by Stacy Reid
An arched brow winged. “Is this not what you want?”
“No, I have the utmost regard and tender sentiment for another and cannot bear the thought of marrying anyone but him!”
His harsh features softened unexpectedly. “And will he feel the same once it is known you spend the night in my room, dressed in such a revealing manner?”
At his provocatively infuriating words, she clutched the robe tighter to her throat. I loved her, but she thought the wealth and stature of my brother would suit her better.
Her throat went tight with emotions and doubt.
She took small retreating steps away from the duke, desperate to maintain a distance between them. “I’ll sleep on the chaise longue, Your Grace.”
“Nonsense, you’ll take the bed.”
“I’ll not have, when that door conveniently opens in the morning, being found in your bed,” she whispered furiously.
He sighed. “Lady Miranda, the damage has already been done. You are thoroughly compromised, and we must prepare to deal with the situation.”
She was alarmed at the possibility that he was right. Too overwrought to cross words with him, she made her way to the chaise, settled atop the cushions, and closed her eyes. She tossed a few times, before she turned on her side, away from the duke. Silence lingered within the confines of the room, and she was appalled to feel tears coursing down her temple. Exhaustion pulled her into sleep, and as she drifted off, she felt the duke tucking a blanket about her waist.
Hours after he had been in Mrs. Chudleigh’s home, Simon trudged up the winding staircase of his home, his exhaustion heavy. The labor had been burdensome to Mrs. Chudleigh, and he feared childbed fever setting in. She had been in a weakened state when he left, but fresh air circulated in her tiny room which he had ordered to be cleaned.
The squalling baby girl would need a wet nurse, for he believed Mrs. Chudleigh was too weak to attend the task herself. A humorless smile curved his mouth when he recalled his mother's distaste that he would study under a surgeon. She had thought it unrefined to a man of his standing, but without all those pieces of knowledge gleaned over the years from studying surgeons and midwives, Mrs. Chudleigh might have very well died tonight. Simon had tasked her husband to watch her for the night, for he had been concerned about the heat in her flesh. Laudanum would ease her sleep for the night, but she had to be carefully observed for signs of a fever or prolonged bleeding. He would snatch a few hours of rest and then ride out to see Mrs. Chudleigh and the baby again in the morning.
How he wished Miranda had been with him. Somehow, he sensed her steady strength and unflinching bravery would have been a great assistance to him tonight. Upon reaching the landing, he shifted left, staring along the darkened hallway leading to her chamber.
A tug of need, to quietly sit with her, to see her face after such hours of grueling work dragged his feet to her chamber. No light shone from beneath her door, and he was quite aware it was about two in the morning. Lifting a hand, he knocked on her door, but no answer came. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Simon went into his chamber, thankful to see Mrs. Clayton had arranged for the bath to be filled before his arrival. The water was tepid, but he stirred and sank into the large copper tub, scrubbing the sweat and grime of the day away.
A few minutes later, he lay atop his pristine sheets, and closed his eyes, allowing the thoughts of Miranda to be the last thing to crowd his mind before he fell into a restful and much-needed slumber.
A few hours later, an overly dramatic gasp roused Miranda from sleep. Exhaustion still weighed on her lips, for she had only fallen into deep rest with the dawn but suffered uneasy dreams. She shifted on the chaise and sat up, glaring at the people framed in the doorway. Her mamma, Henry, the housekeeper Mrs. Clayton, Vicar Powell, and his wife, and shockingly, Mrs. Denniston. Miranda almost wept with relief that Simon was not amongst the witnesses her mother had gathered. Her mother affected the right tones of motherly shock and offended propriety when she demanded, “Upon my word! What is happening here?”
That screech roused the duke who had still been sleeping in his bed. To his credit, as he stood, he revealed he remained fully clothed, down to his polished boots.
Mrs. Powell’s gasp of alarm echoed in the space and she paled alarmingly. “You…Your Grace,” she stammered, appearing faint.
“This is an outrageous breach of conduct!” the Vicar blustered.
"Good God, man, what is the meaning of this?" Henry's demand rang with the shade of truth. His usually amiable countenance was stern with disapproval. Miranda supposed Mamma had not kept him abreast of her devious plans.
“My daughter has spent the night with his Grace! Oh my, Miranda is ruined," her mother wailed. "Only immediate marriage may render her respectable."
The Vicar nodded with pompous authority. “Indeed, it is.”
The duke stepped forward and bowed. “I am uncertain as to how we were locked in the room but let me assure you no impropriety happened behind these doors. Lady Miranda slept on the chaise, and I on the bed.”
Her mother began to protest, “An explanation of what happened is not sufficient to render my daughter respectable. Your Grace—”
He smoothly interrupted. “My fiancée and I met briefly for a private discussion, and we got stuck together.”
Her mother’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Your fiancée?” she murmured, her eyes glittering with pleasure.
“We’d planned an announcement today,” he said smoothly, playing the game deftly. “Of course, this awkward situation has caused us to reveal our attachment in this manner.”
A collective sigh of relief went through the small gathering, for scandal had been averted and honor satisfied. Miranda observed the farce playing before her, and felt as if she were in a sea, drowning in uncertainty, trepidation, and pain. She ambled forward, straight at the cluster of people who parted at the very last minute. Without speaking to anyone, and too ashamed and infuriated to look at her mother, she walked away with her head held high to her room.
Her heart was breaking, for Miranda understood very well the power of gossips and how terribly damaging it would be to her reputation. The Vicar and his wife would be the first to inform their parishioners in discreet whispers of the scandalous tryst they had witnessed. Then it would spread like wildfire through the country and then onto London and the ballrooms and newssheets.
She was ruined, and only marriage to the duke would be deemed a satisfactory outcome.
You’ve won, Mamma.
Miranda closed the door to her room, and slowly slid against it until her bottom touched the floor. She tugged her knees up and pressed her forehead against them. “Oh Simon,” she whispered, her voice breaking, and tears coursing down her cheeks. And for a long time, she stayed there, crying, ignoring all the knocks and concerned murmurs at her door, for she feared she had lost the only chance of happiness she might have had with the man she loved.
Chapter 10
An odd air of expectation blanketed the breakfast room this morning, and Simon assessed his guests with a decidedly critical eye. The Vicar had spent two minutes discussing the sins of the flesh and how wickedly immoral it is to cave in to temptation before marriage. For a wild moment, he had wondered if the man had peered into his heart and soused the passion he had brewing for Miranda. Then he noted the tension in her shoulders and the pain in her eyes. That pain affected him, and as soon as everyone had dispersed, he would take her on their walk and find out what had happened. He sat there hoping she would smile or glance in his direction, but she stared straight ahead, an air of melancholy surrounding her.
“We have an announcement to make,” the countess said with a bright smile.
“Oh?” Henry said, glancing from Miranda to the duke. Yet Simon sensed he very knew well what his mother was about.
Simon frowned, lowering his fork even as his brother sighed with resignation and an emotion he could not place.
"Are you leaving, my lady?" Th
ough he dearly hoped not. He wanted more time with Miranda, for Simon was sure he wanted to marry her, and he needed a bit of time with the countess before he visited her father. He wasn't confident he could wait for next season to start a courtship. Nor did he want to risk some other gentleman with all the right consequences stealing away her affections. Though on that score he did not indeed worry, she did not have an inconstant heart, and he felt in every touch, kiss, and smile she gave him that she too was falling in love.
The awareness clutched fiercely at his heart, and he smiled at her. Her lower lip trembled before she firmed her mouth. Yet she did not return his smile.
“His Grace, your brother, offered for Miranda, and I have accepted on her behalf,” the countess said with a wide smile. “Of course, given the delicate circumstances, a quick wedding would be most prudent.”
The words were like a solid blow to the center of Simon’s chest. For a terrible, timeless minute, he could do nothing but stare at the countess. An unexpectedly strange weakness assailed him. It took such strength at that moment to lift his head and examine Miranda’s features. Her expression was coolly composed, her eyes blank, but her lips formed no denial. Simon’s heart twisted into painful knots, then it cracked, and his chest damn well ached.
Simon shifted his regard to his brother. “Is this true?” he demanded hoarsely.
His brother frowned and lowered his eyes to the knife gripped in Simon's hand. Knowledge seeped into William's eyes, and a pained regret glowed there. "I…yes. I was honor bound to."
Simon flinched, understanding so much from that simple statement. There had been a compromising situation, and nothing was more important to his brother than honor and duty. Whatever the situation had been, William's honor would have prompted him to marry her, and it was merely his luck that she was a charming beauty, with a quick intelligence, and from a prominent, well connected, and respectable family.
"I am quite pleased with the alliance, and I've written to the earl this morning of the happy news. He'll ensure notices are posted to the papers."
The pain that pierced his heart was numbing. Her mother was not inclined to tarry at all, and he could see the jubilation in her eyes.
“I see.”
"Excellent news all around," the vicar said. "We understand you've just returned from abroad, and to find a bride so soon. Excellent news indeed, and you have mine and Mrs. Powell's heartiest congratulations. And you may rest assured of our discretion, Your Grace. We shall not mention that the lady spent the entire night in your room to anyone at all. I am sure it was all above board as you've assured us."
Their gazes collided and tears burned in her eyes. And now he understood why she had not been in her room last night. The heaviness in his heart was an unbearable weight. And he sensed with every breath in his body it had not been done by her design.
Miranda’s chair pushed back abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to oversee the packing of my valise, and I am without appetite.”
Then she hurried from the room as if devils chased her.
Mrs. Clayton rushed inside and said, “Beg pardon, Dr. Astor, a boy from the Chudleighs’ is here. The boy is a crying mess.”
He wanted nothing more than to chase Miranda and figure a way out of her mother's calculating mess. But from the grave look in Mrs. Clayton's eyes, he knew it was severe. He glanced at his brother and the rest of his guests. "If you'll excuse me, my patient is in dire need of me. I must leave immediately." He sketched a short bow and spun around.
“Dr. Astor, are you not to offer your brother congratulation on a most fortuitous match?”
The countess’s words arrested his movement briefly, but he did not dignify the smugness of her question with a response. He walked away, ignoring her gasp of affront.
He had a patient to save, and he could not abide the dark pain scraping at his insides. His housekeeper had his medical bag waiting for him in the hallway.
“Your horse has been saddled, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clayton,” he said, hurrying through the front door and to the stable hand who waited with his horse.
The ride to the Chudleighs was more than half an hour, and he felt keen regret he had not been able to convince her husband that her last days of confinement should be done at Riversend Manor. When he arrived, he was quickly ushered inside their bedroom, to find a delirious Mrs. Chudleigh.
“Cool water from the well, immediately,” he ordered, taking off his jacket and rolling his sleeves. He had a few herbs in his bag which had been noted by several medical journals to reduce fever when boiled and consumed.
“Has she eaten or drunk anything?”
"Just a bit of bare water," Mr. Jeremy Chudleigh said, his grey eyes dark with worry. "We’ve had two boys before, and she never got like this after."
“The labor was especially draining,” Simon replied. “But she is a strong woman, do not lose heart.”
The man nodded, grateful for the encouraging words.
Simon dipped into his bag and took out a small sac with roots. He broke off a piece and handed it to Jeremey. “Boil this in some water, and then when it is cool bring it to me.”
Her oldest boy, a lad of ten years hurried back with the basin of cold water and a towel.
“Bring me two more jugs,” he told the boy. “And more fresh linens.”
Simon washed his hands, shooed them from the room, then lifted the sheets draped over Mrs. Chudleigh’s lower body and examined her. The bleeding had slowed which was a good sign, but she burned with a worrying fever. He stayed for hours, sponging her down in cool water, and forcing broth and the juice from the boiled root down her throat. Simon never left her side, and by the time her fever broke, dusk had fallen, and the sun had vanished leaving a pale moonlight hovering in the sky.
Mr. Chudleigh cried when he got the news his wife was well, and Simon spent several minutes informing him of how long he should abstain from sexual activities and a few acceptable methods to prevent pregnancy. He would not recommend Mrs. Chudleigh falling with child again.
Jeremy had agreed and had given him a humble offer of bread and an apple which Simon devoured. Now he made his way home, and as he crossed the threshold, an unknown instinct warned him that Miranda was no longer there.
Mrs. Clayton ambled toward him, a questioning look in her eyes.
"Mrs. Chudleigh is she—"
“She will recover quite well.”
Relief lit in her eyes. “I shall pay a visit to her tomorrow.”
“And I would appreciate it if you could take a few baskets of groceries with you. Whatever you can find in the larder. Meat from the butcher as well and send the bill to me. And whatever we have in the vegetable gardens.”
“Yes, Dr. Astor.”
She turned and drifted down the hall, and though he hated to ask, he said, “Mrs. Clayton…Lady Miranda.”
“She left, Dr. Astor…with her mother and brother some few hours ago. I believe they’ve headed on to Lincolnshire.”
“Did she…leave any message or note?”
“She did not, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clayton.” He cleared his throat. “Good night.”
He made his way to his chamber but could not find sleep. Simon stood at the soaring windows of his room which overlooked the vast expanse of his estate. He stayed there, his eyes dry, and an unfathomable pain in his heart, until the sun crested and broke in the sky.
Simon could not sleep or eat without dreaming of Miranda. She, her mother, and brother had departed his home only three days past, and he was already tormented with missing her. The news of an engagement between the pair had already been printed in the newspapers, and his district was agog with the story.
He tried to bury himself in work, which did little to distract him for all his patients had been sent home. Mrs. Chudleigh and the baby were quite excellent, and he only did one house call this morning to the Squire who was now hobbling around on crutches. Reading his numerous medical jour
nals did not distract his mind, and his heart was a continual aching mess.
Years ago when he had fancied himself in love with Miss Phoebe Cranston, she had climbed into his brother’s bed in hopes of landing a duke. The pain from that betrayal had lasted a few hours before he had hardened his heart against feeling any emotions for a lady who had not regarded him with similar sentiments.
Simon desperately tried to draw on that similar reserve to dull the pain of losing Miranda and could not find it anywhere. With a snarl of frustration, he slammed the medical tome closed, stood, and prowled over to the windows overlooking the lake. It would be unbearable knowing how much he loved her and seeing her at his brother’s side as his duchess.
There had been a look in her eyes when she had fled the breakfast parlor a few days ago. It had been one of rank disappointment, mortification, and pain. Was it that he had dashed her expectations by remaining silent? Should he have declared to all that he loved her and would not allow his brother, the duke, to marry her? How laughable that would be. Her father would not consent for them to marry when he had a duke in his back pocket, one who was eager to wed a delectable beauty such as Miranda. And even if William knew Simon was desperately in love with her, his honor would not allow him to cry off.
It had been announced in the papers. A greater scandal would ensue if William were to call off their engagement, and her reputation would be in shambles. Though he was aware of all this, it felt entirely too bleak to contemplate living the rest of his days without Miranda.
Echoing footsteps sounded behind him. "A letter arrived for you, Dr. Astor. It is from the duchess."
His mother had heard the news then. “Thank you, Mrs. Clayton.”
He opened the letter and read.
Dear Simon,
Please attend to us at dinner at Hawthorne Park this Sunday. My dear William has been engaged to one of the loveliest girls of the season, from a perfect and respectable family. I'd not thought my heart could be more overjoyed to have him return home with us. But a wedding, and perhaps a grandchild to dote on very soon has filled me with such hope and happiness.
