by Joan Smith
For three days he had come and observed, listening and watching her from the corner of his eye while he mingled, growing more frustrated by the minute, waiting for his chance for a private word. But she was wily as a fox. She was never alone for an instant. She preferred any company, even Jeremy’s, to his. Yet he knew as surely as he knew his name that he was the one she was always thinking of. Her unwavering vigilance confirmed it. The haunting memory of that stolen kiss told him he could win her yet, if only he could be alone with her for five minutes.
At odd moments he would glance up and see her eyes studying him in an uncertain, perplexed way. Almost as if she regretted her arctic behavior. She would invariably avert her eyes in haste. Sometime she would flush, sometimes she would grow pale. Or perhaps that was his imagination, or a trick of light. Why was she behaving like this? At least she was not indifferent. It was as if an invisible bar joined them, holding them together, but at a distance.
Patience was not Lord Bolton’s long suit. He knew he could not endure this treatment much longer without doing something rash, probably something that would destroy his chances irrevocably. But he had not quite reached that stage yet.
It was Helen, hoping for a few private moments with Hume, who said, “Why don’t you come with us to choose the glasses, Max?”
Max could foresee no opportunity for privacy when Hume and Helen were present. He felt the need of air and exercise. He would go for a long, hard ride, and not in polite Rotten Row either. He would take his mount out the Chelsea Road and ride away these blue devils.
“Actually I have something I must do,” he said, and turned away. Was he imagining the tense strain on Miranda’s face before he replied, and the look of relief after?
“Will we see you at the Morrison’s party this evening?” Helen asked.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the rigid, wary look was back on Miranda’s face. To settle his doubts, he said, “I’m afraid I won’t be there, Helen. I have another commitment.” No, he wasn’t imagining it. As his eyes flickered to observe Miranda’s reaction, he noticed she looked vastly relieved to know she would have an evening free of his unwanted presence. And yet... She was not entirely happy either. There was an air of regret on that wistful, beautiful face.
“I must take my leave of Mrs. Hazard,” he said, and left abruptly, for he knew if he stayed he would grab Miranda and shake an answer out of her. He also knew he would be at Morrison’s party. He couldn’t stay away.
He drove to Newman’s stable and rode his horse out to the Chelsea Road. Once away from the city traffic, he urged Rosinante on to a gallop. He had brought the mare back from Spain. His colonel, who had been killed in battle, had bequeathed the mount to him. Colonel Sanderson had named the horse after Don Quixote’s mount, for he felt, at times, like that foolish, chivalrous gentleman, tilting at the windmills constructed by the lords at Whitehall who sent such impossible orders to Wellington.
Rosi was a sweet goer, sensitive to the slightest hint. She intuited her master’s frustration and put her large heart into the effort of pleasing him. The inclement weather just suited Bolton’s mood. They galloped into the wind, mindless of the dark clouds gathering overhead, past farms where cattle grazed in cropped fields, past orchards with apple pickers gathering the fruit into baskets for market, past meadows dotted with fat, lazy sheep, their fleece thickening for the coming winter.
And as he rode past the richness of rural England, he remembered the poverty and desolation of war-torn Spain, and his heart grew heavy. He was back in prosperous, peaceful England. He was young, he had all his limbs, he had wealth, he should be happy. Yet he felt as bereft as the poorest peasant of Spain. What was the good of it all if he couldn’t share it with the woman he loved better than he loved South Winds? What did it all matter, if Miranda despised him? Miranda, with her glossy black hair, her ivory face and her dark, Spanish eyes. Eyes that studied him in secret, looking for — what?
In his preoccupation, he didn’t see the rabbit that darted from nowhere and caused Rosinante to lose her stride and stumble. Max wasn’t thrown from his mount, but as Rosinante picked up the pace, he noticed her uneven gait. He dismounted at once and examined her ankles. She emitted a pained neigh when he massaged the right foreleg. He had just passed an inn. He walked Rosinante back and took her to the stable.
Rosi was more than just a mount to Bolton. They had been through hell together in Spain. He couldn’t leave her in the hands of strangers. He worked with the groom, tenderly massaging the ankle, applying liniment and a bandage. He was relieved to see the groom knew what he was doing, and had a real love of horses.
“She won’t want to be rid for a day or two,” the groom said. “Let the sprain heal. I can lend you a hack to get to where you’re going. I’ll see this beauty’s well cared for.”
Max noticed that the stable was clean. The oats were fresh, the loose boxes in good repair.
“I’ll just put a blanket over her and make her up some hot mash,” the groom continued. “They like a little pampering when they’ve been hurt.”
It was what Bolton would have done himself. He was satisfied that Rosi wouldn’t suffer. He stayed with her until she had eaten the mash, patting her velvet nose and caressing her flank, and she whinnied her gratitude.
He decided to take dinner at the inn. If Rosi seemed well after, he would return to London on the hired hack. Since Miranda thought he wasn’t attending the party, her guard would be down. Perhaps he could catch her unawares and get some sense out of her. He wouldn’t frighten her. Just some calm, sane talk, to learn what bothered her.
At Berkeley Square, Miranda was easy in her mind that the party would be just a party. Bolton wouldn’t be there to annoy and excite her. She wouldn’t have to duck around corners to escape him. She wouldn’t look up from a conversation to find his dark eyes gazing at her with an intentness that made her heart thud like thunder and her throat ache. There would be no possibility that he might outwit her and actually get her alone in a room to overpower her again with his hot kisses and words he shouldn’t say to anyone but his wife.
What a dull party it would be after all.
Chapter Thirteen
It occurred to Miranda that with Lord Bolton’s absence assured from Morrison’s rout party, she would not have to use Hume as a shield. This was her chance to turn him off once and for all. He was becoming peculiarly proprietary in his attentions. He had slipped an arm around her waist that afternoon in Lord Croft’s conservatory and tried to kiss her. She had let him know she was not interested in an affair.
He hadn’t flinched, but said, “Nor am I, my dear. It is a long time since I have met a lady with whom I could anticipate spending the rest of my life without dying of boredom.”
“No, please, Alfred. I am not thinking of marrying again. Truly I am not.” He looked so crestfallen that she had added, “It’s nothing personal, you understand. I — I like you. It is just that I am not ready…” Her breathless voice petered off to silence.
“I have taken you by surprise,” he said. “We shall speak of this again when you have had time to think things over. I am a wealthy man, my dear, and would be a generous husband. My wild oats are all sown. I would be a faithful, loving companion. I doubt you will find another in all of England who appreciates you so much as I do. At least tell me you will think my offer over.”
“Yes, thank you, Alfred,” she said, eager to escape the conservatory.
When she had time to review the meeting later, she realized she had not made herself at all clear. In fact, in her eagerness to escape, her reply had been almost encouraging. She had led Hume to believe she was mulling over his offer. She appreciated that it was an excellent one from a worldly point of view, but she had felt like a trapped animal when he put his arms around her. Every muscle in her body had tightened in repulsion when he tried to kiss her. He was too old, too cynical, too much like an uncle for her to be comfortable in a more intimate role.
It was not
right to lead him on like this. Tonight she would tell him she was definitely not interested in marrying him. Perhaps he would turn to Helen for consolation.
All thoughts of Hume were put out of her head when she met Helen at the rout party.
“Is Alfred here?” was Helen’s first speech, after saying good evening. Helen arrived quite late, having stopped at another do first. She looked exquisite, as usual, in a gown of Olympian blue.
“Not yet,” Miranda replied.
“He wasn’t at Lady Erskine’s do, either. Where can he be? What a dull party this promises to be. And now it seems Max won’t be coming either.”
“No, Bolton said he wasn’t coming.”
“I thought he might change his mind. Ollie Winters told me at Erskine’s do that he saw Max pelting out the Chelsea rode hell for leather early this afternoon. Going to visit his chère amie, of course. What else would he be doing out on the Chelsea Road? He doesn’t know anyone there. After getting such an early start, I thought he might be planning to return in time for this do, but since his accident, of course, he won’t.”
Miranda felt a searing shot of fire in her chest at the casual words “his chère amie.” What followed quenched the fire and turned her blood to ice. “What accident?” she asked in a hollow voice.
“I don’t know exactly what happened. But when Ollie was coming back from visiting his aunt, he stopped at a little inn for an ale, and saw Maxwell’s mount in the stable. The groom told him there’d been an accident. Ollie — he’s such an old gossip — he went into the inn and looked for Max, but he wasn’t t here.”
“Was he badly hurt? Did they have to take him to hospital?”
“Ollie says Max got a lift back to town with some friends who had stopped to change their team. I assume the friend took Max home. It must have happened after we left for Erskine’s.”
“Don’t you think you should go home and see if he needs help?” Miranda said, shocked at such cavalier behavior.
“He wouldn’t appreciate it. His valet will take care of him. He’d have his doctor called in if he’s badly hurt. Doctor Ross was looking after his arm when he first got back from Spain. Ross is excellent. He’s Prinny’s doctor — or one of them. It takes a team to keep Prinny in high feather. Oh, here is Alfred now!” Helen hurried off to welcome Hume.
Miranda was so shaken she went to the refreshment parlor and got a glass of wine to restore her nerves. She found a quiet room across the hall and went there to be alone to sort out her chaotic feelings. She wanted to close the door against any intruders, but in another lady’s house, this seemed presumptuous, so she left it open a few inches. Her mind was in profound turmoil at what Helen had told her.
She pictured Bolton, bloodied and broken, being lifted into his friend’s carriage and driven to London, losing blood all the way. If he died — But that was foolish. Helen hadn’t said he was badly hurt. It was probably just a sprained wrist or ankle. And besides, he had been visiting his chère amie so what did she care what had happened to him? But the awful heaviness in her heart told her she still cared very much, in spite of all.
She sat alone in the still room for half an hour, trying to sort out her feelings. She was desperately worried that Bolton was seriously hurt. She was furious that he had been visiting a lightskirt, and she was vexed with herself for caring so much about him, knowing what sort of man he was.
It was the worst possible mood for her to be in when Lord Bolton finally ran her to ground and pushed the door open to enter. She thought for an instant that it must be a mirage conjured up by her thoughts of him. But it wasn’t a bloodied patient who stood before her. It was a hale and hardy Lord Bolton, the most handsome, dashing gentleman she had ever met. Even in a state of fierce irritation she acknowledged that.
He looked the very pineapple of perfection in a closefitting jacket of bronze velvet that displayed his broad shoulders and board-flat stomach. The immaculate cravat at his throat was set off with an emerald cravat pin. His crow-black hair was exquisitely barbered. The only sign of distress was the tense expression on his pale face.
“So here you are,” he said, and was at her side in half a dozen quick strides, while she stared at him with disbelief, as if he were a supernatural apparition.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a trembling voice, while her eyes moved over him, looking for signs of his accident.
“Looking for you, Miranda,” he said, and sat down beside her, with a small smile of triumph lifting his lips.
She rose at once. “I have nothing to say to you, milord,” she said, and strode toward the door.
Bolton leapt up and was right behind her. His long arm shot out and closed the door with a bang as she reached it. His smile had turned to an angry scowl. “You’ll not leave this room until you tell me what is going on.”
She turned on him in a fury. “How dare you!” she cried, her eyes shooting green fire and her voice breathless with emotion. “What gives you the right to demand anything of me, sir?”
She turned to grasp the doorknob. Bolton clamped his fingers on her wrist and spun her roughly around to face him. They stood toe to toe, each glaring at the other, while the air between them crackled with tension.
“You have treated me abominably, madam, and you know it. I see the way you look at me, as if I were a son of Beelzebub. You flee every time I come near you. Common decency demands that you at least tell me what I have inadvertently done to merit this treatment.”
“Common decency! What do you know about common decency? I run for my life because you are a lecher, sir. You molested me in my own home, and your behavior tells me you would do it again if you had the chance.”
“I didn’t molest you! I kissed you — but you’re right about one thing. I’d do it again. And you kissed me, too. Don’t deny it. I’m not a fool.” He pulled her, resisting, closer to him and spoke on, the words tumbling out now in a low, intimate rush, as his dark eyes devoured her. “I want you. I love you. What is so vile about that? And you love me, too, I know what you were feeling.”
A dangerous ripple of joy quivered through her as he acknowledged his love. But there was no mention of marriage —and he had been visiting his chère amie earlier.
“You may consider yourself an expert on love, sir, but you don’t know the first thing about me,” she said with a sniff. “You didn’t bother to find out. I am not the sort of woman you visited this afternoon. I don’t want a patron, and if I did, you would be the last man in London I would choose. I would rather have — Alfred Hume than you!” Alfred was the most objectionable lover she could think of.
A quick frown drew his eyebrows together. “I didn’t visit a woman this afternoon.”
“Why else would you be driving out the Chelsea Road in such vile weather?”
His blinked in surprise. “Someone has been busy carrying tales, I see. Do I have Hume to thank for feeding you this mischievous notion?”
She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. “Alfred doesn’t carry tales. He is a gentleman.”
“Then I am the King of Romania. Whoever it was didn’t get the story quite right. I did go for a ride, because if I stayed in that house with that throng of pestilential people one moment longer I would have done something rash. I needed some physical exertion to ease the emotional strain of your feigned indifference.”
“Feigned! Do you find it impossible to believe that a lady is indifferent to you?”
“I find it impossible to believe you are,” he shot back. “You watch me like a hawk.”
“Yes, because I am afraid of what you would do if we were alone.”
“Meaning I am some sort of sex fiend?”
“Precisely. When I evaded you this afternoon, you wasted no time before calling on some woman.”
“The only physical exertion I indulged in this afternoon was a long, hard ride,” he said, his voice rising.
“I expect it was your accident that accounts for the lack of more interesting doin
gs.”
“The gossips even know about that, eh? My only reason for riding was to ride. I did not call on or plan to call on a lightskirt and I did not have an accident. My mount stumbled. I left her at the inn and was fortunate enough to get a lift back to town with friends.”
For a long moment they stared at each other, with the first blaze of hostility gradually dwindling to embers.
Encouraged by this, Bolton put his hands on her shoulders and tried to pull her into his arms. “Oh Miranda — darling!” he said in a soft, coaxing tone.
She wrenched away, frightened by those fateful words, fearing he meant to attack her again, and that she wouldn’t have the fortitude to resist.
“Leave me alone,” she said in a desperate whisper, and pushed him away from the door to allow her to escape. As she fled, she heard his fist crash against the door panel and the echo of something that sounded like Spanish curses. She looked over her shoulder, but the door was stoutly made. He hadn’t put his fist through it.
Bolton didn’t follow her, but she was too overwrought to remain at the party after that interlude. Indeed London was beginning to seem impossible. She ordered Mrs. Hazard’s carriage, asked her hostess to tell Mrs. Hazard she was leaving and would sent the rig back, thanked Mrs. Morrison, and left.
She was in bed when the Hazards returned. When Mrs. Hazard sent Rosie up to see if she wanted one of Lyle’s sleeping drafts, Miranda pretended to be asleep. She actually lay awake for hours, listening to the measured tick-tock of the long case clock at the end of the upstairs hallway. She heard the Hazards come upstairs, heard the clock chime two o’clock, three, four o’clock. She pondered what she should do. The Hazards no longer required her help in establishing themselves in society. She had been little enough help in any case.
But it seemed ungracious to bolt off just before their party. As the golden lutestring curtains at her window began to lighten, she finally fell into a troubled doze.
