by Joan Smith
When she awoke, she had made her decision. She would remain until Mrs. Hazard’s party, but she would not attend any other parties in the interim. She would claim fatigue, perhaps a lingering headache not serious enough to require a doctor’s help, but too unpleasant to venture out in society. She would avoid Lord Bolton like the plague. And before she returned to Hornby, perhaps the night of Mrs. Hazard’s party, she would tell Mr. Hume that she did not wish to marry him. Then she would go home, and begin to forget this awful visit.
Chapter Fourteen
When Alfred Hume learned of Miranda’s indisposition, he sent a roomful of flowers and a playful note couched in that proprietary tone she loathed, ordering her to get better soon.
Lord Bolton, suspecting her trick, told himself he was a fool and sent neither flowers nor a note. With Miranda absent from the saloon, Hume’s visits and Bolton’s fell off. With Hume absent, Helen no longer paid more than a darting visit each day. When the visitors dwindled to Adelaide and Jeremy, and especially when Jeremy took Dotty out, Miranda found it safe to recover sufficiently to venture belowstairs to help in any way she could.
She told Mrs. Hazard of her plan to leave London soon after the party.
“I’ll be sorry to see you go, but I can see London doesn’t agree with you,” the dame said. “What about Alf?”
“He is just a friend.”
“And Bolton? I had the notion he was sweet on you, since Dotty has given him the cold shoulder.”
Miranda felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I cannot seem to get along with him,” she admitted.
“Strange, my Dotty can’t get along with him either. I thought she was talking through her hat — or young Jeremy’s — when she spoke of his dark moods, but I have noticed lately he is disturbed. The war, I daresay, is the cause of it. Pity. I had hoped — that is, Lyle would have liked a title for her, but young West will have a sort of handle to his name eventually, and her little heart seems set on him.”
Miranda nodded her agreement and Mrs. Hazard rattled on.
“Between you and me and the bed post, I don’t know what she sees in the fellow. But there, it’s not me that’ll have the gumboil in my bed. I’ll not let her rush into it, though. She will have her presentation first and meet some other fellows. And if she still wants him after that — well,” She drew a resigned sigh. “I married for love, and I expect she will do the same.
“I wouldn’t rush into anything if I were her.”
“It’s Lady Bolton who is in a rush, but she’ll not bullox me. I’ll be back to Hazard Hall from time to time to keep you posted, Miranda. Write me and let me know all the news at home. You know I am not much of a correspondent. You shall come here to visit me, I hope. We’ll always have a room for you, my dear. You’re like a daughter to me. My Dotty and me find the city agrees with us. We’ll be staying on. We must have a going away party for you.”
“I don’t plan to tell the others I am leaving,” Miranda said. “I don’t want any fuss about it. I’ll just slip away quietly. You understand.”
Mrs. Hazard didn’t understand, but she assumed it was some ladylike qualm and didn’t question it.
“Just as you like, dear. I’m glad you’re staying for the party at least.”
A state of inner peace descended on Miranda despite the frenzied party preparations going forth around her. She had made her decision, and even if all had not turned out as she had hoped, coming to a decision calmed her.
The ladies had each had a new gown made up for the occasion. Dotty’s was ice blue, as close to one of Helen’s that she admired as the modiste could make it. Mrs. Hazard’s was a deep red velvet fit for a queen, and Miranda’s was an elegantly simple dark green peau de soie. She wore her hair piled high on her head with loose curls around her face. She looked wan from her days of incarceration, but excitement put a sparkle in her eyes and a touch of rouge lent a glow to her cheeks.
The lady in her mirror looked so confident Miranda had to wonder how she had let the ill behavior of three gentlemen spoil her visit. A sense of resentment took root and began to grow. She was fed up with hiding and avoiding her various suitors. She decided she had been too timid. Why should she be consigned to the house because they could not behave themselves?
Tonight she would tell Mr. Hume that she didn’t want to marry him, with no foolish evasions to spare his feelings. She would tell Jeremy to please stop pestering her, and she would tell Lord Bolton that — that — Well, he hadn’t made any further efforts to contact her, so it seemed he was through with her, and she tried to convince herself she was glad.
Two dozen people in all were to sit down to dinner before the dance. Those who had been helping to prepare the party were, of course, amongst them, along with Lord Peter, Lord Robert and Lydia, and a few others. Miranda did a little re-arranging of the seating and placed herself well away from both Hume and Bolton. She sat beside Lord Robert, with Mrs. Morrison’s unobjectionable, elderly husband on her other side.
The dinner was a veritable feast. A choice of two soups was followed by a turbot à la l’anglaise with lobster sauce, followed by poulets à la chevry and l’oie braisée aux racines glacées. Ham, veal and beef followed, each accompanied by an assortment of vegetables. The desserts were equally numerous. All manner of brioches, croques-en-bouche, nougats, gelées and cakes filled the board, all accompanied by a choice of wines.
Lord Robert provided Miranda a lively dinner companion, and as the meal progressed and the wine flowed, she was surprised to find herself enjoying the party. Helen sat between Lord Bolton and Hume, giving most of her attention to the latter. On Bolton’s other side sat Dotty. Perhaps this arrangement had been unwise. It left Bolton no one to talk to, since Dotty spent most of her time with her other partner, Jeremy.
Having no conversable companion left his attention free to wander down the board where Miranda had marooned herself below the salt to avoid any possibility of trouble. But he behaved himself. He only glanced at her from time to time with a darkly accusing look which she ignored. He drank a little too much wine, but then so did everyone else, and it didn’t seem to have any deleterious effect on him.
Lord Robert inclined his head to hers and said, “I see Bolton is looking daggers at us. What happened? He seemed mighty infatuated with you a short while ago. He hardly took his eyes off you the last time Lydia and I called. Have you two had a falling out?” he asked, then answered the question himself. “I expect he is piqued that Hume won the inner track.”
Miranda was surprised that anyone had noticed Bolton’s interest in her, but then love and a cough, folks said, could not be hidden. Mrs. Hazard had mentioned it, and now Robert. “Something like that,” she replied, and immediately changed the subject.
Other than that incident, all was still flowing peacefully when the ladies returned to the saloon and left the gentlemen to their port and cigars. Helen, hoping to discover how matters were progressing between Hume and Miranda, took a seat beside her.
“Alfred has been very worried about you,” she said. “You seem to be recovered remarkably, Miranda.”
“Yes, I believe I just needed a rest.
“And now that you are all rested, I expect you will be going to Alfred’s house party in Hampshire. He has a dozen guests for a week every year in October.”
“No, I plan to return to Surrey before that,” Miranda replied.
Helen’s eyes lit with instant suspicion. “Is Alfred going with you?”
“No, certainly not. I have estate business to attend to,” she said vaguely.
“Is Max accompanying you?” was Helen’s next eager question.
So Helen had noticed some interest on Bolton’s part too. “No, I shall be going alone.”
“How long do you plan to stay away? When will you be back?”
The rapid and persistent onslaught of Helen’s questions caught Miranda off guard. Now that the time for her departure drew close, there seemed no need to keep it a secret. There wasn’t tim
e for anyone to go planning any parties. “I don’t plan to return soon. This was just a visit,” she said. “I never planned to remain for the whole winter.”
Helen assumed it was a stunt to force Hume into an offer of marriage. It was a clever enough ruse, but a dangerous one. If she told Alfred and he didn’t offer marriage, then she was either forced to leave London or reveal that the threat was only a trick. “You’ve told Alfred, of course?”
“Not yet. I plan to speak to him later this evening.”
Helen was thrown into an agony of conjecture. Would Hume propose to Miranda? Had she lost him for good?
But as the evening progressed, Miranda had no opportunity for any privacy with Hume. She had the first dance with him, but a busy square with three other couples all chatting and laughing wasn’t the right venue. She had promised him a set of waltzes, and planned to tell him then. His tender queries regarding her recent “illness” and doting behavior throughout the evening told her it wouldn’t be difficult to find the opportunity. She felt in her bones he would leave the floor early for a private moment to repeat his offer.
All this was a mere distraction from her real interest, Lord Bolton. She was surprised that he behaved with complete propriety once they left the dinner table. He didn’t pester her for a dance, he didn’t stand at the edge of the room casting those dark glares at her. He didn’t pay her any heed at all. He danced with other women, some of them pretty and available, some obviously duty dances. It was as if they two were strangers, and while she was grateful to avoid a scene, she felt somehow cheated. She had expected a more melodramatic finis to her involvement with the dashing lord.
All this ran through her mind as she romped through a country dance with Jeremy. At the end of the set, he led her to the side of the room, lifted her fingers to his lips, gazed soulfully into her eyes and murmured, “Delightful, madam. You have made this evening memorable. “ He peered around for Dotty, and not seeing her, he continued, “Let us go and find a quiet corner where we can talk, Miranda.”
This was to be avoided at all costs. She knew what his ‘talk’ would consist of — a wrestling match.
She was almost relieved when Lord Bolton appeared behind him. Jeremy didn’t repeat the request, but just scowled and slunk off.
“Robbing the cradle, Lady Wetherby?” Bolton said. His tone was jesting, but there was a hard edge to his glinting smile. He had tried to put Miranda out of his mind, but failed miserably. It didn’t help that he felt in his bones she loved him. It wasn’t in his nature to give up as long as one faint ray of hope remained, and her fleeting but frequent glances in his direction all evening provided that hope.
“It seems it is that or robbing the grave,” she replied, before she realized what had slipped out. He would surely recognize a reference to Hume in that slip.
“You take to extremes, I see. Why not try your hand with a gent who is out of short-coats, but not yet halfway into a shroud?”
“If you mean yourself, I’ve told you, I am not interested in an affair, Lord Bolton.”
“What delightful notions you put in a fellow’s head, but I was not suggesting an affair, madam. Just a dance. Come, Miranda,” he said, offering his hand with a disarming smile that turned her insides to molten honey . “I am not an ogre after all. We shall be meeting each other at all the parties. Carrying on like this, behaving as if we don’t know each other, only causes talk. More than one gossip has already asked me if we’ve had an affair that ended so badly we aren’t speaking.”
The prying questions Miranda had been subjected to did not use the word affair, but it was what some would think. She would soon be away from all this, but in the interest of her reputation, and because her instinct was to make peace and part as friends, she agreed. He had apparently accepted that she was not interested in becoming his mistress, and if he was willing to behave like a gentleman, then she would oblige him with a dance.
Sensing her softening mood, Bolton said, “We’ll have the waltz together, for old time’s sake.”
“Are the waltzes next? I have promised them to Alfred, Bolton.” Was he imagining the disappointment in her voice, in those green eyes that looked at him so sadly. “I’m sorry,” she added softly.
And she was. This might very well be the last time she saw Lord Bolton. It would have been fittingly romantic to end their relationship as it had begun, with a waltz. It would have provided a pleasant, bittersweet memory to conjure with as she sat before the blazing grate at Hornby in the coming months, remembering this chaotic season.
“Ah. “ For a moment they just looked, each sensing the disappointment in the other. “Well, we have a few moments before the waltzes begin at least. Let us not waste them. “ His anger dissolved like dew drops in the sun when he was with her again.
Miranda sensed that he regretted their past arguments, regretted having insulted her with his advances. Indeed his attentions would not be considered an insult by most widows, but a conquest.
“Yes,” she said eagerly. But as she glanced up, she saw Robert and Lydia staring at her, their heads together. A quick look around showed her that others were watching them as well. “But perhaps not here,” she said.
“I feel as if I’m in a fish bowl,” he scowled, and led her from the room.
The corridor was also busy, but in the library there were lights burning and a fire blazed. An elderly couple stood by the grate, talking quietly, to provide unwitting chaperonage. “In here,” Bolton said, leading her in.
She was a little concerned when the elderly couple smiled at them and left, but not really worried. Bolton was behaving very rationally. “Don’t close the door,” she said. “It will look odd.”
He didn’t close it, but the sofa he led her to was not visible from the corridor. They sat, and he turned to face her. “Will you tell me just one thing, Miranda? What made you suddenly turn against me?” he asked quietly, but with obvious passion lurking beneath the words.
“It was a misunderstanding,” she said simply. “When we first met, I — I thought you…” She couldn’t bring herself to say what she meant, that she thought he wanted to marry her. It seemed presumptuous. “I didn’t understand your intentions,” she said.
He listened, trying to make sense of it. “What was there to misunderstand?” he asked. “I love you.”
A soft smile lit her face at his eager admission. At least he had loved her. He still loved her. That was something. “I know widows are considered — well, not so vulnerable as single girls. They are prey to unwanted attentions of a sort that — that is considered acceptable in London. I didn’t quite understand. Things are different in Bath, where I grew up, you see.”
Bolton began to understand the gist of her talk. She had thought he was offering to make her his mistress. His frown softened to amusement, then to pleasure. “Is that what all this was about?” he asked, shaking his head.
First he smiled, then his smile stretched to a grin, then he began laughing out loud. It was all too ridiculous. He had been to hell and back, he knew Miranda had also suffered, and it was all due to some foolish misunderstanding. His mind darted to Adelaide as the probable perpetrator.
“My sweet idiot, don’t you know I love you?” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I have told you often enough.”
Her instinct was to throw herself into his arms and hold on tight. When he looked at her like that, with love blazing like sunshine on his face, she felt helpless to resist. But nothing had changed. She struggled free and stood up. “Don’t start that again, Maxwell,” she scolded in a breathless, shaking voice, and began tidying her skirt to avoid looking at him. Because if she looked at him, she was lost. “I thought you had changed, that you were being reasonable,” she said.
“I am,” he retorted, and drew her into his arms to kiss her, while she fought him off. But her heart wasn’t really in it. She wanted him to overpower her. She wanted to feel again those hot lips taking hers. Her mind reeled as his strong arms pulled her agains
t his chest and his lips chased nibbling kisses across her fevered cheek.
They were scuffling in this intimate manner when Mr. Hume appeared at the doorway. He had come to claim Miranda for their waltz, and was outraged to see the lady he considered his in all but name being mauled by that handsome rogue, Bolton.
“What is the meaning of this, sir?” he demanded. At the sound of his voice, they moved apart in a hasty, guilty manner.
“Oh Alfred,” Miranda said, and was deeply dismayed to realize tears of frustration were gathering in her eyes. “Pray do not — It is nothing, nothing at all.”
“You are too generous, my dear,” he said stiffly. “I really cannot permit this behavior toward the lady I am going to marry. I must demand satisfaction, milord.” He straightened his shoulders and uttered the dread words, “Name your second.”
It was unfortunate that the waltzes were about to begin. People were thronging from the refreshment parlor toward the ballroom. Mrs. Hazard, hearing their voices and sensing that her party was about to turn into a shambles, darted into the room. Helen, who had spied Hume entering the room, darted in behind her and closed the door. Mrs. Hazard placed her hands on her substantial hips and lit into them.
“Such carrying on,” she scolded. “I would think I was at one of Lyle’s parties for his workers, except they were never so foolish as to speak of duels. Drawing corks and darkening daylights was more like it — and a good thing too. Now what is afoot, eh?”
Mr. Hume drew his shoulders back even farther and looked down his nose at Bolton. “Lord Bolton has insulted the lady I am engaged to. I have demanded satisfaction. Well, milord? Name your second.”
Helen emitted a high pitched squeal and fainted, causing a helpful diversion. Mrs. Hazard ordered the gentlemen to place her on a sofa. Miranda ran for wine. While Mrs. Hazard held it to the victim’s lips, Miranda delivered a scold to the gentlemen.
