An idea came to him, one that might cheer her up slightly, and possibly keep her too busy to feel neglected. “We’ll find you an experienced maid immediately — in London.”
Her eyes widened. “London? Oh no, Simon, that will be too tiring for you. I’d rather we stayed here where it is peacefully quiet and — “
Damn these lies. “Nonsense. A young woman needs laughter and dancing.” He saw that she intended to argue, so he continued. “And I need to show off my beautiful bride. How can I do that if I don’t find an experienced lady’s maid to make sure that all the young bucks are green with jealousy?”
She smiled at him, suddenly nervous. Her eyes did not meet his as she confessed, “You needn’t bother about the lady’s maid. I hired one before the wedding. She should be arriving soon.”
He was surprised. Though, of course, since he was dealing with Miranda, he should not have been. “When?”
“I should have told you. I’m sorry. But it’s done now. She’s very experienced.” Miranda smiled and stood, coming up on tiptoes to press her lips to his cheek. “Now let’s go meet that heir of yours — and see if your mother has taken herself off as promised.”
The reminder of his mother stopped him from giving in to his impulse to pull her into his arms. He followed her, drinking in the scent of vanilla that seemed always to surround her.
Briefly, he wondered what kind of a woman she might have found in the vicinity of Anderlin who would have experience at being a lady’s maid. No doubt one who was supremely incompetent but in dire need of a job.
He sighed. Perhaps it would not be wise to bring her to London just yet. A few weeks spent to acquaint her with the reticence of a proper duchess might prevent another scandal. He knew he should be applying himself diligently to molding her into a proper wife, one who realized that fairy tales were for children. Yet he did not want to spoil the magical spell she had woven over his life and his home with the discord that was sure to result.
She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to him. “Have you done with the idea of taking me to London, Simon?”
He nodded. “If you do not wish to go, I will not press the issue.” Yet, he added silently.
She smiled at him, her eyes glowing, despite his behavior toward her last night. Was that his fate then? To take her trust in him and twist it until her eyes no longer reflected a belief in the goodness of life? “Thank you for considering my wishes, Simon. You cannot imagine what that means to me.”
It chilled him to think of her at the mercy of the wolves and rakes in London. No doubt the lot of them would scent her innocence and devour her whole, as Grimthorpe had tried five years ago. But how to bring her some worldly ways and keep that beautiful core of sweetness?
It would take weeks, perhaps months, to give her a polished shield to safeguard her. Would there be time to introduce her to London and make certain that she would be safe after he was gone? He took her arm to lead her down the stairs and the feel of her hand in the crook of his elbow was pleasure and pain in every pulse of blood through his veins.
Downstairs in the breakfast room, there was blessedly no sign of his mother. Arthur, however, was enjoying a plate of eggs and smoked sausage. He rose when Simon and Miranda entered the room. “Simon, I beg to be introduced to your lovely new bride.” He came around the table and clapped Simon on the shoulder as he beamed at Miranda.
Simon could not help reflecting that Arthur would have been just as effusive if Miranda had been four feet tall and possessed of hairy warts on her nose and chin. Arthur had always been a bit unsure of his ability to carry out the duties of an heir. Simon’s mother had sarcastically called him the “heir-reluctant.” Simon might have laughed, if it were not so patently true.
He patted Miranda’s hand briefly and then released her. “Yes. Miranda, I am pleased to present you to my cousin Arthur. Arthur, this is my bride, Miranda.”
Arthur beamed. “Welcome to the family, my dear. I have been telling Simon that what he needs is a bride and children-not a distant cousin culled from nowhere to learn to perform duties he’s not very good at to begin with.”
Miranda looked at him in puzzlement. “Culled from nowhere? Surely not.”
Arthur colored. “Of course I am a bonafide Watterly. I am just from a very distant branch of the family. We’d quite forgotten our ties to the Dukes of Kerstone until Simon reminded us, I daresay.”
And happy to have done so, Simon thought to himself as he remembered the arguments that had preceded Arthur’s agreement to be trained as Simon’s heir. It was only the fact that, as the closest male relative, he would indeed inherit the title and lands whether or not he trained for the task that convinced him to take the offer and come to learn about his future duties.
Arthur seemed also to be thinking along those lines. “Your husband is trying to mold me into a proper duke.” He smiled gently as he spoke, as if the outcome — failure — were assured.
“Come, come, Arthur. You have improved greatly in your abilities since you’ve arrived. You will make an excellent duke.”
Arthur raised a skeptical brow.
Simon continued, embellishing upon Arthur’s small strides forward in ducal behavior. “Haven’t your accidents been much more infrequent of late?”
“Accidents?” Miranda’s eyes widened with curiosity and Simon was suddenly sorry he had brought up the subject. The best thing he could do for Arthur was steer them away from this discussion before his cousin became a fresh target for her ministrations.
Arthur, aiding Simon unaware, blushed at her interest and quickly down-played his string of mishaps. “Trivial incidents, really. I just seem to be a clumsy thing.”
“I think you are much less clumsy,” Simon added, to help ease Arthur’s obvious discomfort at the discussion.
“And a duke must not be clumsy?” Arthur smiled again, refusing to take offense, or, Simon thought with chagrin, to take seriously that he would be the next Duke of Kerstone. At least, Miranda was diverted. For that he was grateful.
As they spoke there was a discreet cough from the direction of the door. Dome stood patiently.
“Yes?” Simon asked.
“A young lady and her daughter have arrived, Your Grace. The young lady claims to be a new employee?” His eyes were frosty and his back rigidly straight as he glanced at Miranda. “She claims to have been hired by Her Grace.”
Simon was outraged. “My mother has hired a servant? For my home? Send her packing at once.”
Miranda touched his arm, checking his outrage. “No. She’s my new lady’s maid.”
His sudden rage receding, Simon noted Miranda’s unease and wondered what sight would meet his eyes. “Very well, take her up to the servant’s quarters and get her settled in.”
The butler nodded, and asked, “And her daughter, Your Grace?”
“Put them in a room down the hall from me.” Miranda said.
Everyone stared at her. Dome, his reserve breached, colored slightly. “Servants, Your Grace?” His eyes fastened onto Simon in a silent plea for a return to sanity.
Miranda seemed unperturbed. “Yes, but her daughter is quite frail and needs to be in a room with a nice big hearth.”
Simon’s neck began to tickle with suspicion. “Send the servant and her daughter into my study for an interview, Dome.”
Miranda protested. “I’m certain they must be much too tired for an interview at this point, Simon. Why don’t we let them get settled in and then you can meet them.”
It did not escape his notice that she had attempted to change a formal interview into a casual meeting. But his new wife would soon find out that he would not allow her to turn his household upside down.
If he could not bed her, he could at least see to teaching her how to conduct herself now that she was a duchess. “Send them to me immediately,” he told Dome. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to recognize the “servant” in question and he was not at all happy about it.
&nb
sp; As he waited in his study, Miranda anxiously watching him, he soon found his suspicions confirmed. The woman from the village ... and Betsy. They stared at him with their big blue eyes, both seeming to recognize that he was not pleased, and that their fates hung in his hands.
Nervously, Miranda performed the introductions. “I have hired Katherine Lawton as my new lady’s maid. Perhaps you might remember her from the night we — ”
“I remember her well.” Simon interrupted. “But I do not recall it being said that she was a lady’s maid.” He wondered if Miranda had hired her knowing what the woman did to earn her living. Surely she could not have.
Just then, like a tiny whirlwind, Betsy broke from her mother’s side and ran up to Simon. She curtseyed deeply, then stood there, her blue eyes trained on him as she gave him a wide smile and asked, “Do you remember me? I’m the little girl you rescued.”
Simon surprised himself when he found that he had no difficulty in smiling back at her. “I remember you very well, Betsy.” He lifted the little girl into his arms and she laid her arms around her neck. “Just as I remember your mother.” He gave both women a measured glance, to ensure they knew he had not gone soft-hearted because of the child.
He said steadily to Katherine. “So you want to be a lady’s maid? For what reason?” The flicker of surprise that passed over the woman’s features as she quickly sought Miranda’s gaze for guidance confirmed his suspicions. She was no more than another of his bride’s misguided attempts at rescue.
Miranda stepped toward Katherine, one hand outstretched. But her eyes were on him, pleading in the oddly imperious way she had. “Simon, I know that Katherine will be an excellent servant. Let us call a halt to this interview now, and let them get settled.”
He opened his mouth to tell her clearly and compellingly that he was master in his own home, when a new voice interrupted. “Simon, what is going on? Why is this woman — dragging a child along, no less here? Surely she is not claiming the child is your by-blow.”
Katherine paled and Miranda tightened her grip on the other woman’s arm as she addressed her mother-in-law, “Of course not. How could you think such a thing?”
The dowager turned her attention to Simon, who was still holding Betsy in his arms. “He seems comfortable enough with the child. It was a natural mistake to assume he was her father.”
Simon loosened his grip on Betsy when she squirmed, and he realized that his hold on her had become ironbound. It was a long practice for him to tamp down his anger and pretend to a cold civility. “Good morning, Mother. When I did not see you at breakfast, I thought you had taken your leave.”
“That would have been quite rude of me, Simon. Your bride should certainly appreciate the benefit of my experience as chatelaine of this home for more than half my lifetime.”
She turned to Miranda and inclined her head toward the doorway. “Would you like to start with a tour of the main house, my dear? Perhaps the family wing? I promise not to tell you all the stories today, just the ones that seem the most important.”
Simon cut off his objection before it began, realizing that for once his mother was working in his aid. He would be able to deal with Katherine and her daughter without interference. “An excellent idea. Miranda, I will handle this matter. You go with my mother.”
She looked from Katherine to Simon, and he could feel her dilemma as if it were his own. Fortunately, it wasn’t his to decide whether to try to cushion the interview with Katherine or bear the cold company of his mother.
It wasn’t hers either. He had decided for her. With a firm hand on her back, he propelled her toward the door. “Don’t be shy. I’m sure my mother will be her usual informative self.”
“But ... “ Her eyes were locked with Katherine’s.
And then something so subtle seemed to pass between them that Simon nearly missed it. Only the fact that Miranda nodded and turned toward the dowager made him realize that some form of communication had occurred. He wondered briefly, as his wife left the room, if he had made a bad bargain in being left alone with Katherine and Betsy.
Chapter 13
The dowager’s method of touring seemed to consist of walking briskly through room after room while reciting capsule histories of the room’s flaws. The Elizabethan Parlor, a quite charmingly sunny room, was too warm in the summer. The formal drawing room, in which hung a beautiful tapestry in scarlets and bright greens and golds, possibly done by one of Simon’s ancestors, had a persistent leak on days with heavy rain.
As the dowager led her quickly through the various and sundry parlors and drawing rooms, Miranda abandoned all attempts to commit the lay of Simon’s home to her memory. There were rooms that would not be found again by any method other than an excellent memory.
Off the White Duchess’s parlor — so named for a three-generations-removed silver-haired virago — was a tiny, exquisitely designed reading room with a comfortable chaise longue, a large sunlit window, and several shelves of books meant expressly for feminine tastes.
Miranda would have lingered, but the dowager had no such intention. The room’s flaw seemed to be that it encouraged an unhealthy degree of solitude.
She found herself able to concentrate on the whirlwind of information with only half her mind. The other half she was unable to pry from the study where Simon was undoubtedly cross-examining Katherine. She believed she could trust the healer not to spill the true reason she had been hired. Simon would be furious if he found out. Worse yet, he might refuse the remedies.
Hopefully, Katherine had said nothing to Betsy. The child had not yet learned to be discreet, as they all had well to remember. She smiled, remembering how easily Simon had swung her into his arms. It was heartening to see that he held true affection for the child, despite the way he had spoken of “urchins” in the loft. He would make a good father, if he were given the chance.
Miranda hastened her steps, in danger of losing her companion. Curious, she followed the dowager into a gallery with a high ceiling that arched overhead. Imposing portraits of men in heavy and ornate gold frames lined the left wall, while somewhat less imposing portraits of women hung opposite.
Although they had been painted hundreds of years apart, by different artists, the eyes in the portraits were all of such a compelling nature that Miranda felt as if she were being observed by every one of Simon’s ancestors. Their expressions were all so uniformly solemn she had no doubt that she had been found distinctly lacking.
For a moment, the two of them stood without speaking, as if the dowager recognized that the overwhelming watchfulness of the room was unnerving and was allowing her a moment to recover. And then her acerbic words made Miranda doubt that she could possibly have had such a kind motivation. “Impressive lot, aren’t they? I wonder if they cowed the portrait painters as effectively as they do anyone who enters this room.”
Miranda stopped at a portrait that held a strong resemblance to Simon, but seemed somehow wrong. “Is this one of Simon?”
“No, that is Peter, his older brother.” Oddly, Miranda noticed, the dowager deliberately did not look at the portrait before she answered.
“I never knew that he had an older brother.” The man in the portrait was young, but not a child. “They are very alike.”
As if drawn against her will, the duchess slowly turned her head to look full at the portrait. She moved closer. Her hand hovered near, but without touching the bottom of the gilded frame. Miranda noticed that the slender fingers shook ever so slightly. “Yes. They were indeed alike.”
The older woman gave herself a slight shake, as if it took great effort for her to remove her attention from the portrait and turn her gaze to Miranda. “At least in looks. They never had the opportunity to meet each other, since Peter died not long after Simon was born.”
Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. Somehow the long ago death of the brother seemed to make Simon’s own impending death a reality. Her sympathy was entirely genuine when she said, “How aw
ful for you.”
But the dowager seemed to have recovered from any passing weakness that came from strong emotions. She waved her hand in dismissal. “He was not my son. Sinclair’s first wife was his mother. He was older than I by several years.”
Miranda had no answer for such a cold statement. “Then I’m sure it was difficult for the late duke.”
The dowager gave a tiny, graceful shrug. “I’m sure he grieved — in his own fashion. But he had Simon as an heir to replace him.”
Miranda thought of Valentine and the girls. They were irreplaceable. Were she to lose one, it would be a permanent and irredeemable loss. As would Simon’s death, if she could not prevent it.
If she and Katherine could not cure Simon, she would soon be without him. The sense of loss took her breath away. How had she come to care for him so much in such a short time?
Certainly he was a brave and honorable man, his loss would be a grave one to society. But it was not a general sense of loss that she felt. Her feelings of loss came from the thought that she would not be able to receive one of his quick smiles, and from the realization that she might soon hear only in her memory the rich voice that set her nerves a-tingle.
She pressed a hand below her heart to ease the ache. Not being kissed by him ever again. Not touching him, smiling at him across the table. No, her feeling of loss was personal indeed, for a husband she had not really wanted and who was, for the most part, maddening in the extreme.
She looked at the portrait again. The man in it had the slim build of a young man still approaching his majority. And he had died before he’d had the chance to know love and have a family of his own. She would do her best to see that the same was not true for Simon.
Idly, trying to stifle the grief that lingered at the edges of her consciousness, she said, “If only Peter had lived long enough to marry and have a son, Simon would not have to scour the hillside for suitable heirs.”
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 14
