Her Wicked Ways

by Darcy Burke

  ON the night of the assembly, Miranda paced the girls’ dormitory at Stipple’s End while her charges readied themselves for bed. She tried not to think of the party taking place in town. Tried not to think of how charming Beatrice looked in her new persimmon gown. Tried not to think of how long it might be before Miranda enjoyed a similar event. Instead, she thought of Mrs. Gates dressed in her finery and smiled. The woman had been ecstatic at Miranda’s offer to watch the girls tonight.

  “Lady Miranda, will you tell us about London?” Flora sat cross-legged at the end of her bed, her eyes huge in the light cast by the fire and a scattering of candles positioned about the large room. The youngest girls were already drifting into slumber on the other side of the dormitory. The eldest girls had collected on Flora’s and Delia’s bed and the one next to it.

  Delia pulled a blanket around her shoulders. “Yes, please. Have you met the Prince Regent?”

  Miranda sank onto a small wooden stool at the foot of Flora’s bed. “Yes. And his daughter, Princess Charlotte.”

  Flora’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve met a real princess?”

  “Indeed. I even went to her wedding in May.”

  A few of the girls gasped. All of them appeared awed. Comments and questions flew from their mouths.

  “A royal wedding!”

  “Was it in a grand cathedral?”

  Miranda couldn’t help but smile at the girls’ excitement. Once upon a time she’d been equally enthralled with the trappings of Society. Now it was simply the way things were. Or had been. “No, it was at Carlton House.”

  “The Prince Regent’s residence,” Flora put in.

  Miranda nodded. “Yes, but how did you know that?”

  Flora plucked at the blanket across her lap. “My friend Rose sends letters. She lives in London now.”

  Delia pursed her lips. “Rose works in a bawdy house.”

  “Delia!” Lisette glared at the dark-haired girl.

  “Well, she does!”

  Miranda held up a hand. “Who is Rose?”

  “She used to live here,” Lisette explained from Delia’s bed. “She went to work at the local brothel after she left the orphanage. Recently she moved to London to better her prospects.”

  “The local brothel.” Miranda supposed that made sense. Such things would be as necessary in the country as they were in London. What did Mr. Foxcroft think of Rose and the choice she’d made when she left? All of that work and care given to her and now she sold her body. “And Rose went to work for an, er, establishment in London?”

  “Yes, the White Palace.” Flora rejoined the conversation, but lacked her earlier excitement. “She says it’s very popular. She entertains fine, regular customers.” A blush colored her cheeks as her gaze dropped to the coverlet.

  Miranda knew next to nothing about this subject. Certainly she’d seen a few courtesans. Some of them blended so well into the upper echelon of Society it was sometimes difficult to discern them from actual Quality unless someone pointed them out, which someone always did.

  But Miranda didn’t want Delia making Flora feel bad because Rose was clearly Flora’s friend. Miranda sought to put a smile back on Flora’s face. “Perhaps she will find a wealthy protector and move even higher, become a courtesan.”

  “A courtesan?” Flora spoke the word reverently. “Could she really become a courtesan? Why, then she’d have her own house, maybe even a carriage.”

  Miranda wished to avoid a lengthy discussion of the benefits of selling one’s body. “Probably. But there are plenty of things you can—should—do instead.” She studied each girl. A couple of them seemed to barely hear her, their eyes drooping with exhaustion. Delia and Lisette nodded furiously. Flora merely smiled and hugged her blanket around her shoulders. Miranda stood. “Come girls, it’s getting late. Time for bed.”

  The girls bid her good night, and she exited the dormitory. Shaking the conversation about courtesans away, she made her way downstairs to the library. She could hardly wait to find something to read.

  She stepped over the threshold, poised to breathe in aged leather and paper.

  “Good evening, Lady Miranda.”

  Mr. Foxcroft stood from a cozy, dark green chair situated before the fire. He held a book in his hand, his forefinger inserted between the pages.

  “Mr. Foxcroft. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” There went her carefully constructed plan, unless they could read in quiet company. Somehow she doubted that. She was far too…aware of his presence to simply ignore it.

  He wore a slight smile. “Surely you realized someone would be supervising the boys?”

  Miranda walked toward the bookcase to her right. She ran her hand along the soft, worn spines. Some were more tattered than others, but all appeared to have been loved. She’d missed such simple pleasures. “Yes, I just didn’t expect to find that person in the library. Why aren’t you at the assembly?”

  Mr. Foxcroft ambled toward her. “I’d rather be here.”

  She turned her head and raised her brow at him. “I might have guessed as much.”

  He came to a halt next to the bookshelf. “What other assumptions have you made about me?”

  She tapped her finger against her lip. “You don’t dance, do you?”

  He laughed softly. “Yes, I dance.”

  She wasn’t sure why she baited him, but he seemed to be going along and so she continued. “Mrs. Gates has consented to allow me to instruct the children in dance soon. Perhaps you can assist me?”

  He bowed, sweeping the book before him. “I should be delighted.” Standing upright again—he really was quite tall—his lips quirked. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The waltz.” Miranda folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the bookshelf. Surely he’d never waltzed. Not when he didn’t attend assemblies and hadn’t been to London. She didn’t think he’d been to London anyway. “Have you been to London?”

  “Not in a long time.” He tapped the book against his thigh. “That doesn’t recommend me, does it?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I’m merely doubtful of your waltzing abilities.”

  “I could demonstrate. Now, perhaps.” He cocked his head. “If you’re willing.” And now he was baiting her.

  “I am. But there is no music.”

  “I will hum.”

  Miranda grinned. “All right, Mr. Foxcroft.”

  He set his book on the shelf behind her, his arm brushing her shoulder. He held his hand out and she placed her fingers in his. She stepped forward and he wrapped his other arm around her back, pulling her into his embrace. He leaned into her and said close to her ear, “You must call me Fox, as everyone does.”

  An inexplicable shiver traced down her spine. He straightened, arranged their positions in perfect form. Then he did exactly as he’d said. He hummed Haydn’s Clock Symphony and swept her into the dance, one hand deftly cradling her back while the other clasped her fingers with seemingly effortless technique.

  “Where on earth did you learn to dance?” She shook her head. “No, don’t answer, for then the music will stop.” Miranda closed her eyes briefly, imagined his voice was the sound of actual musicians, that they glided amidst a thousand candles, that they weren’t trapped in an orphanage in rural Wiltshire.

  The feel of his hand splayed against her gown was surprisingly pleasant. No, pleasant wasn’t the right word for the flesh beneath her gown tingled with awareness and…something more. His touch grew firmer, bringing her a hair’s breadth closer. She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her intently, his eyes seeming to glow from their amber center out past the jade and into the deep sapphire blue.

  She was cognizant of his bare hand warming hers. Dancing skin to skin with him sent flickers of secret sensation—intimacy, she realized—through her body. She’d never removed her gloves with a gentleman before. In London, it would be inappropriate for them to share company without gloves. Just as their unchaperoned dance would be. Strange, but this
hadn’t occurred to her until now. Apparently country ways were leaving their impression on her. Her lips curved up.

  “You look inordinately pleased.”

  She snapped her gaze to his. “You stopped the music.”

  “And yet you’re still dancing.” He continued to move her in time, as if the music played on. “Why were you smiling?”

  “Our dancing alone together like this is a bit scandalous, isn’t it? Or at least it would be in Town.”

  His eyes widened slightly, and his step faltered, but he didn’t halt. His gaze was intense. “You said you liked bold.”

  “And that’s why I’m here instead of in London.” Miranda returned his regard. He looked handsome tonight. As clean and well-turned out as he’d been at the vicarage. Here was a man who worked hard, yet seemed as comfortable on an imaginary dance floor as in the field. Remarkable.

  They swirled about the floor as if they danced every night. “I’m surprised you didn’t attend the assembly. You dance divinely.”

  He seemed to stand even taller. “Mrs. Gates insisted I learn to dance. And I, ah, I rather enjoy it.”

  She adjusted her hand on his shoulder, smoothed it over the blue wool. “Then I’m doubly surprised you didn’t go to the assembly.”

  He flicked her an intense glance. “I’m too busy to bother with social endeavors.”

  She felt the burden in the knotted muscles beneath her hand. “The orphanage?”

  His fingers splayed across her spine, and the divine closeness of their dance rushed over her once more. If he’d been any other man... “And other responsibilities, yes.”

  She tilted her head, working to ignore the shocking thrill of his touch. Focus on his words, Miranda. “Bassett Manor?”

  He raised a brow, seeming to have regained his earlier sense of happy amusement. “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He inclined his head. “It’s been in my family for centuries. It was built in the late 1100s, destroyed by fire a few centuries later and rebuilt. When the house was ruined, our neighbors at Stipple’s End invited my ancestors to stay with them. The prolonged visit culminated in the marriage of my several times great-grandfather from Bassett Manor to my several times great-grandmother from Stipple’s End, thus joining the properties. Together they make up just over two thousand acres.”

  She’d no idea his holdings were so vast or the history so rich. “It’s no wonder you’re so busy, especially since the leak in the hall started up again.” She studied him. He seemed so capable, and yet...“How can you let it go unchecked?”

  He stopped. Abruptly. Miranda tottered on her feet, but he steadied her before dropping his hands. “It’s not unchecked. I am well aware of the threat it poses.” He turned and strode to the fireplace, keeping his back to her.

  “I’m no expert, but surely you can at least throw a piece of canvas over the hole.”

  He turned and the stark lines of his face were cast into relief as firelight flickered behind him. “Do you have a spare piece of canvas, Lady Miranda?” His tone chilled her mood. The camaraderie they’d shared during the waltz gone as if it had never been.

  Too late, Miranda wondered if he couldn’t afford canvas. She’d no idea how much it cost. “There’s no call to be boorish.”

  He took a step forward. His eyes sparked. “I can see you have no conception of how the real world works.”

  Why was he so angry? She hadn’t insulted him. At least, she hadn’t meant to. “Perhaps not. But what is the real world, Mr. Foxcroft? What is real to you may not be what is real to me.”

  The flesh around his mouth tightened. “Just because you don’t see it, don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. This orphanage, these lives,” he swept his arm in a wide arc, “are more real than anything you’ll ever encounter.”

  Now he was insulting her. “I’ll just go back upstairs until Mrs. Gates returns. Good night, Mr. Foxcroft.”

  Miranda turned on her heel and quit the room. Only as she climbed the stairs did she realize she hadn’t gotten a book.

  Chapter Six

  FOX slammed his fist on the mantel. Things had been going perfectly, and he’d allowed his pride to get the better of him.

  She’d danced with him. Fox. Not the highwayman. Not Stratham. Montgomery Foxcroft.

  Hell’s teeth, he was an idiot. She hadn’t meant to insult him. At least he didn’t think so.

  He pushed away from the mantel and stared into the fire. The repair they’d completed last month hadn’t held, and the leak had begun dripping again yesterday. A review of the roof that afternoon had revealed further damage, courtesy of the cold, wet weather. They could cover it with canvas, and he was damned irritated he hadn’t thought to do that. He’d been too focused on the repair. Or perhaps distracted by a tempting heiress.

  The seemingly silly London chit had come up with a solution, at least temporarily. The canvas would probably be sufficient for the summer, provided the weather improved, allowing him time to come up with additional funds. And he’d obtain those funds…from marrying her?

  Not bloody likely. Fox swiped his hand through his hair, not caring how tousled he appeared. She wouldn’t be coming back. He clenched his fist. He’d held her in his arms and allowed her to slip away.

  Would she have done so if she knew he and the highwayman were the same person? Had she even an inkling? She hadn’t seemed to. With the highwayman, she’d flirted, she’d teased, she’d invited. What about him brought those things out in her? How could he, as Fox, elicit those same responses?

  He’d been so close with the waltz. She’d been impressed, laughing, beautiful. Carefree. Unlike any woman he’d ever known. Ah, but to be as unfettered as she for even a short while. But he had been. In her arms.

  Heels tapped in the doorway. His head snapped up.

  Miranda paused just inside the library. She was lovely with her golden hair swept up from her neck, a few gentle curls wisping about her face. She wore an emerald gown, probably far grander than most at the assembly tonight. The color made her aqua eyes appear deeper, richer than any precious gem. Chin held high, swathes of color bloomed in her cheeks “Mr. Foxcroft. I came for a book. I forgot to take one with me.”

  “Is there a particular book you’re looking for?” Fox cleared his throat for he sounded as if he’d eaten sand.

  “Uh, no.” Her gaze moved over the room. She hesitated for a moment and then stepped before the bookshelf.

  He walked toward her, intent on making the most of this second chance. “I apologize for my behavior. I didn’t mean to insult you.” He stopped a few feet from her and rested his hand on the bookcase.

  She turned her head, her lashes sweeping over her eyes quickly before she looked forward once more. “You’re right. We’re from different worlds. I shouldn’t have presumed to know you or your work.”

  He ran his finger over a copy of Lyrical Ballads. “Actually, your tent idea is a good one. And you really must call me Fox. We might be from different worlds, but you’re in my world now, and in my world everyone calls me Fox.”

  She pivoted and fixed her aqua gaze on him. His body, already in heightened awareness, heated beneath her regard. She plucked his book from the shelf. “What were you reading?”

  “Tristram Shandy. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”

  She handed the book to him. “It was my brother’s favorite also. My eldest brother. The one who died.”

  He accepted the tome, wrapped his palm around the spine. “I’m sorry about that.”

  She glanced back at the bookshelf. “Don’t be sorry for me, be sorry for Jasper. He went from careless spare to scrutinized heir in the blink of an eye.”

  He loved hearing these details, wanted to know everything about her. And not just because it might make his seduction easier. “That was hard for Jasper?”

  The ghost of a smile played upon her face. Something kept her emotion for her family at bay. “Yes. He’s very active and though our fath
er encouraged athletic pursuits, he expected Jasper to be good at all things—including academia. Not that Jasper isn’t terribly intelligent, but he’s much happier riding than reading. These are all poetry here?” She inclined her head toward the row of books.

  “Yes. Novels are down there.” He turned to lead her down the wall, but paused. “I shouldn’t assume you want a novel. Perhaps you’d prefer a treatise on crop rotation?”

  She let out a soft, gentle laugh. It was short, but a sweeter sound he couldn’t imagine. “A novel, I think.”

  They strolled a few feet down the shelf and he stopped before the novels. “There are quite a few.”

  “You’re very knowledgeable about the orphanage library. Do you spend a lot of time here, then?”

  “Yes, you could say this is my library in that I don’t keep many books at Bassett Manor. It makes more sense to keep them here where the children may use and benefit from them.”

  “Your dedication to the orphans is remarkable.” She looked up at the shelves, strolled back and forth twice.

  “Do you want to look up there? I’ll get the stairs.” Fox deposited his book on the shelf and went to the mobile stairs in the corner. He pushed the large oak contraption toward Miranda, its wheels squeaking along the wood floor. He brought it to a stop in front of the novels.

  She turned to him, her pink lips parted. He imagined her tongue darting out and committing unspeakable acts. His temperature rose even higher, and suddenly his infernal cravat threatened to squeeze off his air supply. He held his hand out to assist her onto the stairs.

  She took it, her soft flesh connecting with his. The jolt of pleasure he’d enjoyed during their waltz spread through his frame. She seemed unaware of her effect on him. “Thank you.”

  Fox merely nodded. He assumed a position at the base of the stairs and watched her ascend, trying not to ogle her swaying backside. She perused the shelf another minute or two and then removed a volume before turning. As she stepped out to descend, her foot caught something—truthfully he wasn’t watching her feet—and the book flew out of her hands.