All the Pleasures of the Season (3 page)

 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

M
iranda lifted her arms as the modiste pinned and tucked the fine red wool to her shoulders, measuring for a walking gown and matching spencer.

“That looks lovely, Mathilde,” Marianne said, looking over her sister's shoulder. She held up a scrap of fabric. “I thought perhaps some of this silver satin for the wedding gown, with an embroidered flounce around the hem, very low cut, and trimmed with blue. What do you think?”

“I think I'll freeze to death if I wear that at Carrington Castle in December!” Miranda laughed.

“Kelton will keep you warm,” Marianne teased.

He was more likely to cause frostbite than prevent it, Miranda thought. “I think I'll put my trust in that lovely shawl over there.”

Mathilde brought it forward, and Miranda ran it through her fingers. The wool was fine, light, and warm, the weaving exquisite, with an intricate and colorful border. She draped it over her shoulders. “It's beautiful. I think I shall order several of them.”

“I'll take some as well,” Marianne said. “The work is remarkable.”

Mathilde sighed. “I may not be able to oblige, countess. The girl who makes these is truly talented, but I'm about to lose her services. Her family came from France as exiles during the French Revolution, with a dozen other families of court weavers. Many settled in Spitalfields here in London, and some went into the countryside. They do exquisite work in silk and wool, with lovely patterns from France and India. Many—like Annette, the girl who made these—create their own designs. Unfortunately, her family lives in a small village in Dorset—on the estates of the Earl of Gracey—and they've been evicted from their home so his lordship can make room for a new factory. They are exiles once again, and this time they will cross the sea to Canada. Annette has decided to accompany her family, since she will never see them again if she stays.”

Miranda regarded the modiste in shock. “How terrible!”

The woman shrugged. “It is happening in many villages now. Talented craftsmen must move to London's slums, try to find other work, or go to the New World and try their luck there. These are respectable people, thrown off the land without a care.” She glanced apologetically at her clients. “My apologies, countess, my lady. I am too outspoken. I meant no insult to either of you, of course.

Marianne patted her arm. “Westlake has no intention of evicting any of his people. He will always find another way,” she said.

“Tell me, Mathilde, would the weavers stay in England if they could?” Miranda asked.

“Not in London. Annette's mother swears it is not a fit place to raise children. She would rather face the wilderness.”

“I believe I may have an idea,” Miranda said quickly. “Marianne, what if they came to live at Kelton? They could settle there, live happily, and work at their trade.”

“Would Kelton approve?”

Miranda bit her lip. “I don't know. Surely it would be as profitable as it is kind. How could he object? Adam could bring in silk and dye on his ships. Kelton already has sheep. He exports the wool and sells it abroad, I believe, like most landowners.”

“With Annette happy again, I could sell as many shawls as you produce,” the modiste said excitedly.

Marianne smiled. “I only listen with half an ear most mornings while Adam babbles about the state of trade and investment and enterprise over breakfast, but I believe he said recently there's a market for luxury goods and fashionable European items in cities like Boston and New York. He would quite likely agree to ship the finished products for you. I think it's a wonderful idea!” She kissed her sister. “We shall confer with Adam over tea, ask his opinion before you suggest it to Kelton.”

“Then I can speak to Kelton this evening after Lady Endersly's ball!”

She let the modiste finish her work, but Miranda's mind was not on fabric or fashion. She had the opportunity to create something new at Kelton—a sense of community, a profitable enterprise—and the more she thought about it, the more certain she became that Lord Kelton—
Anthony
, she reminded herself, she must learn to call him Anthony—would like the idea, and perhaps that would make him fall a little

bit in love with her, see her as more than just pretty, or merely charming.

Miranda wanted to be a clever, useful, beloved wife. She would do everything she could to make her husband—and his people—the happiest in England.

She wrapped the shawl over her shoulders and smiled. Her marriage to Lord Kelton—
Anthony
—would be a success after all.

 

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

M
iranda looked at the sparkle of the sapphires against her white skin. Her gown was lavender silk with a deep flounce of white lace and gold embroidery, and the gems stood out magnificently, turning her blond curls to flame.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” her maid said as she slid on Miranda's elbow-length lace gloves. She handed her a fan, and draped the matching evening cloak over her shoulders.

Marianne and Adam were waiting downstairs, and Marianne smiled at the sight of her sister.

“How lovely you are! Kelton will be proud, and you'll make a fabulous couple. No one will be able to take their eyes off the pair of you,” she said.

Miranda bit her lip. She had been to dozens of balls and parties and soirees as a debutante. She had sailed through her debut with grace, not a bit nervous. Tonight, butterflies swooped through her stomach. Very large, heavy butterflies.

“My lady, wait!” Her maid hurried down the stairs. “We forgot this!” She held out Kelton's betrothal ring and Miranda let her slide it on over the thin lace of her glove.

“There!” her sister said. “Now we can go.” Miranda crossed to the mirror, patted her hair, and pinched her cheeks. Marianne smiled. “No need to worry, and I can see that you are. By the time you stand in front of the altar at Carrington Castle, you'll be deliriously in love with each other.”

Miranda sent up a prayer that her sister was right. She pasted on the practiced smile of a debutante—half demure, half wicked—and followed the Westlakes out to the coach.

She stared out at the lights of the city as they drove the short distance to Lady Endersly's home. The lady was just out of mourning, able to hold parties again and make use of the fortune her elderly husband had left her. Anyone in Town for the Little Season would be at Anthea Endersly's tonight. There was speculation that she meant to remarry, or take a lover.

Miranda didn't care. She planned to spend the evening charming her fiancé, making him smile, dazzling him with her wit and beauty. She would make him feel like there was no one else in the world for her but him, no one else on the dance floor save the two of them.

The entire
ton
looked upon her engagement to Kelton as a perfect match.

Miranda meant to do everything in her power tonight to make that true.

“May I have a few moments to speak to Lord Kelton—
Anthony
—tonight after the ball?” she asked. “Perhaps he could escort me home. I wish to tell him about the weavers. He'll want to start making preparations immediately, I'm certain.”

Marianne smiled. “Is that all? I assumed you wished for privacy to let him steal a kiss, if he hasn't already.”

Miranda felt her cheeks warm, felt the butterflies drag their heavy wings across her nerves again. He had given her a chaste peck on the cheek to seal their betrothal, but nothing more. She had felt no particular spark of love or passion at the touch. She was certain he would want to kiss her fully, properly, the way a man kissed his wife—his lover—tonight. Her toes curled in her shoes, anticipating it, imagining it.

“Is that wise?” Adam asked. “This is the sort of conversation a gentleman has with his man of affairs. One should not mix business with kisses. I must warn you, Miranda, as good as the idea seems, Kelton may have other plans for his lands.”

“What's to object to? It is a brilliant idea! As for kisses, they will be man and wife in a month,” Marianne argued. “He can see his man tomorrow, make all the necessary formal arrangements then—”

“If he likes the idea,” Adam said. “He may not.”

“Of course he will! It shows she has brains as well as beauty, a kind heart, and a head for improvements!” Marianne protested. “She must start now, as she means to continue, set the bar for her life as Countess of Kelton. What wouldn't be to his liking about any of that?”

Adam didn't reply, and Miranda felt her heart climb into her throat.

“Do
you
like the idea, Adam?” she asked.

“I do indeed,” he said, his tone reassuring. “But I am not Kelton.”

“We shall allow him to take you home in his coach, and we will be but a quarter hour behind you,” Marianne said. “Further talk—or kisses—can resume tomorrow.”

Miranda put a hand to the hectic pulse at her throat, throbbing beneath the collar of sapphires. They pulled up to Lady Endersly's home, and Lord Kelton was waiting to escort her inside. He bowed stiffly, and she made her curtsey. He took her arm silently, his eyes roving over her only to stop at the sapphires. She felt a frisson of annoyance. Her jewels raised more lust in his eyes than she did. He did not compliment her, or speak other than to offer Adam and Marianne a terse “good evening.”

Miranda found that her tongue had tied itself in a knot. She laid her hand on the fine black wool of his evening coat and concentrated on smiling as her future husband led her inside.

L
ady Anthea Endersly was famous for two things. She had been married to Lord Endersly for only a fortnight before he had died of heart failure in her bed. That was hardly surprising, given the second reason for her fame, which was her magnificent, eye-popping figure. The lovely widow stood waiting to greet her guests as they entered. Miranda watched Kelton's eyes drop to the lady's large breasts, even as Anthea's eyes fell to Miranda's more modest bosom, where they widened at the sight of the sapphires. Her eyes narrowed for an instant as they swept over the rest of Miranda, from her blond curls to her dancing slippers. Was it speculation? Jealousy, perhaps? But the fleeting look was gone in an instant and Miranda wondered if had been a trick of the light. Lady Endersly greeted them with warm congratulations, and then Kelton—
Anthony
—was leading her onto the dance floor as the other guests looked on, admiration clear in their eyes.

He held her stiffly, moved precisely, scarcely looking at her. Her throat closed, and she was lost for conversation.

“What a marvelous knot,” she managed at last, looking at his cravat. “What is it called?”

“It is a simple
trone d'amour
,” he replied. “It is the most suitable style for an important evening function, in my opinion.”

“Yes, nothing else would do,” she murmured, wondering if that were true. She looked around the room. Other men had other knots in their cravats that looked just as elegant.

He had not, she noticed, said anything at all about her appearance, though his eyes remained fixed on her bosom. That was a start, wasn't it? Marianne was allowing him to escort her home to De Courcey House after the ball. Would he try to steal a kiss? Touch her? There wasn't even the barest hint of passion in his eyes, no love, or admiration, or even regard. And his conversation was certainly lacking. Perhaps he was shy, or overwhelmed by her, and she would have to be the one to initiate the first kiss. She licked her lips and tried smiling up at him, giving him a warm and reassuring look she hoped suggested passion, love, and regard all at once, but his eyes were elsewhere, across the room, fixed on Lady Endersly. Now there was a spark of interest, she realized, with more annoyance.

“Grandfather left today for Carrington. He and Great-Aunt Augusta will put their heads together and plan the Christmas Ball, and—” She swallowed nervously. “—and the wedding, of course,” she began, trying to reclaim his attention.

He didn't even look at her, as if he hadn't heard her speak at all. “There shall be flying monkeys at the wedding,” she tried. “And a talking horse Grandfather keeps in the dower house and rides to church on Sundays,” she said, but he did not even nod.

The music ended and he released her at once, bowing, his expression bored. He took the tips of her fingers in his and delivered her to Marianne. Marianne curtsied and Kelton walked away without another word. Miranda watched him go, stunned.

“What did you talk about?” Marianne asked.

“His tie,” Miranda said dryly. Her heart sank to her shoes. They would be man and wife in a few short weeks. Why did she feel only disdain and irritation?

Marianne prodded her with a sharp elbow. “Keep smiling, Miranda. Surely you spoke of more than just his cravat. Did you say something amiss, something to upset him? Did you step on his toes?”

“We barely said anything at all,” Miranda snapped. “By his choice, not mine.”

“Good evening,” a familiar voice said, and Miranda turned to find Gilbert standing before her.

She didn't need to pretend to smile. Her grin of delight was genuine. She drank him in, and felt his gaze roam over her like a touch. He didn't need to speak. His eyes told her she was beautiful.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, bowing. The candlelight glinted off his brown hair, turned it golden and bronze.

Marianne set her hand on Miranda's arm to keep her from stepping forward too quickly, as if she were still a debutante instead of a lady about to be married. “Mr. Fielding, isn't it?' You're acquainted with my brother, I believe,” she said in her best lady-of-the-manor tone.

“You remember Mr. Fielding, Marianne. You met him last spring a number of times. Miranda plucked her sister's hand free of her sleeve. “I know him quite well. We've danced before, and ridden in the park several times,” Miranda said breathlessly, wishing her sister would step aside.

“Yes, of course,” Marianne continued. “I believe I heard Blackwood say you were supposed to join the army—”

“Marianne, the music is starting,” Miranda said, and put her hand in Gilbert's.

She felt the tingle of awareness run up her arm, and Marianne might have fallen off the face of the earth for all she knew or cared. His hand was warm through the lace of her glove, and he put his hand on her waist—a simple, correct, proper touch that left her as breathless as the most improper caress. Her nipples tightened traitorously, and her mouth watered. He led her expertly through the steps, their bodies fluid, perfectly matched.

“May I offer my congratulations?” he asked, his gray eyes smiling down into hers.

She forced a smile, wanting to talk about anything else in the world but her upcoming marriage to Kelton. She wanted to ask Gilbert why he had stopped visiting, or riding with her in the park, why he never made an offer for her hand, if he loved her, but she bit her tongue and merely said, “Thank you.”

“You look beautiful, Miranda. And happy.”

Was she happy? For the moment, perhaps, in his arms. She batted her lashes at him. “It's my mother's jewels,” she said. “They're magnificent, aren't they? Grandfather wants me to wear them at the wed—” She stopped.

“They're magnificent because of the lady wearing them. They are reflecting perfection, so they cannot help but sparkle.” He tilted his head and looked at her teasingly. “The blue of your eyes is infinitely more lovely.”

“Oh, Gil,” she forced herself to laugh lightly, though she wanted to sigh, lean up and kiss him for his sweet words. It was what she needed to hear, what she craved. She stared at his mouth, watched his lips ripple. There was a cut on his lower lip, and as she looked closer she saw the shadow of a bruise under his eye, a small graze on his cheek. He smiled. “I was sparring with your brother. I daresay he looks as bad as I do.”

Kelton never boxed. His face was too perfect, too untouched by either hardship or sport. She wondered if her fiancé used a parasol in the sun. Kelton's lips were smooth, shapely, and uninjured, and she felt absolutely nothing when she stared at
his
mouth. She wanted to touch the small hurts on Gilbert's face, first with her fingertips, then her lips. She forced herself to smile, to tease him with her eyes.

“I have missed you, Gilbert.” She noted she had no trouble at all using
his
Christian name. “What have you been doing that has kept you from visiting me?” She was too close to admitting her feelings, her disappointment that he had not called, or offered for her hand, or kissed her. Tears stung the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away and made her smile more brilliant still, playing a carefree, happy woman while her heart broke.

“I've made arrangements to take up my commission. I shall be leaving very soon.”

She stumbled, and he caught her, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, swung her through the next step—strong, capable, and protective. For an instant her breasts were crushed to his chest, her face inches from his. Then he set her back on her feet and they danced on. She met longing and regret in his eyes, knew it matched her own expression. Her forced smile faded.

“It's for the best,” he murmured.

“Is it?” she asked, breathless. “You might be killed!” She couldn't imagine a world without him in it.

He gave her a rogue's smile. “I might live, and become a hero. I prefer to think of that possibility.”

“At least you have Salvation.”

“Yes, and never did a stallion have a more perfect name. I thank you for christening him. I trust he will indeed carry me into battle and back out again, unscathed.”

“I will go at once and have a word with him, beard him in his stall, and insist that he do so. If you must do your duty, Salvation must do his.”

She felt tears fill her eyes.

He squeezed her hand gently. “We all have our duty, Miranda, our place in life.”

She shut her eyes, closed her lips on an admission it was far too late to speak.

The music ended too soon. He held her for an extra moment before he released her, as if it was indeed the last time they would meet. She let go reluctantly, breathless, her body tingling. He bowed to her and smiled, a thousand emotions, all destined to remain unspoken, clear in his gray eyes. Then he stepped away and disappeared into the crowd, and she knew that even if she never saw him again, she would never forget his eyes, or his touch, or the way she felt when he lifted her off the floor, and the brief instant of intimate contact between them. She wanted to call him back, to take his hand and race out through the French doors and into the shadows and kiss him.