by Stacy Reid
Her mother wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I am certain there was no one of consequences on that coach, my dear, there is no need to be anxious and to risk your reputation and safety by even thinking of helping! I am sure the good doctor will have sufficient help in his servants.”
“Well said, Mamma,” Henry said, then with shocking unconcern he snapped the pressed newssheet open and started to read.
Her mother could be intolerably blunt and unfeeling to those she deemed lower, but this was beyond the pale. Unable to bear their indifference, she pushed from the table and hurried away, disregarding the cries of her mother. She made her way to the drawing room door and gently opened it up. The slight metallic tang of blood reached Miranda instantly. She hesitated on the threshold, before firming her shoulders and stepping inside, and closing the door behind her. A lady reposed on one of the beds sobbing, the sound raw and pain-filled. It propelled Miranda forward, and she halted when she saw the high mound pushing up on her gown.
The lady was with child.
“I need three basins of hot water,” Simon snapped to a hovering servant, propping several pillows behind the lady, and easing her into a sitting position. “Clean towels and linens and carbolic soap immediately!”
“Yes, Doctor!”
The maid hurried away with Mrs. Denniston accompanying her to assist.
Simon glanced up, his face a mask of fierce concentration. “Lady Miranda?” he asked sharply. “Is something wrong?”
“No…I…. The coachman has gone to the village for more help?”
He nodded. "There is a midwife there with whom I work closely, he has gone to fetch her.” He shifted back to the lady and murmured, “Come now, Sarah, all will be well. I’ll ensure it. The child is ready to come into this world.”
“I’m afraid, Doctor, she gasped,” tears streaming down her face. “I fear something is wrong. No pain should be this great.” Then deep wrenching sobs tore from the woman.
A sinking sensation entered Miranda’s stomach. Was the woman dying? Miranda’s heart pounded a fierce rhythm, and she wanted to run away, but she kept herself rooted. "Is there anything I can do to help, Simon?”
Her voice trembled.
“This is no place for you, but thank you for the offer.”
Relief scythed through her heart and she made to turn away. Shame also rushed in, for it was evident he needed assistance with most of his servants out on their half day. Her sensibilities felt shattered, and she could not explain why she felt so frightened. The poor woman must be suffering from such palpitations. Squaring her shoulders, and praying for courage, she skirted around the bed, careful only to look at the lady’s face. She pushed one of the wingback chairs close to the bedside, sat, and reached for the lady's hand. This much closer to the lady, she noted the air smelled thick with sweat and blood.
Simon glanced up, paused momentarily in surprise, before giving her a quick, pleased smile. Then he went back to peering under the woman’s skirt. Mortification flushed through Miranda, and she felt the writhing lady possibly endured a similar embarrassment.
“What is your name?” she asked soothingly.
"Sarah, milady," she gasped, gripping onto Miranda's hand with surprising strength. The lady wailed, her body contorting.
Miranda felt faint. Surely this could not be what all women suffered to bring a child into this world? She murmured soothing words and stroked the damp hair from her head. “What will you name your child?”
“Victoria, milady, for our queen.”
“It is a girl then?”
An unexpected smile lit her face. "I do hope so, milady."
“Please, you may call me Mira…or Miranda if you prefer.”
“Thank you—” she broke off on a sharp scream.
Miranda kept her eyes glued to the lady's face, not daring to look anywhere else. The maid and Mrs. Denniston returned with jugs of water and towels, and Simon moved away to scrub his hands quite roughly with the block of carbolic soap.
“Ughhhh,” Sarah whimpered.
“Hush now, it shall soon be over,” Miranda murmured, praying that was true.
Sweat ran in rivulets down her hairline, and her face was a grimace of agony. At that moment a contraction seized Sarah’s body, and she crushed Miranda’s hand. But she bore it, gritting her teeth at times through the pain, other moments murmuring soothing nonsense, and patting Sarah’s forehead with a fresh, damp towel.
Simon guided Sarah with calming words and, at times, sharp instructions on when to push, and when to breathe. It felt like it went on forever, and even Miranda started to sweat, for the tendrils of her hair clung damply to her cheeks and nape. Sarah’s screams and low, guttural moans caused panic to coil around Miranda’s lungs, tightening until she could not breathe.
Finally, a sharp cry echoed through the room, and Miranda glanced down and gulped. The tiniest, reddest human she had ever seen with white and red bits all about thrashed around in the doctor’s hands. Dr. Astor was doing a great job of cleaning away the mess with a soft wet, warm towel. Then he bundled the baby in an even softer blanket and handed the baby over to the now joyously weeping mother.
Miranda felt fit for Bedlam, she was uncertain how Sarah could now be laughing as if she held the greatest happiness in the world in the cradle of her arms. Emotions clogged Miranda’s throat, and her heart pounded a fierce beat she did not understand. Standing on legs which felt weakened, she hurried from the room unable to speak. She had been in the room where a lady had given birth. Who among her friends would have thought her capable of such feats?
She felt Dr. Astor’s piercing stare as his gaze followed her, she broke into a run, skidding to a frantic halt to wrench the door open, and then closing it gently behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes tightly. “Oh God, I must tell Pippa,” she gasped. “In truth, I must warn every friend of mine.”
Miranda hurried into the smaller parlor, grateful to see it was empty, desperate to compose herself and try to understand the emotions tearing through her. The pianoforte beckoned, and she went over and lifted the well-polished lid. She allowed her fingers to dance over the keys, creating soft chiming music. The sound of it grounded her, and she lightly played, allowing the keys and the music to be her center.
The door swung open, and she whirled around. “Dr. Astor!”
“Simon...,” he said, staring at her intently. “I daresay we can be informal with each other, Miranda.”
How tenderly he said her name as if he savored the shape and sound of it on his lips.
“I would like that, Simon,” she said softly, appalled at her bursting into tears.
In a few strides, he was before her, lightly touching her shoulder.
“That was a brave, kind thing you did, Miranda,” he said with a slow smile that touched somewhere deep inside her. "Thank you. Sarah is just as thankful and hoped you will see baby Victoria before you leave.”
Miranda nodded, unable to speak past the knot of emotions tightening her throat. Finally, she said, “I never knew having a child was painful. I am mortified to have been so ignorant, and I daresay if women knew, surely, they would not anticipate marriage and children with such blind expectations. Why has Mamma never told me?”
The harshness of his expression softened. "In my experience, most women do not regret that pain afterward and anticipate having more children."
He shifted scandalously closer to her, and unable to explain the needs rioting through her, she pressed into his arms. Simon did not hesitate or display shock at her lack of propriety, his hands came around her waist like bands of steel, pulling her into the hard, masculine heat of his body. She was surrounded by his clean male scent, and it felt so right to be held in his arms.
They stood like that for several moments, until the erratic beat of her heart quieted to a semblance of normalcy. Blushing at her lapse, she pulled away from him, absently massaging the ache in her fingers and wrist.
He leaned forward and encircled h
er wrist and brought it up for inspection. “Sarah’s grip must have been painful. You are bruised. I’ll rub some ointment for you. It will ease the ache and reduce the swelling.” Then he brushed the lightest kiss across her inner wrist. The action seemed to surprise him more than it did her and, with a soft curse which caused her ears to burn, he stepped back.
The pit of her stomach felt strange, fluttery, and warmth slid through her veins. "I…I…thank you for allowing me to be a part of the experience," she said huskily, painfully aware she did not pull her fingers from his hand.
His gaze flickered briefly to her mouth, and her heart clamored. He wants to kiss me, Miranda realized with a sense of shock. The air tightened with an unexpected tension, and her belly fluttered as if a thousand birds had taken flight.
“Simon…I…I….”
“Yes?”
Her senses felt assaulted by his scent and the burning need glowing from his blue gaze. The fierce intensity with which his eyes devoured her frame had both natural reticence and desire coursing through her veins. She was at a loss to explain anything, for she did not understand the twisting ache sliding through her body. The desire to touch him, to kiss his lips was as overwhelming as it was inexplicable.
He cupped her cheeks with both hands, tilting her head up, using one of his thumbs to swipe across her lower lip in a soft, sensual caress. "Thank you for being brave and so kind to a stranger. Many would not have thought it or retained such admirable composure.”
Her breath hitched at his fervent whisper and the shadows of hunger in his eyes, and she swallowed at the startling throb in her lower belly. He dipped his head slowly, giving her enough time to retreat. Miranda stood frozen, anticipation trembling through her heart with wicked fierceness. At this moment she was unable to care about duty to her mother’s expectations. She had never been kissed before, never allowed an ardent suitor to steal any moments, only because none had ever tempted her heart to misbehave.
He pressed a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth, and her knees weakened. She grasped his shoulder, steadying herself. His mouth took hers in a ravishing kiss yet infused with such gentleness her throat ached. It was a kiss that offered comfort, for she still shivered in reaction to what she had witnessed. It was a kiss which communicated want and stunning hunger, a kiss that gave and took in equal measures.
With a soft groan, she parted her lips at his urging. He slanted his lips over hers, drawing a moan of pure need from the depths of her being. The rasping glide of his tongue against hers nearly drove Miranda to her knees. She stood on her toes, sinking further into his wild kiss, losing herself and blindly twining her fingers through the hair curling at the nape of his neck. His mouth settled more possessively over hers, his tongue urging her lips to part wider to his incredible sensual assault.
His hands stroked her jaw, over to her collarbone, down to the underside of her breast, and stayed there. Flames of desire consumed her, and she sobbed wildly into his intimate embrace. Her breasts felt peculiar, they were suddenly heavy and full, her nipples tautening into almost painful sensitivity. How clever he was with his mouth. How wickedly delightful. How lovely and everything she had ever thought a kiss could be. He caught her lower lip between his teeth and suckled it.
With a muffled groan of regret, he released her mouth. He pulled from her, littering small kisses across her cheek, then to her forehead where he lingered. He pressed kisses along her cheek, and neck, down to her neckline where he inhaled deeply. He shuddered in her arms before releasing her and stepping back. “Lady Miranda, forgive me—”
“Do not apologize,” she whispered fiercely, peering up at him. “That was my very first kiss, and I thank you for making it so wonderful.”
“Your first kiss?” he asked with gruff and pleased incredulity.
“Yes,” she said with a small smile which trembled.
“I thank you for the honor of it.” They stared at each other for several moments, a perilous tension heavy on the air.
Then he bowed, turned around and left. Miranda collapsed on the sofa and pressed her face into her palms.
Oh, what have I done?
Chapter 6
Miranda had dreamt of Simon kissing her and doing far more to her than she had ever imagined being possible. It had appalled her that her subconscious could have betrayed her in such a manner, for her dreams had been wickedly delightful. She had been roused from slumber with her heart pounding, and an unfulfilled ache she did not understand.
“Oh, how intolerably bored I am,” Countess Langford groused, glaring at her feet propped high atop the cushions.
“The report from Dr. Astor was good, Mamma,” Miranda said with a comforting smile as she looked over from the canvas before her. “You’ll be on your feet in no time. Would you like me to continue reading?”
Her mamma leaned back on the chaise with a sigh. “I’ve had enough of Shakespeare for the day. Your poor father must be in such a worry to have us home with him.” A tiny frown appeared between her winged brows. “Agnes has informed me you’ve been taking long walks with Dr. Astor these past few days.”
Miranda’s heart fluttered wildly in her breast. “Yes,” she said, inordinately glad she faced away from her mamma. Surely, she would have seen the guilt in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. “The doctor is very charming company, and I do enjoy our long walks. I am quite aware of Agnes following at a discreet distance, Mamma. I am properly chaperoned if that is your worry.”
She felt her mother’s stare, but she concentrated on her brushstrokes, as she painted the view of the estate visible through the large windows of the parlor.
“Need I remind you that as the daughter of an earl, it would be unseemly for you to form an attachment with a man inferior to your rank and wealth?”
"The reminder is not necessary, Mamma, I've been told every day since I was twelve years of age." She lowered the brushes to the side table and stood. "If you'll excuse me, I promised the children I would read to them today. Three of them are going home."
Her mother considered her with a critical eye, before nodding once.
Miranda left the parlor and walked to the drawing room where the children were gathered playing cribbage.
"Lady Miranda!" they chorused. "Join us!"
She tumbled to the carpet and played with them for more than an hour. They all seemed more robust, their skin a healthy pink, their eyes enlivened with happiness. She spent a good portion of the afternoon with them reading and playing cards, and even gathering them together for a quick sketch of a portrait.
Shortly after luncheon, Simon returned from his jaunt to the village. Nerves coursed through her as he approached her where she reposed under a beech tree with her canvas, easel, and paintbrush. A breeze rustled through the top branches of the trees and swept along the mowed grass bringing a scent of roses and pines. The memory of the way he had kissed her sent a dizzying thrill through her.
She watched him approach, trying to affect a mien of polite inquiry. He was so very handsome, with the firm set of his chin, piercing eyes, and sensually firm lips. His tan riding breeches fitted splendidly to his lean waist, powerful thighs, and long muscular legs. His jacket and waistcoat molded quite closely to his broad shoulders
Since their kiss yesterday, she’d not seen Simon. Something about him—she had no idea what—evoked confusing emotions within her. Perhaps it was this hunger she had inside to know everything about him, even as she sensed such a desire to be futile.
Her family would not accept a man of such an inferior rank to be her husband. So, she should view their outings as a brief bit of harmless fun, a brief flirtation, and a pleasant diversion. But she could not prevent the leanings of her heart, even though she had spent hours staring at the ceiling this morning, reminding her heart and mind to be cautious.
Each time his gaze touched hers, her heart trembled in response. Miranda was falling for the doctor, and she did not know how to stop it. Worse, she did not want to halt the sense of
belonging she felt at his side.
He sketched a bow, his eyes never leaving her face. “Good afternoon, Lady Miranda.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Astor.”
They stared at each other, and both laughed at the same time, dispelling the tension which had wound itself around her heart. “Are we to be frightfully civil to each other?” she asked, chuckling.
He removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Absolutely not. Would you like to take a ride with me?”
She glanced at the carriage parked along his well-maintained gravel driveway. "In your carriage?"
His stare was a tangible thing, reaching to touch her, warming her in places she hadn’t known were cold. “On horses.”
She scrambled to her feet, he reached out and assisted her up. “I would be most delighted! It would take me a few minutes to change into a riding habit.”
“It would be my pleasure to wait for you.”
With a laugh, she hurried away, calling for Agnes once she reached inside the manor. Miranda was glad she had thought to pack a riding habit for the long-forgotten weekend party. She quickly donned a dark blue buttoned-up shirt and half jacket, a skirt, and riding boots, and made her way back to Simon.
He now awaited her with two beautiful horses—a chestnut filly and a black stallion.
“They are so very lovely,” she breathed, strolling up to the chestnut and patting her down. “Oh, you, wonderful beauty,” she crooned. “I shall enjoy riding you.”
Simon choked, and she glanced over at him. "Is all well?"
He had the oddest glint in his beautiful eyes. “Are you ready to race my brave, intrepid lady?”
“A race!”
“Why not?”
Miranda chuckled. “Are you certain you wish to race me, Simon? I am an expert horsewoman, you know.”
