The Price of Indiscretion

by Cathy Maxwell

  Michael was present during this visit. It was hard for him to keep a straight face, even with his wife attempting to frown him into behaving.

  At last Miranda had enough. She reached over and gently shook the marquis’s arm. No response. The man continued sleeping.

  She gave him a harder shake. Michael couldn’t hide his laughter. Even Isabel was smiling, while Lady Overstreet pretended nothing was wrong.

  The man still didn’t wake.

  Miranda looked to her friends. “Do you imagine he’s dead?” she asked.

  “Not with a snore like that,” Michael responded. “I’m surprised he doesn’t wake himself up.”

  “Michael,” his wife warned.

  “Yes,” Lady Overstreet said, offended, “you should be careful what you say. Lord Burndale is well known in many circles, and he has agreed to come tomorrow evening.” The Seversons were hosting a small party to introduce Miranda to society. They’d sent out invitations to those Lady Overstreet had suggested, but had not had many acceptances.

  “I wish I could stay until such an important man finishes his nap, but business waits for no man,” Michael said, rising.

  “You can’t leave until Lord Burndale does,” Lady Overstreet said, horrified. “It’s not done.”

  Michael released his breath in an exasperated sigh and glanced at his wife, who apologetically nodded her head. Miranda was the one who took pity on him. She’d had enough of Lord Burndale, too.

  She reached over and pinched his nose between two fingers.

  “Miss Cameron, what are you doing?” Lady Overstreet said.

  “He’ll never know what I did,” Miranda assured her.

  In a second, Lord Burndale came right awake with a sputter. “I say, did I fall asleep?”

  “You did nod off, my lord,” Miranda said with a humble gentleness she was far from feeling. “Shall I call for your man to escort you home?”

  “Yes, yes, do so,” he said, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and rubbing his face with it before making a hacking sound and spitting into it.

  Miranda stifled a gag and signaled for Lord Burndale’s servant to hurry forward with his master’s hat and cane.

  His Lordship stood, his bones creaking. “Good seeing you again, Lady Overstreet.” He spoke in a slow, ponderous tone as if each word was almost too heavy to speak.

  “Now don’t forget, you’ve promised to return tomorrow evening for the soiree Mr. and Mrs. Severson are hosting. It’s in Miss Cameron’s honor.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Cameron,” she repeated, a note louder and toward his good ear.

  “Who?” he echoed again.

  Lady Overstreet made an exasperated sound and waved Miranda into his line of vision. “Miss Cameron, please, say your farewells to the marquis.” She said this last to remind Miranda of his title.

  Miranda was tempted to stand her ground and ask, “Who?” but didn’t believe Lady Overstreet would have a sense of humor for such a thing. “It was very nice to meet you, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Pretty gal,” the marquis said to Lady Overstreet. “Who is she?”

  To the amusement of Isabel, Michael, and Miranda, Lady Overstreet gave up, choosing to say instead, “We shall see you tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, but Miranda didn’t think he’d truly understood half of what had been said to him the whole luncheon. She needed to escape before she either doubled over in laughter or burst out in tears.

  The whole marriage market experience was humiliating. There was a definite pecking order among the ton, and she, Earl of Bagsley’s granddaughter or not, was on the bottom.

  While Lady Overstreet instructed the marquis’s servant to make certain he came the next night, Miranda edged toward the sitting room, where she found Michael and Isabel in a deep discussion.

  “—I expected him to come to his senses but he’s being stubborn,” Michael said.

  “If he’s not careful, she’ll have to marry someone like that silly marquis. I want to introduce her to decent men, Michael. If Alex won’t step forward and do what is right, then I feel we must help her.”

  “Not yet. I’m trying to get him to come to his senses—”

  He broke off at his wife’s pointed look that they were no longer alone.

  “Alex is still in London?” Miranda asked. Funny, but she had assumed that he would get on his ship and sail away. She’d hoped that had been what he’d done. It was disturbing to think he could be in London and ignore her so completely.

  Isabel’s eyes filled with pity. Miranda hated pity. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime. “I don’t care where he is,” she insisted, proud that she sounded as if she really didn’t, as if she didn’t fall asleep thinking of him every night or wake in the morning aware that he wasn’t there. “There is nothing between us.” She even managed to give a small shrug of her shoulders. “He won’t be here tomorrow evening, will he?”

  “Oh, Miranda,” Isabel said, “you do care for him, don’t you?”

  Miranda crossed her arms. “No, not at all.” She didn’t trust herself to say more lest she protest too much. Nor did she want Alex to attend the affair and discover any suitors she had attracted were aging roués like the marquis and whoever else could be dragged in to meet her. She wouldn’t be able to stand the humiliation.

  The door shut, and Lady Overstreet entered the room. “Well,” she said on a note of triumph, “he can’t wait until tomorrow. He is quite taken with you, Miranda.”

  “Yes, he was,” Miranda bit out. She shook her head. “I appreciate everything the three of you have done for me, but I don’t think I’m going to be a success. I think Charlotte and Constance are going to arrive and learn I’m a failure.”

  Both Isabel and Lady Overstreet were at her side in a blink with words of encouragement. Only Michael didn’t say anything. Michael…who saw Alex every day. She wondered what Michael had told him.

  And that’s what made her angry.

  Michael shifted his weight as if conscious of her thoughts. “We have friends,” he started, ill at ease. “Gentlemen who I’m certain would like introductions to meet you. My nephew is Lord Jemison. I have connections—”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Lady Overstreet said, her tone a touch offended. “We need men here, Mr. Severson.” She slapped the palm of one hand with the other for emphasis. “Titled men.”

  “Absolutely,” Miranda agreed with self-mockery. “You wouldn’t happen to know the Duke of Colster, would you?” She’d deliberately chosen the name of the most eligible bachelor in London and one of the most powerful men in England. The papers were full of him. “Send him an invitation. I’m certain he wants to sit by the marquis and carry on a conversation.”

  “Miranda,” Lady Overstreet warned, “you are being less than respectful.”

  “No, I’m being honest,” Miranda shot back. “I haven’t met one man who was remotely eligible.”

  “The marquis is an excellent prospect,” Lady Overstreet answered. “He’s just old.”

  “I shudder to think of being anyplace close to the married state with him,” Miranda returned, a shiver of distaste going through her.

  Michael sighed, and then, perhaps because of his own culpability, offered, “I don’t know a man like Colster, but there are others. Isabel and I had not wanted to come forward with such an offer because—” He stopped as if uncertain whether to continue.

  “Because you anticipated Alex would call on me?” Miranda suggested, her sarcasm clear.

  “Alex had been so concerned over you when you were ill,” Isabel said. “We thought he held deeper feelings for you.”

  “Now, you know he doesn’t,” Miranda said flatly. No, he’d gotten what he’d wanted, and left her to her own devices.

  “That might not be true,” Michael replied, but Miranda had had enough.

  “I’m going to the lending library,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “I haven’t read
a book for weeks. I haven’t put a decent thought in my head during that time, either.”

  “You can choose a book out of our library,” Isabel offered, following Miranda. “We have the latest novels.”

  Miranda whirled on her. “No,” she stated forcefully, then softened the word by adding, “thank you.” She shook her head. “I need to get out. I need a moment alone without dressmakers and manners and bobbins and notions and everything. You’ve been all that is kind, but I have to have a moment to myself. I’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t go alone,” Lady Overstreet insisted. “You can’t walk anywhere you wish in London unescorted. I shall go with you—”

  “Absolutely not,” Miranda answered. “I’m taking my maid.”

  “But I—” Her Ladyship started.

  Miranda raised a warning finger. “No.”

  Lady Overstreet capitulated. “At least take a footman, too.”

  “I will.” Miranda left the room. Behind her she could overhear Lady Overstreet voicing her opinion of such an “independence of spirit, especially before a party in her honor.”

  She didn’t care.

  She could have sworn she’d heard Alex say he loved her that night on his ship. Or had her imagination or the oncoming fever played a trick on her?

  She didn’t know. What she did understand was that whether she would have admitted it or not, in the back of her mind—in spite of being so furious with him for leaving her without so much as a curt good-bye—she had assumed he did care. That sooner or later he would make an appearance.

  He hadn’t. He could live in the same city and offer not even so much as a single word. He’d taken on her expenses because what else did a man do when he’d taken a woman’s virginity?

  Inside her room, Miranda shut the door and leaned against it, willing herself not to break down. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms until she thought she’d draw blood, and faced the truth.

  The only thing she’d had of any value had been her virginity. She’d willingly offered it to Alex years ago, but he had insisted on speaking to her father first, and she had been secretly pleased that Alex was that much of a gentleman. Her love for him had grown with that one decision. Later, reacting to the violence of that night, she’d refused to go with Alex when he’d asked. For years she’d carried an enormous guilt for not having gone with him.

  Now she thought herself wise. She’d been right to refuse him. He was a heathen and a wild man. He certainly had been both the night on the Venture when he’d kidnapped her—and she had responded to him in the most wanton way possible. She’d given him all she had.

  For years Charlotte had gone on about how the pride of aristocrats ran through their veins. Miranda had mostly ignored her. Being an earl’s granddaughter meant very little when she was one of Veral Cameron’s daughters.

  However, in this moment, she felt the pride of her ancestry. Alex might have thought he’d exacted a just revenge, but she would remain unbowed. For her sisters, for her family’s history, she would marry the marquis if need be. No one—especially Alex—was ever going to look down on Miranda Cameron again.

  She would not hold back. She would confirm the trust Charlotte had placed in her.

  Within the next fifteen minutes, she’d dressed in a fetching green walking dress with a matching leghorn bonnet, the ribbon tied saucily beneath her chin, and was leading Alice out the door, a footman in tow.

  It felt good to be out in the air and stretching her legs. Earlier the day had been overcast, but now the sun had emerged, raising everyone’s spirits. For the first time, Miranda felt as if she could belong to London.

  She’d not been lying when she said her head had been so chockful of dressmaker and deportment details that she hadn’t bothered to enjoy the city. Well, now she would.

  Scripps’s Lending Library was not far from the Seversons’ neighborhood. The footman knew the way and helped Miranda with the two-guinea subscription. The servants took a seat in an area with several chairs at the front of the room, freeing Miranda to wander the shelves of books at her leisure.

  Never had she seen so many books. The air smelled of binding glue and book leather. She started with the first shelves and followed her nose.

  Scripps’s encompassed three rooms, and probably because of the fairness of the day, she seemed to have them all to herself. On the shelves were books in French, Latin, and Greek and on mathematics, science, and history. In the end, it was the biographies that attracted her. She found one on famous ancients and would have left then, except there was one more corner of the poetry selection she hadn’t explored. She didn’t know much about poetry but knew it was important. She thought to choose a volume for her own education. However, as she rounded one of the shelves, she ran into a man standing there with his back against the shelves, reading.

  He was a tall, well-dressed man with prematurely graying dark hair, although he couldn’t be older than five and thirty. He held his book in one hand and his beaver hat in the other.

  Miranda almost knocked him over. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping back.

  “Certainly,” he said brusquely with a dismissive glance and would have gone back to his reading…except something about her caught his attention.

  He straightened, shutting the book with a slam, and rudely stared at her.

  Unnerved, Miranda moved toward the door.

  He followed.

  She hurried her step.

  He caught her arm with his hand holding his hat before she could escape.

  Miranda turned, opening her mouth to give him a set-down, well aware that her footman and maid were within calling distance. This was the reason a woman couldn’t walk around London alone.

  “Please,” he said, dropping his hand from her arm. “I don’t mean to frighten you, I—” He stopped as if words failed him, his gaze never leaving her face.

  “If you will excuse me,” she said, and would have left except he hurried to stand in her path.

  “You remind me of someone,” he said bluntly. “My wife. She passed on seven years ago, and for a moment, when I saw your face, I thought I was losing my mind. She was very dear to me.”

  Miranda’s fear evaporated in light of the man’s obvious sincerity. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded in that way people did when they feared being overcome by emotion. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “I’m not alarmed,” Miranda assured him. She would have passed by him except he stopped her again.

  “Please, I know this is unconventional, but you look so much like my Elizabeth…”

  “You loved her very much, didn’t you?” Miranda asked, feeling a touch of kindred spirit with this man.

  “She was my life. She died in childbirth, so I lost two souls very dear to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He waved her off. “I should be over her death. They tell me I should, but I can’t seem to leave her behind.”

  “She was a very fortunate woman, sir,” Miranda answered, meaning the words. “My father couldn’t leave behind my mother’s memory, either.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he apologized.

  Miranda smiled. “Well, it doesn’t seem so threatening to be chased by a man with a book of poetry in his hand.”

  He smiled then, and it transformed his features. His brown eyes warmed. His face relaxed, and he appeared younger. He was tall, although not as tall as Alex—few men were—but he had the same squared shoulders and bold presence. Here was a man who made his own place in the world and followed his own rules. He held out his hand. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Colster.”

  The Duke of Colster.

  Miranda stopped breathing as she placed her hand in his. It took everything she had to say, “I’m Miss Cameron.”

  Was it her imagination, or did his eyes light at the mention of her unmarried state?

  He confirmed her suspicions by repeating, “Miss Cameron. I haven’t had the pleasur
e of meeting you around town.”

  “I’ve only just arrived from America.”

  “Are you American?” he asked.

  Miranda forced herself to breathe naturally. “I was born there, although my parents were English. My grandfather was the Earl of Bagsley.”

  His smile grew wider. She’d crossed a hurdle, and she found herself smiling back. He was rumored to be a cold man, one who could make kings and generals quake in their boots…but he’d known love and the cost of losing it. It was common ground.

  “Are you staying with family?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Friends, um, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Severson.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet.”

  The way he said “yet” brought warmth to her cheeks. “I’m certain we don’t move in the same circles you do, Your Grace.”

  “You could,” he answered. For a long moment he looked at her as if drinking in every detail of her face. “The resemblance is amazing.”

  Self-consciously, Miranda raised her hand to her face. Her movement broke whatever spell he was in. He bowed. “Until later,” he promised, and left, backing away as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Later,” he repeated rounding a corner. He’d even taken the book of poetry with him.

  Miranda finally drew a full breath. That was an unusual meeting, and she wondered if either the Seversons or Lady Overstreet would believe she’d conversed with the mighty duke of Colster. She hurried to the front and checked out her book. His Grace was gone.

  An hour later she reached home. Isabel and Lady Overstreet were in the sitting room. Miranda handed her bonnet to Alice and entered the room, but before she could share the news of whom she had just met, Lady Overstreet came to her feet and said, “You can’t believe what has just happened.”