“Well, then,” Marguerite said, reaching up to tenderly wipe away Mirabelle's tears with her own kerchief. “Should these silly, happy people rejoin the party? The evening is barely-started.”
“Yes,” Mirabelle said, decidedly. “Let's go in.”
Arm-in-arm, they headed back into the ballroom.
Standing in the crowded space, the laughter and chatter of more than seventy people rising and falling around, Mirabelle looked at Marguerite and, suddenly, they both giggled.
Mirabelle held her friend's hand and felt her own heart soaring. They were in love. They were happy. All was well in their world.
Later, when she was back at the refreshments table, nibbling a small pastry, Mirabelle glanced across at Marguerite, talking to Culver. She smiled, noticing how radiantly alive her friend suddenly was. Culver, too, looked more intense than she had ever seen him. He was hanging onto every word, that indifferent wall he'd had around him when she met him suddenly evaporated. He looked alive, vital.
Exactly what I feel like, Mirabelle thought, smiling.
Yes, life had a strange way of settling things in a way that was just right.
There was only this matter of the debt to settle, and then there was nothing more to worry about. Nothing else on her horizon, besides sunshine. And the bliss of falling, once again, in love.
Chapter 12: Surprises in a street
BRADFORD AND ELTON left the ball just after midnight. They walked out wrapped each in a private silence, as if they were transported somewhere beyond the scope of words.
Drawing himself up into the coach, Bradford leaned back on the seat and looked up at the roof, his eyes unfocused on the dark silk that covered the wood. He felt his body – surprisingly weary by the dancing, and an evening spent mainly on his feet – relax slowly.
His mind calmed as the coach set off. The rattling familiarity of the wheels on cobble-stones helped to lend some sense of time and space to his racing mind.
I really am falling for Lady Mirabelle.
The thought was at once alarming and amazing. He felt something in his heart he'd never felt before: a bubble of sweetness, that, like the bubbles in sparkling wine, wanted to drift upwards, carrying him into the sky. It was a strange new feeling, one that amazed him.
He heard a noise from across the coach, and his attention came back to the present. His brother shifted on the seat, facing him. He looked dazed.
“Brother?” he said. “You had a tiring evening?”
“I am tired, yes,” Bradford chuckled warmly. “It was a wonderful ball.”
“Yes,” Elton said, sounding somewhat dazed. “Quite wonderful, indeed.”
Bradford leaned back again, lost in his own memories. He recalled the way Lady Steele's hand had felt in his, the warmth of her touch, the way her waist felt, neat and curved, under his hand. He felt his whole body melt. He wanted her, but at the same time, this was so much more than that. He had plenty of lovers in the past, but none of them had made him feel this mix of utter joy and tenderness he felt now.
This was what poets meant.
He recalled something.
“You have any books of Byron with you?” he asked Elton.
His brother laughed. “Brother?” he said. “Why do you ask that, now?”
“Um, no reason,” Bradford said, looking at his hands, which he had clasped in front of him, elbows braced on knees. “Just, well...thought I'd read them. Brush up on my poetic education.”
Elton, who had read Classics at Cambridge, laughed, amazed.
“Bradford! This is...tell me this isn't...in pursuit of a lady?”
Bradford flushed hotly. “So? If it is?” he asked. His eyes met his brother's, which seemed amused. He grinned.
“Please don't change, Bradford,” Elton said, giving him a broad smile. “If you drift around the hall quoting Byron at people, dressed in loose shirts and tight trousers, I won't know who you are anymore. And that would be a loss.”
Bradford laughed, richly. “I promise, brother,” he said. “No loose shirts and tight trousers. And no melancholic Byron quotes. I just want to be able to stand in front of Arundel without looking a fool.”
“I understand,” Elton said. “Well,” he grinned. “I have a pocket-book of Byron with me – not here, but at the house. It's short poems. What you need is some of his latest stuff. Like Don Juan.”
“Don Juan,” Bradford nodded, interested.
Elton laughed. “Brother! Where have you been?” he asked. “The thing sold out in three days! It's a sensation! Don't tell me you hadn't heard?”
“No...” Bradford trailed off, grinning, abashed.
Elton laughed. “Well, then. I'll lend it to you. Or maybe Stokes has a copy. I'll ask him. He's ever so caught up with his poetry. If you ever become like him, I promise I'll disown you.”
“You can't,” Bradford said mildly. “I don't think you can disown brothers.”
“I'll find a way,” Elton grinned. “Not really,” he added. “I just rather like you exactly as you are.”
“Thanks,” Bradford said, feeling a surprising lump in his throat. He looked up at Elton, who nodded.
“Thanks,” he said.
Bradford shook his head. “I didn't do anything. I'm glad we came to London.”
“Me, too,” Elton said.
Bradford leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes sleepily. Yes, he thought, he was very glad that they had come to London.
He went straight up to bed after handing his coat and hat to Whitstock, and, undressing himself without help from Mr. Estfield, collapsed wearily abed.
He lay back on the pillows, eyes closed, a haze of recollections playing out in front of closed lids. Lady Steele, her hand resting on his in the dance. Lady Steele looking up at him, her cloudy-blue eyes soft with gentleness. Her waist in his hand, curved and sweet as a precious silk cushion from the Orient.
“Stop it,” he told himself sternly. Any more thoughts along the same road, and he'd be too aroused to sleep. And he badly needed a rest. Tomorrow he was going to drop by his accountant.
I need a clear head.
He rolled over, trying to distract himself with thoughts of account books, the stern face of the administrator looking up at him tensely, the smell of inkwells and dusty book-shelves...
The morning sun shone in, waking him as it stroked against his lids. He opened his eyes and yawned, frowning as he looked about.
“I wonder what time it is.”
His eyes were still a little blurry for the mantel-clock, so he tightened the corners and made himself focus, reading the big numbers with their gold-leaf painting and the delicate filigree-work hands, pointing out the time. Half an hour past nine.
“Plenty of time,” he declared, happily, and slid out of bed, pulling the bell-rope to summon Estfield. He stood at the window as he waited for his man to arrive, looking down on the street-scene below.
He smiled.
Somewhere, out there in London, Lady Mirabelle was setting out on her own day.
He blinked when Estfield appeared after the bell, startled out of his thoughts. In his mind, Lady Mirabelle was in a bedchamber, and she was carefully fastening her stays, reaching for a day-gown, maybe in white...
“Milord Bradford! Breakfast?”
“Yes,” Bradford said, instantly. “I mean, I'll dress first. Oh, dash it,” he said, shaking his head at himself. Why was he doing this, being so scattered? “Just get me the tan suit, would you? And white silk cravat.”
“Yes, milord.”
He was, after all, going to see his solicitor.
While he dressed, Bradford made plans for the day. He'd go into Delling's office first, and then take tea at the new tea-shop near the intersection of Brink street and Chancery Lane...
“There you are, milord. You like the lie of the cravat? Very modern.”
“I think it suits well-enough,” Bradford said, glancing at himself in the mirror. The cravat was tied high up his neck, a tie-pin perched in the top of it, w
inking in the morning light. It looked like what the rest of the younger set was doing with their cravats nowadays modish and fitting.
“Good, milord.”
Sticking his thumb down the cravat to loosen it a bit – dash it, but the wretched thing bit like a serpent – Bradford headed down to the breakfast room.
His brother, to his surprise, was there already. He was seated at the table, a book resting on it by his right hand.
“Good morning, brother.”
“There you are, Bradford,” his brother nodded. “You look wide awake.”
“I feel awake,” Bradford said, belatedly aware that statement made little sense, and sat down. “What's for breakfast?”
“Pastries,” Elton commented. “And toast. And I think there are eggs in that dish on the side-board, if you look. Whitstock brought it now.”
“Ah,” Bradford said, standing again, and lifting the lid of the dish. A tantalizing smell wafted up to him and he collected his plate from the table, ladling out a few spoonfuls of kedgeree.
“You slept well, Bradford?”
“I did,” Bradford said, biting into a piece of toast and reaching to fill his tea-cup from the big pot reposing in the middle of the table. “Very well. Yourself?”
“Well enough, brother,” Elton said mildly. He reached for the teapot after.
“It was a lively evening,” Bradford agreed. His mind was very much elsewhere, and he barely noticed he was buttering his toast twice when he looked up to find his brother regarding him steadily.
“You are in love, aren't you?”
Bradford flushed, shy. “Why do you ask?” he asked.
“Brother,” Elton giggled. “I saw you walk in here with your head afloat, sit on the newspaper and then re-butter toast already covered. I think it's reasonable to assume you're distracted?”
“I'm not sitting on the papers...” Bradford protested, then shifted, hearing the familiar crinkle of newsprint below. “Dash it,” he laughed, reaching for the papers and sliding them out from under him, red faced.
Elton grinned. “There's quite some interesting news in that, actually,” he laughed, lifting up his toast and reaching for jam. “But it's tiresome compared with what's happening here.”
Bradford shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “Well, you know how it is,” he said, looking at his plate, distracted. “I spend half my time with my head afloat, and the other half of the time wondering if I'm imagining things.”
Elton laughed. “I know exactly what you mean!” he said. “I spend half my time dreaming about Laurel, and half my time fretting about what a dismal outlook she must have towards me.”
“Exactly!” Bradford laughed, surprised that his brother knew just how he felt, and felt the same way.
“So?” Elton asked, setting his jam-covered toast aside and leaning forward. “What is she like? Who is she? Tell me?”
Bradford looked at his plate, his heart a confusion of feelings. He felt pride, and reluctance, and joy, all mixed with a sweetness that surprised him.
“She's wonderful,” he said. He cleared his throat, noticing his brother regarding him with an amused expression in his eye, almost as if he was the older brother, making him feel discomforted. “She's Lady Steele – Mirabelle Steele,” he added, his tongue lingering on the syllables of her name. “She's been in Town about as long as we have – I think she's recently returned from a long stay elsewhere.”
He didn't know why he thought that, but he did. He smiled, letting the syllables of her name wash through him, comfortingly. Mirabelle. Mirabelle.
He found himself in his imagination, suddenly, standing with her alone in a deserted garden. She was looking up into his eyes and her hair shone softly in the sunshine and he said her name – her real name, not her title – over and over again. Mirabelle. Mirabelle.
“So, brother? What's the plan?” Elton said, drawing him, annoyingly, back to the present.
“Plan?” he asked.
“What do we do about it?” Elton said. “I'm in love, you're in love...what are we to do?”
Bradford blinked at him, surprised. He hadn't really thought about it. A vision flashed into his mind of Mirabelle again, only this time they were together in the room at North Park, the family estate.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “We could convince William to have a house-party...we could invite Lady Steele and her friend, and your set, and Laurel...” His mind was already working hard and fast.
Lady Steele's companion was clearly an important part of the plan. If she was there, Culver wouldn't look anywhere else. And then Elton and Laurel would be able to settle things as they saw fit. Whatever course they chose to take. They could confront her father, or his, or...well...whatever they saw fitting.
And that would leave me with Mirabelle Steele.
The thought was infinitely pleasant. He could take her out into the fields, riding. He could show her the lake. Take her round the garden. His mind returned to that image of them in the sun, together, kissing. He looked up at Elton.
“We shall send a letter back home.”
“Yes.”
They settled down to breakfast in earnest.
“You plan to go somewhere?” Elton asked, dabbing his lips with a napkin as Bradford pushed back his chair.
“I have to see old Delling today,” Bradford said, putting his own napkin down beside his place. “And then I thought I'd find a place for tea – get my bearings before I come back home again.”
“Capital plan,” Elton nodded. “After a run-in with old Delling, a person needs a cup of tea.”
“I'll say,” Bradford chuckled. Mr. Stuart Delling, of Delling and Lucas accounts, had managed the books of North estate since before they were old enough to understand what that meant. And now, the annual visits to his office to check on his allowance and personal accounts were ten minutes of acute discomfort, lashed by the old fellow's acerbic wit.
“Well,” Bradford said, pausing at the fire-place, “I suppose the sooner I go in, the faster I can get out of there.”
“True, brother,” Elton agreed, laughing. “And that's something that's best to get done as fast as possible.”
“Quite, brother,” Bradford said, heading down the hallway and back towards his chambers. “Quite.”
Out in the street, the wind was brisk, but it was not terribly cold. With the new high collar of his coat shielding his neck from the coldness, the cravat doing its best to assist it, he felt quite warm. He alighted from the coach and headed the last half-mile on foot, enjoying the walk through the early-morning city.
When he reached Chancery Lane, he headed up the street, only a little apprehensive.
“Good morning,” he said, pausing at the dark-wood door, addressing the same secretary who had worked there since he was a lad. “Oh, hello, Soames. Where's Mr. Delling?”
“Oh, he's in, Lord Bradford,” Soames said, looking up from where he pored over his books, his white hair gleaming in the lamp's light. “You can go through.”
“Thank you, Mr. Soames.”
He knocked at the door, which was partway open, then put his head round. He was met with the hard face and bushed eyebrows of Mr. Delling, who stood as he entered, fixing him with a stare.
“Lord Bradford,” he said firmly. “I see you're here to assess the damages.”
Bradford sighed. Here it was. A ten-minute heckling about his dissolute lifestyle would follow, after which he would be told his books were in good working order, he'd sign to confirm he'd seen them and he'd leave, feeling disconcerted for the rest of the day.
It went much as he'd expected. He listened to the lecture patiently, checked the books, signed them and stood.
“So, Lord Bradford, more successful business. Eh?”
“Yes, Mr. Delling,” Bradford sighed, agreeing. “Most successful.”
He wandered out into the sudden brightness of the street, feeling as if he'd been mixed up with the laundry and washed out.
“Whew,�
� he sighed, leaning briefly on the wall. “I could do with some tea.”
Luckily for him, the tea-shop – while not the best in London – was not exactly far. He wandered down the street, enjoying the warm sunshine.
That was when he heard the sound. Someone crying.
He stiffened. He was at the top of Brooke street, about to go right into the street, where the teashop was. Here, the houses were close together, buildings leaning close to spill a pool of shade into the street below. He paused, leaning on the wattle-and-daub walls, and sighted along it.
At the end of the street nearest him, stood a woman. She was dressed in a white skirt and white long coat, a matching bonnet covering her hair. He could see very little of her face, for it was obscured with a handkerchief, which she held carefully to her nose. She was crying.
“Milady?” Bradford said, recalling he had a top-hat on and taking it off, putting it under his arm as he strode forward, hand held out to her. “What is the matter? Can I help?”
The handkerchief came down suddenly and he was amazed to find himself staring into wide blue eyes.
“Lady Steele?”
She stared at him, and reached for the handkerchief again, hastily dabbing at her wet, tear-spotted cheeks.
“Lord Bradford,” she sniffed, turning away from him. “I'm sorry. You must think I live in this street. And that I'm very peculiar.”
Bradford frowned. He had seen her here before, crying. It was true. That in itself worried him.
“You don't live nearby?” he asked. “If you do, I can escort you to your lodgings. You look like you need some tea.”
She sniffed again, then blew her nose firmly on the handkerchief and put it away in her purse. She turned away from him.
“I'll call a Hansom,” she said, already walking back towards the lane he'd just traversed.
“Milady, wait,” he said. “It's not safe here. Let me escort you at least as far as Lincoln's Inn?” he stopped beside her, waiting for her to choose.
“You're right,” she said in a tense voice. She put her hand in the elbow he'd crooked for her to lean on, and let him walk her slowly up Chancery Lane.
“Milady? Mirabelle?” he said, trying her name on his tongue. He felt her tense and realized she was in no mood to drop formalities. Not yet. “Milady. Forgive me. Is...is aught amiss?”
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 11
