by Darcy Burke
His eyes darkened and he moved toward her. “Among other things.” He took her hand and a shiver raced up her arm. “Esteem is an excellent basis for a successful marriage. As is mutual respect. Similar interests. Dancing compatibility.” His lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Attraction.”
A flame sparked to life in Miranda’s belly, warming her body from the inside out. She’d felt like this when the bandit had kissed her… Damn if she wasn’t attracted to both a highwayman and Montgomery Foxcroft, of all people! Why couldn’t she conjure even a modicum of desire for someone like Stratham, or better yet one of those milksops in London her father would approve of?
She snatched her hand away just as Beatrice reentered the library. Miranda took a step back lest Beatrice draw a disastrous conclusion about their proximity.
Fox’s mouth hardened. As engaging as he’d looked a moment before, he appeared the complete opposite now—his features cold, unyielding.
Beatrice clutched a package. “Are you ready, Miranda?”
Fox’s mouth turned up once more, but there was bitterness in his expression. “We were just enjoying a nice, private discussion.”
Miranda caught his inflection on the word “private.” What was he about? She narrowed her eyes at him. “Thank you for your assistance this afternoon. Good day, Fox.”
Beatrice said goodbye and exited with Miranda. In the hall, Beatrice picked up her bonnet from a table and tied it under her chin. “The children really do adore you. Today was chaotic, but everyone had such a good time. You bring that to them. A sense of…joy.” She blinked at Miranda as if she couldn’t quite believe it.
Miranda should have felt happy, but while she’d given the children an afternoon to cherish, she’d given Fox another memory he’d probably like to forget.
And what would her lasting impression be? Would she recall her time here fondly or be glad to leave it behind her? She hoped it would be a combination of the two because she didn’t want to miss them.
But she suspected she already did.
FOX looked down at the ledger, staring at the columns of numbers until they blurred together. The money he’d stolen from Stratham hadn’t been as much as he’d hoped, but would’ve been sufficient to fix the roof. If half the food store hadn’t gone rotten because the kitchen now leaked. If a half dozen of the children hadn’t fallen ill and required medical attention. If three of the boys hadn’t needed new clothes and shoes.
Money was always short at this time, but the upcoming harvest usually promised an influx of funds that would see them through another year. Usually. But what crops hadn’t died over the cool, wet summer wouldn’t provide enough product. It was going to be a lean winter. And spring. And summer.
Fox rested his temple against his hand and looked out the window into the backyard. The children were playing ball. Miranda came into view, her golden hair swept onto her head, her peach dress, like everything else she wore—like her—still too fancy for their humble orphanage.
With fall nearly upon them, he supposed she would be leaving soon. And she’d confirmed she’d be going. He chastised himself anew for not taking her into his arms and kissing her senseless when Beatrice had entered the library after the dance lesson last week. A perfect opportunity to compromise Miranda wasted.
And he’d made the decision to compromise her. He’d done it on the road after stealing Stratham’s tribute money and kissing her had only stoked his need.
That day he’d stood in the doorway at least a quarter hour watching her lead the children in the complicated steps of some dance. The task had been difficult, but she’d shown patience, compassion, and some other emotion…could it be love?
Love.
The word drove a knife clean through his heart. Did he love her? He didn’t know, but he wanted her for more than money. More than desire. He wanted her here. With him. With all of them. He’d never seen the children so happy. So light. He’d never felt so happy or light—and that said a lot given his cursed financial woes.
And they were as bad as ever. He slammed the ledger shut. He was running out of time and she was clearly avoiding him, ensuring they were never alone together. Making a compromise all but impossible. Dammit, but he wished he could turn back the clock to the night of the assembly. He got to his feet and strode into the corridor. As he entered the main hall, Mrs. Gates was just letting Mr. Carmody inside. He’d be an excellent witness to a compromise.
The older man nodded. “Good afternoon, Fox. Where might I find Lady Miranda?”
Mrs. Gates answered before Fox could. “I’ll just run and get her.” She bustled from the hall, leaving the two men alone.
Carmody’s gaze traveled the length of the hall and settled on the barrel in the corner. The roof wasn’t dripping, but they’d left the barrel just in case. “You’ve got a leak there?”
Fox swallowed a sarcastic retort. “Yes.”
Carmody continued his perusal. “Must be a lot of work, a building this old.” He looked directly at Fox. “But then, your own estate is just as ancient, is it not?”
Fox said nothing, gritting his teeth instead.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Miranda entered the hall and suddenly the tattered furniture and threadbare rugs seemed even more decrepit. She glanced over at Fox before fixing her attention on Carmody.
Beatrice followed on Miranda’s heels. “Good afternoon, Father. If you’ve come to fetch us home, we’re not ready to leave.”
Carmody glanced at his fob watch. “You may stay. I’ve come to collect Lady Miranda. Her parents have arrived.”
Fox’s stomach collapsed on itself.
Miranda’s eyes widened. “My parents are here?”
Carmody nodded. “At Birch House. I bade them rest after their journey while I came to fetch you.”
Fox noted Miranda’s heightened color and the flexing of her hands against her skirt. After a moment she said, “Am I to return to London?”
Carmody slid a bored look at Miranda beneath hooded lids. “I’m sure I don’t know Their Graces’ plans. But you’d best not keep them waiting.”
Beatrice touched Miranda’s arm. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
Carmody straightened. “That won’t be necessary, Beatrice. I’ll send the carriage back at the appointed time. Your presence is not required.”
Beatrice pursed her lips and gave a slight nod before retreating from the hall.
Miranda shook her head as if she’d drifted off for a moment. “I should say goodbye to Mrs. Gates and the children.” She looked at Fox, and the sadness in her eyes twisted his gut.
Carmody cleared his throat. “There isn’t time.”
She turned toward the back of the house. “It won’t take but a moment.”
“Once again you demonstrate why your parents sent you here in the first place,” Carmody snapped. “We should have been on our way already if not for your argument.”
Fox plastered his hands against his legs lest he do something foolish like hit Carmody or embrace Miranda. He wanted to do both.
Miranda spun about. “I wasn’t—” She pressed her lips together, and Fox imagined her teeth were clenched behind them. “Never mind. Let us depart at once.”
Fox stepped toward her and reached out as if to touch her arm, but then dropped his hand. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll understand.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “I—tell them I’ll be back.”
Fox wasn’t sure he believed her. Not when she’d been yearning for this day. “It’s all right. It’s nearly fall anyway.” He didn’t say the words: you won’t be back.
Miranda gathered her bonnet and gloves from a table near the door. She looked at Fox as if she would say something, but then glanced at Carmody. “I’m ready.”
Carmody touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Fox.”
The door closed behind them. The winter would be dark and mean indeed.
Chapter Nine
THE carr
iage ride to Birch House was both interminable and over far too soon. Thankfully, Mr. Carmody said nothing. Although even his annoying conversation might have been better than the anxiety threatening to eat Miranda’s stomach away.
Her parents’ coach stood in the drive, the perfectly matched bays tended by one of the footmen. As Miranda alighted from Mr. Carmody’s carriage, she raised a hand to the coachman. He smiled and waved in return. The friendly gesture gave her just the fortitude she needed to go into the house and face uncertainty.
Carmody stepped inside behind her and handed his hat to Fitchley. He turned to Miranda. “His Grace and Her Grace are in the drawing room.”
Miranda nodded and slowly opened the door of the largest room at Birch House—though it would fit inside Miranda’s bedchamber—situated off the foyer.
“There you are, gel,” the duke stalked toward her from the other side of the room. “Sit.” He gestured to a chair positioned near the settee, where her mother perched with a distasteful expression creasing her classical features.
Wishing to appear dutiful and respectful, Miranda did as she was told and sat in the chair her father indicated. “Good afternoon, Father, Mother.” She inclined her head at both of them and dared to smile. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
The duke clasped his hands behind his back. Let the pacing commence. Miranda gripped her hands together even as she maintained what she hoped to be a placid expression.
He strode behind the settee where her mother perched. His brows drew together in his most stern countenance. “Carmody tells me you’ve been quite popular despite your social prohibition.”
What on earth did he mean? She wasn’t exactly certain what he knew of her activities this summer, other than Carmody had informed him of her ill-conceived kiss with the highwayman on their trip to Wiltshire. Thank God no one knew she’d repeated the offense. She shoved the memory away. She could not think about that right now! Likely, Carmody had told him about Stratham attempting to court her, damn the man.
“Mr. Carmody is mistaken.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her father continued his circuit of the room, pausing by Miranda’s chair. “The local MP has been courting you. I hear he’s been spending time at the orphanage where you’re supposed to be working.”
Miranda tamped down her anger. Her father despised emotional displays. “Mr. Stratham has visited the orphanage, but I have not encouraged him. What has Mr. Carmody told you?”
Father wagged his finger at her. “Don’t deflect this on Carmody. I’ve no doubt he’s shared the complete truth of the matter. I’ll call on this Stratham myself and instruct him to leave you alone.”
Apprehension gnawed at Miranda’s belly. “Why would you need to do that if I am to be leaving?”
“You’re not leaving.” Her mother’s voice might have soothed Miranda’s frayed temper, but the words she uttered had the opposite effect.
Forgetting—as she usually did—that she meant to retain a calm demeanor, Miranda shot to her feet. “But it’s September! My friends will be expecting me in town!”
“Sit.” The duke loomed over the settee.
Miranda exhaled loudly and dropped back onto the chair. “Why did you bother coming if you planned to leave me here? I’ve done nothing to warrant this.”
“Nothing?” Her father’s blue eyes widened. “Attending pugilistic bouts in Covent Garden is nothing? Nearly compromising yourself on the Dark Walk at Vauxhall is nothing? Embracing highwaymen is nothing?” His voice rose with each subsequent question until it reached a near-deafening crescendo.
Miranda winced. “I meant I’ve done nothing recently. I’ve been a model, er, prisoner.”
“You think this a prison?” Her father spread his arms to indicate the meager drawing room. “This is nothing,” he spat.
His words flayed her better than any physical punishment. Could she do nothing to please them? She’d redouble her efforts at the orphanage. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve been…lenient.” She prayed this is what they wanted to hear. “I like working at the orphanage, and I believe it’s had a positive effect on me. Perhaps you will come see what I do there?”
Her mother’s face registered a flash of emotion—distaste, maybe—her eyes and nose flaring quickly before she regained her composure. “A pretty speech, but I’m not sure I believe you’ve learned a thing since arriving here. We’d hoped you’d have at least ascertained a shred of humility.” She completely ignored Miranda’s invitation to visit the orphanage. Had she really expected them to take interest in any endeavor that didn’t directly affect them, either positive or negative?
“We received your letters.” Her father drilled her with a probing stare. The kind that made her feel as if she was eight years old and had just made her governess cry. “The one thing they lack is contrition for your scandalous behavior. Now, your seemingly regretful attitude in our presence weakens your credibility. You must change the way you act, not speak empty promises.”
“I am. I mean, I will.” The words sounded hollow, even to her ears. Even so, it was what they wanted to hear, and she couldn’t stop herself from trying to please them. She had their attention, but that was easy to obtain. She needed their approval.
Her father’s lips whitened. After a moment, he turned from her and resumed pacing.
Her mother sat as stoic as ever. “Your father and I believe your reputation is improving with your absence from Society. But you must behave appropriately, even in this place.”
Her reputation couldn’t be in tatters. None of her friends’ reputations were in danger. They’d engaged in harmless amusements. “Francesca, Lord Dunbar, Darleigh—they haven’t been adversely affected.”
Lines accentuated her mother’s mouth and eyes, likely from her wearing an expression of perpetual disappointment. “Francesca was compromised by Lord Dunbar at a house party in July.”
Miranda nearly raised her hand to her mouth, but kept it firmly in her lap lest her parents see how this news shocked her. She refused to give them the satisfaction. Poor Frannie. Dunbar was a jolly fellow, but not at all husband material. Miranda wondered if she hadn’t been too extreme in her behavior. If she’d kissed anyone but a highwayman in front of Beatrice and Mr. Carmody, she’d be married by now. She swallowed against her tightening throat.
Her father halted before her chair. “And what have you to say about that?”
Would she always feel the recalcitrant child in his presence? She looked up at him. “I’m sorry for Francesca. And I understand how my past actions could have negative effects.” And she truly did, but she was smarter than featherheaded Frannie.
“Harrumph.” Her father continued pacing. “Because you’ve proven time and again you can’t be trusted, we’ve decided you must marry as soon as possible. We will find a suitable husband and send for you as soon as we do. In the meantime, you will go on as you have here. Without this Stratham’s attention, of course.”
Miranda’s stomach caved in as if she’d been punched. They didn’t want her anymore. They were anxious for her to be someone else’s problem. Yes, they saw her as a problem. But, marry? Wasn’t she far enough out of the way in Wootton Bassett? Gathering her courage, she dared to ask, “Have you anyone in mind?”
He didn’t pause, but continued on his path around the room. “We are on our way to a house party at Wokingham. The duke is interested in a wife of appropriate breeding and money for his second son.”
“I’m not good enough for his heir?” She muttered the words, but her mother had the hearing of a hound.
“His heir is already betrothed.” The duchess’s blue-gray eyes held no warmth. How Miranda wished for even the slightest sign of affection.
“But Lord Walter is paunchy and sallow. And he smells of cheese.” Miranda wrinkled her nose. “If my prospects are so awful, why not encourage the attention of Stratham? He’s wealthy. Though not titled, he’s an MP. Surely I could do worse.” Such as a highwayman.
Father smacked
his hand down on the back of the settee. “Dammit, girl! You’ll marry well. Not some common oaf from the country. I don’t care if he is an MP…” He went on, but Miranda’s attention turned inward.
For some reason her father’s disdain for Stratham made her curl her fingernails into her palm. It wasn’t that he maligned Stratham specifically, because in truth she wouldn’t want to marry him in any case. No, it was his overall derision for the country. Her thoughts arrested for a moment. She’d practically made a pastime of deriding her banishment, particularly her locale! And now she found herself wanting to defend Wootton Bassett and its inhabitants. She shook her head and tried to focus on whatever her father droned on about.
“Your duty is to marry as we see fit.” Ah, he’d continued on about the marriage. Nothing new there. She’d been listening to the same diatribe her entire life.
Miranda looked at her mother, hoping to appeal to her feminine sensibilities. “Am I to have no say then? You were allowed to choose each other.” Even if her parents didn’t love each other—and Miranda was fairly certain they didn’t—they’d entered into their marriage willingly. Certainly Miranda wasn’t selfish to want at least that much for herself. But was that all she wanted?
Her father opened his mouth, but her mother held up a staying hand. “You would have had a choice, but you squandered that with your appalling behavior. We will endeavor to find a gentleman who is both worthy of your heritage and your admiration. Lord Walter fits both of those requirements.”
Miranda swallowed her protestations that she could never admire Lord Walter. She stared at her parents, trying to quell the mutiny building inside of her.
Her mother finally stood. “We will take our leave now. I know you’re still angry, Miranda, but I hope you will see in time that we want only what is best for you.” She walked to Miranda and patted her hand. At last, a small morsel of care.
Yes, she was still upset, but Miranda took her mother’s touch as eagerly as the children grasped for dessert at the orphanage. “Will you at least write to me?”
