After their kiss that afternoon, he was afraid that he preferred Melanie very much indeed.
He’d gone for a very long walk after their kiss to clear his head, to talk some sense into his galloping heart. He’d listed everything that was wrong with Melanie Merton in his head, and yet still he burned for her.
She was haughty, opinionated and standoffish.
He was astonished with himself that none of those failings mattered so much anymore.
He knew she could do better, he knew he wasn’t as distinguished as her past suitors.
But, all that aside, the woman had kissed him back!
He knew what was required, of course. A gentleman did not carelessly kiss a woman like Melanie Merton without holding himself accountable. And he wanted to kiss her again. Soon and often.
So he’d written to David Hawke in London and requested advice in setting up his affairs for a marriage he’d never anticipated.
“Word has it you had an eventful week, Miss Merton,” Mrs. Hartwood murmured.
Melanie set down her spoon carefully as all eyes turned her way. “To what do you refer, madam?”
But Walter had an idea. He’d been waiting for this moment with dread all night. Linus Radley had not been slow to gossip at the tavern they frequented, and he had not painted Melanie in a favorable light because she’d spurned him. A wrong response could put Melanie on the outs very easily.
“Why, the proposal of marriage from Mr. Linus Radley,” Mr. Hartwood cut in. “It is all anyone can talk about.”
She winced. “You’ve heard?”
Mrs. Hartwood appeared honestly worried. “Heard and been dismayed.”
Walter relaxed a little at her words. “A regrettable incident,” he murmured, thinking of striking Linus Radley. At the time he hadn’t known what had come over him to make him react so strongly, but no woman deserved spite just because she did not agree with a man.
Mrs. Hartwood frowned in confusion. “Do you regret turning him down?”
“Not at all.” Melanie drew herself up. “I am simply sorry he misunderstood my overtures of friendship to mean more than an honest desire to be polite. Through my brother’s marriage, he is family.”
“How extraordinary.” Mrs. Hartwood glanced at her husband. “When I heard from those who gossip about such things that you, of all young ladies, were supposed to have led him on to the point of proposing, I couldn’t credit it for anything but a mistaken report. It’s hardly in your nature to be scandalous.”
“My sister acted appropriately at all times, I assure you,” Valentine insisted. “Radley is quite in the wrong.”
“I believe you. A most unpleasant development.” Mrs. Hartwood nodded then turned to Walter, and the matter was dropped. “I hear you bought that lovely little cottage on Russell Road. Are you finally ready to settle down, sir?”
“I
am
settled. Here, or rather, next door.”
“A man is not settled until he marries,” Mrs. Hartwood glanced around the table with a knowing smile, “and has a babe to hold in each arm.”
“In due time.” He’d heard every variation on the topic before, of course, but as one of the last bachelor’s in his circle of friends, the discussions about marriage were now rather pointedly aimed at him. “I will marry when the time is right, and rest assured I will call on you to help keep an eye on all the little Georges one day.”
Mrs. Hartwood clapped her hands in delight and all around the table were smiles and good-natured support for that suggestion. Over the years he’d found half-truths more satisfying a response when it came to marriage, rather than outright denial. “I will not live in the Russell Road home, but lease it out after repairs are completed.”
Mr. Hartwood huffed. “Again, sir, you have beaten me to a property I wanted.”
Walter grinned. “I assure you it was not done intentionally, but what is clear to me is that we both have excellent taste in property.”
Mrs. Hartwood soothed her husband. “Forgive Hartwood. He’s still grumbling over losing out to you over the Forsythe house all those years ago.”
“What’s this about the Forsythe house?” Valentine interrupted. “My mother’s family lived there when I was a boy.”
“I own it.” He eyed the remaining dessert. Empress Pudding was a favorite and one of the Mertons’ cook’s specialties. He had not managed to convince the cook to share the recipe but he would one day soon. “Is anyone going to eat that?”
Mrs. Hartwood immediately declined, and silenced her husband with a stern look when he appeared to be about to accept. Everyone else remained silent so he glanced around—to see varying degrees of astonishment on Valentine’s and Melanie’s faces.
Melanie gasped. “Since when?”
“The house? Oh, the property was my very first investment.” Although it was no great secret, Walter considered his property investments, and his wealth to be no ones business but his own. Mr. Merton senior had dispensed with the property for a song long ago without one trace of hesitation, and had actually set him on the path of his own small fortune. He glanced at Valentine curiously. “Did your father not tell you of the sale?”
Valentine glanced at Melanie instead of answering him. “No wonder he has refused to discuss the house,” Valentine murmured to her.
“Ah. The Forsythe property was in quite a state the first day I walked in as owner. A leak in the roof had ruined the ceilings of a bedchamber and a drawing room. It took time to afford the repair. Once the building was sound, I leased it to a large family whose occupation as painters was put to good use to bring the home back to rights for a reduced rent.”
And he’d never looked back. He’d used that experience as a model for his future investments.
Walter shook his head. “I thought you knew. I’ll send a note round to the tenant to expect your visit if you still wish to go.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I should like that very much. I had such a happy time visiting my grandparents there as a child.”
He nodded in sympathy. She should cling to those happier memories and forget the sad ones. “Now then, Miss Merton, shall we fight for the last helping, or merely toss a coin and let fate decide for us who gets to eat what remains?”
He peered at her with one brow raised and, as hoped, she smiled at his ridiculous suggestion. “I certainly won’t fight with such slim odds of success. We all know it is one of your favorites.”
They would share, of course. He grinned, served her a modest amount, and placed the remainder on his own plate. “Any dessert is my favorite until I meet the next helping. Don’t waste that.”
“Has there ever been a battle won over dessert?” Valentine chuckled.
Mrs. Hartwood’s eyes widened. “Why, yes, there was, or at least there was in fiction. Over the summer I read this delightful little book. There was just such a scene as you described. Oh, what was that book called?”
There was a scene from a K.L Brahms book that described such an event; however, few knew that Walter was the inspiration for it. As a boy, he’d been slow to temper and Imogen had often annoyed him with her nattering. At one meal, she’d gone too far over something of no importance. A well-flung spoonful of brandy custard had silenced her until she’d retaliated and they’d gone to war. At first, he’d been amused his sister had remembered a long-ago battle over dessert and had used it in her book.
Until now.
Melanie laughed softly. “That’s in
Findings from a Castaway
? From what I can gather, everyone in Brighton has read the story and is talking about what makes the perfect dessert worth fighting over. I don’t believe I’d care to have food flung across our dining room, but it makes for a dramatic reading.”
“Indeed it does,” Mrs. Hartwood said with a shudder. “The scene is described so clearly I can almost see it happening when I close my eyes. Those charming porcelain kittens falling off the mantle and the dollop of custard sliding down that poor girl’s cheek.”
The girl had been Melanie at age ten or eleven.
Imogen had possessed terrible aim and had been responsible for the broken ornaments. Hitting Melanie had been entirely his fault. Melanie hadn’t been expected that day and had been caught by a misaimed shot of his. He winced, remembering her tears over her ruined dress.
Did she remember her part in it? He glanced at her but could detect no recognition in her expression. Perhaps she had forgotten all about it, along with her friendship with Imogen. It
had
been a long time ago.
“Well,” Melanie set her napkin aside, “I hope there will be no similar incidents in this house tonight.”
Her gaze lingered on him briefly before she turned to Julia. At the subtle rise of her brow, Julia urged Mrs. Hartwood to the parlor for tea, leaving Walter puzzled and eager to know if the family secret was out or not. He truly couldn’t accurately gauge Melanie’s mood tonight and that meant he’d have to try to find out if she would make trouble for Imogen. He’d have to get her alone again.
He couldn’t wait.
Eight
“We simply must find that darling man a wife, and soon,” Mrs. Hartwood gushed as Melanie stirred half a spoonful of sugar into her cup of tea. There was always a point in every evening entertainment when matchmaking came up, so she wasn’t surprised. Since the remark was directed at Julia, and not to herself, she kept her mouth closed and her eyes down.
Julia had made a great start on winning over Mrs. Hartwood, a woman who could help her become a fixture in Brighton society one day if she cultivated a friendship with her.
“I do agree,” Julia enthused. “Mr. George would make a wonderful husband indeed.”
Melanie set her cup aside, waiting, bracing herself for the suggestion that a match be made between her and Walter, since they were so well acquainted. She lifted her gaze slowly.
“I think Miss Langston would be perfect,” Mrs. Hartwood suggested.
“There is always Miss Harrow, and of course Miss Enid Vickers has many fine qualities.” Julia shook her head. “What do you think, Melanie? You’ve known Mr. George much longer than I have. Who do you think he should marry?”
That was a question she’d never been able to answer to her own satisfaction and it troubled her now. “I’ve known him perhaps a year longer on account of my being marginally older than you.”
Such a good and amiable man should have married already. Over the past weeks, she’d come to appreciate Walter. He deserved the perfect wife. But now that she had heard the names of other young ladies thrown about as a match for him, she was outraged on his behalf. Those young ladies would never do.
“Well, I have no doubts he’s considering making a match now.” Mrs. Hartwood beamed. “Did you hear he’s given thought to having children? There are not too many gentlemen so obviously meant to be a father as our Mr. George. My grandson’s adore his visits, as do many of the young boys living about us. He’s always so very tolerant of their requests he join their games, no matter how silly.”
Melanie’s heart squeezed tight. The moment Walter had spoken of children at dinner, she’d known he was eager for a family of his own. He was always tossing a ball back to some boy or little girl. Kindness was so very easy for him that children adored him. He would be a good father.
When the gentlemen joined them and much teasing ensued between the married couples, she tried not to stare at him. Seated opposite her, Walter seemed so far away. So very different, and yet the more she considered, the more she saw that their interests and attitudes were very similar.
In everything but the one area that would matter so much to him. Children.
Mr. Hartwood approached her and she forced herself to put that unsettling word into its proper place.
“Would you do an old man the honor of a performance on the pianoforte, my dear?” he asked. “I have not heard you play in many months and I am lonely for the sound.”
“We all are,” Walter agreed quietly.
Valentine and Julia nodded, clearly eager for her to accept and keep their guests happy. “Please play for us,” Julia pleaded.
Although she hadn’t intended to become the center of attention, she stood. “I should be delighted to.”
If she were playing, she might not have to think of Walter with a family of his own. The idea of him kissing another woman unsettled her a great deal. She chose a long piece and commenced to play, losing herself in the melody until the very last notes. When she finished, Mr. Hartwood was satisfied and he and his wife took their leave.
“Do stay where you are, Melanie,” Julia gushed. “I do not hear you play enough anymore since we are out so often.”
Valentine stood and kissed Julia’s cheek. “I’m going to make one last search for that tune I told you about and then it’s our turn to play.”
She picked another, shorter piece and set about playing. Walter settled in a chair close by and set his hands behind his head. “If I had my way, I’d tear a hole in the wall so I could hear you play more clearly.”
Her heart filled with dread at his suggestion. “Valentine plays as well,” Melanie reminded him.
“I need to stuff wool in my ears for those times.”
Julia huffed. “And here I was thinking you a fair man all night.”
He winked at Melanie. “God-awful racket he kicks up. It is so easy to tell the difference.”