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

by Isabel Simonds

  Marguerite's face softened. “It does that,” she agreed. “Ah, this is all like old times. It seems as if we saw each other yesterday! Epping?” she called, pulling the bell-rope. “We need some tea.”

  Mirabelle smiled. It was good to be back. She'd missed her friend a great deal. She looked around the room with its pale russet silk wallpapering, the fine miniatures hanging on it, framed in chestnut-wood.

  “Ah, Epping! Tea,” Marguerite declared, as the housekeeper appeared with a laden tea-cart comprising a Sevres service and a vast Madiera cake. Mirabelle felt her heart twist nostalgically – Mrs. Epping's Madeira Sponge was an institution, much the way the Bank of England was: solid, dependable and not particularly something to be relished. She found she'd missed it.

  “There we go, milady. And some jam, to go with the Madiera?”

  Marguerite raised a brow and Mirabelle smiled. “Yes, thank you, that would be very nice,” she said at once.

  Mirabelle wanted to grin, but didn't want the older woman to be offended – the cake was her showcase and not to be taken lightly – and waited until she'd left to grin at Marguerite.

  “Well,” Marguerite said, turning to her with a smile. “This is grand, isn't it?”

  “It is,” Mirabelle nodded, reaching for a teacup. “It's been too long.”

  “It has!” Marguerite agreed, cutting a generous slice off the Madeira loaf and settling it deftly on Mirabelle's plate, adding a silver cake-fork to the load. “You had a good evening yesterday?” she asked, questioningly.

  “I did,” Mirabelle said, non-committal. She added some sugar to the tea and stirred it absently, noticing how fine the tea-set was. She had nothing like it at Dunford, and even if she had, she wouldn't have used it just for herself.

  “You were talking to Mr. Ninny rather more than you might have liked,” Marguerite grinned, shaking a spoon-load of sugar into her own tea and looking across archly.

  “I found his company diverting,” Mirabelle mumbled, looking at her plate. Why wouldn't Marguerite just let the topic rest? If her friend had a bad opinion of the fellow, that was good and well. But did she have to insist on believing everyone would think as she did on the topic?

  “Well, I only say it because, well...he's not like you – not one of our circle, if you get my meaning.” Marguerite grinned, her pleasure in seeing Mirabelle clearly evident. “Oh, my dear. It's so good to be able to have a good old chat together.”

  “Yes,” Mirabelle said, carving a piece off her Madeira cake with the edge of her fork, “it is.”

  They talked almost non-stop for four hours. Marguerite told all about the house, her father's illness, how they had let the townhouse for a while – which was why she'd so ruthlessly renovated it – and how things were looking up again now.

  “I don't know what they'd do if I left them to their own devices,” Marguerite sighed, running a hand through her hair, that Mirabelle noticed was streaked – barely-discernibly – with white.

  Mirabelle nodded. Lord and Lady Bracefield, both rather old compared to her own parents, were rather otherworldly and Marguerite had taken on the task, a a son would, of managing the household affairs. She had never married. Marguerite was a private sort, for all her open expansiveness.

  “Well,” Marguerite said, sighing. “Enough of my nonsense. How are you?” She raised a dark brow at Mirabelle, inquiringly.

  “Well,” Mirabelle said, carefully, setting down her teacup on the table. “I suppose I'm well. Arthur's death was...well, it was a while ago,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.

  “You feel the need to venture forth again,” Marguerite said happily.

  “Yes,” Mirabelle said, knowing that wasn't what she really felt, but unsure what to say.

  “Well, then,” Marguerite grinned. “That suits my mood perfectly. When we've had luncheon – and I think it's past time for it, if my stomach is a judge on the matter – we can go into town. There's a new tea-shop I'm dying to try. Bainsfield's.”

  “Oh,” Mirabelle said, setting down her newly-filled, which was beginning to cool. “I think that sounds exciting.”

  In truth she felt a little nervous to be venturing out so soon. But if she was going to do it – and she more or less had to, at this point – she might as well do it now as later. She would at least have Marguerite with her this time.

  “Perfect,” Marguerite grinned, and set aside her own teacup. “Let's find Hinsley and see what she'd prepared for us.”

  “Yes,” Mirabelle nodded. “Let's.”

  The two of them headed downstairs.

  After a light luncheon – crayfish, served with a buttery sauce, which Marguerite insisted was the latest craze in London – they headed down the promenade together.

  “I do like your new dress,” Marguerite commented grandly as she paused, waiting for a moment for Mirabelle to catch up. “Lace always suited you well.”

  “Thank you,” Mirabelle said, feeling a little glow of pleasure. She was glad she'd chosen to wear her newest dress, without even knowing they were planning an excursion. “I always liked it.”

  “Ah! As far as I can gather, the new tea-house is here somewhere...just off from Lower Street. Mayhap I can ask for directions...” she trailed off, looking round.

  Mirabelle waited while her friend breezed ahead, feeling a little nervous herself. She took a steadying breath and composed herself, and was surprised when she recalled the conversation from the previous evening.

  It had been so easy talking with Lord...oh, dash it! What was his name? She did wish she could remember. It had felt so natural, almost as if she'd known him an age. It was almost as natural as talking to Marguerite, whom she'd known fifteen years. In some respects, easier.

  She sighed.

  “Here we are!” her friend hailed her from ahead. “Just around the corner.”

  Mirabelle nodded and hurried across. They entered the tea-shop together.

  “Oh,” Marguerite frowned, looking around. The tables were all full – half of the gentry seemed to be packed in here, together with the rich, the fashionable and the notable in London. Mirabelle looked round, the hubbub of conversation hard on her ears, and felt faint. In that moment she hated Marguerite, for bringing her here without even thinking it might be full.

  “Oh, look!” her friend said cheerily. “There's a seat right there at the back...”

  Mirabelle looked away, feeling a brief flash of anger. One seat wasn't much use, and here her friend was, drawing attention to them, pointing and staring. Her cheeks went red and she looked round, seeking a way out.

  “Oh! That gentleman's standing up for us!” Marguerite declared, making her head whip round again to look in surprise. “Now that's fine manners! Thank you, sir! We hadn't expected such a crowd at half an hour past three.”

  “No,” the man said, bowing low. “It is surprising.”

  Mirabelle looked at him. She stared. Her mouth went dry. There, with a pale tan top-hat, looking at her with a friendly smile, was him. The gentleman from the ball.

  Chapter 6: A talk over tea

  Bradford looked at the lady who stood before him, and he bowed low.

  He looked up to see her blue eyes fixed on him with something that could almost have been horror. He shot upright, feeling foolish.

  “Milady,” he said. “I am pleased to see you here.” He cleared his throat, his voice sounding scratchy.

  “Charming,” she agreed tonelessly, curtseying. Bradford looked around the room a little desperately. Why was it that, no matter what he did, he seemed to do something absolutely wrong? He ran a hand through his brown hair and tried, vainly, to think of a topic of conversation.

  “Ah,” he seized on the sight of the proprietor, just passing the front desk with a tray of meringues. “That's a fine sight! I'll wager I've not had better in all London. Would you try one?”

  The woman before him looked up, slightly baffled. “A meringue?” she asked. “Well, I suppose so.”

  He laughed. �
��Capital,” he said, feeling queasily like he was making even more of a fool of himself the harder he tried not to. Before she might have thought him merely mawkish. Now she probably thought he was crazy.

  “It's kind of you to give up your seat for us,” the lady said carefully. “But...are you not with a party of your own?” she asked, indicating the table where Elton sat with the rest of his friends.

  “I am, assuredly,” Bradford agreed. “But I thought, well, perhaps some more seats could be set around the table. Since there are no free tables, you could join ours. Eh, fellow,” he hailed the proprietor as the man appeared again. “Might we have another seat? These ladies will join our table.”

  The man's brows shot up, and he looked for a heartfelt moment like he would protest. But Bradford gave him a special stare and he seemed to think it was better not to argue.

  “As you say, sir.”

  “Good.”

  When he'd gone, Bradford turned back. He realized again how at a loss he was – he didn't even know her name – and felt his hand clutch nervously at his coat, a gesture he hadn't made in ages. He wished he could think of some polite way to ask her what her name was.

  He cleared his throat, about to speak.

  “I think it's rather...”

  “Beg your pardon, but...”

  They spoke together and Bradford felt his cheeks redden with a blush.

  “Sorry,” he said, bowing low, then stepping out of the way as the proprietor appeared, carrying their chair across the crowded floor. “I interrupted you.”

  “We spoke at the same time,” she pointed out.

  “True,” he said, blushing again, awkwardly. “Please, speak,” he added, when an odd look crossed her face.

  “I was simply going to remark on the weather. It's rather hot in here,” she said.

  “True,” Bradford nodded, his mind seeming to have stuck in a rut of its own. “It is, quite warm.”

  He looked up to find those slate blue eyes on him again.

  “What were you going to say?” she asked. He heard a gentle tone in the words, a warm humor, and he felt his heart sing.

  “I was going to ask – begging your pardon, milady, it's rude of me – but, what is your name?”

  He tensed, fearing her reaction, but to his surprise, she started to laugh. He felt a corresponding bubble of delight rise inside him, too, and he chuckled warmly.

  “Apologies, milady,” he said, while she laughed again. “I clean forgot to ask you before.”

  She grinned, running out of laughter, and dabbed her eyes with a kerchief she'd produced from her handbag. “Oh, dear, we are a sorry pair, aren't we?” she asked. “You see, I meant to ask you yours.”

  “Bradford, milady,” he said instantly, then winced, realizing he'd given her his first name, a terrible breach of etiquette. “I mean, Bradford North, Lord Bradford. Sorry.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Bradford,” she said, curtseying. “I am Lady Steele.”

  He raised a brow. Steele? He didn't know the name. It was odd, he thought, that she gave a surname. That meant she wasn't merely the offspring of an earl or count, but a countess herself. There was only one way that could have happened, and that was through being married.

  He bowed again, his throat tight with something that felt painful. “Charmed, milady.”

  When he straightened up he noticed a watchful look in her eye and wondered what it was. He looked round, and noticed that Elton was watching him. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to join them.

  She followed him to the table and he drew her chair out, feeling his heart settled somewhere in the region of his boots. He was a right fool – William would have, if not actually said it, then strongly implied it. He should have thought of the fact that she might be married!

  He looked across the table at Elton, who looked back at him with those big blue eyes. He winced, knowing that his little brother could read him like a book and had probably noticed something was upsetting him.

  “Allow me to introduce my friend, Lady Marguerite,” Lady Steele said stonily. She indicated the dark-haired woman who had accompanied her in. Bradford shot upright in his seat, remembering his manners, and bowed.

  “Charmed, milady.”

  The dark-haired woman regarded him with evident amusement. “Pleased to make your acquaintance too, sir,” she said.

  “Lord Bradford,” he said quickly. “Bradford North.”

  “Indeed,” she said, and Bradford had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew something about him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and leaned back awkwardly.

  “So,” Lady Marguerite continued, turning to one of Elton's circle, a young fellow called Jarrow. “You must have seen the news about the Norrington. Isn't it shocking..?”

  Bradford started feeling lost as the woman discussed the latest report about a naval ship, the Norrington, which had run into trouble off the coast on its way back. He never read the news, finding it too depressing. He shifted in his seat again and looked about the room.

  “You seem distressed,” a voice at his elbow said. Bradford turned to look into Lady Steele's eyes. He was surprised to see concern there, and interest. He cleared his throat shyly.

  “Not distressed, exactly,” he said. “Just lost in thought. I feel, well, a bit spare at such gatherings sometimes.” He had no idea why he felt it was reasonable to tell her, to confide in her in this way, but somehow it felt right.

  To his surprise, she nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know how that can feel.”

  Bradford blinked in surprise. “It's just...well...I suppose I sometimes feel like life passes me by. Or, rather, that the world goes on in its own way but it's all happening over my head. I couldn't really be bothered with the news, the arguments, the conflict. It's all so complicated – and, well, forgive me, but sometimes a little silly.”

  He went red, saying it, and wondered again why he was confiding things in this woman – this stranger, really – when he wouldn't discuss this even with William.

  “It can seem that way,” she agreed, surprising him yet again with her understanding. “Especially the politics, sometimes.”

  Bradford nodded fervently. All this fuss and posturing about who said what in the House of Lords seemed so tiresome, sometimes. It might have been said to be for the public good, but he'd never seen all that fuss put even so much as a single turnip on a poor man's table.

  “I agree,” he said.

  “Well,” she paused, “it seems a bit gloomy, sometimes, really.”

  “Yes,” he nodded again, so pleased to finally find someone who seemed to understand. “Gloomy, and over-complicated.”

  “A fearful combination,” she nodded.

  He saw her lips twist in a smile and he felt the warmth of it reach right down inside him and touch the very soul of him. He nodded.

  Their eyes met and held and it seemed to him as if that gaze reached right into the heart of him, and touched truths long buried, that he himself forgot. He looked away, cheeks warm with feeling.

  “Should we look at what's on the list?” he asked, inclining his head towards the board above the counter where the cakes were, which was almost too far away to read.

  “I suppose it says tea there,” she said, with a smile, pointing. He laughed.

  “It must do,” he agreed, nodding. They both chuckled.

  This was the tea shop, after all. They surely must serve tea!

  A fellow appeared at the table to take their orders, and Bradford blinked in surprise, knowing he had no idea what he wanted. He glanced sideways at Lady Steele.

  “Tea, please,” she said briskly. “And...”

  “And a meringue,” he said, in the same instant that she did.

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Bradford reddened, aware that the rest of the table must think them utterly crazy. Lady Steele stopped laughing soon too, looking at her hands.

  As the fellow moved on to the nex
t guests and the conversation at the table enlivened again, Bradford turned to Lady Steele.

  “I am glad you also wanted to try one.”

  “Of course,” she whispered back. She looked upset, and Bradford felt instantly stupid. He had put her on the wrong foot, embarrassing her. Or he'd drawn attention to them by laughing. Whatever it was, he'd discomforted her and he felt guilty suddenly. He looked away across the room, feeling awful.

  Trust me. I really am a prime fool.

  He listened in vaguely to the rest of the conversation at the table. Lady Marguerite, Lady Steele's acquaintance, was still chattering away in a group that included Jarrow, Lucas and Culver himself. He was surprised to see how she, clearly an older woman, had all three younger men utterly hanging on her words.

  “...and then we traveled to Madrid. If you've never been to the Continent, I thoroughly suggest you do so. The heat! The sound of the crickets in the grass as the coach swayed down to the city...”

  He found himself getting drawn into her descriptions too. The younger men seemed fascinated. Beside him, he could feel Elton's whole posture had softened, and he realized it was because he had free rein to talk to Laurel.

  He felt his heart swell as he looked across at the two younger people. Laurel was looking at his brother with such gentleness in her eyes Bradford felt himself melting. And his brother's voice was full of feeling. He could see their love as if it had been written and painted on the air. He was shocked that no-one else of their families had noticed yet and chosen to intervene.

  But I suppose they would all say convention must prevail. I don't think that way, and nor does Elton.

  He glanced sideways and was surprised to find Lady Steele looking at him. Her expression was not censorious, as he would have feared, or angry, as he'd expected. Instead, it was both wondering and intrigued. He swallowed, shifting in his seat with a mix of awkwardness and happiness.

  She wasn't angry with him, it seemed. Then what was that expression, that was at once tender and a little hard, almost bitter? He didn't understand it.