“She is doing you a great favor.”
“By contradicting every decision I make?” He saw her jaw tense and realized she was very close to losing her self-imposed air of tranquility. Something in him wanted to see her crack. Once, Miranda had been full of life and energy, not this shell of humanity that had drifted through the house the past few days. He’d rather see her angry than emotionally dead.
“She is a viscountess,” Carter said.
“And who am I, Carter?” She looked up at him then, and Carter was taken aback by the hurt he saw in her eyes. “Aren’t I a viscountess as well?”
He knew his mistake then. He had, without realizing it, given his mother precedence over his wife. And not just in that moment. He’d been doing so ever since Mother’s arrival.
The guilt didn’t sit well—not when he was determined to show Miranda that her defection hadn’t injured him. She had made the mistake. She had walked out. This would not be made his fault.
Mother had earned the respect due her rank. Miranda may have had claim to the title, but she hadn’t acted as a true viscountess.
“A viscountess knows her duty, Miranda,” Carter said tightly. “Something you never have.”
Miranda’s face paled, but it wasn’t as satisfactory a sight as he would have thought. It certainly didn’t assuage the twinge of guilt he’d been fighting.
“The picnic will be at teatime as scheduled,” Carter pressed, determined not to lose control of the situation. That had been his place of safety since Miranda had left. He’d always kept tight control.
“Then I will not be there,” Miranda said.
“You will,” Carter snapped. “If you want to claim your rank, Miranda, then you will have to at least pretend you are suited to it.”
The silence in the room was heavy and palpable. Carter watched as his words sank in and found himself almost immediately regretting the harshness he’d employed. That hint of life he’d seen in her eyes before was gone entirely, as if she’d died a little inside.
“I am sorry, Carter,” she little more than whispered. “I will try harder.”
In an instant, they were back to tense discomfort. Just as he’d told Hartley, the slightest foray into the arena of their past inevitably led to this. Carter knew he hadn’t helped the situation, but that seemed the way of it. There was too much anger and pain.
“You should check with Cook to be sure preparations are well underway,” Mother suggested.
Miranda nodded her head and left the room silently.
With almost unfathomable force, a memory surfaced in Carter’s whirling mind. They’d been married less than two months the day they’d had their first argument. They were to attend the local assembly in the town nearest their home in Wiltshire. But Miranda wished to remain at home.
They went back and forth all afternoon and into the early evening. He finally emerged victorious in their battle of wills.
“You are Lady Gibbons now,” he said. “With that title comes certain expectations.”
He hadn’t understood then why that argument had carried the point, what it was about those words that had convinced her. He still didn’t. While she’d agreed to go, he remembered she’d looked very much as she had just moments earlier: resigned, beaten, defeated.
He hadn’t liked it then. He didn’t like it now.
“Miranda!” he called after her, not stopping to bid Mother farewell. Carter moved quickly into the hall. Miranda was gone already.
Be kind, Mr. Benton had asked of him. Carter had the lowering suspicion he was failing in that promise.
* * *
The Duchess of Hartley had been the guest fortunate enough to find the gold sovereign in her slice of Twelfth Night cake, and, therefore, the remaining guests were at the disposal of a Queen for the Night whose sole intent as sovereign was to entertain her almost two-year-old daughter, Lady Liliana. Lord Percival Farr, it seemed, had been specifically selected to carry out the royal declarations.
“I see Liliana still has Perce tightly wound around her finger,” Carter commented to Hartley under his breath as their friend agreed to his queen’s edict that he act as her parrot—literally.
Lord Percival’s wing flapping and squawk-filled chatter had the ladies in a very unladylike state of hysterics. Except for his mother, who watched with a very proper smile. Carter had never seen his mother act in a way that might be termed anything but genteel.
Liliana, always a favorite of Carter’s, sat quite contentedly on Miranda’s lap, clapping her tiny hands and squealing in delight. Miranda’s arms were wrapped around the child as she leaned forward whispering in her ear. Miranda’s eyes, Carter noted, were laughing. He couldn’t look away. Here was a glimpse of the Miranda who’d stolen his heart so many years earlier. He knew from sad experience that she had changed, but to see those beautiful eyes filled with laughter touched a part of him he’d thought long dead.
“I would say Liliana has added your wife to her list of conquests.” The duke watched his daughter with amusement. “Liliana will begin demanding her presence in the nursery before much longer.”
A wave of guilt swept over Carter in that instant. He’d told Miranda he would ask Hartley and Adèle if she could hold little Henry. They’d been at Clifton Manor for four days, and he hadn’t even recalled that promise until now.
“I know that look,” Hartley said under his breath, amusement obvious in his tone. “What complaint have you just discovered your wife is entitled to lodge against you?”
“I doubt your wife has many reasons to complain, Hartley.” Carter couldn’t think of many marriages as obviously happy as his good friends’.
His grace laughed. “There isn’t a wife in all the world who doesn’t have a list of legitimate complaints against her husband.”
“And vice versa?” Carter asked dryly.
“It has been my experience that the balance weighs heavily against us.” Hartley smiled. “So what have you added to your list?”
“I forgot to do something I told her I would do.”
“Ah.” Hartley nodded sagely. “The first item on any husband’s list.”
Carter appreciated the attempt at lightness. Miranda smiled still, playing with Liliana and fully participating in the antics enacted for the child’s benefit. She looked more alive than Carter had seen her yet. The closest she’d come before was the short visit they’d made to the Miltons’ and the time she’d spent with little George.
Her past behavior hurt—more than he’d ever admitted to anyone. And it baffled him. He’d thought he was a good husband. And he’d loved her to distraction. He still loved her in some small way.
“It seems there is more bothering you than a forgotten promise.” Hartley pulled Carter a little farther from the group. “Do we need to take a quick jaunt to the book room so you can make more confessions?”
Carter shook his head adamantly. “I have made all the admissions I intend to make.”
“I would wager you still aren’t sure what to think of Lady Devereaux.” Hartley nodded as though he knew his guess was correct, but he gave Carter a look that was clearly meant to encourage him to talk about it.
His reserve wasn’t so easily pierced. And it seemed Hartley’s patience wasn’t easily spent.
“At the very least,” Hartley said, “she is maintaining the peace at this party. Some women would take advantage of a captive audience to air all their grievances.”
That was true enough. “Miranda never was petty. At least that much didn’t change.”
Hartley’s gaze grew more thoughtful. “That is a fairly fundamental thing and an encouraging one, I would think. Perhaps you have reason to hope she isn’t the coldhearted villainess you’ve been imagining.”
“A valiant effort, my friend,” Carter said. “But as I said already, I’m not making more confessions.” Especially when he wasn’t entirely sure what he thought of Miranda. She was quieter, paler, and frustratingly unshakable. She seemed no happier about
being thrust into his company than he was about being thrust into hers. She might not be the terrible person he feared she’d become, but neither was she the loving wife he’d married.
“Let me offer some unsolicited advice,” Hartley said, smiling a little self-deprecatingly. “I have found, in the short time I’ve been married, that no matter how wrong I think Adèle is or how right I am, if she is unhappy, so am I. And seeing her smile at me is worth far more than winning an argument.”
Seeing her smile at me. If he closed his eyes, Carter was certain he could picture Miranda smiling at him the way she used to. He’d turned to jelly at the sight of that smile.
But theirs was no simple argument. They hadn’t quarreled over a small difference of opinion or something inconsequential. Years of silence and bitterness sat between them. Years. That was not a chasm that could be crossed in a single bound. He had to find his footing where he was before taking that leap.
“Allons-y.” The duchess spoke softly to Hartley, approaching with little Liliana walking half asleep at her side. “Your daughter is nearly asleep.”
“Come here, little one.” Hartley picked up his daughter, smoothing her ebony curls. The girl’s head laid instantly on her father’s shoulder. “Say good night.”
“Bonne nuit, Lord Debby.”
Carter recognized the nickname. Liliana spoke flawless French but couldn’t pronounce “Devereaux.” Carter had always appreciated the irony of that. “Bonne nuit, Little Lili.”
The family turned to take their child to the nursery.
“Adèle,” Carter said after only a fraction of a moment.
The duchess turned back to him.
“Could I beg a favor?”
“Of course,” she replied. Hartley stood beside her, stroking his daughter’s back and watching with amusement.
“Miranda asked me to seek permission from you to visit your children in the nursery,” Carter said. “She would have spoken herself, but—”
“She is timid,” Adèle offered the explanation. “Of course she may visit. Tell her that mornings are best—they are least likely to be napping.”
“Thank you,” Carter said. “She has been hoping for a chance to spend time with them.”
“And time away from her mother-in-law, je crois.”
“Her mother-in-law?”
“No woman likes being made to look incompetent, especially in her own home.”
Hartley’s expression was apologetic but still communicated complete agreement with his wife’s assessment. Adèle continued up the stairs with her husband and daughter at her side, leaving Carter to wonder about what they’d said.
Mother had on occasion offered Miranda advice or, as needed, gentle correction. But she’d always done so away from the guests. Yet, Hartley and Adèle both hinted at Mother addressing Miranda’s mistakes.
Has Miranda been complaining, demonizing her mother-in-law? Carter didn’t want to believe it. The Miranda he’d once known never would have. But, then, he hardly knew what to think of the woman she was now.
Chapter Eight
“YOU ARE CERTAIN THE DUCHESS said I could?” Miranda asked one more time as she and Carter approached the nursery the morning after Twelfth Night.
“Positive,” Carter replied. “She specifically suggested you come in the morning so the children wouldn’t be sleeping.”
“Did she warn the nursemaid?” Miranda reminded herself not to get her hopes up. There was every possibility this wouldn’t work out. She’d been disappointed too many times before to look on anything with absolute certainty, especially where Carter was concerned.
“That I couldn’t tell you,” Carter said with a shrug.
“But you’ll come up with me? Just to explain?” She hated the pleading she heard in her voice, but uncertainty was difficult for her. There were so many unfamiliar people in her house just then—people she was supposed to be impressing with her perfectly ladylike behavior. She was living in a state of constant upheaval.
Grandfather hadn’t been much help. While he had approved of Carter when they were first married, Grandfather had never cared for Carter’s mother. “Makes a person feel guilty for breathing,” Grandfather had once said of the Dowager Lady Devereaux back before she was the Dowager. While Grandfather had not been openly hostile since the arrival of Miranda’s mother-in-law, he had been conspicuously silent when in her company, which he seldom was.
“I am rather fond of those two pocket peas,” Carter said. “It would be a shame if they weren’t able to meet you.”
It was, quite possibly, the nicest thing Carter had said to her since his arrival. Miranda felt the beginnings of a smile tug at her lips.
“I would be pleased to make the proper introductions, Lady Devereaux,” Carter said, assuming the air of a top-lofty London gentleman. Miranda was hard-pressed not to laugh. He used to posture like that until she would be forced to hold her sides for laughing so hard.
“’Twould be an honor, Lord Devereaux.” The beginnings of a giggle ruined Miranda’s attempt to match his tone.
Carter offered her his arm, which she took. She had forgotten how that felt, walking with her arm through his, her hand resting on his sleeve. With Grandfather, the gesture was supportive and kind. But with Carter, it had always been something more; it had made her feel treasured and loved and special. A hint of those same feelings tingled through her in that moment. She quickly dismissed them, unwilling to open herself up to more disappointment.
They walked into the nursery, and Miranda’s eyes instantly searched out the children. Liliana found them first.
“Lord Debby!” came the shout from a voice Miranda knew well. A flash of black curls rushed past her and collided with Carter.
“Hello there, Little Lili.” Carter laughed, spinning the girl around in his arms. “And how are you this lovely morning?”
Liliana held up two chubby fingers. “J’ai deux ans.”
Miranda chuckled softly. What a darling she was!
“And how old is Lord Debby?” Carter laughed, his arms crossed behind Liliana, holding her up so they were eye to eye.
“I doubt there are that many fingers in the entire room, Carter,” Miranda replied with a feigned look of innocence.
Carter could hardly have looked more shocked. For a moment, Miranda thought he was upset. But then his lips began to twitch and his eyes began to dance. Miranda bit down on her lip to keep back an answering smile, though she felt the heat rising in her face. She wasn’t entirely ready to laugh with this man who had shattered her heart.
Carter turned the girl in his arms enough for her to face Miranda. Carter addressed Miranda with all the deference he would have afforded a duchess. “Miranda, I believe you have met Lady Liliana Benick. Lady Liliana, I am certain you remember Lady Devereaux.”
“Bonjour, Lady Debby.”
Miranda had noticed Liliana’s frequent use of French the night before, no doubt a legacy from her French mother. Miranda curtsied. “Bonjour, Lady Liliana.”
“And that pea pod”—Carter nodded toward just behind Miranda—“is young Lord Mowbray, though Liliana and I call him Henry.”
Miranda spun around. A plump, middle-aged nursemaid held the infant marquis in her arms. Miranda stepped closer, mesmerized. He had a head of night-black hair no thicker than peach fuzz, a tiny upturned nose, and a rosy pink complexion.
“May I hold him?” Miranda was anxious to take the child in her arms.
“Bien sûr, Lady Devereaux.” The nursemaid laid the tiny bundle in Miranda’s arms and curtsied as she stepped away.
Miranda gently ran her fingers through his fine baby hair. She held the infant close to her face, breathing in the clean, fresh smell of him. Miranda walked to the windows of the nursery, where the soft winter light illuminated the baby’s face.
“Beautiful,” Miranda whispered as she kissed him. “Such a beautiful boy.”
She cuddled the tiny Lord Mowbray as she watched Carter “meet” each of Liliana
’s dolls. She’d dreamed of this once upon a time, of holding an infant in her arms while watching Carter with their children. Those children would have had dark hair like his, perhaps his green eyes as well. She’d pictured it so many times.
Carter continued to entertain Liliana. Miranda remained near the window, rocking her bundle in her arms and humming a lullaby she’d known all her life. The tiny child dozed, and Miranda watched contentedly.
After a while, the baby began to squirm. Miranda offered her index finger for little Lord Mowbray’s inspection. She was always amazed at the strength of an infant’s grip, an almost desperate need to cling to whatever lifeline was extended. She understood that need, that desperation.
“Have you been practicing your aristocratic airs?” Miranda asked, stroking his soft cheek.
A baby gurgle was the reply.
“Very good. I see you have already acquired a dignified accent.”
Then Lord Mowbray smiled—a toothless, lopsided smile that stole her heart in an instant.
“If you continue to flirt so shamelessly with my wife, Lord Mowbray, I shall be forced to call you out.” Carter spoke from directly behind her, looking over her shoulder at the baby in her arms. He stood so close his breath tickled her ear. She could smell his shaving soap—that, at least, hadn’t changed in three years.
“Is he not absolutely precious?” Miranda rubbed her fingers around the fuzzy baby head.
“A perfect little pea pod.” Carter gently tapped Lord Mowbray’s nose. “I am his godfather, you know.”
“Are you?” Miranda turned her head to look at him at the same moment he turned to look at her. They were face-to-face, a mere few inches apart, each breath mingling in the scant air that separated them.
“I am,” Carter said in an oddly distracted way.
“How fortunate,” Miranda quietly answered.
A quirky, uneven smile lit Carter’s face. “Fortunate for me or for Henry?” he asked, his amusement spreading to his voice.
“For you, of course.” Miranda felt a surge of unaccustomed playfulness. “He may prove a good influence, you know.”
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