by Carrie Lomax
Miriam had braced for her father’s disapproval. Scarcely a quarter hour had passed since Richard’s departure.
“Why should you?” she replied mildly. “You’ve scarcely met Lord Northcote. Trust usually takes time to establish.”
“Aye, that’s exactly why I don’t like him,” Livingston responded archly. “The man is too familiar with my girl. A few days spent at the seaside with Lizzie Van Buren and her clan, and Mr. Fancy-pants Londoner decides he’s keen on you? How much liberty did you allow the man to take?”
As though she’d answer that question. Warmth flamed in her cheeks. “He wishes to court me properly, papa. Lord Northcote finds you intimidating. I doubt he’ll attempt any liberties and risk of running afoul of your temper.”
It was Miriam’s turn to arch a brow. Her father chuckled.
“You may be twenty-three, but you are yet an innocent lass. Trust me when I say every young man tries to see how far he can get with a desirable woman. I should know. I was one, once.”
“Yes, I’m sure you left a string of broken hearts before mama brought you to the altar.” Miriam patted her father’s cheek. “Richard has been nothing but a gentleman with me.”
Her father scoffed. “Richard, is it now? Already on a first-name basis? I thought those poker-assed Brits used their formal titles. Lord So-and-So, Lady What’s-Her-Name.” Livingston crossed his legs and mimed a mincing Lord. Miriam laughed.
“Richard appreciates our American informality. There are times when his rank makes him a target.” Miriam thought of Spencer and his gang. Her insides went liquid at the memory of Richard tossing the boy on his rear. Not that she was about to mention the incident to her father. She wasn’t bloodthirsty as a general rule, but she couldn’t deny that her blood had pounded when he claimed a kiss from her at the end. “I believe he prefers to keep it quiet, honestly. Whenever I ask about it, he changes the topic.”
She did not mention Richard’s warning. I am a bad man.
“Considering I’ve been hearing his name for at least the past six months, I doubt you’re correct on that score, Miri. I confess his lordship’s humility was not what I anticipated. I’ll allow this only as long as his company is enlivening and does not provoke one of your attacks. If Richard Northcote hurts you in any way, I’ll hang him by his own guts.”
“Father.” Miriam glared sternly. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“I won’t see my little girl’s heart broken, nobleman or no.” Livingston patted her on the head.
Miriam sighed. This was the sort of over-protectiveness she didn’t want and certainly didn’t need from her father, nor from Mrs. Kent. It was the well-intentioned but misguided affection that made her dream of going abroad or out West. Not that her lungs would survive the long, dusty roads, but the dream of striking out into the world to find her place within it remained lodged in her heart like a burr in her stockings.
“I know as well as anyone sometimes these things don’t work out. I shall try to bear the loss in good cheer if that should come to pass,” she promised. Mrs. Kent banged a large wooden spoon against a pot of soup in the kitchen, which Miriam took as indication that she agreed.
Livingston pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish I believed that, sugar.”
“What’s that supposed mean?” Miriam grumbled.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
“And how is that?” Miriam demanded indignantly, her face flaming.
“Besotted.” Livingston Walsh ambled out the door.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Cowering in my office. Call me when it’s time to eat.”
And with that he left Miriam to her thoughts about the man who would brave her father to see her. Her love for her father did not make her blind to his faults, namely, a pigheaded belief that he could make the world bend to his will. With the exception of the untimely death of her mother, Miriam was convinced that Livingston had mostly succeeded. If she wished for more from her life than the sheltered existence she led now, Miriam would have to find the courage to defy the person she loved best.
Miriam’s doubts about Richard’s financial precariousness eased at the sight of a gleaming buggy with red-lacquered wheels rolling up to her front garden the next afternoon. Dust billowed up from the street as he pulled the chestnut horse to a halt.
Her heart thudded. Never in a thousand years would she have imagined finding a man as handsome as Richard swing down from an elegant vehicle, drape his reins around a gatepost, and doff his hat. His dark hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and curled around his ears.
“Good afternoon, Miss Walsh.”
“Your lordship.” Miriam dropped a curtsey. He was here for her. Giddy happiness flooded through her until she had to stifle the urge to giggle. Her father wouldn’t find the obsequious gesture humorous in the least, if he caught her at it.
When she bobbed up again Miriam found Richard’s mouth drawn in a tight line. She sighed. If only he wore his title with a bit of levity. She didn’t understand why he was so sensitive about his title, but clearly it was not a joking matter to him. “I am only teasing, Richard.”
Richard relaxed fractionally and forced a half-smile.
“May I come inside and say hello to your father before we take our brief jaunt?” he asked formally. She wished she knew how to reassure him. Her father could be terribly intimidating, hence the novelty of a gentleman caller. He’d done well during yesterday’s brief visit, but she had worried her father had scared him off.
“That’s unnecessary. Besides, he isn’t here.” Miriam had encouraged her father to make himself absent for the afternoon. “Mrs. Kent shall accompany us as chaperone.”
For an instant, Richard’s mouth went from a firm line to an outright scowl. Then, he schooled his features into a semblance of pleasure although the tension never left his shoulders. Had Miriam not been scanning his face for any sign of approval, she’d have missed the transformation.
“Of course. There’s room for four in the carriage.”
“In the buggy, you mean?” Miriam asked cheekily.
“If you insist on calling it by an improper Americanism,” Richard chuckled.
“That’s better,” she grinned. “I thought you were unhappy to see me. Perhaps regretting your offer of fresh air and sunshine.”
Now, she was the insecure one. Miriam’s good humor faded instantly.
“I could never regret a single moment spent with you,” Richard responded. Miriam glanced at her feet, shod in good leather boots already made dusty from the short walk from her front door to the road. She wished she believed it, yet she detected a false note that made her wonder if he was only courting her out of obligation. It was the sort of thing a scoundrel who was after her fortune might say. At least he hadn’t said it in front of her father. Richard had claimed to be poor when they were at the Pines, yet surely a lord connected to a prominent aristocratic family couldn’t truly be poor.
Short of funds, perhaps.
“Up you go, my lady,” Richard turned away to help Mrs. Kent into the carriage. Even her suspicious and dour caretaker cracked a smile under the sudden appearance of his natural charm. It came out like the sun on a cloudy day, there one moment, dimmed the next. Once Mrs. Kent was settled Richard handed her into the vehicle. The lightest, most proper contact between his gloved hand and hers was enough to send awareness skittering over her skin. The feeling spread to the pit of her stomach as Richard stepped up and took his place opposite them. The driver flicked the reins and the horses jolted into motion. Before long, they’d followed Broadway uptown to where fields dotted with buildings. The wheels rolled faster, kicking up dust. Miriam coughed. Miriam said nothing.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked, oblivious to her distress. Miriam sipped air, trying to conceal the way her throat closed. Not now. Please, not now.
“Uptown,” she croaked. Mrs. Kent’s gaze sliced over her. Her hand grazed the kit at her hip.
“Slow your driver down, Lord Northcote,” Mrs. Kent demanded. Richard turned to the driver and gave the signal. The horses settled into a walk. Miriam’s distress eased, though her airway remained constricted enough to produce a faint wheeze with every breath. Embarrassed heat wormed into her bodice to press against her skin. Richard’s brow furrowed.
Miriam waved airily. “I’m fine.”
Mrs. Kent glared.
“Are you certain?” Richard asked, clearly worried now. Oh, this was too embarrassing. She was not so frail that a brief carriage ride on a sunny afternoon should present any sort of challenge. If only the vehicle he’d selected wasn’t open-topped.
“Can we put up the hood?” Miriam asked meekly, hating her body for its fallibility.
“Certainly.” Richard busied himself with the flaps but the mechanics of raising the canvas top seemed to escape him. He tapped the driver for assistance, distracting them both. Mrs. Kent hovered over her until Miriam wanted to scream at the woman who cared so deeply and well for her. Mrs. Kent did not deserve the brunt of her frustration. It wasn’t her fault that Miriam’s first carriage ride with a gentleman caller was turning into a disaster.
Fast hoofbeats came up behind them.
“Pull aside!” Mrs. Kent demanded in a panicked yell.
Richard checked over his shoulder. His hair flew and his jacket strained as he tried to haul the canvas hood up to protect them, but it stuck, leaving them fully exposed. Miriam inhaled short bits air as she tried to breathe through her panic, then froze, breathless, as a group of men on horseback flew past them at a gallop. Their horses’ flying hooved kicking up a storm of dust.
“Hold this,” Mrs. Kent demanded as she pressed a fine scarf over Miriam’s face. More heat, and now it was hard to breathe. Panic tightened her muscles like the turning of a screw as Miriam’s first breath came with a full, harsh wheeze.
Miriam’s body had gone rigid beside him. Fear hollowed out Richard’s belly. Beside him, Miriam kept her face turned upward to the sun, what he could see of it. The shawl Mrs. Kent had insisted she use to cover her face was plastered over her mouth and nose in a ghoulish echo of a death mask. Richard did not know how to help, and anyway Mrs. Kent didn’t appear to want his assistance. She had lurched out of her seat like a frantic crow flapping over its offspring.
Good lord, I’ve killed her, Richard told himself with a shot of fear. One death at his hands was bad enough. He could not be responsible for another, no matter how accidental. Miriam was too gentle and lovely to deserve death on a balmy summer afternoon. His terror awakened the small part of Richard that wanted to deserve her.
“Drive slower! You’re kicking up too much dust,” Mrs. Kent ordered. Richard murmured to the driver, who grunted and complied. The next minute Mrs. Kent demanded, “Drive faster, we must get her home.”
A pale sweat had broken out over Miriam’s forehead as she lay back against the squabs.
If only he’d failed to secure the stupid carriage, this could never have happened. But he’d been loath to disappoint Miriam, so last night he’d sent a messenger to Lizzie’s husband’s domicile to ask for a carriage and horse suitable for courting. He had left the note unsigned.
This morning he received a similarly terse communication. Rent one.
Richard delayed her errand boy long enough to compose a brief reply, though not his temper. If you wish for me to court your friend, find me a horse and carriage for tomorrow afternoon.
An hour ago, Lizzie had knocked at his apartments. She’d brushed past him with a glacial sidelong glare. “The buggy outside belongs to my sister. I need it back in an hour. She thinks I’m shopping for a gift for Arthur. He’s agreed to drop his annulment petition. For now.”
She’d seemed upset, but Richard was finished with Lizzie’s dramatics and he didn’t bother to inquire as to why. His thoughts were tangled with Miriam’s curls and the milky paleness of her soft skin. There had been no hello, how are you feeling? Every ordinary thing two people might say upon meeting had felt like a waste of breath. His hatred of Lizzie had grown in direct proportion to his affection for Miriam. He couldn’t walk away from Miriam, in part because he knew now that Lizzie intended to have her friend’s fortune by any means necessary. He was only the dupe stupid enough to have fallen into her blackmail scheme. Foxy Lizzie had outwitted him—but he still hoped to return the favor. Not that he meant to protect Miriam, precisely, but if that proved to be a way to strike back at Lizzie, he had no compunction about courting the girl.
“What will you do while I’m out?” he’d demanded.
“Sit here. Read your newspapers.” Lizzie’s footfalls tapped over the floor, silencing abruptly when she came to the large rug that covered the floor. She traced a finger along the surface of the wardrobe where he stored his few belongings. Her glove came away covered with a thin layer of dust. She rubbed her fingers together. “Drink your wine, if you have any.”
“I don’t.”
“My, my. You have fallen hard and fast for frail Miriam Walsh,” Lizzie mocked.
Richard’s hands had clenched into fists, but they remained at his sides. There was no point in challenging her, and for all his many faults, Richard had never hit a woman. “I see you’re residing with your husband again.”
Lizzie sniffed. “For the moment. I’ve no intention of living as an outcast if you fail at wooing Miriam into marriage. Lord knows how she has pined for a man’s affections. It ought to be a simple task to win her heart. Even you ought to be able to accomplish it.”
Richard had slammed the door behind him as he departed. He didn’t like leaving her in his home. His few letters from his brother—more often, from his brother’s secretary—were locked in a drawer, along with his banking information and a bit of coin he used for daily needs. Though he kept the key on his person, he didn’t put it past Lizzie to pry open the drawer and read or steal its contents.
Fearing a slip of a woman a head shorter and five stone lighter shamed him, yet there was an inexplicable devilishness to Lizzie. Richard could never speak of it aloud, especially not to Miriam, who insisted upon believing the best about her friend. He couldn’t tell Miriam the truth without revealing his part in this fiasco, either. Instinct told Richard that she would take Lizzie’s side over his. In his experience, women took heartbreak hard—witness the courtesan who’d left him over a rundown piece of property. Blast Lizzie and her schemes. Richard didn’t like thinking about money, or people’s motivations, or worst of all their feelings.
Jarred back to the present, he finally located the last flap holding the buggy’s hood back and hauled it upward. Between the driver’s attempts to accommodate Mrs. Kent’s contrary, panicked demands, and focus on the horses, he had been little help with raising the top. But now he had it in place. Richard savored his small, singular accomplishment. Mrs. Kent fumbled with the little kit, pouring water and a powder into a small tin bowl.
“Let me help,” he offered, steadying the bowl so Mrs. Kent could use both hands.
“Lean over it and breathe, as best you can,” she murmured to Miriam.
The harsh, high-pitched sound Miriam made as she struggled for each breath chilled the marrow of Richard’s bones. Guilt and shame, his ever-present companions, sullied his relief at Miriam’s slow improvement. After a few minutes awkwardly draped over the bowl, she sat up, pale. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Miriam refused to meet his eyes.
“Drink this,” Mrs. Kent held out a tiny flask. Miriam made a face but meekly tossed it back. She gagged and handed it back.
“I am so embarrassed,” she whispered hoarsely with a stricken look in her eyes.
“Don’t be. I wish I’d known to put the top up. I thought…I didn’t know, and I didn’t ask,” Richard murmured. The words came from the small place in his heart that regretted his entire life. It mattered to him that his thoughtlessness might have cost Miriam her life. He didn’t know what to do with the strange new fear that he might lose her entirely.
<
br /> Miriam kept her gaze downcast, avoiding his eyes during the short ride back to the Walsh’s home. The awkward silence felt like an eternity. When they turned the corner to her street, Livingston Walsh was out front of their residence. His dark brown jacket and dusty boots indicated he’d just returned. Her father turned from joyful to thunderous as he observed his daughter’s slumped form. Richard swallowed.
“Don’t tell Father I had an attack,” Miriam pleaded. As though they had any hope of concealing it, Richard thought. Not with her pretty spring-green dress damp with sweat.
“I am not in the habit of keeping secrets from Mr. Walsh,” Mrs. Kent replied crisply. The buggy pulled up.
“Lord Northcote, make yourself useful and fetch the kettle from the stove downstairs. Then, I need you to leave. The sooner I wash the dust from Miss Walsh, the better.”
Helpless, Richard made his way to the kitchen and did as he was asked. Boiling water had been one of his newly acquired skills upon arriving in America. Growing up, there had been servants to handle the tedious aspects of life. He had not appreciated how heavy water was until he was forced to carry it himself. With his stomach churning, he carried the hot water upstairs to what he assumed was Miriam’s bedroom. He found the family clustered in an airy, bright room where Miriam lay upon a white counterpane. Mrs. Kent accepted the kettle and poured a small dash into a silver bowl with a white powder.
“Breathe,” she ordered Miriam.
“Not with him standing here,” Miriam rasped.
“I’ll go.” Richard spun on his heel. He hadn’t understood the depth of Miriam’s illness until now. It terrified him to think that this sword of Damocles hung over her head at all times, waiting to strike at any moment. He paused with his back turned to her, respectful of her desire that he not see her in her suffering. “You are an extraordinary woman, Miss Walsh. I have never met anyone as brave as you.”
“I am nothing of the sort, Richard.” Miriam insisted in a pained tone. Her voice already sounded stronger. Richard exhaled a silent prayer of thanks. He closed his eyes and turned to face her.
