by Darcy Burke
“Yes, there is a ballroom. It’s not overly large—”
Miranda jumped to her feet. The thick cake of mud and gravel pasted to the soles of her boots made her stance uneven. Embarrassing, but what did one do about it in the country? “Please, will you show us? I’m sure it’s more than adequate. I should like to see how many musicians might be accommodated.”
Beatrice also stood, her features schooled into impassivity, but Miranda knew better. Oh, she’d make it up to her!
Mr. Stratham had no choice but to join them. He wore a befuddled expression, his mouth partly open and his brow furrowed. If he wanted to decline the use of his property, he didn’t say so.
Miranda stepped toward him to deliver the coup de grace. She took his arm, linking hers through it and then rested her other hand on top. She cocked her head so she displayed the column of her neck to its best advantage and gave him a flirtatious smile. His eyes crinkled at the edges as they narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“I will be eternally grateful for your pledge of assistance, Mr. Stratham.” She peered up at him using the same hooded gaze she’d employed with Charles Darleigh when she’d convinced him to take her to a fight in Covent Garden.
Stratham’s mouth relaxed into the familiar grin, and she knew victory was hers. He patted her hand. “I should be delighted to share my home.”
The trio exited the Gold Room and entered another sitting room decorated in mostly yellow, and yes, some gold. From there, they stepped into a large room, which was clearly the dedicated ballroom. A semi-circular dais sat at the far left end, while on the opposite wall four sets of glass paned double doors led to a patio. Wide windows filled the spaces between the doors and gave an expansive view of a well organized garden and the park land beyond.
Miranda noted the very new parquet floor. Lady Hess had had a similar floor installed in her London townhouse several months ago. “What an elegant space, Mr. Stratham. When did you last entertain?”
Mr. Stratham didn’t look at her as he answered. “Over two years ago, before my wife passed.”
“Oh yes, I had heard of your tragedy. That must have been very difficult.” Miranda gave his arm a gentle squeeze.
“Indeed, but life moves ever onward and so must we.” He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual effusive grin and a shadow haunted his eyes.
Miranda wondered if his marriage had been a love match. If so, then Fox had merely been the recipient of poor luck. Miranda didn’t like this scenario, and not because she felt particularly sad that Mr. Stratham had lost his wife. No, it meant Fox had known a series of misfortunes from his father’s financial betrayal to the loss of the woman he hoped to marry to his current state of ceaseless worry over the orphanage. Why did she want to fix things for him? She didn’t want to answer that question and promptly pushed it to the back of her mind.
Miranda stepped away from Mr. Stratham and looked down at the gleaming wood, ignoring her inner thoughts. “This floor looks brand new. Parquet is quite the rage.”
Mr. Stratham clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the room as if he, too, were assessing the floor. “I just had it put in over the summer.”
Miranda gestured for Beatrice to come further into the room. “Beatrice, have you ever seen such a beautiful pattern of wood?”
Beatrice came to stand by Miranda. Dirt flaked from her boots and Miranda noted they’d both left a bit of a trail. She would have apologized if she hadn’t been so annoyed. He’d been redecorating his already splendid estate while the orphanage leaked? And to what end if he didn’t even entertain?
She’d only thought to have him cover the cost of the decorations for the fundraiser, but now she’d include the food and musicians as well. “It’s lovely. And it will provide the perfect backdrop for our party. This will be the event of the season, Mr. Stratham. Everyone who is anyone in northern Wiltshire will come.” Miranda turned as she said the last, putting her back to the windows.
Mr. Stratham paused in the middle of the room. “Lord Norris hosts a party in September. I’m not certain he’ll attend.” A muscle in his neck twitched, giving Miranda the impression he was somehow disquieted. She couldn’t imagine why, but neither did she particularly care.
“I recall you telling me about Lord Norris’s annual party.” Miranda turned in a circle, contemplating how to attract the district’s most esteemed resident to attend their benefit. She stopped upon seeing Beatrice. “Beatrice, have you any thoughts as to how we might encourage Lord Norris’s attendance?”
Beatrice’s tone was ice cold. “He is particular to antiquities.”
Miranda recalled their conversation in early summer in Fox’s cart. It seemed forever ago. “Ah yes, he’s a member of the London Natural Society of Antiquities and Oddities along with my godfather.” Miranda clapped her hands. “I will write to Lord Septon at once! He will know precisely what will draw Lord Norris’s attention. Perhaps we could display antiquities, like in a museum?” As soon as she said this, she realized they’d likely never find enough to rival an actual museum. “Or maybe we could sell something he’d like to buy. Of course, we’ll have to procure the item at little or no cost.” Her voice trailed off as her mind churned.
“You seem to think of everything.” It was impossible to overlook the sarcasm lacing Beatrice’s statement.
Turning to Mr. Stratham, Miranda ignored Beatrice’s discomfort. “Now, let us discuss the date of our event, as well as the refreshments. Mrs. Gates assures me we will be able to procure the musicians who play for the assemblies.” If Mr. Stratham had an opinion regarding their using the same people who provided music for the local assemblies, he didn’t show it. “Should we return to the Gold Room? I find I’m in desperate need of tea.”
Instead of taking Mr. Stratham’s arm, Miranda took Beatrice’s and preceded their host from the room without waiting for his response. After all, Miranda didn’t really need it.
FOX shifted in his chair and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d ended up in a meeting with four women discussing decorations and music and food. Miranda stood at the head of the dining room table at Stipple’s End. Mrs. Gates and Beatrice sat on one side, while Felicity Knott, Rob’s wife, sat on the other. At least Fox was safely ensconced at the opposite end.
“What do you think, Fox?” Mrs. Gates sat forward and peered down the length of the table. Not safe enough, apparently.
“Er, about what?”
Miranda answered. “About selling antiquities to garner Lord Norris’s attention. My godfather, Lord Septon, will be coming from London with a few of his antiquity society friends. I’m counting on their presence to attract Lord Norris, but we’ll need things to sell. Mrs. Gates thought you might have something at Bassett Manor.”
Fox drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. Bassett Manor was filled with ancient things, most of them utterly worthless. Anything of import had been sold over the past eighteen months to pay the accumulating debts and to keep the children fed and clothed. Even so, there were a few tapestries some female relative had woven back in the fourteenth century that still had a measure of color to them. “I have some tapestries. You’re welcome to them.”
“Tapestries, you say?” Mrs. Gates sat straight in her chair. “We have some tapestries on the third floor in the dormitory wing. I’d forgotten all about them. They used to hang in the great hall. Perhaps they are worth something?”
Miranda clapped her hands together. “Excellent!”
Fox ignored whatever she said next. He preferred to focus on the alluring way her eyes flashed when she spoke in the animated fashion she currently employed. She was so engaging, he’d no doubt they’d all donate their firstborn to aid her cause. He was only glad her cause was his cause.
For now.
Then she said “Stratham,” and he snapped to attention. “What does Stratham have to do with any of this?”
A pale flush of pink tinted Miranda’s cheeks. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. We’re holding the event at
Stratham Hall.”
Fox leapt out of his chair before checking his temper. “No. Absolutely not. We’ll have it here.”
“Now, Fox, we can’t have it here. With respect to you and Mrs. Gates, Stipple’s End is not the appropriate place to have an elegant party, even if it were in the best of condition.” She used a sweet, soft tone likely meant to placate, but it grated against his nerves.
“Bassett Manor, then.”
Mrs. Gates stood. “Fox, Stratham Hall will encourage people to attend. Mr. Stratham hasn’t opened his house since”—her gaze flicked down—“well, he hasn’t opened it in years.”
Fox knew very well the last time Stratham had entertained, not that he’d attended. It was before Jane died. Fox had been invited to the occasion, their first ball, but he’d preferred grooming his horse or perhaps counting the blades of grass in Bassett Manor’s park—whatever he’d done—to spending an evening at Stratham’s garish house.
“I don’t care if he wants to host the bloody Prince Regent, I’m not having the event there.” He strode from the room without giving them a chance to respond. Before he made it halfway down the back hall, Miranda stopped him by grabbing his arm.
“Wait. You must listen to reason.” She raised her brow in a thoroughly supercilious manner, daring him to continue his flight.
“Fine.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Persuade me.”
She straightened her spine and raised her chin. “As Mrs. Gates said, Stratham Hall itself will draw people to attend. Further, I’ve convinced Mr. Stratham to donate considerably more than his home.”
Fox pushed away from the wall. “What’s he doing?”
Shadows fell across her face. “He’s paying for the decorations, the food, the music.”
At once, Fox was pleased Stratham would finally put his money to good use, and disgusted he had to rely on the man who’d extorted that money from so many in the district.
She stepped forward and tipped her head up. Light splayed across the upper half of her face. “We can’t do it without him.”
She might as well have driven a knife into his gut.
Fox put his hands on his waist. “So he’s hosting this party then. With you.”
Her eyes widened briefly and her lips parted. “No, he’s not the host. Well, yes, I suppose he is. But it’s not as if we’re giving a party together.”
He felt his lip curl. “And this activity is within the confines of your punishment?”
She closed her mouth tight. Tiny lines formed on her forehead belying her irritation. “My punishment is none of your concern, but yes, I’m allowed to oversee this event because it is part of my work at Stipple’s End.”
“How convenient for you. I presume your parents must approve of Stratham, then. Perhaps he will even be your mysterious bridegroom.”
She arched her brow. “Actually, my parents believe he’s quite beneath me. They are currently husband hunting elsewhere.” She moved a hair’s breadth closer. “I’m not marrying Stratham.”
While her words mollified him, they didn’t change the fact she wasn’t marrying him, either. And if Stratham was “quite beneath” her, then Fox had to be positively inconsequential—not even worth discussing, he’d bet. In that moment, his pride dearly wished he could tell Miranda and her infernal father to go to the devil.
“Oh, Fox.” Mrs. Gates entered the back hallway and Miranda immediately stepped back. Another opportunity for compromise squandered. “Would you mind showing Miranda the room we use for storage up on the third floor? I’ve a baking lesson this afternoon.” She continued to the end of the hall and then outside.
Fox leaned forward, still angry at having to accept anything from a man he despised—and probably more than a bit irritated at his missed opportunity. Perhaps he should pull Miranda into an embrace and call Mrs. Gates back? Instead, he said, “I’m sure you don’t need my help. Should I send for Stratham?”
She put a fist on her hip. “You’re being obnoxious. We’re saving your orphanage. I know you can’t abide Stratham, but can’t you put your anger aside for the sake of the children?”
Put like that, Fox was a selfish ass. He started down the hallway toward the great hall and the main staircase. “Follow me.”
They went up to the second floor. When they reached the landing, he took her past the dormitories to the end of the hall where another staircase led to the third floor. The stairs were covered with a threadbare carpet that might have once been red. They creaked as he took the first step.
“I haven’t been up here in awhile.” Was he trying to excuse whatever disrepair or dishevelment they might find on the third floor?
Servant rooms lined the corridor, but none were currently used. An odor of aged wood and mildew assailed his nose. Christ, a leak probably trickled around this corner of the building as well. He swiped a hand over his face and crossed the hall.
He opened a door and stepped into a cluttered chamber. Trunks were lined against one wall and a sturdy wardrobe stood in the corner. A large window facing the front drive illuminated a film of dust covering everything.
Miranda came in behind him and immediately went to an old table, upon which were draped a pile of tapestries. Skimming her fingers over the muted threads, she said, “Help me turn this over.”
Fox went to help her and together they flipped the heavy piece. She gasped at the vibrant beauty on the reverse—a bucolic scene with rich green and gold fields and dancing children with rosy cheeks. “This is stunning.” She glanced up at him. “They seem very dear, don’t they?”
Fox knew next to nothing about tapestries. “I can’t say. They’re in far better condition than the ones at Bassett Manor. I’d wager Norris will at least be interested enough to come to your event.”
“It’s our event, Fox.” Miranda flashed him an exasperated look and then lifted the edge of the tapestry. “There are at least five of them here.” She grinned at him.
He felt her excitement as well as saw it in the sparkle of her eyes and the wide set of her mouth. Clinging to his foul mood was proving difficult.
“Let’s see what else we can find up here,” she said, moving to the armoire in the corner. She tried to open it, but the door wouldn’t budge.
“There’s a latch at the top.” Before Fox could get there and open it for her, she stood on her toes and pulled at the latch. Still, it didn’t move, and neither did she.
“My dress is caught.”
Fox went to stand beside her—right beside her since he had to get close enough to work the fabric free—and plucked at her sleeve. The ribbon trim at her wrist had unraveled and caught on the latch. Inadvertently, he loosed the latch and the door immediately swung open, taking her along with it. She skipped to the side, but lost her balance anyway.
Fox grabbed her around the waist. “Put your other hand around my neck.” While he held her with his left arm, he tried again to free her wrist with his right hand. Her spicy orange scent conquered his senses. Her golden hair tickled his chin. Her arm curled around his neck, her fingers splaying over his right shoulder. Heat spread from that shoulder to every part of his body. He needed to get her arm free, but at the same time couldn’t bear to let her go.
Her breathing came steady while his seemed shallow and uneven. He hoped to God she didn’t notice. After what seemed forever, he untangled the ribbon from the latch and set her on her feet.
He expected her to inspect her tattered dress. Instead, she cradled her wrist in her right hand and looked up at him. “Thank you.”
Fox stared at her, studied every nuance of her reaction. Her pulse beat in her throat, strong and maybe a tad fast. Perhaps she wasn’t as immune as he’d originally perceived. “I’ve wanted to apologize for the day at the pond. I meant to ask you in a different setting.”
She massaged her wrist and her fingers played with the torn velvet ribbon, avoiding his gaze. “I hope you understand my choices are not really my own.”
Was she sa
ying she might have chosen him if she could? Maybe he should drag her off to Gretna Green…
She dropped her hands. “My marriage will be for my parents, not for me. Fox, you’ll make someone an excellent husband.” She reached out and touched his hand, igniting a fire of need that would not—could not—be doused. “I truly hope that for you.”
And she did. He could see it in her eyes. Even so, it did nothing to assuage his disappointment. He’d fallen in love with her. Not that it mattered. She’d be leaving soon to marry someone else, unless he did something drastic. Perhaps something that would ensure she never loved him in return. Could he do that?
“Shall we look through the armoire, then? We did go to an awful lot of trouble.” She smiled impishly, but Fox wasn’t in the mood to return the sentiment.
“I’ll let you continue the search. I’ve other matters that require my attention.” He glanced down at her hand, still resting on his. He clasped it between his and used every bit of his willpower not to press a kiss to her palm. “Thank you for all you’re doing. Stipple’s End will sorely miss your presence when you leave.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but he couldn’t discern her emotion. “And I shall miss it, too.” She retracted her hand, and he felt the loss all the way to his toes. “I’m not gone yet, and before I go, I mean to raise so much money that you won’t need to worry at all.”
God, but he had never wanted to touch another person more than he wanted to touch her in that moment. “If anyone can, it’s you, Miranda. I’ve no doubt it’s you.” He wracked his mind for another tortured moment, but in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but let her go.
Chapter Eleven
THE following week, a carriage rattling up the drive to Birch House drew Miranda’s attention from the list of food she was making for the benefit. Though the day was dim and gray, and the view from the drawing room window was distorted from sheets of rain sluicing down the panes, she could just make out her father’s crest on the coach.
