It had been ever since the godforsaken disaster that was his marriage to Margot. Even thinking her name made bile rise in his throat.
It was one thing to marry for convenience; the expectation for affection was low, and if it grew, it was a boon to both.
But his marriage to Margot was of love, at least from his side of things.
The memories flooded back, unwelcome and unwilling to leave till they’d spun their stories. He leaned back in his chair, giving himself over to the torture, to the ghosts that haunted him.
Hadn’t he fought with his father in this very room?
Everyone seemed aware, or at least suspicious of her duplicity—everyone but him.
Love was not simply blind, it was hazardous.
Many a man had stared wars over the love of a woman, and he was not immune to the inclination. It was only the wisdom of his father that had ended the argument before it came to blows.
Even now, Heathcliff could see the expression in his father’s gray eyes when he spoke. “I love you, and if this is your choice, so be it. And when your world crumbles, because crumble it will, we will still be here. Just promise me one thing . . .”
Oh, he had hated his father in that moment, but his honor wouldn’t let him refuse the challenge in his father’s words, so he had fisted his hands and listened.
His hands flexed instinctively at the memory.
His father had made him promise not to run away, but to run home.
He’d been doing it ever since, in one way or another.
His father’s words had been prophetic.
How Heathcliff wished he had listened, and if he had, perhaps, perhaps it would be different today.
The betrayal of Margot was swift in its reckoning.
In hindsight, he could see her behavior was overly flirtatious, but his inexperience had whispered the lies to his heart that gave him the freedom to believe them. Certainly a well-bred lady wouldn’t become a strumpet once married.
After all, she loved him, didn’t she?
He was quick to propose, and she swift to accept. Certain of her affection for him, he had battled his father’s wisdom against their quick engagement. It was the spark that ignited the fight between him and his father, only to result in an agreement where there would be no winner.
He took a deep breath, banishing the ghosts and memories from his mind. He focused on the fire, the sound of the sparks kindling, and the shuffle of papers as he lifted them from his desk.
He was a shell of a man when Lucas found him.
Temptations saved him in more ways than one.
Like ice water, the memories cooled his curiosity about the new governess.
To be intrigued only led to disappointment.
And disappointment was kin to heartbreak.
And he had vowed long ago, never again.
He’d survived once.
It wasn’t that he didn’t think he could survive again.
Rather, he was afraid he would.
And death was welcome over surviving any more loss.
Chapter Eleven
Miranda went down to the parlor, where they would meet before dinner, praying Iris had heeded her admonition and dressed for the occasion. What she needed was a distraction, and Iris was a blessed buffer for the evening, or so she hoped. Her nerves tight, she scanned the foyer for the viscount, praying he wouldn’t mention their earlier misadventure. Heaven only knew what Iris would say, let alone the questions she’d ask. Her face burned at the thought.
She was thankful for the gloves on her hands as they kept her palms from sweating with anxiety. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back and walked into the pale blue parlor. At a quick glance, she noted she was the first to arrive. Her gaze passed the settee and armchair and scanned the wall, with a delicate bookcase framing the window. The sunset was illuminating the evening sky, and she welcomed the distraction of its beauty. She passed the small table with a polished wooden box, ornately painted with gold. Pausing, she turned toward the beautiful treasure. The box was heavier than she anticipated as she lifted it from its place on the shelf. Delicate flowers wound around the wooden frame, a blue ribbon interlacing the gold. With care, she lifted the lid. Silence.
Her brow pinched as she turned over the box, only to discover the windup knob was missing. In its place was a hole marring the bottom of the masterpiece.
“Please, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
Miranda startled, her fingers fumbling with the box before she righted her hold and tenderly set it back in its place. “My apologies. It’s quite lovely,” she stuttered, her face heating painfully with a blush.
The viscount nodded once. His gaze had lost all the merriment she’d seen earlier. The room felt chilly with his entrance, and she fought a shiver that traveled down her spine. “It’s a keepsake.” He lifted a broad shoulder, reminding her of the power they had held when carrying her. Glancing away, she fought for control.
“A family keepsake?” she asked, anxious to make small talk that would prevent him from alluding to their earlier encounter.
His gaze clouded ever so slightly, as if controlling his reactions with precision. “One might say that,” he answered cryptically.
Miranda decided it wasn’t a subject about which he wished to converse. Glancing about the room, her gaze landed back on the light filtering in from the sunset. “It’s a beautiful evening. I must say, the sunsets here are vastly different from London.” She gave a tight smile and walked to the window.
There was a short pause. “London?”
Miranda was thankful she had her back to the viscount. Her eyes widened at her possible faux pas, but she reminded herself that he was originally supposed to meet her in London, so it would follow that she was originally from that location. “Yes.”
“Were you raised in Town?” he asked, his voice much closer than before, and she resisted the temptation to turn and discover just how close he had come.
“Yes,” she answered, wondering how long she could continue offering monosyllabic answers.
He stood beside her, evaluating the scenery beyond the gardens.
She breathed in and out calmly, her mind spinning, wondering what to say should he ask for further details. Not wanting to lie, she wasn’t sure how to respond.
“It has its charms,” he said after a moment.
“Indeed it does.”
The sound of footsteps was the most welcome sound in Miranda’s world as she turned to see Iris walk into the parlor, Mrs. Keyes on her heels.
“Evening.” Iris executed a much-improved curtsey. Belatedly, Miranda realized she hadn’t offered any sort of polite greeting to her employer; rather, she almost had dropped a family treasure.
She was just thankful Iris hadn’t been there to witness it.
“Good evening, Miss Iris.” The viscount bowed smartly.
Well, he hadn’t exactly bowed to her either, so perhaps they were even.
“Dinner is served.” Mrs. Keyes gave a broad smile to the room as she gestured to the hall.
Traditionally, the gentleman of the house would escort the highest-ranking lady. But with keeping country hours, Miranda suspected a less-formal attitude and was proven right when the viscount simply gestured to the door, indicating that the ladies should precede him into the hall. Miranda walked toward the door, her body still tense, and gestured for Iris to precede her into the hall.
After all, Iris ranked higher as far as everyone else knew.
Miranda followed her, all too aware of the viscount close behind her. Was it possible to feel someone’s gaze? She certainly believed it was. She could feel it now. The temptation to turn around and face him and satisfy her theory was great, but she soldiered on ahead, ignoring her curiosity. As they came into the dining room, she watched Iris pause, then turn to her. “Where do we sit now?” she asked in a loud whisper.
The viscount’s chuckle vibrated through the air.
“To either side, Miss Iris,” Mi
randa coached, indicating with her hand which seat Iris should take.
“That’s right.” Iris nodded, her brow furrowed with concentration. “Thank you.” She waited beside the richly carved chair as a footman withdrew it for her.
Miranda followed suit, watching as Iris folded her hands in her lap. She cast a glance to the viscount, who seated himself last. His frame made the chair appear small in comparison. He cleared his throat while the footman placed a steamed beef consommé before each of them. Miranda glanced at Iris, watching to make sure she waited to lift her spoon till the viscount did it first. Iris’s gaze lifted to Miranda, clearly awaiting instruction. When the viscount lifted his spoon, Miranda did the same and inclined her head toward Iris, who mirrored her actions.
“Is dinner often this formal for you ladies?” he asked after swallowing. His caramel gaze inquired of Miranda just as much as his words.
Miranda swallowed her own mouthful and nodded before responding. “Indeed, my lord. This is the best way for Miss Iris to practice her table etiquette.”
“Ah, I see,” he remarked, then continued with his soup.
Miranda did as well, watching as Iris ate with perfect manners.
As the minutes stretched on, Miranda’s nerves grew tighter. This was the most dreadful dinner party she’d experienced in some time.
Granted, it wasn’t exactly a dinner party, but the least the viscount could do was initiate conversation.
Usually, she’d have no qualms about starting it herself, but she didn’t want to overstep.
As another silent minute passed, and the soup bowls were removed, Miranda took matters into her own hands.
“Usually, conversation would begin with discussing the weather, or possibly a current play at Drury Lane. I’ll start.” Miranda waited a moment while the footman placed the second course before them. The scent of roasted venison and potatoes made her mouth water.
“Have you seen Kean’s newest performance of Hamlet?” she asked Iris.
The viscount gave a low chuckle.
Miranda glanced to him, tempted to raise a brow of inquiry, but chose to offer a smile instead. “Ah, you have, my lord?”
His manner shifted to amusement, and he tilted his head as he reclined in his chair slightly. “I have. But it wasn’t nearly as brilliant as his first, Shylock.”
Miranda nodded, taking a sip of water, then replied, “I wasn’t blessed to see that performance but read the reviews in the Times. Quite an enthusiastic response.”
“The house went mad.” The viscount gave his head a little shake. “But my favorite performance was Macbeth.”
Miranda’s grin widened. “I am quite fond of that performance myself. I attended the evening the front stage light caught an actor’s costume on fire! Thankfully, it was put out almost immediately. I don’t believe the man was injured.”
The viscount leaned forward, his brow furrowing. “I attended that night too. Did you hear, they are now considering renovating the lights to the new gaslights?”
Miranda shook her head, intrigued. “No! I hadn’t heard that! My sister—” She paused, then continued. “My sister mentioned there had been titter about the potential risks with candles. There have been several fires.”
“Sister?” The viscount’s eyes betrayed his interest, and Miranda’s inclination was to retreat from the conversation. Yet if she did, wouldn’t he suspect something? Did it matter? Wasn’t Liliah supposed to disclose their secret soon?
She resolved to soldier on, and hopefully avoid speaking any lies that would need to be unwound in the future. “Yes, I have an elder sister.” She kept her expression open and turned to Iris. “See, Miss Iris, this is a brilliant example of dinner conversation.”
Miranda’s face heated with a blush as Iris’s gaze slid from hers to the viscount, then back. “I see.”
Miranda didn’t know what she saw, but she was sure she wouldn’t approve of it.
“Well, in India there are several different ways to keep candles from becoming too dangerous, but there is no gaslighting, at least that I saw. However, they do have the most beautiful lamps.”
“Very good.” Miranda nodded. “My lord, have you ever visited India?” She turned back to the viscount, thankful to direct the conversation to a different venue.
His gaze was studying hers, as if attempting to read her thoughts to answer whatever questions his mind had conjured up from their previous conversation. The intense look faded, and he gave a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ve never been that far East. But I’ve read several journals of notable explorers.”
Miranda turned to Iris.
Iris glanced to Miranda.
Miranda glanced to the viscount.
Apparently, she was going to have to save the flow of the conversation once more.
“The weather has been lovely recently.” She introduced another topic of conversation, hoping this one took a longer turn than the last.
“A little cold, if you ask me.” Iris shrugged.
“You mustn’t shrug,” Miranda coached gently. “It’s vulgar in a proper setting such as this.”
“Vulgar.” The viscount chuckled. “It’s been an age since I’ve heard that word. Outside of Almack’s, that is, and I avoid that place like hell itself,” he remarked. “My apologies for my blunt speaking.”
Miranda nodded. “Lord willing, you’ll be invited there, Miss Iris. Lady Jersey will need to be applied to for vouchers beforehand, however,” she explained, suddenly wondering if those vouchers would be impossible to procure if the viscount wasn’t a familiar of the famous meeting place.
“We shall get them for you, Miss Iris. Have no worry.” The viscount lifted a crystal glass of wine, as if toasting her.
“Lovely.” Miranda breathed an inward sigh of relief. She thought she could potentially procure an invitation through Lady Rebecca, her sister’s dear friend, but it was a bit of a stretch. It was nice to know Iris wouldn’t need to find a voucher in a roundabout way.
“What exactly is an Almack?” Iris asked, taking a sip of the red wine served with dinner.
If Miranda hadn’t just swallowed her bit of venison, she would have surely choked on it.
Clearly, they had work yet to do.
Iris directed the question to the viscount, who turned to Miranda with a wry expression. “I do believe Miss Miranda is best suited to answer that question, Miss Iris. My answer will not be taken favorably, that I can assure you.” He grinned unrepentantly.
Miranda took a deep breath, resisted the urge to let her irritation show, and turned to Iris. “It’s a lovely—”
The viscount coughed; rather, he coughed in order to cover a laugh.
Miranda ignored him.
Iris did not.
“It’s a lovely place in St. James’s where those who have vouchers are invited to attend a weekly Wednesday ball during the Season. Lady Jersey is a patroness, and you must apply directly to her or another patroness in order to gain entrance. It is said Seasons are made or destroyed by a single word of approval or derision from the patronesses,” Miranda instructed in a serious tone.
“I see.” Iris bit her lip in a concerned manner.
“Don’t be alarmed. You’ll do famously. It would be a great boon if you should debut your first week in London at such a notable establishment.” She turned to the viscount, hoping her subtle hint hit its mark.
The viscount grinned casually. “I’ll make arrangements soon. I assure you, there is nothing of which you need to concern yourself, Miss Iris.” He took another sip.
Miranda turned back to Iris, about to continue their discourse, when the viscount began speaking again.
“Of course, Miss Miranda left out the rather unremarkable aspects of this highly esteemed establishment.” He gave a daring glance to Miranda, then turned his attention fully to Iris. “But I must adjust your perspective. The lemonade is sour, the orgeat is terrible on a good day, and the room is overly hot, with little air circulation. The men ar
e often dandies, and the ladies all parade about like prize hounds waiting to be snatched up. It’s rather dull, and if you only remember one thing, eat before you attend. Or else you’ll surely faint from hunger.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, clearly proud of his additional information.
Miranda wished she could offer some sort of redeeming words, but never having been to Almack’s herself, she was rather helpless.
Iris turned her bright eyes to her governess.
Miranda swallowed.
“Oh my. That’s certainly disproportionate for the amount of weight the place has in society, is it not?” Iris asked.
Miranda took a breath through her nose, searching her mind for a proper response.
“Miss Iris, I’ve learned that society rarely makes sense. And that is probably the best lesson I can give you this evening.”
“Hear, hear!” The viscount lifted his glass.
Miranda lifted hers; after all, it was the polite thing to do.
Iris mimicked their movements.
If there was one thing Miranda understood, it was that life rarely made sense.
Especially if one was the daughter of a duke.
Chapter Twelve
The dinner soon ended, and Heathcliff sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for delivering him.
For more than one reason.
His extinguished curiosity was now burning brighter than before.
A governess who was familiar with Kean’s work?
A governess who was able to simplify the truth of society’s nonsensical hierarchy?
A governess who wouldn’t let him simply ignore her and eat his meal in peace?
He was in trouble, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to accept that ill-fated truth.
So much of their conversation that evening had created far more questions than answers, and he rather hated unanswered questions.
Bloody nuisance.
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