“I am quite famished!” she declared, once the bottle of champagne had been finished. “Bobby, shall we go and eat?”
The Earl looked at her and inwardly winced. He hated it when she called him ‘Bobby’! No one ever called him by that name, as it was so low and vulgar.
He frowned and she instantly realised her mistake.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Robert,” she corrected herself, with what she was hoping was a winning smile. “Just a little steak perhaps?”
She twirled a lock of red hair around her finger and pouted. For a moment, he debated whether to return home – and that was by far the more unappealing prospect of the two.
“Sheridan’s?” he asked, standing up and tipping her off his lap.
“Let me get dressed!” she cried delightedly.
*
A few hours later, after they had finished dining at Sheridan’s, the Earl found himself with her in a Hackney cab on his way to Stockwell and her house.
He thought of the maroon-coloured parlour with its rich velvet curtains, numerous ornaments and Constance’s bedroom with the carved French bed and the fancy bedding from Paris.
Constance clung to him throughout the cab journey and, once inside her home, took him by the hand and led him straight upstairs to her bedroom.
The Earl sighed as she untied his white cravat and began to kiss him – her red hair hung loose down to her waist. Then, as if to show willing, he grabbed her roughly and pushed her on to the bed.
An hour or so later, feeling empty and devoid of emotion, he found himself unable to stand a single moment more in the oppressively over-feminine boudoir.
Even during their lovemaking, he had not felt much pleasure and now longed for the solitude of his own bed. He rose from her bed and put on his shirt, buttoning it firmly over his well-formed chest.
When he started to pull on his trousers, Constance propped herself up in bed and cried in a hurt tone,
“You’re not leaving already?”
“I am afraid so, my dear,” he replied in a slightly strained voice. “I don’t feel quite myself and I wish to return home.”
Tears began to form in Constance’s brown eyes. Her lip trembled as she wrapped a sheet around her naked shoulders.
“Have I displeased you, Robert?”
“I am tired, that is all.”
He began to slip on his shoes and everything just seemed to take twice as long, dammit, without Monkhouse there! He next retrieved his cloak and left his white cravat slung untied around his neck.
With a casual peck on Constance’s cheek, he turned to leave.
“You cad!” she spat. “Is that all I’m worth?”
He looked at her, but found himself unable to reply.
“Get out! Get out! I never want to see you again!” she cried, flinging a pillow at him.
The Earl ducked and made a hasty exit.
He had to walk almost to Vauxhall before he found a cab, but the fresh air had done little to dissipate his sense of self-loathing.
‘I was never brought up to treat women in such a fashion,’ he growled to himself, as he slung himself into the cab. ‘Yet I find I cannot prevent myself from doing so. Constance was right – I am an utter cad.’
*
The next day dawned overcast and the windows of The Grange, the home of Sir George and Lady Whitby, looked out onto grey skies.
Sir George moved to the French windows at the end of the dining room and sighed.
“I am sorry that I could not make the weather better for you, my dear,” he said, pacing anxiously up and down, squinting for signs of a patch of blue above him. “And I am sorry that your mother is not here either.”
“Oh, Papa! Just to be home and with you again is enough!” cried Miranda, his pretty daughter. She unfolded her napkin as Mervin, their butler, placed a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her.
“Did you eat such fine fare in London?” asked her father, pointing at her breakfast.
Miranda smiled.
“Papa, it’s not so very much different from here. You forget that the City is surrounded by farms.”
But now she had to admit that her breakfast this morning was especially delicious, as the bacon was fresh from their own herd and cured by their own cook. In the distance, she could hear the clucking of the hens and her spirits lifted.
She felt safe for the first time in weeks.
Miranda’s return to Worcestershire and The Grange had not been planned.
She had intended to stay in London for the Season, but then, after a series of most unfortunate events, she had fled home.
Sir George had not pressed his daughter last night for an explanation.
When her carriage had pulled up at half-past nine in the evening, none had been more surprised or delighted to see her standing there.
She had burst into tears and flung herself into his arms. His wife was away, tending her sick sister and had just written to him saying she would be away for at least another week.
Surprised by his daughter’s unexpected arrival at The Grange, Sir George decided to leave Miranda to offer her explanations in her own good time.
He returned to the table and sat down in front of his breakfast. He watched as Miranda finished hers heartily and then requested more toast and marmalade.
“You don’t usually eat so well at this time of day!” he commented.
She cast her eyes down and murmured, almost half-apologetically,
“I did not have – dinner last night.”
Sir George hesitated.
“You left London in a hurry, my dear?”
“Yes, Papa. You see – ”
Her voice trembled and tears sprang into her eyes. She bowed her head and her voice became no more than a whisper.
“I was forced to leave – ”
“Forced?” cried Sir George, getting up. “Why?”
“Oh, Papa! Don’t be angry with me!” she wailed.
“I found myself in a terrible dilemma – please, promise me you will not shout at me?”
Sir George sighed inwardly.
More than ever, he missed his wife, and wished she had not been so quick to spring to the aid of her sister in Bath.
“Of course I shall not,” he replied in a low voice. “Whatever the matter is, you must tell me!”
“You will not blame Aunt Emma either?”
Aunt Emma was Sir George’s younger sister and one whom he often felt lacked good common sense.
“I promise,” he added with a note of resignation.
“I was so foolish, Papa. One evening, Aunt Emma said that she did not feel like going out and it was such a lovely evening that I simply could not stay at home. So, I sent a note to Effie Chambers and asked her if she cared to come for a drive with me around the Park. She sent me a message back at once, saying that she had a better idea and would I fancy an adventure? Her brother had just returned from Cambridge and he had a friend or two with him.”
“Gentlemen friends?”
“Y-yes, Papa.”
There was a disapproving silence as he cleared his throat and then decided against a lecture. After all if he showed any signs of anger, Miranda might not tell him the whole story.
“Pray continue I am listening.”
Miranda nervously twisted her napkin around her fingers.
“I went to Effie’s house and met with the young gentlemen – and they were indeed gentlemen, Papa, from well known and aristocratic families.”
She looked at him pleadingly.
He nodded his head for her to go on.
“And then we took the Chamber’s carriage to – ”
She hesitated and looked down.
“ – Vauxhall Gardens.”
“Vauxhall Gardens! What on earth possessed you to agree to go to somewhere so low and vulgar? Were you harmed in some way?”
“No, no, Papa. Let me continue!”
Sir George leaned back in his chair, but his hands curled into fists of displeasure.
“We had a most enjoyable time and Charles, Effie’s brother, happened across another old friend of his there – a Lord Brookfield.”
A hint of recognition stirred in Sir George’s head. The name seemed curiously familiar to him, yet he could not recall why.
“Papa, please don’t be cross with me, but he was just so very nice, charming and handsome. After making his acquaintance, I allowed Lord Brookfield to call on me at Aunt Emma’s.”
She looked up at her father waiting for a comment, but his lips were firmly closed.
“It was innocent enough at first. He took me to the Opera and allowed me to bring Aunt Emma as a chaperone and we drove around Hyde Park in his carriage, also with Aunt Emma.
“He behaved just like a complete gentleman until one evening, quite out of the blue, he proposed to me. Of course, as I knew nothing of him or his people, I refused. Besides – I had deemed him too old for me.”
Her father heaved a sigh of relief.
“You were very sensible, Miranda,” he commented.
“It was after my refusal that he turned unpleasant. I said I thought it would be best if we cut off all contact, yet he pursued me relentlessly. He terrified poor Meek, Aunt Emma’s butler, with his threats and began to follow me whenever I left the house. There was a rather unpleasant scene in Liberty one afternoon – ”
She paused.
“And so that very evening, Aunt Emma made her carriage ready for me and I packed my bags.”
Sir George said nothing as her words fell away. His first instinct was to hunt this Lord Brookfield down and shoot him with his field gun. He felt enraged on his daughter’s behalf.
“You’re not – cross with me, Papa?”
“No, my dear,” he replied at last. “Once rebuffed by you Lord Brookfield should have respected your wishes and withdrawn. You certainly did the right thing if he was becoming troublesome. I am just sorry that your mother is not here to comfort you.”
“I have now instructed Aunt Emma that should he appear again to tell him that I have gone to the Continent,” added Miranda. “I don’t want him following me here.”
“You will be safe at The Grange,” he murmured. “And now, I have some very sad news for you that we did not tell you about earlier as we did not wish to spoil your stay in London. Lord Templeton died recently.”
Miranda caught her breath.
“Oh, Papa! That is terrible! But why did you not write to me? I would have come home to be by your side for the funeral. He was one of your dearest friends!”
“I did not wish for any fuss, my dear. Also your mother and I wanted you to have a wonderful time and not to concern yourself with such sad news.”
“And so Robert is now the Earl?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking,” he replied looking up at the ceiling.
“What do you mean?”
There was a long silence as Sir George tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
“He seems to have abandoned his responsibilities.”
“How so?”
“He is in London pursuing a life of idleness whilst his brother, Alec, is running the estate as best he can.”
Miranda shook her head in disbelief.
‘Can this be the same boy I saved when we were children?’ she wondered. ‘He was never a coward then, what could have happened to him in India to have turned him?’
“It has been many years since I last saw him,” she murmured. “But I confess that what you say is shocking. His mother must be beside herself with worry.”
She stared into the distance, disbelief clouding her lovely features.
“Come now,” he insisted. “You must not concern yourself with these matters. You have enough troubles of your own. Let us proceed to the drawing room as I have some new paintings I wish to show you – ”
As her father waited for her to rise from the table, Miranda’s thoughts were fully occupied.
Now it was not Lord Brookfield and his unwanted attentions she was thinking about or her mother, so sorely absent from The Grange –
But the boy who she swore she would love forever when she was seven years old –
CHAPTER FOUR
The Earl awoke the next morning with a bad taste in his mouth and a foul humour seeping from every pore.
He could see by the amount of light penetrating the curtains that it was late morning and he groaned inwardly as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.
Constance’s rasping angry screams and her vitriolic denouncement of him as a cad rang in his ears and he felt more than a hint of shame at his behaviour.
Pushing it to the back of his mind, he swung both legs over the side of his bed and walked towards the bell push.
The effort made his head thump and he staggered back to the warmth of his comfortable sheets and quickly climbed back in between them.
A few moments later, Monkhouse was in the room, asking what he required.
“Coffee, please and some bacon,” he said, wearily massaging his throbbing temples.
“And a powder, my Lord?”
“Thank you, Monkhouse,” he replied gratefully.
His valet was worth his weight in gold and did not, unlike his mother, judge him.
Was it guilt that was making him feel so off-colour today?
‘I certainly did not drink too much last night,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Just the half bottle of champagne in Constance’s dressing room.’
He rubbed his tired features and wondered how he might occupy himself today.
As Monkhouse returned with his breakfast tray, the pretty face of Serena de Montfort, so fetchingly attired for the summer, floated in front of him.
He smiled to himself.
Had she not positively encouraged him to call upon her that week? The week when her parents would not be at home?
A new sense of daring coursed through his veins as he hungrily bit into a forkful of bacon.
‘Why should I not pay her a visit?’ he pondered. ‘A little amusing conversation and tea – it will just be quite innocent fun.’
As he unbuttoned his silk nightshirt, he grinned to himself in anticipation of a pleasant afternoon’s diversion.
‘There can be really no harm in calling upon an acquaintance,’ he told himself, quite dismissing any notion that his arrival at the elegant Mount Street residence might be viewed as positive encouragement by Miss de Montfort.
*
The Countess had gone out by the time he came downstairs.
“Where is my mother?” he asked Hiscock.
“She is visiting the Duchess of Londonderry, my Lord.”
“Ah, so she is in London for the Season – ”
He knew that the energetic Duchess would keep his mother fully occupied.
“I believe so, my Lord.”
The Earl nodded and proceeded to the study. The many ominous green ledgers were still there untouched as was the pile of correspondence that seemed to mount daily.
‘Perhaps I should request Miss Jenkins, Papa’s old secretary, to come here to deal with all this,’ he sighed, having no intention of taking responsibility for it himself.
He sat down in a chair at the desk and slid a gold-embossed invitation towards him. It was from the Marquis of Strathclyde, asking both him and his mother to a ball.
He sighed as he realised that even if they did attend, he would still be under the strict code of mourning that forbade dancing or conspicuous consumption of alcohol.
A cough alerted him to Monkhouse standing on the threshold of the room.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Will you be requiring luncheon today, my Lord?”
“No thank you, Monkhouse,” he answered, thankful that his headache appeared to have disappeared at last. “I am going out shortly and will ring for a cold beef sandwich if I require one on my return.”
“Shall I now arrange for the carriage to be brought round, my Lord?”
“No,” said the Earl, with a hint
of a smile playing around his lips. “I intend to walk to my destination.”
The valet backed out of the room and left the Earl to his thoughts. He picked up the invitation once more and idly twirled it round, wondering what the afternoon held in store for him.
*
At a little after two-thirty, the Earl picked up his top hat and made himself presentable in the ornate mirror that hung over the hall table.
He now viewed his reflection with more than a little satisfaction – considering that he had felt terrible when he awoke, the face staring back at him was clean, handsome and attractive.
Brook Street was awash with people, carriages and horses as he strode the short distance to Mount Street. He moved briskly through the throng and hoped that Miss de Montfort would be at home.
If she were not, he had already decided to visit his Club for a pleasant afternoon reading the newspapers.
On his arrival the Earl pulled hard on the bell that he heard ring somewhere in the depths of the house.
His heart began to race unexpectedly as he heard footsteps coming towards him and the door swung open.
The de Montfort butler was an imposing figure with a face like a funeral director.
“Yes, my Lord?”
The Earl marvelled at how the man seemed to have the ability to divine the status of visitors even before they had produced a calling card.
“Is Miss de Montfort at home?” he now enquired, proffering his card.
“Please come into the hall and I shall enquire, my Lord,” replied the butler, looking at the card with obvious relish.
The hall was not dissimilar in proportions to that of the Earl’s own London home. There was an oil painting of a rather stern-looking gentleman astride a horse on the far wall and an unlit chandelier hung overhead.
The butler reappeared and immediately bade him to accompany him to the drawing room.
As he walked through the door and announced him, Serena de Montfort, who had artfully arranged herself on the pale-blue sofa to considerable effect, turned her head and dropped the needlework frame from her hands.
“Lord Templeton! Such a delightful surprise!” she cried, her blue eyes sparkling like glazed china. “Morton, bring us some tea and cakes at once!”
A Kiss from the Heart Page 5
