Was Marston a devoted brother, or a neglectful one? Would he care that Miranda had put herself in danger the night before, or would he wave the thought away as nonchalantly as Stalbridge would have? For some reason, Harry was desperate to know the answer, desperate to make sure that Miranda was well cared for. Simeon Bartlett was known for his bravery, for his honor. Had he survived the brutal attack from footpads less than a year ago, Harry had no doubt that Miranda would not be entering hells on her own. But her oldest brother hadn’t survived, and that loss was still felt throughout London. It had to be felt even more so in the Bartlett home. Poor Miranda.
“Are you going to introduce us?” Georgie asked, her brown eyes wide in question.
Subtlety had never been her strong suit. Harry grinned at the couple as he squeezed his little minx’s shoulder. “Miss Miranda, this is the Earl and Countess of Montague. Monty, Georgie, this is Miss Miranda Bartlett.”
“A pleasure,” Miranda murmured so softly, no one would ever believe she was the same brazen chit who’d dressed like a fop in order to gain entrance into Gioco’s the previous night.
“The pleasure is ours, Miss Miranda.” Montague then turned his all-knowing gaze to Harry. “Actually, Stalbridge said he saw you last night, Casemore.”
Miranda stiffened at Harry’s side. Was she worried that someone had recognized her at Gioco’s? Perhaps a healthy dose of fear would keep her from doing something equally foolish in the future. “He took my seat at a vingt-et-un table as I was on my way out.”
“That’s not the part he mentioned,” the earl continued.
No, Bridge probably mentioned the dark-haired girl tossed over Harry’s shoulder, not that Montague would ever broach that bit of gossip in front of the ladies. “You know Stalbridge. Prone to dramatics from time to time.”
Clearly, Montague didn’t believe him, but he was gentlemanly enough not to say as much.
Harry tipped his head in farewell to the Montagues. “Well, until tomorrow night.” Then he urged his bays forward down the path. Once they were out of earshot, Harry nudged Miranda with his arm. “Don’t worry, my dear. I won’t ever tell anyone it was you.”
When she didn’t respond, Harry’s gaze shifted from the path to his companion. Her pretty olive skin was almost as white as parchment. Miranda’s hazel eyes, a mix of green and amber, met his, a haunted expression flashing back at him. “You know the Marquess of Stalbridge?”
If Miranda had been coshed over the head, she’d have felt less stunned. Not only did Lord Harrison know the Marquess of Stalbridge, it appeared he knew the blackguard rather well. She hadn’t even considered that possibility before now. Lord Harrison seemed so gregarious, so clever – he’d outwitted her the previous evening, after all – so perfect in nearly every way. He didn’t seem at all the sort who would fraternize with the likes of Lord Stalbridge. Had she misjudged the gentleman completely? Heavens, she couldn’t even trust her own judgment, apparently.
“Of course I know Stalbridge.” Lord Harrison frowned down at her. “What do you know of the wastrel?”
Wastrel? Miranda somehow managed not to scoff. Was it better or worse that Lord Harrison knew his friend was a cad? And did it matter one way or the other? For all she knew, Lord Harrison was a cad too. He did spend his time in the same awful places Lord Stalbridge did, after all, which was more disconcerting when one thought about it.
Since it might only take one look from her Herculean suitor to melt her heart, Miranda had to be careful not to let that happen. She only had to look at what had happened to Tessie to see the danger in falling for the wrong man. Tessie had fallen completely in love with Stalbridge and now…now, she was nowhere to be found.
“Miranda,” Lord Harrison interrupted her thoughts. “What do you know of Stalbridge?”
Whether or not Lord Harrison was a cad of the same variety as Stalbridge, he might very well be her best chance at getting close enough to the marquess to demand he answer for Tessie. “I only know him by name,” she replied. And reputation, though she thought better of mentioning that bit. “I should like very much to make his acquaintance, however.”
Lord Harrison looked a bit taken aback, as though she’d insulted him in some fashion. “I hardly think that’s a good idea,” he grumbled.
“Why not?” She touched his arm and when his green gaze settled on her, Miranda felt it all the way to her toes. Heavens, it would be only too easy to fall for him. But that would be such an enormous mistake, one she might not survive.
“He’s not fit company most of the time.”
Miranda didn’t care if the marquess was fit company any of the time, so long as he gave her the answers she needed. “Will you introduce me to him, Lord Harrison?”
“Absolutely not.”
Miranda frowned at his lordship. “I would be forever in your debt.”
“You’re already in my debt for saving your pretty little backside last night.”
Ha! He’d only made her course more difficult. “It took me quite a bit of planning on my part to breach the walls of that club last night. You owe me for ruining my plans. Arrange an introduction for me to Lord Stalbridge, and we’ll call it even.”
A muscle twitched beside Lord Harrison’s right eye, and his jaw hardened stubbornly. “Stay away from Stalbridge.”
He wasn’t her brother. He wasn’t her father. He couldn’t tell her what to do. Miranda tipped her head up to better see him. “Or what?”
“That’s it,” he growled as he urged the bays from their path toward a copse of trees at a much faster clip than they’d traveled thus far.
Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. What in the world was he doing? She gaped at him just as he pulled back on the reins, drawing his phaeton to a halt. She looked around wondering why in the world he’d stopped here where no one could see them. Had he lost his mind?
Lord Harrison hooked the reins in front of him and then shifted on the bench so she could see more than just his profile. “You are bound and determined to ruin yourself, aren’t you?”
Miranda did scoff now, her bravado finally returning. “You’re the one who drove off the path as though the devil was chasing us. Half the ton must have seen you abscond with me.”
“Well, then we should really give them something to talk about, shouldn’t we?” Lord Harrison cupped her face with both of his hands and then pressed his firm lips to hers.
Stunned, Miranda couldn’t move, which didn’t seem at all to matter to him. His fingers caressed her cheeks and he groaned slightly against her lips. She placed her hand on his chest, intending to push him away, but he smelled of sandalwood and tea as she breathed him in, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from fluttering shut and her hand from clutching his jacket.
And then he pulled away from her.
Miranda opened her eyes to find Lord Harrison’s heated green gaze settled on her lips once more. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, wishing she sounded more together than she felt.
“Removing thoughts of any other men,” he said, his gravelly voice rumbling over her.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her once again. But this time, his tongue touched Miranda’s lower lip, and she nearly shot off the bench. Dear heavens! An unfamiliar ache settled deep in her belly, and shivers raced across her skin.
“Open for me,” he whispered across her lips.
Open? Miranda was about to ask what he meant by that, but when she did, his tongue swept into her mouth. The unfamiliar ache only deepened within her, and Miranda couldn’t think, she could barely breathe. All she seemed able to do was clutch his jacket in her hands once more and hold on.
His sensual assault only intensified. He sucked her lower lip; he touched his tongue to hers; he pulled her closer and closer to him, until she was nearly on his lap. His lips trailed to her jaw and then down the side of her neck, eliciting tingles and heat everywhere he touched her.
Miranda’s nipples peaked against her soft chemise and she wished he woul
d touch her there, but his muscled arms wrapped more tightly around her until her breasts were flush against the hard wall of his chest. She trailed her hands up his arms, finally settling them on the broad expanse of his shoulders.
“If you want to be ruined, Miranda,” he rasped in her ear before nibbling on her neck, “you need only ask.”
As though he’d doused her with icy water, Miranda’s flame was instantly snuffed out. He was still outwitting her, trying to teach her whatever lesson he thought she needed to learn about rakes and dangerous men. And his lesson had been apt. She pushed with all her strength against his chest until he released her.
“Take me home,” she ordered in her most haughty voice as she held back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. But she wouldn’t give Harrison Casemore the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Even the murderous glare she cast him and no effect on Harry’s ardor. He’d give nearly everything he owned to pull her back into his arms caress every inch of her. But this was hardly the time or the place. Besides, there was that murderous glare of hers. She probably wouldn’t be amendable to allowing him any more liberties.
On second thought, he probably shouldn’t have said that last bit, but the thought that she wanted Stalbridge drove him a little mad. Whatever she saw in the profligate was not in her best interests, even if she didn’t realize that. Stalbridge was capable of ruining her without thought, without warning, if she got close enough to him. And Harry didn’t doubt, with her proclivity for ending up in places she shouldn’t be, that she’d find herself in the marquess’s presence sooner rather than later. He’d never met a more determined girl. But now, maybe, she’d think twice about getting herself in an unfortunate position with Stalbridge.
“I said,” she bit out, “take me home.”
Harry unhooked the driving reins and urged his bays forward, back toward the more populated area of the park. “Miranda,” he began after a moment.
“Don’t say another word to me.” Her voice quivered slightly, and Harry’s heart ached. She sounded as though she’d been just as affected as he was, but now she hated him.
He chanced a glance in her direction, but she refused to meet his eyes, instead she sat bolt upright, her arms folded across her middle like the strictest of governesses, staring out in front of them as though daring anyone to defy her. Yes, it was rather obvious that she hated him. Damn it all to hell. That hadn’t been his intent at all.
Harry threw a left then a right when the punch bag swung back toward him. There was nothing quite so satisfying as the release of pressure as he pounded the target once more, the weight of the bag against his knuckles, the dull thudding sound that reverberated off the walls.
Left, left, right.
A primitive growl escaped him.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with his left arm, then jabbed with his right. Stalbridge was fortunate he never stepped foot inside Gentleman Jackson’s, or Harry might be tempted to practice his punches on the marquess instead of the punch bag. Until today, he’d have never considered pummeling the ne’er-do-well, but at the moment, the thought did have a certain appeal.
Left, left, left.
His conversation with Miranda still rang in his ears, and one thing had become amazingly clear after he returned her to Marston House. Miranda Bartlett had gone to Gioco’s to meet Stalbridge. It all made complete sense now that he thought about it. She’d entered the hell only a few moments behind the wayward marquess, and her hazel eyes had lit with interest when the man’s name was mentioned today.
But why?
Right, right, left.
Why Stalbridge? Why should she care a thing for him? No one ever wanted an introduction to Stalbridge. He was inconsequential on his best days and downright destructive on his worst. No decent girl would pay him any attention. No decent girl would beg an introduction to such a man. No decent girl would dress like a dandy and enter a gaming hell just to stumble across the likes of Stalbridge.
Right, right, right.
Harry should wash his hands of her and be done. But that kiss still lingered on the fringes of his mind. Bloody hell. He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her right in the middle of Hyde Park, for God’s sake. No matter how he tried or how many punches he threw, he’d never forget that kiss. He’d never forget her sweet lilac scent, the tentative way her tongue had met his, the way she fit in his arms.
“You trying to break that thing?” came the irritatingly familiar drawl of his brother-in-law.
Stalbridge wasn’t around to pummel, but Harry wouldn’t mind taking a few swings at St. Austell instead. He turned his head to glare at his sister’s disreputable husband. “I’d much rather break you, since you’re around.”
St. Austell grinned as he shook his head. The man was either quite brave or quite stupid. Harry was inclined to believe it was the latter, as thinking of St. Austell as brave went against his very nature. “And what would that get you?” his brother-in-law asked.
Tossed in Newgate while he awaited trial for murdering the libertine? Harry shrugged. “Pippa would forgive me in time.”
St. Austell laughed. “Eventually we’ll have to get along, you know.”
“Is that decreed somewhere?”
It was the earl’s turn to shrug. “You’ll be an uncle to my babes. Someday you’ll have little pugilists of your own. We really should set good examples for the children.”
The yet-to-exist children? Was that the best the blackguard could do? St. Austell was clearly after something. “What do you want?” Harry growled, turning his attention back to the punch bag.
Right, right, left.
“To see you happily settled with some chit.”
“Indeed?” Harry scoffed. “You’d wish that on me, would you?”
St. Austell released the sigh of a beleaguered man. “It would put Pippa’s mind at ease, and I’d much rather have my wife’s attention focused on me than on you.”
Harry couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. Of course St. Austell would have an ulterior motive. He spun on his heel to face his brother-in-law. “Altruistic as always, hmm? How does my sister tolerate you?”
“Pippa loves me, and I love her.” A genuine smile lit St. Austell’s face, which was quite different that the smug expression he sported most of the time. “So which of Marston’s sisters has caught your notice? Miranda? Penelope?” He cringed. “Hopefully not Calista, as that would be more than awkward with Fordingham in the mix.”
Harry’s mouth fell open. “How is it you’re so familiar with Marston’s sisters?”
His brother-in-law shrugged. “Simeon Bartlett was a friend before his untimely death. I’ve heard about those three girls for years. The shy Calista. The secretive Miranda. And the spoiled Penelope.”
Secretive, that was certainly Miranda. Harry wasn’t sure if he was more surprised that St. Austell had been friends with the saintly Simeon Bartlett or that he seemed to remember details about the late gentleman’s sisters. He’d never known the earl to give much thought to anyone except himself, and of course Pippa.
“He adored them, doted on them,” St. Austell continued. “Always struck me as odd as I’d rather be just about anywhere but near my own sister. Of course Nora is a harridan of the worst variety, but I digress. Which Bartlett sister has you bashing that poor punch bag into oblivion?”
Harry shook his head as though his brother-in-law was absurd. “I come here all the time.”
“Indeed,” St. Austell agreed. “But you never look quite so murderous, and you did have such a bounce in your step in my parlor today. Clearly something turned your mood black.”
“Seeing you twice in a day does that to a man.”
His brother-in-law tossed back his head and laughed. Then his familiar smug expression settled once more on his face. “Fine, keep your own council. Pippa’s headed over to Marston House as it is, with that invitation you were so keen on. She’ll learn all your secrets, I’m sure.”
Needlepoint h
ad to have been created by some man to keep women in their place. Horrid waste of time and energy. Miranda frowned at the mess in her lap. The colorful thread, stitched this way and that, didn’t remotely resemble a horse in a pasture. In fact, when she closed one eye and tilted the fabric to the side, her work looked more like Cerberus frolicking in a clover field than anything else.
Beside her on the settee, Penny didn’t even attempt to hide her amusement. Miranda dropped the odious horse-turned-three-headed-dog to her lap and scowled at her sister.
“You’re getting better,” Louisa said from a chair opposite them, though she bit her lip as though to keep from laughing right alongside Penny.
One would think a vicar’s daughter wouldn’t tell an outright lie. Miranda heaved a sigh before returning her gaze to the disaster of thread before her. At least Cerberus was better than other mythical characters she could have created. If she was better at this sort of thing, she could even have Cerberus slay a particular demigod. Alas, that was not a talent she possessed. What a pity.
From the threshold, their butler cleared his throat. “My lady,” he said to Louisa. “The Countess of St. Austell has come to call.”
Miranda’s heart seized and her breath caught in her throat. The Countess of St. Austell? Lord Harrison’s sister? What could that particular lady possibly want?
“Thank you, Hibbert,” Louisa replied. “Do show her in, and deliver some refreshments as well, please.”
As soon as the butler disappeared, Penny grasped Miranda’s hand. “Do you know who she is?” her sister whispered, her gleeful eyes boring into Miranda.
“I was sitting in the same room as you when Lord Harrison mentioned his sister.” Miranda narrowed her eyes on Penny. Really, did her little sister think she had the memory of gnat?
“But now she’s come to call on you,” Penny gushed as she clapped her hands together. “He must mean to propose, and she wants to know what sort of girl you are.”
A Season To Remember Page 18
