Interestingly, from this spot, she could catch a glimpse of the cove off to the right with the shipyard that seemed to be the source of so much controversy. It was much too far away for her to be able to see any detail, but the ship under construction seemed to be taking shape. The hull looked close to complete, propped up by the braces. From this angle, she had no way of judging the lines of the prow, but it was clearly a large ship. Well over a hundred feet, she thought. She would have liked to go down and examine it, but such an unladylike interest would certainly put Aunt Fanny in a swoon.
Instead, she sat down on the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees in what was doubtless a most unladylike posture. But there was no one to see, and she did not care. She sat for a while listening to the cries of the gulls and the sound of the surf but, soon enough, the subject she could not seem to avoid took possession of her thoughts: the Earl of Merton.
It quite annoyed her that she could not seem to keep him out of her thoughts. Yes, he was wonderful to look at, with that curling blond hair, which always seemed just slightly disheveled, those piercing blue eyes, and that gorgeous smile that made him seem about to burst into roars of laughter. It was amazing that blue eyes and blonde curls could look so delicate on Lydia and so very, well, virile on Merton. Then, too, he was so big and strong. Every time she stood near him, she just wanted to lean up against him, to have him hold her, to have him caress her. And yesterday, when they had fallen, he had held her and touched her, and she had felt things she had never felt before. Longings. Yearnings. She sighed. There was a great deal more that she wanted, though she was not entirely clear what that was. She only knew that there was more that she wanted. She sighed again. These were not the kind of thoughts she should be having.
It was foolish enough that she was wandering about in his company unchaperoned. She could not claim that their meetings were accidental, not when every day he suggested several possible walks and she told him which one she would choose. No one would be fooled by such transparent devices. She and Lord Merton were both well aware of what they were doing.
And what they were doing was beyond improper. She knew that. Aunt Fanny would have a fit of hysterics if she discovered what had been going on. Indeed, Aunt Fanny would have hysterics the moment she discovered that Miranda had been wandering off alone and unchaperoned. And she could not protest that Aunt Fanny was being ridiculous. Her own mother would not have permitted such behavior.
To say nothing of the fact that Aunt Fanny obviously wanted Lord Merton to marry Lydia. It was all very well and good for Miranda to think that this was a foolish ambition, that Lydia would be miserable married to Lord Merton. But what if she was wrong? What if that was a marriage that would make both Lydia and Lord Merton happy?
After all, they came from similar backgrounds. They had grown up in the same world, which was very unlike the world Miranda had always known. People seemed to think it was a perfectly desirable match. Who was she to say they were wrong?
Wasn’t she taking a bit too much on herself? Did she really know better than Aunt Fanny and Lady Merton, who also seemed to favor that match?
And then there was the way would it affect her family, since the Carraby family was also hers. They had been very kind to her, trying to help her fit in and introducing her to all kinds of people. Should she repay them by betraying them? By ruining their hopes for their daughter?
It was not simply the danger to her reputation that should be giving her pause. If worse came to worst, her parents could take her home to Boston, leaving gossip behind. No, the problem was the way she had reacted yesterday when she tumbled off the stile and into his arms. She should have leaped to her feet immediately. She knew that, but she hadn’t. She had lain there with his arms around her, letting him put his hands… and enjoying it. And she had wanted to do more.
She was behaving like an utter wanton!
Why couldn’t he be an ordinary man? Why on earth did he have to be an earl? He might not seem like the other scions of the aristocracy that she had met in London, most of them limp specimens suffering theatrically from ennui, but he was one of them. For better or for worse, they were the people among whom he lived his life. Ultimately, their attitudes and assumptions would be his.
He was an earl, and that title meant that he could do virtually anything he wanted with no one to stop him. She did not think he would abuse his power, but she doubted that the same could be said of all other lords. That was the way of his world, and she did not think it was likely to change.
In addition, all the women she had met, either in London or here, were very like her Aunt Fanny, obsessed with matters of precedence and protocol, talking of nothing but gowns and gossip. She could not imagine resigning herself to that kind of life, but it seemed that was the only life available to women of the aristocracy. Worse, they all seemed perfectly content.
It was certainly the life his grandmother expected Merton’s wife to lead, judging from the candidates who had been invited to this house party. Even Lydia, who was truly sweet and generous, was perfectly content to do exactly what was expected of her, to live a conventional life. Presumably the wife he chose—or the wife his grandmother chose for him—would be expected to convince Merton to become conventional as well, to become like all those other bored and boring members of the ton.
Her sense of the ridiculous asserted itself, and she laughed at herself. Did she think to come to his rescue? Here she was worrying about marriage to a man she had met only a week before, a man who might be interested in her—she had, after all, seen the way he looked at her—but still a man who had given her no reason to think that he was thinking about marriage. As far as she could see, the only people at the Hall with marriage on their minds were his grandmother, Aunt Fanny and the other mamas, and the eligible young ladies who were being paraded before him.
It was also clear that neither Lady Merton nor Aunt Fanny nor the other mamas considered her one of the eligible young ladies.
Perhaps he didn’t consider her eligible either. A man who looked interested was not necessarily interested in marriage. That much she knew. She was not a fool, after all. Her mother had come from his world, but had left it to marry a man who was not only a commoner but an American and in trade. At home, that was hardly a problem. Her father was a man of importance, and no doors were closed to him and his family. Here, however, her mother’s connections and her father’s wealth and political influence enabled her to move about in Merton’s world, but did not make her part of it. She was simply a rather odd and exotic—or eccentric—visitor. Were she to lay claim to a permanent place here, people’s reactions to her might be very different.
His family was unlikely to consider her acceptable, and her parents would have their doubts about him. Her father wouldn’t be just doubtful. He’d be furious. She had heard his views on the dangers of hereditary aristocracy often enough. Despite what Aunt Fanny might think, her parents would not be at all pleased were she to announce that she wanted to marry an earl.
Why couldn’t he be an ordinary man? Ridiculous thought. There was nothing ordinary about him. He would never be ordinary. But why did he have to have that ridiculous title attached to him, and all the pernicious nonsense that seemed to go with it?
She gave herself a mental shake. Such thinking was utter foolishness, she told herself, especially since she and her family would be sailing home to Boston next month. She would never see the earl again.
Never see him again.
She was appalled to recognize the pain that thought gave her.
If this was the way her thoughts were running, it was clearly time for her to stop thinking. A brisk walk was called for. She stood up, shook out her skirts and adjusted her bonnet in preparation for a return to the Hall.
Just then, a man came around a curve on the cliff path and halted when he caught sight of her. He was dressed in plain, dark clothes, but they were the well-tailored clothes of a gentleman. Certainly not workman’s clothes, though he
came from the direction of the shipyard. He was still some distance away from her, but not so far that she could not descry the angry expression on his narrow face, an expression that did not change as he stared at her. He was not a large man, but he was thin and wiry, and he seemed poised to pounce, like some feral creature.
She was suddenly aware of how alone she was here. She had passed gardeners and farm workers on her way, but that had been quite a while ago. They would not know where she was now. No one knew. Perhaps there was some sense to the rule that young women should not wander off on their own.
In front of her was the edge of the cliff, the crumbling edge of the cliff, with a long drop down to the sea below. She stepped back a bit further and darted a glance at the woods behind her. The path she had come by was off to her right—much too close to the stranger. She could simply run into the woods. She was tempted, but she did not want to show fear. That seemed dangerous, like showing fear to a strange dog, so she stood her ground and stared back at him.
The man considered her for a few moments. She could swear that he looked half-inclined to throw her off the cliff. Then he relaxed, tightened his mouth, gave her a quick nod and brushed past her, with his face averted, to continue on his way.
Averting his face did him no good, she thought. She had seen him clearly enough to be able to recognize him anywhere with his rat-like face and scarred cheek.
She watched him disappear behind a bend before she began to breathe again and turned to hurry into the woods the way she had come. Once out of sight from the path, she had to stop and lean against a tree for a bit to compose herself. He had seemed threatening, his very presence had seemed ominous.
He had frightened her badly, and she did not know precisely why.
Chapter Nine
Miranda was grateful to be sharing a room with Lydia as they dressed. It was easier to hide her own uneasiness left over from the encounter with the stranger on the cliff when faced with Lydia’s distress after a day with her mother. It must have been a particularly trying day. Lydia usually enjoyed deciding on a gown and choosing her accessories. Today, she was sitting listlessly at the dressing table, evincing absolutely no interest in the ribbons and flowers Susan suggested for her hair. From the woebegone look on her face, she would not have cared if Susan shaved her head.
“Do whatever my mother told you to do,” Lydia said with a shrug.
“But Miss Lydia, she told me to let you decide about your hair ornaments,” the maid protested.
“Really? And what do you suppose would happen if I said I wanted purple plumes and a string of rubies?” She gave a slight laugh at Susan’s look of horror and said, “Never mind. The pink ribbons are fine.”
“You are in a state, Lydia,” said Miranda. “Whatever happened?”
“Oh, it’s just Mama. You know what she is like. She has decided what I should wear for dinner every evening, and what I should wear if we go on a picnic, and what I should wear to church on Sunday, and she had her maid change the trimming on my straw bonnet because it was too like Miss Barbury’s. And I must be very careful with my lacing up because while it is very well to be slim, we wouldn’t want the earl to think I have no shape at all. And I must be careful not to be forward, because Miss Barbury is a bit too pert. On the other hand, I mustn’t be too quiet, because Miss Singleton is so timid she seems to fade into the furniture. Then I must be sure to keep my expression pleasant, because Mrs. Edgar Wortham, for all that she is pretty, has a decidedly sly expression and it is clear that the earl doesn’t like her.
“Miranda, it is truly dreadful. Mama is determined that I shall do everything possible to make the earl like me except behave like myself. And I don’t even like him.”
“You don’t?” said Miranda, startled. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could not like the earl. He was so, well, perfect.
“He frightens me,” Lydia confessed. “He’s so big and, and so, so everything all the time. He’s not at all quiet and restful. It’s like having a bear in the house, never knowing what he will do next. How would you like to live with a bear in the house?”
Miranda thought with a pang that if the bear were Merton, she would like it very well, indeed, but she just smiled. “Well, if you don’t want to worry about your toilette, perhaps you will help me with mine. My gowns are all in deeper shades than those of the other young ladies here. I am starting to feel as if I am calling undue attention to myself. I love the color of this green silk one, but I fear it may be too bold.”
She spun around and Lydia looked at her, considering the dress. The green was not a dark shade but it was a changeable silk with a dramatic hint of bronze in it. The skirt flared out, revealing bronze silk slippers, and the tiny puffed sleeves were slashed with the same bronze.
“Well, it’s certainly not a color Mama would let me wear, but you’re two years older than I, so that makes a difference. Besides, it brings out the gold flecks in your eyes. And I do love those rosettes along the bottom. They’re quite enchanting the way they move in and out as you walk.” Lydia gave an impish smile. “The real problem is that you have no need of special lacing to enhance your shape. You make the rest of us look like infants, and it’s very kind of you to want to change that.”
That made Miranda blush. “It’s the bodice. There is so little of it that I am far more exposed than I am accustomed to, and I keep wanting to tug it up.”
“Oh, no, Miss,” put in Susan. “It spoils the line of the gown when you do that, truly it does.”
Lydia laughed. “Indeed, it does. I know just the thing.” She rummaged through her drawers until she found a fichu of very fine ecru lace. “Let’s try this.” She put it around Miranda’s shoulders, tucked it loosely into the bodice, and cocked her head to examine the effect. “Yes, that will do very nicely. It doesn’t actually hide anything, but it gives you a modest air.”
“You do have a good eye, Miss Lydia,” said Susan. “I don’t know why Lady Carraby makes such a fuss about what you’re to wear.” Then she covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, Miss, I am sorry. I had no business speaking like that.”
Lydia tried to look stern, and so did Miranda. Both failed and ended up in giggles which, in turn, became outright laughter.
*
They were still laughing when they entered the drawing room arm in arm. Lady Carraby looked at her daughter with approval. Lydia was looking as happy and animated as she usually did at home. Even better, Merton had apparently noticed as well, for he immediately went over to greet her. And Miranda, of course.
Unfortunately, as Lady Carraby watched, Lydia seemed to somehow deflate. The smile faded, the animation left her face. Her mother thought that if she faded any more she would vanish completely. Lady Carraby frowned. It was Miranda. Her niece was smiling happily and chatting away with Merton as if she were the one his grandmother wanted him to marry. And Merton was smiling and chatting right back. It was truly exasperating.
“George, come here.”
George came to his mother’s side, looking unconcerned. He was quite pleased with himself this evening. The gilt buttons on his melon-colored tailcoat were just the latest thing, he had seven fobs dangling from his watch chain, and he was certain no one could fault his cravat. It had taken him seven tries to achieve this perfection. In addition, he was reasonably certain he had done nothing to anger his mother recently, so whatever was distressing her, it probably wasn’t him.
“Go over there and take Miranda away.” Lady Carraby waved her fan in the direction of the troublesome group.
George blinked. “You want me to keep company with Miranda?”
Lady Carraby made an exasperated noise and fanned herself. “What I want is for Merton to have an opportunity to talk to Lydia without being distracted. And your cousin is being a distraction.”
“Yes, but…”
“Do not tell me but. Simply do as I ask.”
The fan was moving rapidly now, a clear sign that his mother was growing exasperated, so George
gave a shrug and moved as well. It was a futile effort. Everyone except his mother could see that Merton did not wish to talk to Lydia any more than Lydia wished to talk to him. But needs must, he thought, and intruded himself into the little group.
“Hello,” he said.
Merton turned to look at him and promptly scowled.
Miranda turned to him and smiled. “Hello, George. Lord Merton has been telling us about the ship he is building.”
George raised an eyebrow. Lydia must have found that fascinating.
“She’s 125 feet, and nearly 500 tons. And since she will regularly carry passengers, there will be a dining room with mahogany tables, and plush sofas, and skylights of ground glass in the cabins. Can you imagine anything lovelier?”
George had no desire whatsoever to imagine a ship of any sort, but Miranda seemed to be brimming with enthusiasm. She sounded as if she were actually interested in ships, not just trying to impress Merton.
“Perhaps you would like to see her for yourself?” Merton asked, bending toward Miranda. “She is far from finished, but you can see the shape and size of her. I would be delighted to show you around.”
George looked at Merton in astonishment. Did the man realize what a cake he was making of himself? Offering her a trip to a shipyard as if he were offering her diamonds. What idiocy.
“That would be wonderful!” said Miranda. She and Merton were staring at each other, as if they had forgotten there were other people around. “I could catch a glimpse of it from the cliff today, and I longed to take a closer look, but I did not think I should go down by myself.”
“Of course not,” said Lydia, looking horrified. Miranda didn’t seem to have heard her, but Lydia must have gotten through to Merton, who stopped staring at Miranda like a starving puppy and turned to the others.
“No, I suppose not,” said Merton, “but I have to be at the shipyard tomorrow morning. Perhaps, Mr. Saunders, you would be willing to drive your sister and Miss Rokeby down there a bit later, and I could give you all a tour.”
The Earl Returns Page 6
