Momsby and Sons bustled with activity, even with the weather outside. A clerk approached Colin immediately and took his hat and coat, shaking the rain from the garments.
“Lord Kilmaire to see Mr. Momsby.”
“Yes, my lord. The Elder or the Younger?” Momsby had two sons, one still away at school and the other who worked alongside his father at the establishment that bore their name.
“The Younger, if you please.”
“Of course, my lord. I’ll have tea brought, it’s quite a frightful day, is it not?”
“Frightful indeed.”
* * *
Miranda flounced into a paisley overstuffed chair and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Thunder continued to boom outside as night began to fall. She said a silent prayer that the rain would continue for days, enough to muck up the roads to Gray Covington so that the ridiculous house party would be cancelled.
She had no wish to watch Colin court his future countess.
While Miranda considered herself to be fortunate in a great many things, she did not think her current plight would receive divine intervention.
Impossible. Horrible. Awful.
“I could feign sickness.” She pulled a loose thread of her shawl, watching in rapt attention as the entire corner began to unravel, the yarn curling and twisting on the chair like vines. “I certainly feel ill.”
Colin Hartley. Her attraction to him, unfortunately for her, had not faded with time. She’d hoped that it would. Prayed fervently to forget Colin and everything she’d once desired.
Now he had come to London and she was forced to pretend that he never made promises to her, else risk her reputation. Such as it was. If she had one more scandal attached to her name even Lord Hamill would be forced to withdraw his pursuit.
A small statue, made of porcelain so fine it was nearly transparent, sat on the side table next to her. Sutton had brought her the gift. A figurine of a woman in a long flowing robe. Her brother called the garment a kimono. The sleeves of the garment were deep, hanging from the woman’s arms to pool at her feet. She was twisted at the waist, one arm held up in supplication as if pleading.
“I rather feel as you do,” she said to the tiny woman, “begging for someone to stop the unfortunate swirl of events I find myself in.” Her head fell back against the chair. “The irony does not escape me that I happen to be the only heiress in all of London that Lord Kilmaire has no interest in. Not even for my dowry. I’m that unlikeable.” A sniff escaped her. “It’s difficult you see,” she touched the tip of the woman’s nose, “because I’ve loved Colin for such a long time.”
She had no choice but to marry either Lord Hamill or Lord Ridley if she didn’t wish to remain a spinster. Not that anyone was forcing her to wed. Sutton was very clear that he did not care if she married or not. But Miranda did. She wanted a family of her own.
“Ridley or Hamill. Either will suit me just fine.” The woman stared open mouthed at Miranda. “Oh, very well. That’s a lie. My attraction to either man lies in the fact that they wish to marry me, despite the scandal. I’m fortunate I have any suitors at all.
The tiny woman’s gaze appeared accusatory. “I see you wish to judge me.” Miranda turned the small figure so it faced away from her. “But just so you know, you don’t look all that innocent yourself.”
Arabella would know how best to handle the situation, but her best friend was miles away in Wales. She could confide in Alex, but Miranda wasn’t at all certain that her sister-in-law wouldn’t then tell Sutton.
“I wonder,” she mused, pulling at the yarn again, “how one looks a man in the eye after one has shared such intimacies. There are dozens of courtesans who do such every day when they change protectors. There must be a trick to it.”
A knock at the door halted her thoughts
“Come.” Probably Clara, her maid, with a supper tray. Miranda had declined to go down to dinner, preferring to take a tray in her room.
The thump of a cane sounded against the floor.
“I do not care to dine alone, Miranda.”
Grandmother seems determined to vex me today. “Hello, Grandmother. My apologies I did not come down for dinner. I’m a bit tired and thought it best I take a tray in my room. I’m exhausted from all the preparations needed for your little house party.”
“It seems there is little preparation going on, unless you consider the unraveling of your shawl to be such.”
Miranda stuffed the shawl between the cushions of her chair.
“I thought you’d be packing, or at least your maid would be. Or someone’s maid. Yours is a bit flighty I’m given to understand. I’m not certain why you insist on keeping her. I don’t approve.”
Miranda kept her precisely because Grandmother didn’t approve. “She does lovely hair. And her name is Clara, Grandmother.”
“She is untrustworthy. I see it in her eyes. Shifty. You should sack her immediately.”
“I will take that under advisement.”
The Dowager thumped her cane around a chair facing Miranda. “Are you ill? You don’t appear to be for all that you looked a bit green earlier during Lord Kilmaire’s visit. Did something disagree with you at tea?”
A great many things disagreed with Miranda, specifically Grandmother assisting Colin in his hunt for a suitable heiress. “No, I’m fine, Grandmother.”
The Dowager sat back in the chair, sighing with pleasure as she sank into the worn cushions. “I must confess, while I insisted you furnish your bedroom with finer furniture, you were correct in your assessment of these chairs. Quite comfortable, especially for these old bones.” A smile crossed the Dowager’s lips, at odds with the mercenary gleam in her green eyes. “Shall we discuss the house party?”
Why couldn’t she have a less Machiavellian grandmother? She should like one who sits by the fire and knits instead of constantly plotting mischief. For Miranda was quite certain Grandmother was up to something. Something more than just an unwanted house party.
“I had been considering a visit to Arabella. I thought to leave next week.” Miranda countered. “She’s written and asked me to visit her in Wales. It’s quite solitary there. She’s bored.”
“You wish to visit Arabella? In Wales? And incur Nick’s displeasure? The girl needs to languish a bit more and contemplate her foolish decision in conspiring to have her brother’s fiancé kidnapped. Of the many things Arabella has done out of spite, that was by far the worst.”
“I’m sure Nick won’t mind if I visit. He’s very forgiving.”
The Dowager gave a short bark of laughter. “Are we speaking of the same man?” “He’ll welcome her back soon enough. She’s his sister.”
“Doubtful, granddaughter. He is very angry with Arabella, though he loves her dearly. Your desire to visit Wales will conflict with the house party we are hosting. That will never do.” Grandmother raised a brow waiting for her response.
“I knew nothing about this house party, Grandmother.” Miranda allowed her annoyance to show. “And to invite Lord Hamill and Lord Ridley without my knowledge was—”
“Appropriate.” The Dowager waved her hand. “I wish to help you secure a husband, now that you are determined to finally take one.”
Doubtful. Grandmother detested Lord Ridley. She said his clothes caused her to have dizzy spells.
“And,” Grandmother pursed her lips, “I wish to assist Lord Kilmaire, of course.”
“Of course.” Miranda’s fingers dug down into the cushion until she found the loose end of the shawl and began to tug at it again.
“Well, let’s have it. What do you think of my matchmaking skills?”
Miranda stopped tugging on the shawl. Perhaps it was the timbre of Grandmother’s question or the way the light green eyes narrowed on Miranda, but she had the very distinct impression that her Grandmother knew. About Colin. All of it. Or at the very least guessed. And Miranda was just as certain that wasn’t possible.
“I don’t think, Grandm
other, that my opinion will have any effect one way or another on the choice that Lord Kilmaire makes.”
“Oh, I think your opinion will matter a great deal.”
There it was again. That slight, knowing tone to her words. Grandmother might suspect that Miranda harbored feelings for Colin, but if she’d any idea that Miranda was no longer a maid, she would not be sitting so calmly in Miranda’s bedroom.
She is like a hound who has scented a fox.
Besides, what did it matter if the Dowager suspected that Miranda had once carried a torch for Colin? Her childish adoration was well known in the Cambourne family. She’d made a complete goose of herself years ago as a child by making Colin a paper crown and presenting it to him during a dinner party.
A speculative look entered the Dowager’s eyes. “Then let us discuss your suitors if you refuse to discuss my choices for Lord Kilmaire. I find neither appropriate. Nor does your brother. I fear he will strangle Ridley before you are wed a year. Possibly abscond with your viscount, to torture him in some macabre way learned from the Chinese. I’m told they are quite skilled in that regard.”
“How bloodthirsty you must imagine Sutton to be. Strangulation? Torture? I’m rather more afraid of Alex.”
“Your sister-in-law does not care for Ridley either.”
“You both gave me leave to decide my own fate. Perhaps Ridley is my fate.”
“And Lord Hamill is only a few years my junior, Miranda. We revolved in many of the same circles. His first wife made her debut shortly after I did, for goodness sakes.”
“He’s dignified.”
“That is a kind way to announce that someone is elderly.” The Dowager cocked her head. “Lady Hamill, God rest her soul, was a complete nitwit. Loved riding. I often saw her in Hyde Park. Did you know that’s how she died? She loved riding so much that she insisted doing so in a torrential downpour. She caught a fever shortly after and was dead within a fortnight.”
Grandmother, much like the Duke of Dunbar, knew something about nearly everyone in London. At times the information proved to be useful. At the moment, Miranda found it a bit grating. “How unfortunate.”
“Ridley,” Grandmother continued, speaking as if she’d just bitten into a peach pit, “is beyond the pale.”
“Why? He’s a viscount, he’s young, handsome, and educated.” Ridley had once dazzled Miranda, making her momentarily forget Colin. His allure had not lasted, unfortunately, though Miranda still thought he’d make an acceptable husband.
“Dandy. Fortune hunter. Treats you as if you don’t have a brain in your head. Will likely keep a mistress.” Grandmother ticked off his undesirable traits on her fingers.
“Grandmother!” Miranda pretended to be outraged by the assumption Ridley would keep a mistress, though it was likely to be true. The fact bothered Miranda not a bit. She had no illusions about Ridley. He would get her money and in return she would have a family of her own. Ridley would not ask anything of Miranda as long as she produced an heir and dangled on his arm prettily when required.
“Well, it’s true.”
“If they are both so disagreeable then why invite them to Gray Covington? Why mention such to Lord Kilmaire?”
Grandmother’s eyes slid away to look into the fire.
She was up to something.
“As you say,” Grandmother replied, “we have given you leave to choose. Which is the reason for the house party. We should like the opportunity to know your suitors better, though I cannot imagine that anything Ridley will do could change my opinion of him. He’ll likely wear something garish.” Her lips pursed in distaste. “Though he is rather handsome. That is something.”
The Dowager stood, one hand falling to her hip as she grasped her cane.
Miranda stood, reaching out automatically to assist her grandmother.
“Shoo. I’ve simply sat too long. My goodness, don’t hover, Miranda.”
Miranda flounced back to the chair. Grandmother did hate to be reminded of her infirmity.
Miranda’s fingers found the end of the shawl again. “Marriage is a business contract, not a contract of the heart.” Miranda’s mother had often said such to her.
The Dowager pressed a kiss atop her head. “Your mother is a foolish woman. You would do better to emulate your brother, if you can.”
“Your own marriage was made in such a way, was it not? So are most marriages of the ton. I am only trying to be sensible.”
Grandmother squeezed her shoulder. “I once thought so. Until I saw your own father choose affection rather than duty when he wed Madeline. His first marriage was for love. Convenience only came with your mother.” She hobbled from the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Miranda sat for the longest time, her grandmother’s words lingering in the air. Love. An overinflated emotion that caused young girls like herself to completely disregard their upbringing and fling themselves at melancholy half-Irish gentlemen. Or quarter-Irish.
She tasted the warm saltiness of her own tears and wondered exactly when she’d started crying. Probably six years ago. Just after Colin had left her.
7
The crowded streets of London rolled past the window of the Cambourne coach as Miranda, her grandmother, and the Earl of Kilmaire slowly made their way to Gray Covington. Miranda willed the coach to move faster through the crowded streets.
Trapped.
Trapped with the austere Earl of Kilmaire in close quarters for the remainder of the day. Since arriving to escort her and Grandmother, Colin had assumed a cold demeanor. She could be a stick of furniture or a dressmaker’s dummy for all the attention Colin paid her. Unfortunately, while he seemed oblivious to her presence, it was difficult for Miranda to ignore him. Sprawled across the seat facing her Colin seemed to take up all the available space in the coach with his bloody long legs and broad shoulders.”
And he’s bloody ruining my joy at escaping to Gray Covington.
She sighed, clasping and unclasping her hands. Gray Covington was home. Not the Cambourne house in London. The estate outside London was Miranda’s favorite place in the world. She longed for the peace that being at Gray Covington brought her. Peace that had been in short supply since Colin had arrived in London.
Miranda had never been a typical debutante. Oh, she’d endured the multitude of fittings for new gowns, the constant shopping, the calls on various acquaintances every day. But it never made her happy. Rather, she mostly found herself wanting to scream for the absurdity of it.
All things being equal, she would always prefer the solitude of Gray Covington over everything that London had to offer.
The house itself was relatively new, having been built on the remains of the former manor house. As a young bride, the Dowager took one look at the outdated Tudor styled house and insisted immediately that something more modern be built.
One did not disappoint the Dowager, not even then.
The gray stone exterior was nearly hidden by the crawling ivy and wisteria that covered the walls, giving the impression of an overly large stone cottage. The gardens were enormous, winding about the grounds and filled with any manner of flowers and shrubs. The gardens were famous in London, for they contained a multitude of rare plants and were laid out in such a way that one never knew where the formal gardens ended and the rolling fields of Gray Covington took over.
The Gray Covington gardener, himself the descendent of the first gardener Grandmother had hired so long ago, was especially talented. Just before Miranda was born, the man teased a series of shrubs into topiaries. The topiaries were renowned among the ton, for the skill at which they were created and for the unusual animals they depicted. Three camels strode across the grass where a lion, a group of monkeys, and an elephant frolicked. As a child Miranda would climb inside those monkeys to hide from her mother’s wrath. Which was quite often.
I wonder if I can still fit inside them? Probably not. How unfortunate.
Miranda stole a glance at the source of her m
ounting anxiety.
Did he have to be so attractive? It was rather disappointing that Colin had not grown fat. Or bald. Or something.
Silver now threaded through the golden wave of hair that fell to his shoulders, but the locks were still thick. Tiny lines were etched around his eyes, and the full curve
of his lips as if he frowned often. And Colin was larger, the leaner form he’d once had thicker, his shoulders broader.
Grandmother, the other source of Miranda’s misery, snored softly on the leather seat beside her. Clutching a book of poetry in her gloved hands, the Dowager nodded off almost immediately after leaving Cambourne House and hadn’t stirred since.
The coach hitched to the side, skimming the side of a rut in the road, and Miranda fell against the coach window.
A polished boot tip, attached to a long, lean, muscled leg, slid under Miranda’s skirts as the coach rocked. The toe of that boot brushed intimately against her slipper, neatly trapping a swath of sprigged muslin skirts.
“Please remove your foot.” She ignored the delicious tingle that ran up her leg at even this minor touch.
The boot slid deliberately further into her skirts, ignoring her command.
“How do you find Lady Helen?” Eyes the color of hot chocolate regarded her politely, as if they were engaged in discussing the weather and his foot wasn’t lingering intimately against her ankle.
Spoiled. Selfish. With an odd fascination for birds. Except for her strange hobby she reminds me quite a bit of my mother.
Colin’s fingers brushed down his thighs, graceful and strong. He’d removed his gloves the moment the coach lurched forward, and the discarded bits of leather sat at his side. A callous dotted one elegant forefinger that held just a shadow of ink, as if he’d been working on the accounts of Runshaw Park.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 10
