never been the sort to attract the attention of men like him; she knew it, and accepted it without grief. She had no fortune, no title, no lands to inherit. She was ordinary looking, with hair that was neither brown nor blond but a boring kind of in-between shade, and her blue eyes had a tendency to see things a bit too clearly. Gentlemen had never liked that, particularly combined with her alarming habit of speaking her mind. She was also curvy rather than willowy, bustling rather than languid, practical rather than dreamy, and those depressing characteristics had made her one of the leftovers. Those gentlemen still in search of a wife had no choice but to turn to her. And so she had attracted the attention of Sir Thomas Carstairs, and hadn’t had much choice when there were no other offers and her aunt, her only surviving relative, had made it clear that one season was all she was willing to countenance.
She’d married him, perfectly aware that he wasn’t going to last long. He had a wasting disease, he was already coughing blood and his uncertain temper had promised to carry him off quite quickly. He was irritable, critical, much older than she was and the most impatient person she’d ever known.
And she’d loved him.
Indeed, with her care he’d lasted years longer than his doctor had predicted. He’d railed at her, dismissed her, criticized her and loved her in return. And when he died she’d mourned him deeply, much to the surprise of those who knew her.
The odd thing was that she hadn’t realized how wealthy he, and now she, was. He had no issue and no entailments, so her widowhood had made her an instant target of fortune hunters. After her year of mourning she’d returned to London and immediately fallen in love. How was she to know he had pockets to let and a marked preference for willowy beauties. She’d even gone so far as to allow him to seduce her, curious if a young man would be any different than Sir Thomas’s occasional, ineffectual efforts.
It had been both boring and disgusting. Wilfred Hunnicut hadn’t been particularly handsome. He had a weak chin that he tried to disguise with side whiskers, a slightly bowed posture and just the faintest hint of a belly. She had closed her eyes and instead of envisioning calm landscapes, as her aunt had suggested, she instead envisioned someone else pressing her down into the bedclothes, someone who’d looked remarkably like Benedick Rohan. Even that didn’t help, as Wilfred’s hunching and sweating over her proved distracting as he quickly finished his business. She might have been trapped with him if she hadn’t had the good fortune to catch him pressing kisses on a chambermaid.
She’d dismissed her fiancé, retained the chambermaid and decided then and there that she had no need of a man in her life. She would fill it with good works and convivial souls, which, from her years of observation, would doubtless consist of women.
Women were practical, fair-minded, inventive and far less likely to fuss over things. When they did there was usually an underlying reason, and within a few short years she’d had any number of good female friends.
She’d even managed to retain the best of them, despite her peculiar habit of rescuing soiled doves and bringing them home with her, along with their siblings and offspring.
She drew the line at their lovers or pimps. When an unfortunate joined the women of the Dovecote, they relinquished their old ways of earning a living in return for learning a decent trade.
For some reason she couldn’t ever picture Violet Highstreet hunched over a needle in a decent milliner’s shop. Though she had an eye for fashion—she’d doubtless be excellent at designing hats. If she was patient enough to learn her craft, which she most certainly wasn’t.
But I like it, she’d wailed, and Melisande couldn’t get that picture out of her mind. Any more than she could forget Benedick Rohan’s dark eyes sweeping over her in thinly veiled contempt.
Of course, he’d thought she was a madam. But she suspected he would have shown more respect for an abbess than a do-gooder. Charity Carstairs, they called her behind her back.
Well, so be it. There were worse names to be called, and the only people who’d ever flattered her had been seeking her money. But with her belated wisdom she could simply ignore the handsomest fortune hunter and rejoice in the fact that she didn’t