While she hung up her cloak, Mirabelle let her eye wander round the room. With a white marble floor, and soaring walls, elaborately-molded, the entrance hall of North Place was elegant and stylish. She guessed it to have been redecorated perhaps thirty years ago – it spoke of the exuberance and frivolity of another age.
“So,” Bradford said, smiling. “I'm pleased to show you my home. Is it to your liking?”
Mirabelle nodded slowly. “It is,” she said. “It is very pretty.”
She was gratified to see him beam. “I'm pleased to hear it, milady,” he said.
She smiled.
The moment where their eyes met and they simply stared a moment at each other in the lamplight shifted, disturbed by the noise of boots on stone.
“Brother!” a voice said, anxious and happy concurrently. “You're here! Thank Heavens!”
A young man Mirabelle remembered slightly ran down the stairs, embracing Bradford in a big hug. She saw Bradford wince, pull a wry face, and pat his brother, slightly shorter than he, on the shoulder with real affection.
“Brother, this is Lady Steele,” he said. “I think you met, once, at a tea?”
Elton – she recalled him now, with a fine-boned face and blue eyes – nodded. He shot a happy look at Bradford.
“Yes,” he said, bowing low over her hand respectfully. “I recall it. Welcome, Lady Steele. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
Mirabelle glanced at Bradford, who nodded.
“Brother, we need to discuss.”
Elton's fine-curved brows shot up, but he nodded. “Yes, brother,” he said. “The fire's lit in the drawing-room, and the night's a bit chilly now.”
“Yes,” Bradford nodded, leaning protectively toward Mirabelle, who smiled, and let his warmth warm her bare shoulders where she leaned against him. “It is. Let's go in.”
Mirabelle found herself seated in a sumptuous drawing-room, redecorated in the Oriental style that was so popular nowadays. Rich silk wallpaper, figured with plum and white, vied for attention with the figured satin of the chairs and the dark wood furniture. Porcelain vases were on the mantel, dark wood carvings stood in discreet corners. She suspected the porcelain had been imported from China – it had the look of the genuine article.
“So, brother,” Bradford said, reaching for a glass that stood on a small tray on the table. “We have need of some help.” He looked relaxed in his own home, at ease amidst the florid luxury. Mirabelle thought it suited him. She bit back a grin, not wanting to deflect the seriousness of the moment.
“Yes?” Elton said. “Anything I can do.”
“What we need,” Bradford said, going on to detail the requirements they had, “is this.”
“Yes,” Elton nodded, when the list was recited. He leaned back, determination on his young, handsome face.
“Thank you, brother,” Bradford said sincerely. “I – we – appreciate your aid.”
Mirabelle felt that glow in her heart again: he hadn't used we before. It felt good to be a unit.
Elton smiled at her, flashing her a look of those bright blue eyes. He was probably three years younger than Bradford, she guessed, and striking-looking, handsome in a completely different way to his sultry older brother.
“Of course I'd help,” he said.
Mirabelle smiled at him. “I do appreciate it,” she said.
He blushed.
Later, when Elton stood, stretching and stifling a yawn with fine-boned hand, Bradford stood too, frowning.
“We should retire to bed?” he said.
“I'm almost dropping on my feet,” Elton admitted, blinking wearily at them both. “I think I'll go to bed now. I've had the orange room made up?” he said, inclining his head to Bradford.
“Thanks, Brother,” Bradford said. He turned to her, taking her hand and steadying her as she stood.
Mirabelle, too, stifled a yawn behind her hand. It was only half an hour past ten, but she felt exhausted already. She looked up at Bradford. His eyes held hers.
He smiled, when Elton had gone.
“My brother had the guest-suite made ready,” he said. There was a teasing light in his eyes, mixed with regret. Mirabelle felt a slow flush creep into her cheeks.
“I suppose he's right,” she said. Perdition, why was her voice so husky, suddenly?
“Yes,” Bradford agreed. His eyes held hers. He kissed her.
The kiss was tender, but held such a wealth of passion that it left her shaken. She wished, suddenly, that Elton was out, that no-one had suggested another room. She blushed.
“I suppose I should retire for the night?” she said softly.
“I suppose,” he said.
They both looked at each other, and then she headed, slowly, with some reluctance, to the doorway.
“I'll see you tomorrow, Lord Bradford.”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, mildly. She could see the wistful look in his eyes that matched her own. She nodded.
“Goodnight,” she said.
“Goodnight.”
She went out into the well-lit hallway.
When she was outside, following the oil-lamps bracketed to the wall at regular intervals, assuming the hallway had been lit to guide her to the bedroom, she smiled.
“Bradford,” she whispered as she found the room – she guessed it must be this, for it was papered with peach flocked silk, and the coverlets were of a lighter shade of apricot – and closed the door behind her.
“Oh, Bradford.”
She sighed it as she collapsed back on the bed, a dazed smile on her face. She looked up at the ceiling, which was decorated with a design of leaves, subtly done, molded whitely into the plaster.
Her heart had melted with that wistful smile, and his words played round her head, making her grin, igniting her body.
He wished they were alone somewhere. Together.
She blushed.
No stranger to what happened in the bedchamber, Mirabelle allowed herself the sweet distraction of imagining what it – what that action – would be like, with Bradford as a partner.
She felt her body heat up, imagining the muscled strength of his arms round her – she had already felt them embrace her, and knew their strength well – and the press of his mouth on hers as he lay atop her.
Mirabelle! She felt her cheeks warm with a self-conscious redness. How could she dream of imagining such things?
Well, she thought, standing and heading to the wardrobe in the corner, taking off her shoes – why shouldn't she?
She was not a young woman anymore, unversed in such things, but an experienced older one. And, she had no doubt, he had his fair share of experiences too. What had Marguerite and Lord Arundel called him? A cad?
How could they be more wrong? Nothing could be further from reality! How wrong society's judgment can be.
She shook her head, disbelieving. She sat down on the padded stool before the mirror, marveling at the sumptuous comfort of the room. Everything had been thought of for the ease of their guests.
There was a hair-brush, which she used, thinking dreamily of the evening before as she combed out her hair, carefully removing the pins. She would have to undress herself for bed, not having a maidservant with her, and doubting if there was on in the household. With two young men infrequent visitors in this place, it was likely they kept a staff that didn't host a lady's maid.
“Well, I can manage that,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. She unclasped her necklace, set it aside, and then realized she had no nightclothes with her.
She strode to the bed, and was surprised to see a silk night-robe laid out on it.
“How thoughtful,” she mused, flushing at the thought that someone had ordered it set out for her. It was a surprisingly pretty nightgown – not the sort she usually wore – and the thought of wearing it made her flush. She lifted it and ran a hand down its silky fabric. She smiled.
“I could get used to that sort of care,” she said aloud.
She chuckled. Then, drowsily, she
undressed herself for bed. She had a long day planned tomorrow, but, oddly, she didn't fine herself apprehensive, or nervous: with Bradford beside her, she simply knew it would all be well, whatever it was, as long as they were together.
Chapter 21: A closer look
BRADFORD WALKED LIGHTLY down the stairs to the breakfast room. He felt a smile spread slowly across his face. Somewhere, in this quiet, still house was Mirabelle. His tummy tingled with an unexpected thrill of pleasure.
He heard a soft clink of china coming from the breakfast room – someone stirring tea. Instantly, his body tensed and his grin grew. What if it was her in there? He tiptoed forward, some naughty impulse inside wanting to give her a surprise. In the doorway, he paused.
She sat with her back to the door, the wan ghost-light of morning cascading down onto her face. It touched the gold locks of her hair and made them glow like precious fire. She was leaning on the table, one elbow on the surface, hand under her chin, gazing out over the sleeping city. She could have been a picture, framed in gilt.
Mirabelle.
He felt his whole body tense with the unexpected pleasure of being able to watch her, unseen. He smiled, noting as if for the first time her soft cheeks, the long lashes just resting on them, almost-visible here eight paces away through the door. Her breast rose and fell with tranquil breathing and he felt his own breath catch as he watched the beauty of her.
“I say, Whitstock! A fine morning, eh?”
Bradford jumped, and spun round, alarmed, as he heard Elton's voice ring out nearby. He quickly reversed out of the doorway and into the hall, involuntarily flattening himself against the alcove.
“Very fine, milord,” Whitstock called out from lower on the stairwell. “Looks like a fine day ahead, too.”
Bradford tensed, waiting for his brother to stride up and ask him what in perdition he was doing, hiding in the alcove. But the footsteps went downwards, towards the butler on the stairs.
“I hope so,” Elton's voice continued. “I'm off to meet the fellows for croquet. Wish me luck. I say, you've not seen my brother about, have you?”
Bradford held his breath.
“No, milord.”
He let it out in a sigh.
“Well, if you do, tell him I'm off to the croquet, will you?”
“Of course, sir.”
Bradford waited while his brother's footsteps carried on downstairs. Then he turned back to the breakfast room. When went in, she was looking at him.
“Good morning, Lord Bradford.”
Her voice, rich and low, shivered into every part of him.
“Good morning.”
He looked down at his feet. Here, in the silence of the breakfast-room he'd known ever since he was a boy, the space was more intimate than any other he'd shared with her. Suddenly, he felt shy.
Come on, Bradford. Pull yourself together. It's not the first time you've seen a woman!
He looked up, and found himself lost in those grayed blue eyes.
“You had a pleasant rest?” she asked. Her voice also sounded strained. That was a surprise. She was always so competent, so calm. The idea that she might be feeling the same awkwardness he felt would not even have occurred to him.
“Um, yes,” he managed. “Very pleasant. Yourself?”
“Very pleasant.”
That exhausted their conversation temporarily. Bradford looked back down at his toes. There was so much to say. Yet somehow, he didn't have the words for any of it. Not yet.
“You took breakfast earlier?” she asked.
Bradford found himself jerked back into the present, sharply. He laughed. “Oh, you're right.” He drew out a chair and sat down, across the table from her. He felt foolish. He'd been standing there like a cart-ox, when it was time for breakfast.
She let out a soft laugh – a rich, gentle sound. “I know. I'm distracted myself: We have a lot to think about.”
“Yes,” he said. He left it there – he was fairly sure she meant the events of the previous day, and not the thoughts that had been flooding his mind ever since he realized that she was here in the house of his boyhood.
“We need to stop that man soon,” she said after a long silence had passed between them. “I...you do think our plan is safe, don't you? I wonder about our safety.”
“Yes,” he said, musing. “I know. I also.”
“What could we do?” she asked, frowning.
“We could go to the Watch?” he suggested. The idea of a semi-military group dedicated to keeping public order was relatively new, but gaining popularity. Bradford reckoned this was just the sort of thing they'd be useful for.
“I don't know,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “The Watch is all very well for something that's already happened – like a robbery – but Stilton hasn't really done we could prove.”
“He's done plenty,” Bradford countered. “But I know what you mean. Nothing to accuse him of.”
“Exactly.”
That left Bradford with no more ideas. He reached for a piece of toast, buttered it absently while he thought. The he stopped.
“I say, Mirabelle – you don't have any connections who know this fellow, do you?”
Lady Mirabelle frowned, and then blushed, making Bradford realize he'd used her first name without so much as thinking about it. He blushed, too.
“Forgive my forwardness, milady,” he said hastily. His face was red now, too. It was one thing to use her name in extremity, out in the street. But to use it here, in the breakfast room, when it was just them...it had an intimate feel that made him shiver.
“No,” she said, her voice strained again. “Nothing to forgive. And I don't,” she added. “I mean, to answer your question. No, I don't know someone who knows him. Unless...” she paused, biting into half of a flaky pastry. Then stopped. She gestured excitedly, swallowing hard. “Unless...Dash it! I do!”
“You do?” Bradford felt his soul soar, seeing how excited she was.
“Yes. I hope he's still in town,” she added, frowning. “I haven't seen him in years. Not since Arthur passed away.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be,” she said gently. “You have given me a wonderful idea. Is your butler around?”
“I think so,” Bradford said, automatically pushing back his chair. “Why?”
“If you can find him, ask him to take a card to Grennerly Place,” she said, reaching for the little drawstring purse Bradford had barely noticed hanging on the chair beside her. “And tell him to say Lady Steele sent it, with her compliments.”
She passed him a small square of parchment, embossed with her address. Their fingers touched. Bradford felt his whole body flush even at the innocent contact. She looked down, blushing.
“I'll give it to him,” he said, huskily, pushing back his chair. Dash it! Why was it that here, even her smallest gesture, each accidental became charged with meaning?
“Whitstock?” he called. Downstairs, he heard the sound of a broom hitting chair-legs. He grinned.
“Sir?” a terse voice replied.
“Um, could you step up here a moment? No...I'll come down. I have something to be delivered.”
He heard the sounds of chairs pushed over parquet flooring, and the grunt of an older man trying to stand up. He went down halfway, and met Whitstock on the landing. He gave him the card and the instructions.
“Very good, milord.”
“Thanks, Whitstock,” he nodded, already on his way back up.
“All set,” he announced in the doorway, as if he'd done something clever. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Here he was, playing the foolish boy again. She'd laugh this time, for certes.
To his surprise, she didn't. She gave him a gentle smile. “Thank you,” she said. “That's good. I hope this works.”
He felt, in that moment, as if he really had done something clever. He pulled out the chair and sat down opposite he.
“If you can tell me the plan, I'll try and help,” he offered. He reach
ed forward, as if to take her hand, then let his fingers rest on the table, feeling awkward. What if she thought that was a step too far? They'd held hands before, but...well...this was different. Having her in his house made it feel more intimate.
“Of course I will,” she said softly. Her fingers moved on the table and gently brushed his. He let his own twine round hers. Her fingers were warm, the skin so soft he could have thought she wore satin gloves, but for the cooler feeling of her fingernails under his hand. He squeezed gently, almost lost in the wonder of sitting here like this with her. He looked into her eyes.
The house was silent. The whole world could have silenced, and he wouldn't have noticed. Nothing existed in that space but the feeling of her hands in his, and her gentle eyes, blue as mist-filtered sky. Her knee was somewhere close to his under the table, and he moved his foot gently towards her own, feeling the pressure of it through the toe of his shoe. It felt right to sit like this, his hand in hers, their legs just touching. As if part of his body had always been a part of hers, and only just rediscovered that.
He leaned forward and she leaned forward. The table was not, after all, too wide. Their lips locked and they kissed.
Bradford closed his eyes, lost in the sweet taste of her mouth. It tasted a little of sugar from the tea, and he felt his loins tense as he licked the soft sweetness of it, wanting her in ways he'd never imagined, with such an urgency he thought he might burst with it. He gasped, making himself break the kiss. Any more and he would not be able to hold back.
She leaned back too, and her eyes were as wide and unseeing as his must be. He closed his eyes, let his head rest on the chair-back, oddly wearied.
A coach stopped in the street outside. Someone slammed a door. Voices drifted up, crisp in the early morning cool. Bradford blinked, remembering where he was. He squeezed her hands. She smiled.
“So,” she said softly. “This is my idea.”
She told him, using the same plan from the previous day, but with modifications that made it seem less likely that they'd be killed. He nodded.
“I think, milady, that's a marvelous plan.”
This time, she blushed. He smiled, seeing it. She shook her head.
“Lord Bradford, you flatter me.”
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 18
