by Gayle Buck
Miranda was immediately disgusted with herself. “How cowardly, when I have always prided myself on a resolute character,” she said. She would not flee Willowswood, she thought. Instead, she would remain to face her growing attraction for Viscount Wythe and discover whether he held any genuine matching regard for her.
* * *
Chapter 15
Dressing in a comfortable stuff gown, Miranda rebraided her nearly dry hair and pinned it at the back of her head. She returned to Robert’s bedroom to find that Anne had already left. Lord Townsend and the doctor were in consultation beside the bed. They looked around at her entrance.
“Ah, Miss Wainwright! It is a pleasure to renew our acquaintance,” said the doctor jovially, coming forward to take her hand.
Miranda was surprised by the effusiveness of his greeting. She suddenly recalled Lord Townsend’s observation that the doctor admired her. She glanced at the viscount and saw that his lordship was looking somewhat amused. She knew that he was enjoying himself at her expense. “Why, thank you, sir. I assume that you have been examining our patient,” she said quietly, withdrawing her hand from the doctor’s grasp.
The physician nodded. “I was just telling his lordship that between the lot of you, you have done an excellent job. I was particularly interested in the knitbone poultice. I have seen such rarely in the past few years, but that old remedy is naturally as effective as ever. I was informed that it was you, Miss Wainwright, who thought of it.” He looked at her from behind his spectacles with approval.
Miranda inclined her head. “I hope that I may assume that Robert is on the mend.”
The physician pushed out his lower lip in a thoughtful expression. “As to that, I do not like the infection that has set in. The boy would be far better off without it, but we must deal with what we find. I have told his lordship that is my main concern. I have left an antiseptic powder for the wound and I recommend the continued use of the knitbone. Also, I should like the boy dosed with garlic water at regular intervals to guard against blood poisoning. Sweeten it with a bit of honey if he objects too strongly to the taste.”
Miranda and the doctor had come up to the bedside as they talked. Miranda looked down at the sleeping boy. She bent to lay her hand on Robert’s pale brow. “He still has a fever,” she said softly.
“Aye. That will be from the infection. The boy’s temperature must be kept down as low as possible. I predict a crisis point will be reached in the next several hours. Then we will know if blood poisoning has set in or not,” said the doctor.
“Mrs. Crumpet has given the boy a tea for the fever,” said Lord Townsend.
Miranda answered the quizzical question in the doctor’s eyes. “Catnip tea with a good amount of peppermint and chamomile,” she said quietly.
The doctor nodded. “Another good remedy, though perhaps in this case it will not be as efficacious as one could hope. I suspect the infection will give the boy a strong fight. Nevertheless, the tea will help to make him less restless.”
“Is there anything more that we can do for my nephew?” asked Lord Townsend.
The doctor shook his head. He reached for his bag and closed it. “At this point we can only wait, my lord. I shall return in the morning to see how he is getting on.”
The viscount offered his hand to the doctor. “I thank you for your efforts on my nephew’s behalf, doctor.”
“No trouble at all, my lord. No, no, do not exert yourself. After my several visits to Mrs. Townsend, I know my way out. Miss Claridge was a regular patient of mine, too, you know. Though I think that she liked the attention more than she actually heeded my medical advice,” said the doctor with a laugh. He left the bedroom.
Lord Townsend looked at Miranda. “I must apologize, Miss Wainwright.”
Miranda was bewildered. “Whatever for, my lord?”
“I recall quite distinctly accusing you of practicing quackery,” said Lord Townsend. “I have been firmly set in my place for my ignorance.”
Miranda chuckled. “Anyone who has not been exposed to herbs and their uses would certainly say the same, my lord. But it must be remembered that many of the powders and tonics prescribed by our doctors have come directly from such origins.”
“I perceive that my education is strongly lacking in useful knowledge. Perhaps you will enlighten me in the days to come,” said Lord Townsend with a grin, his eyes warm and friendly.
Miranda felt her heart turn over. The intimacy of his gaze struck at her defenses too soon after discovering her own heart’s treachery. She could hardly bear his close proximity. Her senses tingled with sudden awareness of his maleness. With an effort she managed to speak with a teasing note in her voice. “Certainly, my lord. But it is said that one cannot teach an old dog new tricks.”
“We shall see, Miss Wainwright. I should like to find out, in any event. Come, we must not delay dinner any further. Crumpet informed me some minutes ago that he would be serving a late supper within the quarter-hour,” said Lord Townsend, taking Miranda’s arm.
She glanced back at Robert. “But should someone not sit with him?”
“Robert is sleeping peacefully at the moment and Anne will return shortly. She went down to the dining room at the insistence of her maid, whom I perceive to be a woman of sterling quality and inflexible will. Anne consented to leave once she learned that her son was in no immediate danger. However, she announced that she means to sit with Robert tonight,” said Lord Townsend. He drew Miranda out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the stairs.
“But Anne is still so easily fatigued,” said Miranda.
The viscount shrugged. “My sister-in-law has steel hidden somewhere within that fragile exterior. I suspect that when it comes to the welfare of her husband and son, Anne’s determination to do as she thinks best will overcome all our objections.”
Miranda made no further objections, certain that the viscount’s analysis of her cousin was correct. Anne would certainly do all in her power to protect those she so passionately loved. But Miranda decided privately that she would relieve her in the early morning hours. Her cousin did not need to run herself into the ground and invite a recurrence of her recent illness.
As it turned out, Robert’s fight with the insidious infection lasted three full days. The doctor came frequently and his opinion was more guarded than his first assurances had been. It was obvious the feared blood poisoning had set in and that the boy’s chance of recovery was uncertain. Miranda was infuriated by the resignation she sensed in the physician and she labored over Robert with all her energy and skill. She stayed with him more than anyone else so that she was immediately available to soothe his restlessness and treat his raging fever as best she knew how.
Anne, too, remained long hours at her son’s bedside, defying any attempts to persuade her to rest. She became increasingly hollow-eyed and the cough that had continued to plague her became worse. When it became glaringly obvious that she was endangering her health, Lord Townsend forcibly removed her from the sickroom and placed her in the stern care of her devoted maid. Anne protested, but she had grown so weak that even she had to accept the necessity of bed rest. The doctor shook his head over her folly, saying that she had indeed incurred a relapse of the pneumonia. He told her that if she wanted to recover quickly, she had best leave Robert’s nursing to those with stronger constitutions. Anne had broken down in tears, but she promised to follow the doctor’s orders. She sent Grace almost hourly for a report on her son’s progress, until Miranda with gentle firmness let her cousin know that she was only succeeding in irritating everyone involved in Robert’s care. Miranda pledged herself to let Anne know the very moment something happened and Anne had to be content with that.
The crisis point that the doctor had predicted earlier came at last. Robert lay listless, no longer thrashing about as he had been doing while in the worst throes of the fever. Miranda recognized the signs and steeled herself for the battle ahead. Lord Townsend, who had insisted on taking his tu
rns in the sickroom, had left but a short hour before and Miranda knew that it would be some time before she could expect Constance to relieve her. “It is only you and I, Robert. Fight hard, little one,” she said softly, her hand automatically seeking the boy’s brow. It was burning to the touch. Miranda took a fresh wet cloth from out of the basin sitting beside the bed and began to bathe Robert’s hot skin. She pulled the bell rope for Mrs. Crumpet to bring more cold water when the basin of water she was using grew tepid.
It was hours later when Miranda straightened from her post beside the bed. She brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen out of its pin and smiled wearily as she looked down at the boy’s peaceful face. The fever had at last broken. Robert’s brow felt cool to the touch for the first time in days. Even as she watched, the marked flush in his cheeks began to slowly fade.
The bedroom door opened and Constance quietly entered. “How is he, Miss Miranda?” she asked softly as she neared the bed.
“The fever broke but moments ago. He ought to sleep peacefully now,” said Miranda, exhaustion hoarsening her voice.
“Praise be to God. I have felt that sorry for the little rascal. I shan’t mind his wild moments half as much now,” said Constance gruffly.
“Only give Robert time to recover and I warrant you shall change your tune, Constance! Anne sent Grace in some hours ago to extract a promise from me that I would wake her if there was any change. But I think that the news can wait until the morning. My cousin needs as much sleep as she can get,” said Miranda, unable to stifle a wide yawn. She stretched her back until it popped.
“And so do you, Miss Miranda. You’ve been at it longer than any of us. Take yourself off to bed now. I shall stay with the boy for the remainder of the night,” said Constance.
Miranda smiled her gratitude and nodded. She left the room, softly closing the door behind her, and walked down the hall toward her bedroom. There was a shaft of light across the hallway carpet and Miranda paused.
The door to the viscount’s sitting room stood half open. Miranda could see him inside sitting before the fire. He obviously waited to hear news of his nephew and Miranda’s heart was touched. Miranda softly pushed the door wider and walked in. Lord Townsend, staring at nothing, did not look around at hearing the rustle of her gown. Miranda halted beside his chair, made uneasy by his continued silence. She touched his shoulder. “My lord? My lord, Robert’s fever has broken at last. He will recover.”
The viscount’s hand came up swiftly to catch her fingers. Miranda winced at his painful grip but she did not withdraw from it. She searched his hard, immobile profile. “Did you hear, my lord? Robert is on the mend.”
Lord Townsend moved and for the first time she saw the letter clenched in his far hand. His voice was strangely flat. “Crumpet handed me the day’s post at dinner. A friend with the army has written me. The boy’s father has been killed.”
Miranda was stunned. Her mind buckled at the enormity of his statement. “B-but the London Gazette said nothing. The name Richard Townsend was not listed. It cannot be for certain!”
Suddenly he towered over her. The letter fluttered to the carpet. His fingers flexed through the stuff of her gown to bruise her soft shoulders. Menace blazed in his dark eyes. “Can you not find suitable words, ma’am? The lady who prides herself on her quick wit! Is there nothing that you can utter to bring a laugh to this horror?” Miranda stared up at him, shocked. Her eyes dilated at the pallor and suppressed violence about his mouth. Then as abruptly as his anger had come on him, his face altered and the furious light in his eyes went out. “Forgive me, I had no right to blaze up at you. But my brother!” His voice cracked suddenly. “Miranda…” His eyes squeezed shut against the tears that suddenly washed his ravaged face. A tortured sob tore from his chest.
Miranda was appalled at the intensity and suddenness of his grief. Instinctively, she put her arms around him. He buried his face in her hair. His hands slid down her back to hold her tight against him as though he was in dire need of an anchor. She felt the shudders that shook him as he fought against his grief. With her cheek pressed against the hollow of his shoulder, Miranda closed her eyes. “Oh Andrew,” she whispered. “My poor Andrew.” She tightened her arms about his rigid frame. They stood unmoving clasped in one another’s arms for what seemed an eternity of feeling.
At last Miranda felt him straighten, though his arms did not fall from around her. She lifted her head and her eyes met his pain-darkened gaze. “Andrew,” she murmured softly. She reached up to smooth the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. His expression altered and Miranda’s heart suddenly thudded. She stared up into his unfathomable eyes.
Slowly he lowered his head and found her lips in a tentative, questioning kiss that left Miranda utterly shattered. She was barely conscious of it when the circle of his arms tightened. With his lips he traced her closed eyes and the smooth skin of her temple, before he fastened again on her lips. The pressure of his mouth became compelling, desperate.
Miranda’s lips parted under the force of his and she tasted the salty traces of his tears. An inarticulate sound broke from her. A tidal wave of long-damned need flooded her, its wake leaving her spent, with all her inner barriers down. She clung to Andrew and arched hungrily into his kiss. He responded with fervent passion.
Shocks of emotion exploded through her nerves. She felt his hard frame against hers, his maddening, exploring lips, his hands caressing her body to fire wherever they roamed. Abruptly, Jeremy’s parting words to her flitted through her mind: “Miranda, think before you leap!”
Suddenly, horrifyingly aware of what she was doing, Miranda wrenched herself free of the viscount’s embrace. She backed away, staring at him from huge eyes.
“Miranda!” exclaimed Lord Townsend softly. He took a quick step toward her, one hand outstretched.
With a sob, Miranda whirled and fled from the room.
* * * *
The following morning Lord Townsend was in the breakfast room before her. Miranda hesitated in the doorway at sight of him, but when he turned his eyes toward her an innate pride would not allow her to retreat. The viscount rose at her entrance and in his usual manner held her chair for her. With a swift-beating heart, Miranda took her customary place at the table. “Thank you, my lord,” she said hoarsely through the constriction in her throat.
Lord Townsend bowed and reseated himself. There was no attempt on either of their parts to strike up their usual friendly, teasing conversation. Miranda knew that the viscount glanced her way several times as though he was on the point of speaking, but she studiously avoided his gaze. She dreaded what he might say. Her fast behavior must have given him a totally false impression of her character. A gentleman of Lord Townsend’s sophistication could well assume that she was as worldly as himself. She was inordinately grateful that Crumpet came into the dining room twice to remove serving dishes, his presence being a deterrent to any private speech. It occurred to her of a sudden that she was fortunate the household staff was still so inadequate or otherwise her headlong flight from Lord Townsend’s apartment last night would not have gone unobserved. She could just imagine the knowing and curious looks from the servants, who might well have assumed she had become Lord Townsend’s mistress.
The thought left Miranda with little appetite. She was able to finish only a biscuit and even that threatened to choke her. She rose as soon as it was polite to do so and made for the door.
Lord Townsend was before her, his hand falling gentle on her arm. “Miss Wainwright, I must speak with you.”
“There is no need, my lord,” said Miranda, forcing herself to speak with calm. After a single fleeting glance up at his face, she could not raise her eyes again to meet his gaze. To her mind, she was sunk beyond reproach. At that moment Miranda would have given anything to have been able to reclaim this particular gentleman’s respect.
When he touched her arm, Lord Townsend had seen the color drain from her face to leave her cheeks white. He wa
s surprised by her intense reaction. It made his apology all the more necessary. He lowered his voice. “I believe there is, Miranda. What happened between us—”
With horrible, dreadful certainty she knew that he meant to propose an illicit affaire d’amour.
“Oh, pray do not!”
Pressing the back of one hand tightly against her mouth, Miranda rushed from the dining room.
The butler was preparing to enter the room to clear the dishes away. He stared after Miss Wainwright’s precipitate flight with open mouth. He turned his head to look at the viscount. “My lord? Is there aught amiss?”
“Amiss?” Lord Townsend gave a savage laugh and strode out of the room. The butler shook his head over the vagaries of the Quality as he went about his task.
Lord Townsend’s first thought was to pursue Miranda and force a confrontation between them. But by the time he reached the stairs his better sense prevailed. Instead of following Miranda upstairs he turned on his heel and strode out the front door. The early morning air was light and cool and he sucked in deep breaths as he walked. He had recognized the look of mistrust and fear in Miranda’s eyes. She was understandably distraught, he thought. He blamed himself for what had taken place the night before. He had taken unpardonable liberties. His only excuse was that he had been beside himself with grief and had not known what he was doing.
