by Candace Camp
Miranda looked back at him innocently. “I beg your pardon. Is that not true? It is what I have heard. But perhaps you have been wronged by the gossips. Have you not wasted all your fortune? Do you not keep loose company and spend your time in gambling hells and houses of ill repute?”
He pressed his lips together tightly, a flush rising along his stark cheekbones.
“Well?” Miranda prodded. “Is it a false rumor?”
“You should not even know of such things, let alone speak of them,” he snapped. “It’s unseemly.”
“Unseemly for me to speak of them but not for you to do them? Really, Lord Ravenscar, I am not a fool, whatever you may think of those of us who live beyond the hallowed shores of England. Nor am I deaf. Did you not think that I would hear the rumors? Why, just tonight as I walked around the hall, I heard that you had shamed your father, wasted—”
“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I am afraid I do. Promiscuity, profligacy, drunkenness—these are the sorts of things that are always grist for the rumor mill. Everyone talks about them. I’m sure that none of the people inside care if a paltry American woman should have the bad fortune to marry a man with your reputation. But it is definitely a point against you as far as I am concerned. And obviously none of your peers are going to let you marry one of their daughters. Aside, of course, from the natural affection that they feel for their daughters, none of them would wish to align their name with one so besmirched by scandal. That is why you must settle for an heiress who isn’t of the nobility—even one who is not British. Your reputation must be very low indeed.”
His face was stony as he looked at her, his eyes cold, hard marbles. She knew that he would have liked to rage at her but was hampered by the fact that everything she had said had been the truth.
“Of course, the blot on your name would not bother us Americans as much. My fellow countrymen seem to be oddly enamored of titles. I suppose it is because we got rid of such meaningless things long ago. It has created a definite void for those who are very proud, you know. So I know some wealthy Americans have bought aristocratic husbands for their daughters so that they can have a title in the family. I, however, have little longing to be ‘Lady’ Ravenscar. It seems an empty title, and I rather like my own name, frankly. Although,” she added, looking thoughtful, “the idea of restoring your estate does have a certain appeal. I do like to put things into good running order, and I am sure it has been sorely neglected. I am quite attracted to old houses, and Elizabethan architecture is one of my favorites, as it is Papa’s. I understand that Darkwater is an outstanding example of an early Elizabethan mansion. And, of course, the history of it is intriguing. The curse and all that. Is it true that Darkwater was built of stones taken—”
“Bugger Darkwater!” Ravenscar exploded. “The damned place can rot for all I care. This is one English peer who is not for sale to you or any other rich American. I would rather the whole house crumble about my ears. I’d rather die in poverty than marry a common, bloodless witch like you! Good night, Miss Upshaw. And goodbye.”
Devin shouldered past her and strode off.
6
“Well!” Miranda watched Ravenscar’s figure disappear down one of the garden paths. “That was interesting.”
She had intended to provoke a response in the man, but his explosion had been something different from what she had expected. Irritation, swallowed bile, frustration and dislike—those had been what she hoped to engender in the earl. But the hot fury and wounded pride that had glittered in his eyes had been more than she had bargained for. So had the blunt pronouncement that he was not for sale. It was enough to make one think that perhaps there was more to the man, after all.
Miranda walked over to a stone bench, placed to admire a plot of flowers, and sat down on it. Her knees, frankly, were feeling a trifle watery. The evening had been…well, tumultuous. Devin Aincourt had surprised her more than once this evening, and that intrigued her. His kisses had melted her. She was too honest to try to pretend otherwise. No other man had ever sparked such feelings in her, and—to continue in the same honest vein—she would like to experience them again. Why did the one man who had ever made her feel this delightful, tingly, slightly scary way have to be a man of so little character? Why couldn’t it have been someone forthright and honest? Why was it this man whose kisses were so sweet, whose lips could make her feel as if the world had dropped away, whose eyes were as green as a new leaf and whose hands were…
Miranda shook her head to clear it. It was foolish to sit here thinking about someone as clearly unsuitable as the Earl of Ravenscar. And yet…had it not said something about the man that he had so forcefully rejected the idea of selling himself as a husband? Ravenscar had pride—and not just the vain pride of many aristocrats, but a deeper belief in himself. She had seen it in his eyes as he had lashed out at her. There had been hurt there and a certain disgust with himself. He had been angry, not just at her, but at himself for doing what he felt he must. Money had not been worth giving up his pride, and she liked that. Perhaps, she thought, she just might want to see the Earl of Ravenscar again.
She rose and strolled back to the terrace, her head bowed in thought.
“Miss Upshaw?”
Miranda raised her head to see Lady Westhampton standing on the terrace, her hands knotted around the ends of the shawl that she had wrapped around her shoulders, her face creased with anxiety.
Miranda smiled. “Hello, Lady Westhampton.”
Rachel visibly relaxed at Miranda’s easy greeting. She had seen her brother storm through the ballroom a few minutes earlier, and she had been worried that something bad had happened between him and Miranda. But Miranda clearly looked as if nothing were bothering her. Rachel wondered if it was only her brother who was upset, or if Miss Upshaw was simply better at hiding it.
“I hope you have enjoyed the party,” Rachel began tentatively.
“Yes, it has been quite entertaining.”
“Really?” Rachel eyed Miranda a trifle uneasily. “I, ah, I hope that nothing happened…I mean, that my brother did not, well, offend you.”
A mischievous grin flashed across Miranda’s face. “No. Actually, I think it was the other way around. I offended Lord Ravenscar.”
Rachel chuckled. “I cannot imagine that, Miss Upshaw. Devin is not easily offended.”
“Is he not? Really? I had a different impression of him. It seems to me that he is quite proud and easily offended.”
“Oh, dear.” Rachel’s heart sank. “He did do something, didn’t he? Or say something?”
“Well, he did say he would rather Darkwater crumble about his ears than marry me. But, you see,” Miranda added honestly, “I had been rather blunt and, well, even a bit mean.”
“Oh.” Rachel looked at her blankly. “You were mean to Devin?”
“Yes. I can be, you see. There are some men in New York who are quite terrified of me.”
Rachel chuckled, then glanced at her uncertainly. “You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Not entirely,” Miranda admitted. “I cannot abide dishonesty. And I have been rather abrupt with one or two men who thought they could get the better of me with trickery. Anyway, I was irritated with Lord Ravenscar because he was being dishonest.”
“Devin? He is usually just the opposite—blunt to the point of being rude.”
“Really? I prefer that, actually. Offensive as he was the other day, when he proposed to me, I think that it was preferable. He was arrogant and rude, but at least he was honest. Tonight he tried to seduce me into marrying him.”
“Oh, dear,” Rachel said in a faint voice.
Miranda glanced at her and saw the color in the other woman’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. Now I have embarrassed you. I almost forgot that he is your brother. You cannot like to hear him spoken of this way.”
“No,” Rachel agreed honestly. “But I have heard many bad things about Dev over the years, unfor
tunately.”
“Well, I would rather have him tell me the truth—that he hates the idea of marrying me but will do it for the money—than to have him pretend an interest that he does not feel.”
Miranda hesitated, realizing even as she spoke that she herself was not telling the entire truth. She did not really think that Ravenscar had felt none of the desire he expressed. She had felt the heat of his body and the other unmistakable hallmarks of passion in a man. The problem was that he had engineered the situation to try to trick her into saying yes. And, she was honest enough to admit, a great deal of her anger had been because she was afraid that he had not felt desire to the amazing degree that she had felt it. However, she could hardly explain such things to the man’s sister, so she skimmed over the truth.
“So I pointed out some of the drawbacks to marrying him—the rumors and such. It made him angry, I’m afraid.”
“Oh dear,” Rachel said in a small, sad voice. “I had hoped you would not have heard those rumors.”
“I heard most of them tonight. People are very fond of gossip.”
“And Dev makes gossiping easy.” Rachel’s voice was tinged with bitterness. “I love him, Miss Upshaw. I truly do. But sometimes it seems as if he delights in making it difficult to do so. What did you hear?”
Miranda looked at the other woman. Lady Westhampton looked so pale and unhappy that she could not bring herself to repeat the things she had heard. “Nothing that you haven’t heard already, I am sure,” she said gently. On impulse, she reached out and took Rachel’s hand. “Please, don’t be so sad. You cannot make your brother’s life right, you know. Only he can do that.”
“It has not been easy for him,” Rachel said. She looked at Miranda with a plea in her eyes. “Please don’t judge him by what other people say about him. I mean, yes, most of those things they say are probably true, but that’s not what Dev is, really. He is a good man inside. I know it. He was always good to Caroline and me, growing up, and—”
She broke off and sighed. “Sometimes I think that curse is true. The Aincourts are doomed to misery. None of our ancestors were ever very good at hanging on to our money. We have wasted it and lost it on foolish ventures. The family would have been penniless long ago except that we also had a talent for making good marriages—profitable marriages, I should say. The Aincourts have had looks—and often charm. We attracted wealthy spouses, but the marriages have rarely been happy.”
They had been strolling along the terrace as they talked, and Miranda quietly steered Rachel away from the other people and the ballroom.
“My sister and I married as we were supposed to,” Rachel went on. “Caroline seemed lucky. Her husband was a spectacular catch, a duke, no less, and he loved her very much. They were happy. They had a daughter. Then, four years ago, she and her daughter died in a carriage accident. Richard tried to save them, but he could not.”
“I’m so sorry.” They had rounded a corner, out of sight of the rest of the party, and Miranda led Rachel to a stone bench and sat down.
“Thank you.” Rachel offered her a wan smile. “I was the other dutiful daughter. I married the man my father picked out. He is a good man, a kind man. But—” she sighed, then went on “—but I did not love him. I loved another. I thought Michael knew that, accepted it, that he expected a marriage that was a business relationship and nothing more. I found out later that he did not. When he found out that I loved another, he thought I had deceived him purposefully. He—well, we live apart. He gives me everything I need—he is a generous man. He and Richard support my mother, too. But none of us are happy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is too late for me or Caroline. But Dev—Dev could still find happiness. That is why I wanted you to marry him. I think he could change his life with the right woman. He’s…deep down he is a good man, a man of honor. But he and my father could not get along. Dev could never do anything right in our father’s eyes. Dev was not like him at all. And he wasn’t quiet and dutiful, as Caroline and I were. He argued with Father, and it made Father furious. My father was a hard man. He was very religious, and he hated it when Dev gambled and drank and—other things. I always thought that was why Dev came to be so wild. He went in that direction because it made our father so enraged. Father hated Dev’s painting, too. He said it was not a fit thing for a nobleman, that Dev acted as if he had peasant blood in him, wanting to scratch about with paints. He thought it was useless and beneath him, but Devin loved it. So they fought over that, as well. Then, when Devin was eighteen, he went to London, as most young men do. And everything got worse there. He had freedom at last, you see, and he did just as he pleased. He worked on his art, and he met other artists, and Father thought they were a bad influence on him. But they were not the worst. He fell in with a set of people who were, well…not good people. They encouraged him to live the worst sort of life he could.”
“What did your father do?”
“He was so angry. He kept writing to Dev and telling him that he had to abandon his wicked ways and come home, and of course that just made Devin more stubborn. Father threatened to cut him off, and then, one time there was a scandal, worse than the others, and Father did cut him off. He would have disinherited him, but he could not. The estate is entailed, and he didn’t have the power. But he stopped his allowance. I’m not sure how Dev even lived then. I am sure that Michael and Richard and others gave him money. He can be quite charming, and—well, we love him. I slipped him as much money as I could. Richard told me once that Dev made money playing cards, and I suppose he helped to support himself that way. He and Father never reconciled. Just before Father died, Mother wrote to us that he was very ill, and I went back. I got Dev to go with me, but when we got there, Father refused to see him. He wouldn’t even let him in the room. Dev took one of the horses and rode back to London. He refused to go to Father’s funeral. I don’t know if he has been back to Darkwater since then.”
She stopped and sighed. “He wouldn’t have been like this if Father hadn’t been so hard on him.” Her voice hardened. “And if it were not for his…friends. I just know that if he could be taken away from their influence, if he could have some peace and happiness in life, that he would be a different man. I want that for him. That’s why I was hoping that…you know, that you would marry him.”
“I’m not at all sure that marrying me would make Ravenscar happy,” Miranda pointed out dryly. “We don’t get along very well, you know.”
“I know. But…insipid females don’t hold his interest. I thought someone strong like you, someone good, could make his life different.”
They were silent for a moment. Miranda looked thoughtfully at her hands. “You mentioned his painting…. He is an artist?”
“Oh, yes! He’s terribly good. Would you like to see some of his work?”
“Yes. I would.”
Intrigued, Miranda rose and followed Lady Westhampton as she went into the house through a back door and ascended a narrow staircase that she presumed must be the servants’ staircase. They walked down a hall to the front gallery, which ran the width of the house.
“You can’t see them too well, unfortunately,” Rachel said and gestured toward the outside wall, which was lined with long windows. “In the daytime, there’s plenty of light, but at night…”
All the sconces along the wall opposite the windows were lit, for the whole house was ablaze with light for the party, but even so, there were shadows.
“I can see well enough,” Miranda said, going closer to look at the first picture. “Are all these Ravenscar’s?”
“These first three are. There are more on the other side.” She smiled faintly. “I had to allow a few of the Westhampton ancestors.”
The first painting was a portrait of Rachel herself. She was standing beside a high pedestal, her forearm resting on it, and she looked out at the observer, a faint smile lingering on her lips. It was a younger and happier Rachel. The colors were muted greens and tans, against
which the raven-haired Rachel in her simple white dress stood out vividly. The green eyes laughed; she seemed on the verge of revealing an amusing secret. And it had been painted, Miranda thought to herself, by an expert. The woman in the portrait had life; more than simply a physical likeness, her personality shone out, warm and inviting.
“It’s beautiful,” Miranda said honestly.
“I was seventeen when he painted it,” Rachel said quietly. “He gave it to Michael when we were married.” She walked on. “And this is Caroline. It’s a few years earlier. Dev was about, oh, seventeen or eighteen. Caroline must have been fifteen.”
Miranda looked with interest at the young girl, a dreamy sort with huge blue eyes and the thick black Aincourt hair tied back with a ribbon and cascading down her shoulders. She wore a blue cloak over her white dress, one side of it flung back over her shoulder, and she carried a cat in the crook of her arm. Every detail was rich and luminous. Miranda’s hands curled inward, fingers digging into her palms to contain the excitement that filled her on looking at the paintings. She moved on to the next, this one a landscape of a barren, rock-strewn countryside, beautifully stark and drenched in sunlight. She could almost feel the warmth.
“These are beautiful!” Miranda turned to Rachel, barely able to contain the pleasure that rose up in her. She had been enchanted with the museums and galleries that she had encountered in Europe. Looking at much of the splendid, often old, art, she had been seized with the same sort of excitement, even joy, that filled her now. “He is a wonderful artist! You say you have more?”
Rachel nodded, smiling. “At the other end of the hall, and in my bedroom and sitting room.”
Rachel took her along the gallery, where she showed her four more paintings that her brother had done, and then down the hall to a large, well-appointed sitting room. Here and in the bedroom beyond it hung another six paintings. One of the paintings was of a pale stone house, formidably large but graceful, built in the shape of an E.
