mere inches from his face.

“God, Ronnie,” Melinda moaned. “Why would you do such a thing?” She knew the answer, and yet some questions had to be voiced, especially as the two men were now locked together—Ronnie's gloves gripped in Anaedsley's hand—while the two stared at one another like two tensing bulls.

Mr. Anaedsley spoke first. “I could kill you, you know,” he said softly. “Pistols or swords, I can best you in minutes.”

Melinda pushed forward aggressively this time. She knew better than to step between them, but she set her feet so both men could see her clearly. “And you'd have to flee to the Continent. Dueling is illegal. Good God, my father is the magistrate here!”

Ronnie's nostrils flared. “Fisticuffs then? I swear, I will not kill you.”

Mr. Anaedsley's eyebrows rose, and his lips twitched in amusement. “What of my lady's hatred of violence?”

Ronnie rolled his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes at her. “Fisticuffs aren't violence. They're pugilism.”

Mr. Anaedsley glanced at her. “Is that so? If we fight, you swear you will not dash yourself upon the rocks?”

She folded her arms in disgust. “I am more likely to cosh you both over the head while you sleep!”

The damned man did smile then. “That's not very sporting of you.”

Ronnie seemed to agree. “And it would be violent. Really, Mellie, you don't truly abhor violence, do you?”

“Oh, I most certainly do. Otherwise you both would be dead by my hand at this very moment.”

Both men nodded, apparently in complete agreement. And then by some secret man signal, they dropped their hands and straightened. Mr. Anaedsley thought to reassure her by flashing his charming smile. “See. All better,” he said.

And Ronnie—damn his eyes—made so bold as to gesture to the parlor. “Shall we have some of those cakes, cousin? I'm suddenly feeling quite hungry.”

* * *

Trevor found her that night as she sipped brandy and stared out at the fireflies dancing across the back lawn. The other men had gone to bed, but she, as hostess, had remained awake—a constant, quiet presence who directed the staff and saw to their comfort. Once he might have discounted the skill it took to manage such a smooth-running household, but he knew what a hash his mother made of it, so he quietly marveled at her accomplishment.

“Shouldn't you be resting before your dawn
affaire
d'honor
?” she asked, a bite to her tone.

He smiled. He should have realized she'd be aware of him standing at the door to her parlor. After all, he'd spent most of the day much too conscious of her. Even when deep in scientific discussion with her father, a part of him had tracked her movements with the staff, counted the minutes when Ronnie had trapped her in conversation, and even caught her frowning at him more than a dozen times.

“You have no need to cut up at me,” he said as he moved into the delightful parlor at the back of house. “My sacrifice saved you from an unwanted proposal.”

She shot him an irritated glare. “Ronnie proposes on every visit. I assure you, practice has made me skilled at deflecting his attention.”

“But it's gotten harder, hasn't it?”

She didn't answer except to look out the window. He watched her profile in the moonlight, seeing her pert nose and long lashes. Her skin tended to a plebeian light brown, but in the moonlight, she nearly glowed. And with her hair curling around her cheeks, he saw how very beautiful she could be. That realization drew him to sit on the settee beside her.

“I do not want you to protect my honor,” she said as he found his seat.

“You are worried about tomorrow's fight. I promise you, I shall not hurt your cousin overmuch.”

“You? Hurt him?” She gaped at him. “Good God, you are a fool. You think because you are heir to a dukedom that no man can touch you. Ronnie will take great pleasure in touching you, sir. Indeed he will not stop pummeling you until you are sent to the hospital!”

“You are worried for me!” he said with no small amount of pleasure. “But there isn't any need. Ronnie did not hurt me this afternoon—”

“You caught him by surprise.”

“And tomorrow will be no different.”

She stared at him, her expression darkening by the second. “He has two stone on you and nearly six inches more reach. His feet are nimble despite his larger size, and you, sir, are blinded by arrogance.”

He tilted his head, surprised by her yet again. “You know something of boxing?”

She pursed her lips in distaste. “I spent the afternoon in study of it.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed. While you were deep in conversation with my father, I was with Ronnie prompting him to share his plans. He sees tomorrow's fight as an affair of honor—”

“And so it is.”

“And so he intends to put you down.” She shot him a worried look. “Those were his very words:
put
the
cheeky
bastard
down
.”

He leaned back on the settee, enjoying the rare experience of a woman worrying after his health. It put him in charity with her as never before. “It is a simple schoolboy fight. They happen all the time.”

“You are both grown men.”

“Who sometimes wish to revisit their childhood glory.”

She sighed, and her attention turned back to the window. He settled in beside her, wishing he had his own glass of brandy, but loathe to leave her side. He didn't spend much time thinking about his reasons for sitting there. Instead, he studied the strange position of the furniture, occupying his thoughts with the odd way she had arranged the room.

The settee, for example, was angled so she could curl up near enough to the fire to read, but facing the window rather than the door. In truth, just about every table and chair in this small room turned its back on the door in favor of viewing the dark vista outside.

“This is not a very welcoming room,” he mused aloud.

“Then you need not stay,” she returned.

He chuckled, not at all put out by her ill temper now that he knew it stemmed from concern. “I do not criticize,” he said honestly. “I simply note that this is a room that is not designed for company but solitary enjoyment of the view.” He frowned as he peered through the window. She looked out over grass and then wood. “The autumn leaves must be quite spectacular.”