Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  Richard smiled approvingly. “Where did you meet Lizzie?” Richard asked, then wished he could bite back the words. Or, better, bite off his tongue to prevent himself from letting such stupidity fly out of his mouth in the future.

  Miriam’s features remained placid. Unsuspecting. “At boarding school. I know she behaves abominably at times,”—here she cast Richard a knowing glance—“but Lizzie means well. She’s been coddled and indulged all her life, and I fear it hasn’t brought out the best in her. Yet I believe she will find her footing eventually. She’s such great fun everyone ignores her excesses.”

  Richard kept his thoughts on Lizzie’s motivations to himself. “Do you think she’ll find her way before or after Arthur obtains his annulment?”

  “So, you’ve heard of that?” Miriam sighed. “I don’t believe she particularly wanted to be married to Arthur. I think she saw him as her knight in shining armor. Lizzie always did love the Arthurian legends, and she was keen to escape her parents’ house.” Miriam’s spine never met the iron backrest.

  “She ought to have refused him, if she meant to…be unfaithful.” Richard caught himself from using a coarser word. It was a measure of how quickly Miriam had made him feel at home in the short time he’d had to bask in her presence.

  Miriam shrugged. “Perhaps. We all do things to please others, though. Lizzie more than anyone.”

  Richard lifted one brow. “I cannot imagine Lizzie doing anything to please anyone but herself.”

  Miriam’s brows knit together in a frown. “Hasn’t she been kind to you? Introducing you to her friends and family, giving you a place to feel welcome in the strange country?”

  Richard opened his mouth to speak and then slammed it shut so hard his teeth clicked together. He could hardly explain to Miriam that her best friend was plotting to steal her fortune, using him as the instrument. Weary despair settled over him. “I suppose that’s true,” he conceded, though not because he agreed with Miriam’s rosy assessment. Richard’s half-formed plan to inform her of Lizzie’s plot disintegrated. He hadn’t counted on female loyalty.

  “I know Lizzie is rash and impulsive. I’ve visited with her since our trip to the Pines, and we’ve decided to put that ugliness behind us. She says she’s unbothered by the fact that you’re courting me. If you are, in fact, courting me.” Miriam’s cheeks were tinged with a faint pink hue.

  Richard chuckled. Relief that the danger had passed flooded over him. “Would you like me to? Court you, that is?” She reached across the table and wove her bare, dirt-smudged fingers through his.

  “Very much,” she replied shyly. “My feelings have not changed since the beach.”

  “Neither have mine,” Richard said. He clasped her fingers in his and raised them to his lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. Miriam’s gray eyes widened, two dark-fringed orbs of wonder. Richard’s belly tightened low in his abdomen. She could not know the intensity of her effect on him. If he dared to show it, Miriam would surely turn tail and flee his presence. He would woo her like a small woodland animal. One step at a time, gaining trust.

  The scrape of iron on flagstones caused icy fingers of fear to streak down his back.

  “Looks like an amicable visit,” Livingston Walsh commented as he folded himself into the chair. “You’re lucky to have caught Miriam at home. Ordinarily she’s at Cliffside in the summer, our country house in the Palisades.”

  The man placed a small tray with two teacups on mismatched saucers, a teapot, and a tumbler of amber liquid which Richard instantly recognized as whiskey. Longing coursed through him. His ten days without drinking alcohol had gone untested until now. Richard pulled his gaze away to focus on Miriam. The only thing he wanted more than the siren call of a stiff drink was for her to look at him the way she’d done a moment ago. With hope and yearning shining in her bright eyes. Not that he deserved a fraction of it.

  Miriam poured the tea. It was good and stiff, much better than the poor stuff his landlady provided each morning. He drank it with gratitude while contemplating how much to reveal to Miriam. He quickly resolved to tell her nothing. Miriam wanted to believe the best of Lizzie. Perhaps he could convince her to think well of him long enough to agree to be his wife. Once Richard had his ring on her finger and access to all of Miriam’s lovely money, he could be as truthful as he wished. Someday there would be a reckoning. Richard resolved to stop that day from coming for as long as humanly possible.

  “I have business in the city,” Miriam said with modest pride after she had taken a sip of tea. Her father cut her a sharp glance.

  “Mr. Northcote doesn’t need to know about that.”

  “It’s my concern, Father,” Miriam reprimanded lightly. “His title is Lord Northcote, not mister.”

  Livingston tossed back half his whiskey with a scowl. “We didn’t fight off the redcoats fifty years back for me to simper at English nobility. Besides. A man doesn’t need money to want you. You’re good enough in your own right, understand?”

  Miriam’s eyes went wide and glassy.

  “Of course, she is. Besides, I don’t need money. I have my own income. It may be the expectation to marry for pecuniary reasons among my class in England, but this is a new world. Miriam is nothing less than my equal,” Richard said smoothly. The lies tasted like ash. Nonetheless he cast his wife-to-be a doting smile.

  Livingston drank the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow. “You have my permission to court my daughter, Mr. Northcote. See that you do it right. Proper visits and carriage rides. You’ve a reputation as a ladies’ man. The only reason I let you pass my door is my daughter seems quite taken with you. But I’ll not have a loutish wastrel for a son-in-law no matter how many fancy titles or how much my daughter loves him.”

  “Father,” Miriam reprimanded with a gentle warning. “You said you would entertain him.”

  “And I have, Miri. That’s my tea he’s drinking, is it not?” Livingston cast him a sharp glare.

  Understanding bloomed. Livingston Walsh had discerned his reasons for courting Miriam. Richard scrambled up from his seat. “Thank you for your time, Miriam. I shall leave you to return to your gardening.”

  Miriam scowled, then schooled her features into resignation.

  “Aren’t you going to offer Miriam a carriage ride?” Livingston demanded. He tilted back his chair to rest on the rear legs. His jacket shifted, revealing a pistol at his side.

  Richard’s pounding heart settled. He brushed one hand through his dark hair. It needed a cut. Miriam’s father had not read his mind, after all. Of course, he hadn’t. That was impossible. If he didn’t get a better handle on his guilt, he’d destroy his prospects with Miriam. Richard found that for his own half-understood reasons, he did not want to let her out of his sight. He couldn’t protect her from Lizzie if he wasn’t at Miriam’s side, after all.

  “Does tomorrow afternoon suit?” he asked, cutting his gaze to Miriam’s serenely beautiful face.

  “That would be delightful, Lord Northcote. I believe my father wishes to see you out.”

  Richard followed the scuffling bootsteps over scarred wood floors as tension ratcheted his posture ramrod straight. Sure enough, as Livingston Walsh opened the door into the bright and dusty street, he paused. Richard clasped the shorter man’s proffered hand. It closed over his fingers in a hard pinch that made him wince.

  “My daughter’s frail. Asthma.”

  “I know,” Richard replied, straining not to shake his fingers.

  “Take her uptown for your carriage ride. The dirt from the roads can set her off, so move slowly. If the slightest harm comes to my daughter, you’ll never see her again. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Richard wanted to feel affronted, but instead he felt relief. The slightest of accidents was all it would take to get him out of this confounded, duplicitous mess.

  Thus, losing Miriam forever, and consigning him to another failure, that of fatherhood.

  Damn. Richard kicked a rock and swung i
nto a long, loping stride. Silently, he condemned the flash of selfishness in wanting to be with Miriam, no matter the origin of their meeting. He wished he could be the sort of man these harsh Americans admired. Strong. Hard-headed. Wealthy. Yet, weren’t these the same ambitions that had led him to commit the worst act of his entire life? It was the path that had brought him to Lizzie. Lost in his thoughts, Richard stumbled into the street where a horse nearly ran him over. Its rider cursed. Richard jerked his head up and realized he was bound to disappoint Miriam tomorrow, for he had no carriage and no means to procure one.

  Chapter 11

  “I don’t trust him.”

  Miriam had braced for her father’s disapproval. Scarcely a quarter-hour had passed since Richard’s departure.

  “Why should you?” she replied mildly. “You’ve scarcely met Lord Northcote. Trust usually takes time to establish.”

  “Aye, that’s exactly why I don’t like him,” Livingston responded archly. “The man is too familiar with my girl. A few days spent at the seaside with Lizzie Van Buren and her clan, and Mr. Fancy-pants Londoner decides he’s keen on you? How much liberty did you allow the man to take?”

  As though she’d answer that question. Warmth flamed in her cheeks. “He wishes to court me properly, Papa. Lord Northcote finds you intimidating. I doubt he’ll attempt any liberties and risk of running afoul of your temper.”

  It was Miriam’s turn to arch a brow. Her father chuckled. “You may be twenty-three, but you are yet an innocent lass. Trust me when I say every young man tries to see how far he can get with a desirable woman. I should know. I was one, once.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you left a string of broken hearts before Mama brought you to the altar.” Miriam patted her father’s cheek. “Richard has been nothing but a gentleman with me.”

  Her father scoffed. “Richard, is it now? Already on a first-name basis? I thought those poker-assed Brits used their formal titles. Lord So-and-So, Lady What’s-Her-Name.” Livingston crossed his legs and mimed a mincing Lord. Miriam laughed.

  “Richard appreciates our American informality. There are times when his rank makes him a target.” Miriam thought of Spencer and his gang. Her insides went liquid at the memory of Richard tossing the boy on his rear. Not that she was about to mention the incident to her father. She wasn’t bloodthirsty as a general rule, but she couldn’t deny that her blood had pounded when he claimed a kiss from her at the end. “I believe he prefers to keep it quiet, honestly. Whenever I ask about it, he changes the topic.”

  She did not mention Richard’s warning. I am a bad man.

  “Considering I’ve been hearing his name for at least the past six months, I doubt you’re correct on that score, Miri. I confess his lordship’s humility was not what I anticipated. I’ll allow this only as long as his company is enlivening and does not provoke one of your attacks. If Richard Northcote hurts you in any way, I’ll hang him by his own guts.”

  “Father.” Miriam glared sternly. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “I won’t see my little girl’s heart broken, nobleman or no.”

  Livingston patted her on the head.

  Miriam sighed. This was the sort of over-protectiveness she didn’t want and certainly didn’t need from her father, nor from Mrs. Kent. It was the well-intentioned but misguided affection that made her dream of going abroad or out West. Not that her lungs would survive the long, dusty roads, but the dream of striking out into the world to find her place within it remained lodged in her heart like a burr in her stockings.

  “I know as well as anyone sometimes these things don’t work out. I shall try to bear the loss in good cheer if that should come to pass,” she promised. Mrs. Kent banged a large wooden spoon against a pot of soup in the kitchen, which Miriam took as an indication that she agreed.

  Livingston pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish I believed that, sugar.”

  “What’s that supposed mean?” Miriam grumbled.

  “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

  “And how is that?” Miriam demanded indignantly, her face flaming.

  “Besotted.” Livingston Walsh ambled out of the door. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “Cowering in my office. Call me when it’s time to eat.”

  And with that he left Miriam to her thoughts about the man who would brave her father to see her. Her love for her father did not make her blind to his faults, namely, a pigheaded belief that he could make the world bend to his will. With the exception of the untimely death of her mother, Miriam was convinced that Livingston had mostly succeeded. If she wished for more from her life than the sheltered existence she led now, Miriam would have to find the courage to defy the person she loved best.

  Miriam’s doubts about Richard’s financial precariousness eased at the sight of a gleaming buggy with red-lacquered wheels rolling up to her front garden the next afternoon. Dust billowed up from the street as he pulled the chestnut horse to a halt.

  Her heart thudded. Never in a thousand years would she have imagined finding a man as handsome as Richard swing down from an elegant vehicle, drape his reins around a gatepost, and doff his hat. His dark hair gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and curled around his ears.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Walsh.”

  “Your lordship.” Miriam dropped a curtsey. He was here for her. Giddy happiness flooded through her until she had to stifle the urge to giggle. Her father wouldn’t find the obsequious gesture humorous in the least, if he caught her at it.

  When she bobbed up again Miriam found Richard’s mouth drawn in a tight line. She sighed. If only he wore his title with a bit of levity. She didn’t understand why he was so sensitive about his title, but clearly it was not a joking matter to him. “I am only teasing, Richard.”

  Richard relaxed fractionally and forced a half-smile.

  “May I come inside and say hello to your father before we take our brief jaunt?” he asked formally. She wished she knew how to reassure him. Her father could be terribly intimidating, hence the novelty of a gentleman caller. He’d done well during yesterday’s brief visit, but she had worried her father had scared him off.

  “That’s unnecessary. Besides, he isn’t here.” Miriam had encouraged her father to make himself absent for the afternoon. “Mrs. Kent shall accompany us as a chaperone.”

  For an instant, Richard’s mouth went from a firm line to an outright scowl. Then, he schooled his features into a semblance of pleasure although the tension never left his shoulders. Had Miriam not been scanning his face for any sign of approval, she’d have missed the transformation.

  “Of course. There’s room for four in the carriage.”

  “In the buggy, you mean?” Miriam asked cheekily.

  “If you insist on calling it by an improper Americanism,” Richard chuckled.

  “That’s better,” she grinned. “I thought you were unhappy to see me. Perhaps regretting your offer of fresh air and sunshine.”

  Now, she was the insecure one. Miriam’s good humor faded instantly.

  “I could never regret a single moment spent with you,” Richard responded. Miriam glanced at her feet, shod in good leather boots already made dusty from the short walk from her front door to the road. She wished she believed it, yet she detected a false note that made her wonder if he were only courting her out of obligation. It was the sort of thing a scoundrel who was after her fortune might say. At least he hadn’t said it in front of her father. Richard had claimed to be poor when they were at the Pines, yet surely a lord connected to a prominent aristocratic family couldn’t truly be poor.

  Short of funds, perhaps.

  “Up you go, my lady,” Richard turned away to help Mrs. Kent into the carriage. Even her suspicious and dour caretaker cracked a smile under the sudden appearance of his natural charm. It came out like the sun on a cloudy day, there one moment, dimmed the next. Once Mrs. Kent was settled Richard handed her into the vehicle. The lightest, most proper contact between
his gloved hand and hers was enough to send awareness skittering over her skin. The feeling spread to the pit of her stomach as Richard stepped up and took his place opposite them. The driver flicked the reins and the horses jolted into motion. Before long, they’d followed Broadway uptown to where fields dotted with buildings. The wheels rolled faster, kicking up dust. Miriam coughed. Mrs. Kent cast her a sidelong look, but said nothing.

  “Where would you like to go?” he asked, oblivious to her distress. Miriam sipped air, trying to conceal the way her throat closed. Not now. Please, not now.

  “Uptown,” she croaked. Mrs. Kent’s gaze sliced over her.

  Her hand grazed the kit at her hip.

  “Slow your driver down, Lord Northcote,” Mrs. Kent demanded. Richard turned to the driver and gave the signal. The horses settled into a walk. Miriam’s distress eased, though her airway remained constricted enough to produce a faint wheeze with every breath. Embarrassed heat wormed into her bodice to press against her skin. Richard’s brow furrowed.

  Miriam waved airily. “I’m fine.” Mrs. Kent glared.

  “Are you certain?” Richard asked, clearly worried now. Oh, this was too embarrassing. She was not so frail that a brief carriage ride on a sunny afternoon should present any sort of challenge. If only the vehicle he’d selected weren’t open-topped.

  “Can we put up the hood?” Miriam asked meekly, hating her body for its fallibility.

  “Certainly.” Richard busied himself with the flaps but the mechanics of raising the canvas top seemed to escape him. He tapped the driver for assistance, distracting them both. Mrs. Kent hovered over her until Miriam wanted to scream at the woman who cared so deeply and well for her. Mrs. Kent did not deserve the brunt of her frustration. It wasn’t her fault that Miriam’s first carriage ride with a gentleman caller was turning into a disaster.

  Fast hoofbeats came up behind them.

  “Pull aside!” Mrs. Kent demanded in a panicked yell.

  Richard checked over his shoulder. His hair flew and his jacket strained as he tried to haul the canvas hood up to protect them, but it stuck, leaving them fully exposed. Miriam inhaled short bits of air as she tried to breathe through her panic, then froze, breathless, as a group of men on horseback flew past them at a gallop. Their horses’ flying hooves kicking up a storm of dust.