Amanda Scott by Dangerous Games Page B

there, you see, and—”
    “A stepfather, eh?” He dimly remembered that she had mentioned one before.
    “Yes, I have lived with him these past nine years. What I told you in the stable about being abducted was quite true, you see. Papa came and took me away.”
    “As your father, he had every right to do so, however. In any event, I am not driving you to Edinburgh or anywhere else that would keep us on the road for three or four days, so you can put that notion straight out of your head. You’ve got family in London, too, haven’t you? Didn’t Seacourt mention a great-aunt?”
    “Well, Great-Aunt Ophelia does go to London for the Season, so I expect she will be there soon if she is not already, but—”
    “For the Season! I know you said that earlier, but Seacourt said the woman is eighty-six years old. Surely, you must be mistaken.”
    “No, I’m not. For the past few years she has accompanied my cousin Charley.”
    “Accompanied a young man to London? Now, see here—”
    “Not a man. Charley is female. Her name is Charlotte, but everyone except Papa calls her Charley. He never held with boyish nicknames, you see, but Charley never liked him much, either. She does not think much of men in general, so she and Great-Aunt Ophelia get on quite well.”
    Nick frowned. “She’s that sort, is she?”
    “What sort?”
    “Never mind. If you don’t know—”
    “But I want to know. It sounds like a sort you don’t approve of, and I assure you, Charley and Great-Aunt Ophelia are both quite respectable. They just don’t care much for men. Great-Aunt Ophelia says women are misnamed the weaker sex, that in truth, it is men who are weak. In fact, Great-Aunt Ophelia says—”
    “I don’t think I want to hear more of what Great-Aunt Ophelia says,” Nick said, cutting her off without a qualm. “Great-Aunt Ophelia sounds like a crazy old lady to me, but since she is your relative I shall try to refrain from disparaging her.”
    “Thank you,” Melissa said dryly.
    “Now, about that maid of yours—”
    “She is not my maid, exactly. I told you—”
    “I know what you told me. She will have to do, however. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “it occurs to me that we might meet with a problem if she considers herself to be in Seacourt’s employ.”
    “Oh, I don’t think Mag will care a rap about who hires her, sir. She has served me well enough, though she cries ‘lawks-a-mussy’ at everything.”
    “I trust you have not also picked up that habit,” he said.
    “No.” She smiled at him then, and he remembered how easily she could stir him sexually. Abruptly, he said, “Have you got much baggage to collect?”
    “No, none. He did not give me time to pack anything.”
    “I see,” he said grimly. “Well, there is a comb on that dressing table. Put it to some use, if you please, while I turn out my man and order up my phaeton. I do not at all like being seen in the company of bedraggled females.” Smiling to take the sting out of those last words, he turned on his heel and went to find his valet.
    Alone, Melissa moved obediently to the dressing table, drew a deep breath, and tried to assess her situation. Though she picked up the tortoiseshell comb on the table and did what she could to smooth her hair, she did not sit down. Sitting was, as she had discovered when she sat up on the bed, really rather painful.
    Despite what Vexford had told her, she still could not remember any auction or his paying the amazing sum of twenty thousand guineas for her. She did not doubt that he had done so, for he had given her no cause to think him a liar, but she remembered nothing between speaking up in her own defense and finding herself atop the table, watching him walk toward her. The latter moment was indelibly imprinted on her mind. Just by closing her eyes, she could see him even now, coming toward her through the crowd, taller than anyone else, his shoulders broader, his walk that of a man who never let anyone