Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  I wonder if he ever really thought of me kindly.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. It had been a long time since she saw beauty in her face. It was too long, too soft about the jaw. Her eyes were too big – and whoever saw so tall a forehead on a woman? It was mannish, Arthur said.

  In the half-light of the evening, she studied her face, trying to be objective. Was it really so awful, so different from the image society sought? Her eyes were large, her forehead rising above them evenly. It didn't seem all that manly to her, but what did she know? And her jaw? Yes, her face was smooth-cheeked, with a rounded chin. But was that so terribly ugly?

  “You're selling the diamonds, Mirabelle,” she told herself. “I don't think anyone's looking at you.”

  She turned away from the mirror, looking into the gray half-light of the room. She was thirty, she knew. It was still young – Marguerite, her friend, had borne a child at thirty, so it was not too old for that – but it was not the age women tended to marry.

  As if that was even possible.

  She shook her head, another stone added to the weight of sorrows on her shoulders. She was too old to consider wedding for money. She would have to make do with the resources she did have.

  The carriage. The jewelery. The house, if we must.

  The next step was letting Dalford House, and living somewhere quietly in the country, with Glenna and Stilling for company. All that was left of the once ten-person staff, these two were steadfastly loyal.

  “Well, then, Mirabelle Steele. You can do it,” she said, looking herself in the eye. It didn't matter if Arthur thought she was ugly, if they had no money in the accounts and almost nothing coming in from the estate. She was Mirabelle Steele and she was going to right this mess.

  Whatever she thought of herself – ugly, aging – she did admire her grit. It was a place to start.

  With that, she headed down the darkening hallway to the dining-room. She was going to London for the Season. And she would leave tomorrow.

  THE NEXT MORNING, SHE woke, feeling filled with a new strength. When Glenna brought her tea, Mirabelle was already sitting up in bed, making a list of plans. She would look up Marguerite and see if she was still in London. She would visit St. James' Park.

  “Milady! You're cheery,” Glenna commented, opening the curtains by the bed.

  “I am,” Mirabelle nodded. “Thanks,” she added, taking a long swig of the tea. “It's a lovely morning.”

  “Aye, not bad,” Glenna commented mildly. “I hope the weather holds. I spoke to Stilling yesterday eve, and he said a coach is leaving at eleven o' clock this morning.”

  “This morning?” Mirabelle asked, setting the tea aside and climbing out of bed. “Well, then! Let's find my trunk! We'd best pack it now. And find my white muslin dress, please...I'll put that on this morning. And the pearls.”

  As Glenna rushed around the room, organizing the trunk, tidying, finding the dress, Mirabelle felt a slow peace settle on her soul. She was going to settle this matter. She just knew it. She was feeling more like herself again.

  Chapter 2: An evening in London

  “Dash it all, Elton. Can you see anyone we know?” Bradford asked from the edge of Almack's Assembly, looking out over the seething crowd of guests.

  He breathed in, smelling the scents of rosewater and pomade, the tallow of the candles in the chandeliers, the undertone of champagne. He sighed. It was the smell of London Society. And he desperately wished he was somewhere else.

  “I can't see anyone,” Elton said reasonably. “You're taller than me.”

  Bradford blinked, looking down the inch or two of height into his brother's blue eyes.

  “You're right.”

  His brother laughed, dryly. Said nothing.

  “Well,” Bradford commented. “When we finally get up these blasted steps and into the place, we'll look about. Eh? I do believe Clapham's meant to be here.”

  “Oh.”

  Bradford bit back an exasperated grin. Elton's doleful manner was enough to drain the joy out of a jaunt to Paradise, never mind a trip to tiresome London. He himself, vowed to reform, was still determined to enjoy the evening. Which was more than he could say for Elton, who looked about as cheerful as a beggar's dog.

  “Well, it's a warm evening, eh?” he said, trying hard to lighten his brother's sorrowful mood.

  “Yes.”

  Bradford shrugged. He couldn't blame Elton for his sorrow, not really. After all, the poor lad had been miserable ever since the news. I would have sympathy, except I can't. I don't know how the poor fellow's suffering. I've never been in love – not really.

  He sighed. For someone whose notorious adventures had got him a talking-to from their father, and a harsh one, Bradford was untouched.

  I never felt the way I see he does.

  Elton and Laurel were so sweet together. They had known each other for years, and the affection between them had delighted everyone in the family. They were an adorable pair, everyone remarked. At least, they were, he thought sadly, until Lord Presterly, Culver's father, had declared his news.

  And now, he thought, glancing with intense care at the honey-blonde hair of his little brother, he was stuck with a sorrowing youth unable to enjoy the evening.

  “Ah! At last,” he said, trying to be expansive. They reached the top step and, finally, they were in line to go in through the doors. Tall, white-painted and imposing, they blocked the way in.

  Getting a pass to Almack's was not that easy. Bradford was lucky he knew people who knew the issuers of invitations. He and Elton had passes for the Season as soon as they'd arrived. But it was a privilege, he reminded himself.

  So enjoy it, Bradford North. Stop moping now.

  Bradford took a deep breath, ran a hand through his pale hair and stepped up to the doors.

  “Lord Bradford, and his brother, Lord Elton, sons of the Earl of Althorpe.”

  There. That'll do it.

  Bradford grinned to himself as he looked out over the sea of heads and saw one or two of them turn, in mild interest, to look at them. He stood taller in his pale brown velvet coat – the one that brought out the hazel-brown of his eyes – and stared out mildly. He had to admit a sense of excitement.

  All those people know of us.

  It was, he reflected, with some excitement, the people who didn't know them – and they didn't know – that were interesting.

  Bradford Grantham North. You should know better, by now.

  He couldn't help it – London, the diversions, the newness – exerted a powerful force on him yet, one he had forgotten. The sparkle and scintillation was bright and exciting. And it was exactly what Bradford had craved.

  It was just as well he had Elton beside him.

  “Bradford!” a warm voice greeted him, making him blink with mild surprise. “It's been a long time since we saw you here.”

  “Lady Nollet,” he greeted the older woman who looked up at him, a big smile on her refined face. “An honor to see you.”

  He bowed over her hand and she smiled, eyes sparking. One of the more influential figures in London, Lady Nollet was all-too-aware of Bradford's reputation. She also, it seemed, didn't dislike him. Which was just as well, since she was a friend of the ladies who dictated who got passes to Almack's.

  And that was a good thing to have, after all. If he didn't have a pass to Almack's, he didn't have any chance at all of meeting anyone. Much less doing as his brother ordered.

  As he chatted to Lady Nollet, he found himself looking avidly round the room. So many new faces! In the years he'd missed, the scene had changed completely. He found himself eager to get back after all. He looked round for Elton, who had wandered away from him, and found him at the edge of a younger group, watching them intently.

  “You seem eager to meet people,” Lady Nollet said, her voice shrewd. She interrupted his thoughts.

  Bradford nodded, distracted. His eye had landed on a young woman with reddish hair pinned up in ela
borate coils, a demure white silk gown over her curvaceous form. Who was she?

  “You are interested in Miss Avery?” she said.

  Bradford shook his head, instantly quashed. “No. I was just staring. Distracted. Sorry.”

  “Not at all,” the older woman chuckled generously. “I think a lot of people are looking at Melinda Avery. She's very wealthy.”

  “Oh,” Bradford said. He looked away and focused on the bright-eyed face before him. Lady Nollet chuckled.

  “I wasn't accusing you of being a fortune-seeker,” she said, laughing. “I was just pointing out that, if you want to go that way, you'll have a crowd to get through. What about that corner? There's a quieter space there. Better for young Elton, quieter. It's good to see the lad again.” She nodded in his direction where he stood.

  “It is,” Bradford said, distracted. He was still looking about, searching for Clapham, for Rayleigh...anyone he recognized.

  The woman laughed. “Well, then, she said. “I can see you're eager to get going. So off you go. But no scandals, Master Bradford.” She laughed.

  “I...yes, Lady Nollet,” he promised intently. “I don't intend them.”

  “You probably don't, no.”

  Her laugh followed him as he bowed and left, to find himself weaving his way through the crowds to find Elton, who had taken root somewhere by the string quartet. He had no intention of scandals. His scandal days were done.

  I am here with Elton, and we're going to enjoy ourselves. Innocently and cleanly. Harmless diversion.

  That was his plan, at any rate: and he meant to stick to it as intently as he could.

  “I CAN'T BREATHE.”

  Mirabelle whispered it to herself where she stood at the edge of Almack's assembly, fanning herself with her lace fan. She was wearing her blue ballgown, a soft silk the color of an evening sky. She was glad she'd picked this one, as her white one was a little tight and she needed room to breathe. She had forgotten how much crowds scared her.

  Waving her fan to cool herself, she looked about the room, fighting her nerves.

  At the center of the room the crowds were thinner, and she could see individual faces. Young men, their dark hair brushed to shining, spoke with young ladies, their hair in artfully-arranged up-styles. All the styles were slightly looser and more negligent than she remembered. She touched her own hair, self-conscious, arranged in its tight net of curls.

  It's probably frightfully unfashionable, but what can I do?

  So long away from London had given her little idea about fashions in the capital.

  “Lady Steele,” a man greeted her smoothly. He bowed. “It is you, isn't it? Countess of Dalford?”

  “The dowager countess, yes,” Mirabelle commented tightly. She glanced up at the seamed, suave face she barely recalled.

  “Ah, yes. My apologies, m'dear. Lord Steele is sadly missed. Sadly missed.”

  “I imagine,” she said softly. She tried to recall who this man was, and how she knew him. She guessed he was one of Arthur's circle. He wasn't in uniform, but perhaps he was attached to the regiment? She felt uncomfortable and didn't quite know why.

  “Lady Steele, it's so good to see you come out of mourning,” a woman commented from beside him. “Hugh and I were wondering if you ever would!”

  “Thank you, Lady Dennhurst,” she said, remembering their names suddenly. An unpleasant pair. She ached to get away.

  “Well, you look well,” the woman continued. “The years in the country have been good for you. It must be good to be back, though, in the midst of fashion.”

  Mirabelle saw her eyes wander up and down her gown. She swallowed, feeling herself about to faint. Did the woman simply have to draw attention to her unfashionable apparel? She looked round, desperate.

  “You look tired, m'dear,” Lord Dennhurst said. “Might I get you a chair? Not used to the long evenings, I think.”

  “No, I'm not tired,” she managed to say. “I just...I need some air. Excuse me, please.”

  She broke away, heading through the crowd towards the doors.

  As she reached the terrace she collapsed against the railing, breathing hard. London was spread out before her, a mass of shadows and lights, heading to the sparkling dark ribbon of the Thames. She stared out over the dark roofs and into the black sky.

  Stars winked there, the points of light so far and remote above the city. She wished she could disappear, or that she could simply stay here, at least, alone, in the silence, with the stars as company.

  Other people had moved out to the terrace, the low murmurous voices and the click of heeled shoes on stone reaching her. Nobody intruded on her place at the rails, though, or on her silence, for which she was grateful.

  After a while, her heart stopped aching. Music, light and silvery, drifted out across the stone terrace, mingling with the low-voiced chatter of the guests. A gust of wind brought the scent of summer roses to her, faintly. She breathed in and thought of Dalford, where the terrace would be scented with the drowsy perfume of jasmine. She felt better, recalling the garden.

  She had done a lot with the garden, made it a haven of beauty and sweetness. She smiled, thinking of the hours she'd spent in it with Jelling, the old head-gardener. They had dug flower beds and bought roses, planted irises and cleared ponds. It had been a happy time.

  Feeling calmer, she turned and leaned against the rail with her back to it, looking up at the stars.

  If I could have one wish, what would it be?

  She frowned. It was an odd thought. She would have thought it would have an easy answer, but she found she didn't know. She hadn't ever thought about it before. She knew there were many things that she needed to address. She should wish for the estate fortune to be restored, for her troubles to be over. For youth, perhaps. For beauty.

  I don't want that, though. It wouldn't bring me happiness. And that's what I want.

  She leaned back, looking at the stars where they twinkled down at her like bright jewels. She wished for happiness.

  That made her feel better. Feeling calmer, she stood. The music was growing more lively, and she guessed the dances had already started within.

  I can just about go in again, now.

  Taking a breath of the cool, crisp air, she headed towards the doors.

  As she headed through, someone pushed out through the door, hurriedly, and collided with her. She found herself looking up into a pair of startled eyes.

  “DASH IT ALL! OH, BOTHER. Damn me for a clumsy oaf...” Bradford swore, then remembered himself. He bowed. “Apologies,” he said.

  The lady he had walked into shot him a frosty look. She had blue eyes, he noticed; unusually blue and piercing, the color of slate under rain. He swallowed hard, wilting under her gaze, and bowed again.

  “Milady, pray forgive me. Lord Bradford at your service. I meant no harm.”

  “No harm done,” the woman replied coolly. Dash it, but she could have set frost in the air with that voice, even in the sweltering summer heat.

  “I'm glad,” he said quickly. “I would hate to cause offense to one so beautiful.”

  The comment shot out of his mouth without thought – it was glib, the sort of thing he'd say in high society without much thought – but he surprised himself by meaning it. She was beautiful.

  With a soft oval face, pale-brown hair and full lips, it was nevertheless her eyes that haunted him. Pale blue, the color mountains go in the distance, they were large and full-lidded, lashes surprisingly dark and long. She looked up at him with that surprisingly-hard gaze in the gentle eyes.

  “You flatter me, sir.”

  “No!” He said hastily. “Not flattery, I assure you, but sincerest truth.” He bowed.

  When he looked up at her again, she was looking at him with a wry smile on her face.

  “Well, I can take that two ways. You are either a consummate flatterer or afflicted with poor eyesight.”

  He had to smile. He straightened up quickly from the bow and shook his hea
d, laughing.

  “I see there is nothing I can say to convince you of my sincerity. I am mortified.”

  She shot him a look, stony again. “Your mortification is not my doing, sir.”

  “No,” he shook his head, feeling the conversation slipping away from him. “I mean, it's my fault. Entirely.”

  The woman raised a brow and Bradford groaned inwardly, knowing he was looking like an idiot. He felt like one, too. He looked round desperately for an escape and spotted his brother in the middle of a group of young men, seeming uncomfortable with them.

  “I should go,” he said. “I see someone I know over there. My brother, I mean. I know him. Oh, dash it...” he shook his head, wincing, and bowed. Then he headed away as fast as he could go. Why was it that, however hard he tried to talk to this particular woman, he couldn't stop looking like an utter fool?

  As soon as he was halfway across the ballroom, he looked over at the terrace doors. She was still there – he could just see the gray-blue of her ballgown, a fraction paler than the grayed blue of her eyes.

  Dash it. I was rude to her. I wish I'd managed better.

  He swallowed hard, feeling abruptly sad. He had met a woman – the first woman in ages – who really made an impression. For some reason, he had no idea why, he had felt his heart skip the moment she started teasing him. And he had managed to make a fool of himself.

  “Dash it.”

  He saw Elton notice him and frown, and realized he was talking aloud to himself.

  I think I might as well resign myself to the role of madman.

  He joined his brother, who grinned, seeming happy to see him. At least, Bradford thought wryly, somebody was.

  “Brother! You look flushed. It's hot, isn't it?”

  “Um, yes,” Bradford said, tugging at his silk cravat. Very hot. Maybe we should go there?” he pointed out a region of the ballroom that was less crowded, an open space by the refreshments table where some seats had been placed.