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Sweeping into her chambers triumphantly, she lifted her skirts and tore off her panniers, vowing to never again wear the beastly things. “Burn them, Marie,” she commanded her startled maid, giving the metal baskets a good shake before dumping them on the floor. “I never want to see them again.”
Immediately, she began writing letters. The first was a cheerful missive to David. The second was to her dressmaker.
This Season is going to be very different.
The following week, Mélisande sipped her tea and waited—delightfully unchaperoned—in David’s townhouse parlor.
“Congratulations on escaping the noose,” David said from the doorway. “I anticipate a general uproar when it becomes public knowledge. No doubt there’ll be some strong protest at court.”
“I don’t see why there should be,” she grumbled. “Female autonomy is certainly nothing new. After all, was there not an unwed woman on England’s throne more than a century ago? And like that illustrious queen, I also plan to announce that I have no intention of ever marrying.”
“Then let us hope the number of suicides among your admirers does not forever earn the enmity of your fellow sex,” he quipped, taking a scone from the tray. “Though I expect you’ve earned that already. I also expect you know your announcement will do nothing to dissuade fortune-hunting males from pursuit. Your wealth and title are simply too enticing a lure.”
“I’m well aware of the wolves wearing sheep’s wool, thanks to you,” she scolded without rancor, waiting for him to take a bite before continuing. “But I didn’t come to discuss them. I came to ask the name of your mistress’s mantua-maker.”
The fit of coughing and cursing that followed her request was well worth the trip across town.
“I beg your pardon?” David asked, his voice a full octave higher than before. His brows lowered. “Melly, what have you done?”
“Your concern is touching,” she said, flicking a stray bit of crumpet off her sleeve. “But I’ve ‘done’ nothing untoward. I merely want a new wardrobe for the Season, and my current mantua-maker has refused to outfit me.” At his dubious look, she elaborated. “Apparently, she has very definite opinions on what an unmarried lady ought to wear.”
His bark of laughter brought a frown to her face. “I fail to see the humor. As I’m not planning to marry, I don’t see why I should refrain from dressing as I please. And it’s not as if I asked her to put me in anything inappropriate. It’s just that my design ideas are not precisely in step with current fashion. She won’t do what I want for fear of losing her other customers. Neither will any of the other mantua-makers of my acquaintance. I need someone willing to be a little adventurous.”
“I see. Rebelling against the institution of marriage isn’t enough for you. Now you must take on fashion as well.”
Arching a brow in answer, she waited.
“Very well,” he sighed after a moment. “I’ve sent my, erm, female friends to Madame de Favriele on Bond Street for the past two years. Hers is a small establishment compared to some of the more popular ones, and she is not yet well known in London, but she is a most excellent mantua-maker nonetheless. And she won’t refuse the commission, no matter how outré your ideas.”
“I knew you would have a solution! Thank you, David!” Mélisande cheered, smiling again.
“Don’t thank me until after you’ve gotten the bill,” he answered. “Her shop may be small, but her services are not, I fear, inexpensive.”
The new Countess of Wilmington set Society on its ear that Season. As soon as the deep mourning period ended, Mélisande began wearing the new gowns she herself had helped design—gowns in rich, bright silks and brocades, gowns shockingly sans panniers. She played chess, whist, and Bragg to her heart’s content, and when she danced, she enjoyed herself thoroughly, uncaring of the black looks from those displeased by her bold conduct.
“Life is far too short to waste appeasing people I care nothing about,” she explained to a concerned Reggie after a particularly scandalous incident involving the Duke of Devonshire.
“You played chess with a married man—alone—until nearly dawn to determine whether or not you would agree to breed a bloody horse!”
The unpleasant prickle of anger heated Mélisande’s cheeks. “If I choose to discuss the future of my racing stock with another breeder, it is no business of yours! And we were not alone!”
“You might as well have been.” Reggie raised one finger. “A footman. A single footman! It’ll be a miracle if Lady Devonshire hasn’t already begun demanding that her friends ostracize you.”
“Lady Devonshire knew of our whereabouts the entire time. It was her footman,” she replied, bored of his harranguing. “And since when did you appoint yourself my chaperone?”
“That’s not nearly the half of it,” he continued, igoring her. “Your personal war with Herrington must also end. You will stop provoking him immediately.”
A sigh of irritation escaped her.
“I mean it, Melly! You took my pipe and blew it out in his face—in front of an entire roomful of people at Tynwick’s. I’ve never seen him so enraged. You went too far!”
For a moment, Mélisande had difficulty containing her laughter. Never would she forget the look on her bête noire’s face.
“Damn it, this is no time for jests,” he growled. “I intervened before he could commit some unforgivable offense, but what if I hadn’t been present?”
“I should have handled it myself, of course,” she answered, shrugging a careless shoulder. “Reggie, you were there, you heard the man insult me in front of everyone. He practically begged for retaliation. I merely returned his insult. And I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, anyway. You dislike him as much as I.”
“That isn’t the point!”
