Miles Before I Sleep

by Byrd, M. Donice

  Miles Before I Sleep

  M. Donice Byrd

  Copyright © 2015 M. Donice Nelms

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 10:1515116182

  ISBN-13: 978-1515116189

  DEDICATION

  To Sylvia Mannonen whose help proofreading has been invaluable.

  It’s rare to find someone who is so willing to share her time and intelligence. I know how lucky I am that we crossed paths. I will always be indebted to you for your help. Thank you. You are truly a rare breed in this world.

  1

  What was his name?

  Andrea James knew it was something Irish, as if his red hair and freckles were not indication enough of his heritage. His parents had given him one of the most Irish sounding names she had ever heard. But what the deuce was it? Something O’Something. Paddy O’Malley? Fergus O’Donnell? Sean O’Reilly?

  Criminy, if only she could remember, maybe she could interrupt long enough to ask him to return her to her mother’s side. Would he never stop talking? Heavens, the sound of his American accent, lilted with Irish tones, grated fiercely on her nerves. Rather than rub her temples, she smiled politely and nodded as if listening.

  Andrea had never been so disappointed in her life. After eavesdropping on many of her older schoolmates as they described their first balls, she expected so much more. They had made it sound so wondrous and exciting. Andrea had hoped to be inundated with young men vying for her attention as the girls from school had boasted. Instead, in the two hours she had been there, she had garnered only one invitation to dance with little prospect of more to come, especially if this American toad continued to monopolize her time. Maybe these New Yorkers did things differently than they did in London. Reluctantly, she had to admit that if it were not for him, she might have spent the last forty-five minutes standing in her mother’s shadow as she had for the first hour after her arrival. Feeling guilty for her unkind thoughts, she turned to face him again.

  As she sipped her punch, Andrea forced herself to look over her glass to the young man who had thankfully rescued her from the complete humiliation of standing in her parents’ wake for the whole evening. He was a pudgy sort of fellow, not much taller than Andrea, and she gauged him to be around eighteen years old. As she lowered the glass, she smiled sweetly, momentarily forcing herself to pay attention to what he was saying.

  She listened long enough to hear him mention his father’s warehouses. Again.

  Lord, he must know everything about those warehouses, and apparently, he wanted to make sure she did as well.

  In less than twelve hours, she would be on her father’s ship bound for her beloved England—back to her home and Miss Whitecott’s School for Young Ladies in Kent.

  She would share this holiday fiasco with no one including her dear friend Margarita Langford. Rita had been her best friend and roommate since they had first started attending class at Miss Whitecott’s school two years earlier. It was only natural they should become close since they were both social pariahs. Rita’s father, Sir Alfred Langford, traveled abroad while mourning the death of his wife and came back just over a year later with the baby girl he said was his daughter. He claimed that during his fourteen months abroad, he married a young Spanish woman who supposedly died during childbirth. It had been a terrible scandal for young Sir Alfred to marry—if he had indeed married the woman—before his year of mourning for his first wife ended.

  For Miss Whitecott to assign the girls a room together could hardly be called genius. Even Miss Whitecott would have admitted, to keep everyone happy, she simply had no choice. No one would want their daughter to share a room with Margarita Langford, with her olive complexion and questionable lineage, any more than they would want their daughter to share a room with Andrea James.

  Andrea certainly would have never been admitted to Miss Whitecott’s school, where the daughters of dukes and earls attended, had it not been for her father’s sizable donations. Sebastian James might have been one of the wealthiest men in all of England, with his fleet of cargo ships, but blood was blood, and he was no blue-blood. It was generous to call him gentry. Untitled and married to that Drury Lane actress, Lillian Lamont, the Jameses insisted on forcing their inferior stock into a world that did not want her. Deep down, Andrea knew that she would probably never be accepted. Yet, because it was important to her parents, she did her best to always behave with proper decorum and apply herself to her studies. Her mother instructed her to watch the girls whose fathers carried titles and imitate their manners and accents.

  Again, Andrea smiled at the young man and nodded politely, pretending she had been listening thoughtfully. Pay attention, she chided herself, he is asking something.

  “How much cargo do my father’s ships hold?” she repeated, not certain if that was what he had asked. Indeed, why the deuce would he think she would know? It was not completely unheard of for her to go with her father to the docks, but usually she sketched the waterfront scenes before her, rather than get underfoot while her father conducted business. “I really don’t know. I suppose they all hold different amounts. You would have to consult my father on that matter, sir. Why?”

  She silently reprimanded herself for asking a question. It just gave him more reason to keep speaking.

  “What I’m thinking is a contract between our fathers. Your father could be the permanent shipper of the cotton and tobacco we bring in from the Carolinas.”

  Oh, heavens, would he never cease? Surely, there was no young man in all of England to compare with this bore. If all Americans proved to be so loutish, she would never step foot on American soil again—not that she would meet any more Americans with the way things were progressing.

  “Tobacco is a cash crop….The leaves are dried….”

  She was only hearing snatches of what he was saying as she slowly looked about the room, quickly spotting her father on the dance floor with Mrs. Perkins. She wished she had not told her mother that she would die of embarrassment if her father made her dance with him, for now she would welcome it.

  Her eyes left the dance floor and quickly fixed on her mother who was chatting with Harriet Kincaid, tonight’s hostess. It did not surprise Andrea at all to find her mother was not dancing, despite her natural ability and grace. At five feet, ten inches tall, her mother preferred not to risk being asked to dance with a partner who was of shorter stature so she would not dance at all.

  ~*~

  Lillian James felt eyes upon her. She looked up and caught her daughter’s gaze. She could not believe that stunning young woman across the dance floor was her little Andrea. With her hair pinned up and a touch of cosmetics, she certainly looked grown up. She would have never let her pin her golden hair up in such a cosmopolitan coiffure at home, but honestly, these Americans did not count as far as Lillian was concerned. They would be impressed by the girl’s sophistication and ability to carry off that level of maturity. When she looked across the room at her daughter, she wished Andrea were not so attractive. Even with her willowy body not fully developed, there was no doubt she would have to keep a very close watch on her or she would have no hope of an advantageous marriage. With her beauty, carriage and dowry, there was no reason why she could not marry a man with a superior title. No second or third sons of a baronet would suffice for her.

  Every day, Andrea was being molded a little more into the perfect candidate for a wife. Miss Whitecott had made sure of that. The girl already knew more about running a household than Lillian. She could plan a dinner party with almost no notice, right down to a formula to order the proper amount of food with minimal waste. Moreover, she could embroider as well as anyone. Unfortunately, Andrea bore a strange affinity for sewing that Lillian found common. Ho
wever, she had to admit the girl had a talent that outshined that hoity-toity French modiste in London they frequented. In a few years, her piano playing and watercolors would be at least passable. If they were not, Lillian would double up on her lessons.

  If ever a perfect daughter existed, it was Andrea.

  Yes, everything was going along as planned.

  As Lillian’s eyes moved to the young man with Andrea, she felt the corners of her mouth involuntarily dropping. He was the same young man who asked her to dance an hour earlier. This was not at all good. When she agreed to let her daughter come to this ball, it was with the promise that she would dance no more than two dances with any man. She assumed the girl understood she was not to spend too much time in the sole company of one either. It just would not do to have her infatuated with anyone. The next thing she knew, she would be holding their hands, kissing them, then sneaking away and….

  Lillian had no qualms about hinting that the marital act was an unpleasant burden a women must endure—Eve’s painful punishment for eating the forbidden fruit. If she could keep Andrea in fear of men, she could ensure the girl would remain chaste until her wedding night. Lillian wished her mother had done the same thing for her. Maybe then, she might have gone to the marriage bed untried, instead of used by a young lordling she thought loved her. Once she gave in, he lost all interest in her, and she was left with little hope of marrying a man with a title. But Lillian had the last laugh by marrying a man who would become one of the richest men in England, if not the world.

  Lillian had few regrets about lying to her daughter for she planned to set the girl straight before she went to her marriage bed. What was a little lie when the girl could marry a marquess or an earl?

  Her focus returned to her daughter. Was she enjoying herself? Sometimes it was difficult to tell. Lillian hated to admit that the girl was a much better actress than she ever was. Andrea could smile pleasantly through the vilest insults, and never let it show that it had cut her to the bone until she was safely ensconced in her bedroom and her maid dismissed. It would not surprise Lillian to know she was covering up her true feelings at this very moment.

  “Mrs. James, is something wrong?”

  “I’m sorry for my lack of attention. It’s just that my daughter has been with that same young man for so long. She really doesn’t know she should be circulating all evening. I’m afraid he must be too polite to abandon her,” Lillian said, feeling that it was only polite to cast blame for any social blunder on her daughter. “Mrs. Kincaid, do you think your son would mind overmuch asking her to dance and then delivering her to me? I would just go over there and get her, but she would never forgive me for embarrassing her. You know how girls her age are.”

  Mrs. Kincaid turned her attention in the same direction as the Englishwoman. “Oh, the O’Shea boy,” she said under her breath. “It’s more likely your daughter is in need of rescue from him.”

  “Oh, heavens!” Lillian said, thinking the worst as she always did when it involved Andrea—not that her budding beauty was her fault, but sometimes she wished she could send the girl off to a convent.

  Harriet Kincaid laughed lightly at the look on Lillian’s concerned face. “I’m afraid I’ve been unclear. Your daughter is in no danger from him, although her opinion of Americans is no doubt dropping with every second she stays.”

  “Miles,” Harriet said, grabbing the arm of a man walking past. “Have you seen Timothy?”

  “I believe he stepped into the garden to get fresh air.”

  “With Lisette Jordan, no doubt.”

  A wide smile crossed the man’s handsome face. “Yes, I believe I did see her with him. Shall I go fetch him for you?”

  Harriet Kincaid glanced uncomfortably at Lillian, then back at the dark-headed man. “I-I’m afraid, Miles, we’re in a bit of a quandary. I thought I’d ask Timothy to rescue the James’s daughter from your cousin.” Her voice dropped to hushed tones. “But I believe Timothy is going to ask Lisette to marry him.”

  “She’s Sebastian James’s daughter? I have been wondering who she was. Would you like for me to steal her away?”

  Lillian James looked across to her daughter and saw a young man drawing closer, his eyes on Andrea. “Perhaps it won’t be necessary.”

  All attention casually turned towards the couple standing some twenty yards away. They watched as the young man approached, and young Mr. O’Shea discourteously put the man off by stepping between him and Andrea. For a moment, the man stared blankly at the back of Andrea’s companion, obviously thunderstruck by the redhead’s rudeness.

  “Johnny,” the younger man said. “Take this and get the young lady another glass.” He took the empty glass and handed it to Johnny who strode away angrily.

  ~*~

  Miles was only vaguely aware of anything besides the beautiful young woman across the dance floor from him. He saw the look of relief in her eyes when Johnny Booth approached, and thought he saw a momentary flash of anger as his cousin stepped between them. But as quickly as the look appeared, it vanished, and she seemed quite placid as she stood there.

  For a moment, he could not believe what he saw. He thought Johnny had more backbone than that, but then he remembered reading in one of his stepfather’s letters, that Johnny had recently started working at one of the O’Shea’s warehouses.

  The young woman was the real puzzle though. She looked more than content to stay with him. Could she possibly enjoy his young cousin’s company? He dismissed the possibility immediately, knowing he lacked the maturity and social skills it took to command a young woman’s attention. Perhaps she had been flattered that he would be possessive of her. If that would impress her, she was definitely in need of rescuing as Mrs. Kincaid suggested.

  “I’ll see to it that he doesn’t bother her anymore this evening,” he said, and started across the dance floor.

  “Miles, return her to us when you’re finished with your dance. We’ll see to the rest.”

  Miles dodged a few dancers on his path to his quest. She was beautiful! Had he ever seen eyes so pale a shade of blue before? They were like melting ice on water. A darker ring of blue showed around the outer part, almost as if her dark thick lashes reflected a ring of color around her iris. And her mouth; did any lips have a right to be so pink and full, so ripe and kissable? Christ, he wanted to take her into his arms and ravage her mouth. He nearly stopped in his tracks as her lips parted, and white teeth flashed at his cousin. Miles wondered if she would ever smile at him like that, and felt strangely angry with his cousin.

  ~*~

  Andrea looked out over the dancers, wishing to be out there with them, when she saw the man crossing with purpose to their side of the room. His black frock coat barely contained his wide shoulders, she thought off-handedly. His black hair, although trimmed to his collar lifted slightly from the wake of his purposeful strides. But it was his hazel-grey eyes that captured her attention. He was the kind of man she dreamed of dancing with at her first ball—a man fully grown, with a powerful build and vitality in his gait.

  It took her a moment to realize that by the way he looked at her, that he must have noticed she was staring. She blushed and tried to think of a way to make it appear she wasn’t looking at him. She feigned looking around him and waved at her mother.

  His head followed her wave and he bumped into a dancing couple as he looked behind him. He paused momentarily to apologize and Andrea dragged her eyes away.

  Feeling disloyal to the only person in the room who had paid any attention to her, Andrea forced her mind back to the young man beside her, and smiled her most brilliant smile. He was too busy talking to notice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man pause mid-step, then continue coming directly towards her companion and her.

  “Hello, cousin,” he said coolly, his eyes never quite reaching the younger man.

  “Miles, what are you doing here? I thought you were still at school.”

  “Richard wrote to tell me Sebastian J
ames was in town, so I took a few days off from my studies in hopes of getting an introduction.”

  Andrea perked up immediately at the mention of her father. Making an introduction was exactly the excuse she needed to get away from the redhead.

  Before she could speak, the toad interrupted. “If you’re looking for meet Mr. James, speak to my father, he’ll be happy to present you. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to Andrea, glancing at his cousin to do the honors. He removed a pair of white gloves from his pocket and began pulling them on.

  The man grinned devilishly at the younger male as if he took pleasure in intentionally baiting him.

  A crooked grin formed on the lips of the Irish-American. “Miss Andrea James meet Mr.—” he began.

  “Miles Huntington,” Miles finished quickly, cutting him off, and preventing him from speaking further. “Would you care to dance, Miss James?” Miles extended his hand to her.

  ~*~

  Was it his imagination or did she grab his hand and step away from his cousin before the question was out of his mouth? What had he said or done to make her be in such a hurry to get away from him? The dance floor was a mere two paces away but Miles turned and cast a speculative glance backwards at the young man. In the process, he collided with Andrea who had already turned to face him in preparation for the waltz being played by the musicians.

  He heard her gasp and reached out automatically to steady her, damning himself for his carelessness.

  “I beg your pardon,” the young woman said, before he could offer up his own apologies. “At home, dancers start at the edge of the dance floor and work their way in.”

  Her eyes were wide, her posture rigidly poised, accentuating her long slender neck. Her hand pressed into her upper chest as if trying to catch her breath. Was she giving him a subtle setting-down or was she genuinely apologizing for the contact?