A little more feminine.
A little wiser.
A little more powerful.
Had Liliah experienced this same rush of awareness? Desperately, Miranda longed for her sister, to sit and chat, ask questions she knew Liliah would be kind enough to answer.
Loneliness flooded her.
Then trepidation.
She had hoped the viscount would understand her need for duplicity. Only she wasn’t sure, she’d just met him.
And kissed him.
My, that hadn’t taken long. He’d been in residence for merely a day and her world had tilted. She walked back to her bed and snuggled into the sheets.
Mrs. Keyes had informed her that she was to take up residence in the nicer room, the one where the viscount had taken her after the pond fiasco. She wasn’t about to argue with the new arrangement; it was far more to her liking. The bed was much softer, the coverlet a bit thicker, and the fireplace much larger. As if proving her point, the wood in the hearth crackled loudly. It wasn’t as opulent as her room in London, but it was a far cry better than the room adjoining the nursery.
She wasn’t sure why the viscount had insisted she move to a guest room, and she wasn’t going to ask either. Simply enjoy.
As she drifted off to sleep, her mind lingered on the memory of the kiss, her body flooding with warmth from within as unconsciousness overwhelmed her. She awoke in the morning with the sensation that she had merely blinked, only to be greeted by the rising sun. It had been a chore to accustom herself to rising early. She’d always awoken when she pleased in London, and that was certainly unacceptable here, while employed.
But she had grown rather fond of the sunrise, and so, with only a slight reluctance, she rose from bed and padded over to the window. The rich orange color tinted the sky, and she breathed deeply of the crisp morning air as she curled her toes against the cool floor. A shiver ran down her back, and she decided it would be wise to dress before she caught a chill.
In short work, she’d donned a simple day dress and proceeded to pin her hair into a modest chignon. She wasn’t as skilled at producing the perfect coif, so she maintained her simple hairstyle day after day. Ready, she silently slipped out into the hall, wary to be quiet in case the viscount’s room was nearby. She rather expected it to be somewhere else in the house—she was clearly in the guest wing—but she would be cautious nonetheless. She would rather have a fortifying cup of tea before she faced him once more.
That was one aspect of the day she both anticipated and dreaded. Pushing the thoughts aside, she took the stairs down to the main floor. As she rounded the corner, she raised a hand in greeting to Mrs. Keyes, who was bustling down the hall.
“Mornin’, Miss Miranda. I trust you slept well in the new room?” she asked, pausing and folding her hands before her ample form.
Miranda nodded. “Indeed, thank you, Mrs. Keyes. And how did you sleep?” she asked kindly.
“Bah, well enough.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I thank ye for asking, though. I’ll leave you to breakin’ yer fast.” She nodded and bustled away.
Miranda watched her departure and then proceeded the rest of the way down the hall, passing the suit of armor, then turned left in to the dining room. The sideboard was set with rashers of bacon, ham, coddled eggs, and toast with marmalade. She selected some bacon and a slice of toast, then found her seat at the table, wishing for The Times to look over while she ate. She had an hour or so before Iris would be ready to start her instruction, and it was at these moments that she missed several of the comforts of home.
But most of all her sister.
Perhaps today would be the day Liliah and Lord Heightfield would arrive.
She poured herself a steaming cup of tea and enjoyed her breakfast in silence, the clock chiming the hour midway through.
She was almost finished with her second cup of tea when she heard footsteps in the hall. The teacup she was holding froze halfway to her lips as she listened intently. A few moments later, Iris walked into the room, her eyes slightly bleary from being newly awake.
“Good morning,” Miranda greeted her softly.
Iris took a deep breath, as if mustering the energy to speak. “Morning, though I wouldn’t say it’s good.” She muttered the last part and selected a plate.
Miranda chuckled softly and took a sip of her cooling tea. “That depends on one’s perspective.”
“You’re always happy about the morning, so I find that your opinion is one I will not take into account,” Iris replied, though Miranda noted a hint of a grin.
“Someone is cheeky this morning.”
“Someone is far too cheerful,” Iris responded, but her grin had grown into a full smile as she took a seat across from Miranda.
Iris took a bite of toast, and Miranda lifted the teapot in silent query.
Iris nodded, and Miranda poured her a cup of tea, then refilled her own.
“Shall we review last night’s conversation?” Miranda started.
Iris gave her an irritated expression as she swallowed her food. “After tea. Not that there is much to discuss. I didn’t speak very much, which means that there’s little to criticize.” Iris smirked, then sipped her tea.
Miranda sighed impatiently. “I was leading by example. And my question wasn’t referring to your involvement in the conversation; rather, I was seeking your opinion and whether you had questions regarding it.”
Iris lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I—”
“Ah, ladies don’t shrug,” Miranda corrected.
Iris arched a brow, then swallowed another bite. “I do not have any questions.”
“Very well, provided the viscount doesn’t have other arrangements, tonight for dinner conversation, I’d like you to initiate a topic upon which you can practice conversing. Something you feel comfortable with the extent of your knowledge.”
Iris tilted her head. “Something I know well?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” Iris replied, then gave Miranda a curious expression. “The viscount seemed quite . . .” She frowned.
Miranda froze, curious and slightly concerned about what Iris had noticed.
“It was of no consequence,” she finished, taking another bit of bacon.
Miranda wasn’t about to question her further, thankful Iris didn’t press.
It wasn’t proper breakfast conversation.
But then again, her behavior had been anything but proper concerning the viscount.
Miranda turned her attention to the day ahead. “Today, I think we shall work on your needlepoint and discuss some of the details pertaining to Almack’s, the establishment I mentioned last night at dinner.”
“Anything but dancing,” Iris remarked. “I never thought I’d see the day I’d actually want to do needlepoint. What has become of me?”
“A lady. You are becoming a lady, Iris.”
“I always was a lady—a miss of gentle breeding. My father was a gentleman, and I am a gentleman’s daughter, Miss Miranda,” Iris replied archly, a wide grin making her eyes sparkle.
“I’m simply helping your behavior match your birth,” Miranda replied, proud of her little turn of phrase.
“Ah, well done.” Iris lifted her teacup in a salute.
As Miranda chuckled, she smiled at Iris, thankful for their budding friendship, even if it was that of governess and pupil.
It went a long way in keeping her from feeling so alone.
And she expected it did the same for Iris.
She finished her tea and stood from the table. “I’ll be waiting for you in the library. It has the best light.”
“Anticipation floods me,” Iris replied, lifting her last piece of toast.
Miranda quit the room and started down the hall toward the library, where the east-facing windows stood tall and allowed the room to be full of a cheery glow each morning.
As she walked into the room, she considered Iris’s word choice.
Anticipation.
And the anticipation she felt for such an education was frighteningly real.
Chapter Fourteen
Heathcliff rolled from bed far later than he had expected. It had been a difficult night, with sleep eluding him. His attention was arrested by the woman only a few doors down.
Each time he’d try to relax into his bed, his mind would linger on Miss Miranda. Her quick wit engaged his mind, her intellect challenged him, and her innocence inflamed his body. The sun had fully risen when he made his way downstairs to break his fast. As he sipped his tea, the grandfather clock chimed ten, reminding him that he had much to accomplish before the day ended.
After breakfast, he headed to his study, passing the library. Feminine laughter halted his steps and he paused to listen.
The voices were muffled enough that he’d have to step closer to hear their words.
His damned pride didn’t allow him such an effort, and he settled on listening to the laughter once more before striding forward to his study down the hall. Had it only been a day since he’d arrived home? How had so much happened? As he sat behind his wide desk, his thoughts lingered down the hall, wondering what Miss Miranda was teaching Iris. What had caused their laugher?
He forced his thoughts to submit to his will, and he began to lift several papers from the stack to read.
Several hours later, he was rubbing his temple as he read over the notes from his steward. A knock sounded on his study door, and he blinked at the sound, his mind snapping to attention. “Yes?”
Sothers entered, his gray head bowing in respect. “My lord, there are guests here to see you. Lord and Lady Heightfield.”
Heathcliff rose from his desk. “Show them in at once.”
Sothers gave a twitch of his lips, surely anticipating the acceptance of Heathcliff’s old friend. “Yes, milord.” He quit the room, and Heathcliff came around his desk and leaned against the front of it, partially siting as he waited for his friends’ arrival.
Moments later, Lucas Mayfield, the Earl of Heightfield, strode in, his lovely wife, Lady Liliah Heightfield, holding his arm engagingly. He smiled at her familiar face, something striking him, like a fragment of a memory, but he dismissed it and pushed off from his desk to greet them. “Heightfield, and Lady Heightfield!” He reached out and grasped Lady Liliah’s hand, kissing it softly, lingering there just to irritate his friend.
“Enough of that,” Lucas retorted hotly, tugging his wife’s hand from Heathcliff’s slightly exaggerated welcome.
As he anticipated, Lady Liliah giggled softly, and Lucas glared. “I see not much has changed. I quite expected her to soften you up a bit, but I see you’re still a pain in the arse.” Heathcliff chuckled.
“Only when the occasion, or person, calls for it,” Lucas replied, reaching out and grasping Heathcliff’s hand in welcome. He grinned widely. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
“Eh, I suppose I’m glad to see you as well. Though I must say, this is something of a surprise. Aren’t you still newly married? Why come here and torment me with your calf-eyed self ?” He arched a brow, teasing his friend.
“It pleases me to torture you.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.” Heathcliff chuckled. “Brandy?” He gestured to the sideboard. It might be early, but then again, if he were in London and it were after one of their parties, it could be considered overly late—especially if you hadn’t gone to bed the night before at all.
Heathcliff’s smile froze as he noted the glances exchanged between Lord and Lady Heightfield.
“Out with it.” He backed up and leaned against his desk once more, crossing his arms.
Lady Liliah turned to her husband, her expression questioning.
“Damn it all, you’re making me jumpy. I know that face, Lucas. What the hell has happened?” He frowned.
“Perhaps we should converse in private?” Lucas directed the question not to Heathcliff but his wife.
Heathcliff waited impatiently for the verdict.
“That may be best,” Lady Liliah answered deliberately, then turned to Heathcliff. “I’ll give you two some time alone, then join you later. I’m sure your housekeeper can help me find your ward. Iris, correct?”
Heathcliff frowned. Something didn’t ring true about her words. Not the words themselves, but the tone.
He turned to Lucas. “How bad is it?”
Lucas grinned unrepentantly. “That, my friend, depends on you.” He shrugged. “But I am enjoying watching you squirm. Lord knows what scenarios you’re cooking up in your depraved mind. I assure you, it’s nothing like your imagination is concocting.”
Heathcliff nodded, then rang for Mrs. Keyes. When she arrived, he instructed her to take Lady Liliah to the other ladies, who were in the library.
Mrs. Keyes nodded, glanced at Lady Liliah, then blinked. “O-of course, my lady. . . .tMight you be related to our Miss Miranda?” She shook her head. “Forgive me. It just shocked me, the likeness. Follow me, my lady.”
Heathcliff didn’t see them quit the room.
He didn’t hear Lucas’s chuckle.
He simply put the puzzle pieces together.
Lady Liliah—Miss Miranda. His mind worked at lightning speed, making sense of all the questions that had been unanswered. It was so obvious, yet he hadn’t seen it till now. The sister who was supposedly in America, who was not actually abroad but much closer. Under his roof, in his employ, for heaven’s sake.
A duke’s daughter.
Parading as a governess.
Why in hell—then his eyes snapped up to meet his friend’s.
“You!” he roared.
Lucas tilted his head slightly, then shrugged. “Your response is not equal to the knowledge. Interesting.”
Heathcliff narrowed his eyes at his friend as Lucas helped himself to the sideboard and poured a liberal helping of brandy into two snifters, then offered one to Heathcliff.
He wanted to ignore the offering, but he also needed to calm the hell down.
Lucas was right.
His response wasn’t equal to the knowledge.
And whenever that happened in the club, it only meant one thing.
Guilt.
And Heathcliff was guilty as sin.
“Care to explain yourself?” Lucas asked, taking a slow sip of brandy, as if the world hadn’t just shifted.
“No.” Heathcliff downed his drink and set the glass on the desk, re-crossing his arms like a petulant child. He uncrossed them and glared.
“Fascinating.” Lucas remarked, and took another slow sip, as if doing his damnedest to annoy the hell out his friend.
It was working.
Heathcliff stalked over to the sideboard and poured himself another helping of brandy, then took a long sip.
“So, how much have you compromised the girl?” Lucas asked, just as Heathcliff was swallowing.
He choked on the brandy, sending the burning liquid up his nose and down his throat at the same time, leaving a fiery trail everywhere it touched.
He coughed, set the glass down, and tried to master his reactions, failing with each cough.
“Interesting,” Lucas remarked, again.
Heathcliff glared at his friend as his eyes watered, “Don’t say that damn word again,” he choked out, then coughed a few more times for good measure.
“Fascinating,” Lucas replied, grinning wildly.
“I hate you,” Heathcliff remarked, but without heat as he stood up and glared at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lucas hitched a shoulder and took a small sip. “It was safer, for you and for her. Those bloody investigators were like dogs with a bone.”
“Not good enough. I need a better reason. Those investigators were a joke.”
Lucas continued. “Yes, but it was still safer for her. And, my friend, s
he was the one who needed protecting, not you,” he added.
Damn and blast, he was right, but that didn’t negate the fact that Lucas had used him.
“Why not tell me later then, when she was safely away?” he asked.
“Would it have mattered?” Lucas asked, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass.
Heathcliff opened his mouth, then closed it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Because then I wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have been so curious about her history. I would have stayed away . . . “Because,” he answered inarticulately.
Lucas raised his brows, as if waiting for the rest of the explanation. It was bloody irritating having a friend who knew you so well.
When Heathcliff didn’t respond, Lucas helped himself to a chair and made himself comfortable. “You do realize that my wife is content to spend the entire day here, with her sister whom she’s been worried to distraction about, and I have nothing better to do than sit here and wait?” he threatened coolly.
“Damn you,” Heathcliff replied.
“So, my question remains.”
“Which one?” Heathcliff replied with heavy sarcasm as he took his seat behind his desk.
“The first. How much have you compromised her?” he asked, as if discussing the weather.
Heathcliff closed his eyes. “It was only a kiss.”
Lucas whistled under his breath. “And how long have you been in residence?”
Heathcliff opened his eyes and leaned forward. “Twenty-four hours.”
Lucas choked on the sip of brandy he’d just taken, and Heathcliff took sadistic pleasure in watching his friend’s much smaller, yet still satisfying, coughing fit.
When he recovered, he speared Heathcliff with a pointed look. “You didn’t waste time.”
“I’m not often accused of wasting time in any situation,” Heathcliff replied, leaning back.
“I suppose the question I should ask next, as her brother-in-law, is what type of kiss? And what are your intentions toward the girl?” Lucas leaned back, giving Heathcliff a hard, inquisitive glare.
“You’ll make a terrifying father one day, but I’m afraid your threats are ineffectual on me.” Heathcliff sighed. “It was enough of a kiss to cause me a hell of a difficult night’s sleep, and my intentions toward women in general have remained unchanged.”
Escaping His Grace Page 9
