A Kiss from the Heart

by Barbara Cartland

  Although Miranda had arrived before breakfast, he had sent her out again to meet the architect at the site of the old barns to discuss the plans and works.

  “Do you not wish to be there too?” she had asked.

  “I have so much to attend to here that our time is better spent working on different elements. Besides, I trust you implicitly!”

  So the light buggy had been made ready for her and she had set off for her rendezvous at Flodder’s meadow.

  Miss Jenkins was already at her desk working at some correspondence when he entered the study.

  News of the Templeton’s ball had now spread and a flurry of similar invitations had suddenly arrived.

  “I shall naturally respond in the negative to these, using the black-bordered writing paper,” said Miss Jenkins with a high moral tone.

  The Earl could tell that she did not approve of the ball so soon after his father’s death.

  “Yes, that would be appropriate. I believe these people think that we shall be dancing in the aisles over my Papa’s grave, when it is just a muted gathering of friends to show the world that the new Earl has arrived.”

  “Then, you will not wish to attend any of these parties?”

  “Your instincts are correct, as ever, Miss Jenkins. Now, I am quite certain that there is far more important correspondence that you wish to bring to my attention than that from a bunch of fawning Dowagers, seeking to throw their daughters under my nose!”

  The Earl was no fool. He understood completely that he would now be one of the most eligible men in the country – not just Worcestershire – and that he must come to expect all manner of invitations from mothers hoping to ensnare the grand prize.

  He thought of Lady Waterton, who had obviously been invited with his mother’s hopes pinned to her.

  ‘She can never be compared to Miranda!’ he sighed to himself, as he signed a pile of letters.

  He worked solidly until eleven, when Stringer came into the study with an engraved card on a silver salver.

  “My Lord, you have a visitor. A Lord Brookfield. He says he has come to pay his respects to you as the new Earl.”

  “Is he a local gentleman?” asked the Earl.

  The name had a ring of familiarity about it, yet he could not quite place it.

  Was he someone his father had known? Or maybe he was in some way connected to his old Regiment?

  “No, my Lord. I have never seen him before at the Hall. It may well be that he is some passing Lord come to make your acquaintance.”

  “Of course, that will be it, Stringer. Is the morning room free?”

  “It is, my Lord. The ladies have gone shopping.”

  “Very well, show him into the morning room and I shall be along shortly. Miss Jenkins, please continue with your duties. I shall return once I have finished with this mystery visitor.”

  Upon entering the morning room, he saw that Lord Brookfield was standing by the fireplace examining the Georgian carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

  He took in the man’s slightly dandified appearance and the long face with the rather cruel mouth and thought what an unpleasant-looking fellow he was.

  “Lord Brookfield?”

  “Lord Templeton! I do hope I have not in any way inconvenienced you by calling on you. It is just that I find myself so rarely in these parts that when the opportunity to pay my respects arose, I felt compelled to visit you. Your father and I met several times at his Club in London –

  “Would you care for some tea?”

  The Earl rang the bell before he could answer.

  “I hear you have great plans for the Hall,” added Lord Brookfield as he sat down on the comfortable sofa. “Everyone is talking about these wonderful improvements you have in mind.”

  The Earl was a little flattered.

  “They are not as extensive as gossip might have you believe,” he said modestly. “But, yes, I do have every intention of turning this into the most outstanding estate in the County once more.”

  “You are enlarging the estate?”

  “Only the buildings. I say, are you interested in architecture? What a pity I don’t have the plans here. My assistant is with the architect as we speak and she has them with her.”

  “A most unusual arrangement – to have a female assistant who you can trust with such a task?” commented Lord Brookfield carefully.

  The tea had arrived and Lord Brookfield stirred his without meeting the Earl’s gaze.

  It was important that he made certain that what he had overheard in the hotel was correct and not just barroom gossip.

  “I am quite a modern man, Lord Brookfield, and the young lady in question has more experience than I of dealing with local tradesmen. Do you know of Sir George Whitby?”

  “I have heard the name.”

  “She is his daughter.”

  “Interesting indeed. Now do tell me more of your plans. I have it in mind to improve my own estates in Hertfordshire and Northumberland. You see, I am hoping to find a wife soon.”

  The Earl took the bait and chatted quite happily and animatedly about all his ideas. He was just about to start describing the improvements to the Hall, when his mother came into the room.

  “Ah, darling. Stringer informed me that we had a visitor.”

  Both men jumped to their feet.

  “Mama, this is Lord Brookfield. He was passing through and thought to pay a call on us.”

  “You are welcome!” said the Countess graciously, as Lord Brookfield kissed her hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Countess,” he replied, with an oleaginous smile.

  “Are you one of the northern Brookfields?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Then you must be familiar with my own family in Scotland. They are just across the border.”

  Very soon he had charmed the Countess to such a degree, that before she knew it, she had invited him to that evening’s ball.

  “I do hope you will come,” she insisted. “It is just a small gathering as we are still in mourning for my late husband. But you would be most welcome.”

  “I would be delighted, thank you, Lady Templeton. And now I can see that you are all very busy, so I should leave. It has been charming to meet you both.”

  When he climbed into his carriage, a sinister smile played about his lips.

  ‘She is now within my grasp! What a huge stroke of good fortune!’ he said to himself, as the carriage headed back for Malvern. ‘The Countess played straight into my hands!’

  He was still smiling when they pulled up at the Spa Hotel.

  ‘And now I must arrange for my suit to be pressed as this evening will bring me one step closer to my goal!’

  *

  The Earl did not give any further thought to the invitation extended to their caller by his mother.

  As he emerged from the morning room, he spied Lady Waterton ascending the stairs and quickly made his way to the study a few doors along.

  Miss Jenkins was still industriously writing replies to letters and making notes on the calendar in front of her.

  “Miss Jenkins,” he said, looking up at the clock and wondering when Miranda would return. “Once you have finished what you are doing, you are free to leave for the day. The preparations for tonight’s ball will begin soon and the Hall will become too noisy.”

  “Why thank you, my Lord. My mother will be glad of the company.”

  “Is she still unwell?”

  “She is a little better, my Lord – ”

  But the Earl was not listening as she continued. He was too busy staring at the door, willing Miranda to walk back through it –

  *

  All too soon, it was time for the Earl to make himself ready for the ball.

  As Monkhouse buttoned up the stiff collar of his linen shirt, he congratulated himself on being very astute in slipping Miranda an invitation for the evening’s event.

  He smiled to himself as he recalled how her eyes had shone when he had
told her that the reason she was not included on Sir George’s invitation was because he wanted to hand her one himself.

  ‘And now, she will never suspect – unless Mama makes a scene – that she was left out,’ he reckoned, as the stiff collar was eased into place and the studs fastened.

  Even though he had faced terrible adversaries and dangers in India, tonight he felt more nervous than he had ever done in his life.

  He could feel hot pinpricks of sweat underneath his arms and already, his collar felt as if it was strangling him.

  ‘What if Miranda does not come?’ he worried, as he descended the stairs to greet the first of his guests.

  So the Earl was utterly relieved as she entered the hall on the arm of her father.

  Her eyes lit up as she caught his gaze. Beside him he heard his mother’s sigh of displeasure and felt the hiss of her hot breath in his ear.

  “Is this your doing?” she whispered coldly.

  “We could not ask Sir George and not his daughter, Mama. It would not have been correct. Sir George would have felt snubbed as well as Miranda.”

  “We shall speak about this later,” she murmured haughtily as she went to embrace the beaming Sir George.

  The Earl could not help but notice Miranda’s hurt expression as his mother totally ignored her, preferring to turn her back and show Sir George into the ballroom.

  “Miranda, how lovely you look this evening,” he sighed.

  His eyes met hers and he felt a sudden shiver in his stomach.

  She was looking so beautiful!

  “Thank you,” she replied, her look of consternation instantly smoothing out in the face of his compliment.

  “I am afraid there will be no dancing this evening, but I do hope that you will still enjoy yourself. Our new French chef has surpassed himself – ”

  “I am much looking forward to the evening,” said Miranda, making way for the next group of guests.

  The Earl stared after her, wishing that he could be by her side.

  The next time he glimpsed her, she was surrounded by a group of elderly gentlemen who appeared delighted to have one so young and beautiful in their midst.

  With aperitifs over, Stringer announced that dinner was served.

  Before the Earl could find Miranda, his mother had grabbed his arm and claimed him as her own.

  “You will do me the honour of escorting me?”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Miranda linking arms with her father and Lady Waterton, whose face wore the expression of one who has sucked a lemon, being accompanied by a local Squire who appeared to have taken a shine to her.

  She cast sly glances towards the Earl and seemed a little placated by the fact that he was escorting his mother and not the dreaded Miranda Whitby.

  There had been no expense spared on the dressing of the lavish dining room table. The decorations were two enormous Venetian-glass ornaments that had been adorned with some late-flowering roses from the garden.

  The Royal Copenhagen dinner service had been set on the table and solid silver cutlery was laid beside each place setting.

  In fact a set of sparkling, modern Waterford crystal glasses were the only concession to the contemporary. They had been a gift from an Irish Earl when he had come to stay last year.

  Miranda looked for her place, but could not find it.

  “Allow me, Miss Whitby.”

  Stringer had been thoroughly briefed by the Earl that his mother was unaware that Miss Whitby would be attending and so he had chosen a seat for her next to a local magistrate.

  Lady Waterton’s place had also been moved on his strict instructions – from next to himself to the seat on the right of the Lord Mayor of Malvern.

  The Earl knew that it would have been too outrageous to seat Miranda next to him, even though it was his dearest wish.

  In fact she had been allocated a place quite close to him.

  “Here you are, miss,” whispered Stringer, pulling out a chair for her. “You will find Sir Peter Robey a most amusing gentleman. He has not long been sitting at the Court sessions in Malvern and is unfamiliar with the area. I am certain he would very much enjoy a discourse on the County.”

  Miranda smiled up at Stringer gratefully.

  She now settled down in her seat and waited for her dining companions also to arrive.

  She took an immediate liking to the jolly whiskered Sir Peter, who had lived in London for many years until deciding he required a more peaceful way of life.

  Very soon they were chatting like old friends.

  In fact Miranda became so very engrossed in her conversation that she did not notice a latecomer entering the dining room.

  Stringer was searching for the gentleman’s place, but it appeared that there had been some confusion over the settings and his was nowhere to be found.

  It was only the commotion caused by one of the footmen bringing a chair to the table that caused Miranda to look up – and, when she did, she froze in mid-sentence.

  Lord Brookfield saw her horrified expression and replied with a short bow and a self-satisfied smile.

  “No!” she gasped, quite forgetting Sir Peter.

  “Is something wrong, my dear?” he asked her.

  “Do you feel unwell?”

  “N-no,” replied Miranda. “I am quite well, thank you.”

  The magistrate continued talking, but Miranda was only half-listening.

  Her heart was beating so hard that she felt certain the entire table could hear it and she thanked Heaven for the fact that she was seated, as her legs felt as if they would give way should she be forced to stand.

  ‘It cannot be! Him, here!’ she moaned to herself, as the world whirled around her. ‘But how on earth has he found me? And how did he obtain an invitation to such an exclusive event? I don’t understand.’

  As the footman helped Lord Brookfield to his seat, Miranda attempted to tear her eyes away from him – but she was as one hypnotised.

  ‘I must not look at him!’ she told herself.

  “I say, Miss Whitby. Did you hear what I said?” The magistrate’s voice broke through her wall of fear and she quickly pulled herself together.

  “I am so sorry, Sir Peter. I was overcome by the wonderful scent of the roses – they are quite intoxicating.”

  “Can’t smell a darned thing!” he replied. “I have had seventeen doctors attend to me and none of the blighters can find what is wrong!”

  But as he held forth about the inefficiency of the medical profession, once again, Miranda was not paying attention.

  Lord Brookfield was staring down the table at her with an expression of smugness and triumph that seemed to say ‘so you thought you had escaped me? I warned you, I would come and find you!’

  Miranda shivered in her satin evening dress and looked away with her cheeks burning.

  ‘I just cannot believe he is here!’ she wept silently. ‘How can I protect myself? Oh, I am in so much danger!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  “My dear, you are looking quite pale. Shall I call your father over?”

  Sir Peter gave Miranda such a concerned look. He could see even with his poor eyesight that the girl was shaking from head to foot.

  “And you have hardly touched your poussin – ”

  “I do rather feel a little unwell,” admitted Miranda, trying to catch her father’s eye.

  Sir Peter called over the nearest footman.

  “Sir George’s daughter is most unwell. Would you please inform him at once? He is the gentleman with the moustache at the end of the table.”

  The footman bowed and hurried down the line of diners to where Sir George was sitting.

  “I must apologise to you, Sir Peter, if I have appeared rude this evening,” said Miranda.

  “Hush! Look, here is your father now.”

  “Miranda!” cried Sir George. “What ails you?”

  “Father, I need to go home at once. May I speak with y
ou outside?”

  Sir George looked puzzled, but he offered Miranda his arm and she arose from her seat.

  In a flash the Earl was beside him.

  “Miranda! Whatever is the matter?” he implored her anxiously.

  “I feel a little unwell. Papa is taking me outside for some air.”

  “But there is a string quartet after dinner. It would be a shame for you to miss it. I had hoped that you would do me the honour of sitting with me.”

  Silently she laid her hand upon the Earl’s arm and it was as if he had received a jolt of lightning. Feeling her dear warm hand upon him caused his blood to pound.

  “You must allow me to see you to your carriage!”

  “No! I shall be quite all right with Papa.”

  Outside in the hall, Miranda began to cry.

  “Papa – Lord Brookfield – he is here!”

  “What do you mean?” asked her father, feeling sick to his stomach.

  “He was at the dinner table,” answered Miranda, miserably wringing her handkerchief between her fingers. “As a guest of the Templeton’s!”

  By now, the diners had begun to trickle out of the dining room towards the ballroom.

  Miranda could hear the sounds of the string quartet tuning up their instruments.

  “Of course you must go at once,” said Sir George. “Take the carriage and have it return to pick me up later. Shall I have Stringer call the Police?”

  “What could they do?” she sobbed, dabbing at her eyes. “It is not as if he has done anything wrong. He has merely eaten dinner in the same room as me and that does not constitute a crime. Now, please return and enjoy the rest of your evening. The music is about to begin and the Countess will be unhappy if you leave her for too long!”

  Sir George kissed her farewell and then strode off towards the strains of music emanating from the ballroom.

  A few moments later a footman brought Miranda’s cloak and she waited in the hall for the family carriage to be brought to the front entrance.

  As she had her back to the dining room, she did not see Lord Brookfield snaking his way towards her.

  He was upon her before she realised it and had grabbed hold of her wrist so tightly that it brought tears to her eyes.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  But there was no one else around. The sounds of the string quartet wafted over the air and she knew that he had chosen his moment well.