All the Pleasures of the Season (4 page)

“You're flushed!” Marianne said. “And what did you talk about with Mr. Fielding?”

“Salvation,” Miranda whispered.

“Salvation?” Marianne asked. “Is he going into the army or the church?”

Miranda shut her eyes and hoped, for sanity's sake, that she never saw Gilbert Fielding again.

T
he cold silence in Lord Kelton's coach was like a snowdrift. She dragged a fingernail over the plush velvet seat, half expecting frost.

Her fiancé had only danced with her twice, had taken supper with Lady Endersly, and had not spoken a single word of flattery or love, or attempted even the most rudimentary discussion with the woman who was to be his future wife.

Was this how their marriage would be, completely without passion or even polite conversation? Perhaps he was saving up a host of witty things to say about cravats so he could dazzle her on their wedding trip.

Kelton's coldness seemed even more unbearable after touching Gilbert. A dance, a single, simple dance in a crowded room, and her body burned for him.

She tried to put Gilbert Fielding out of her mind, consign him to the past and think only about the future. She considered what she would say when Kelton escorted her into Marianne's drawing room, and they were alone and she had to speak. How would she start? Should she tell him in private how happy she was to be marrying him? It wasn't exactly a lie, nor was it perfectly true.

Should she start instead by telling him about the weavers, make her proposal for
their
happiness at Kelton Grange, even as her own hopes of contentment dwindled?

Or perhaps she would tell him stories of Christmas at Carrington Castle, make him laugh.

She glanced at his perfect profile as he stared out the window at the passing streets, as cold and perfect as a marble statue of a Greek hero, and wondered if he ever laughed.

She swallowed, and fidgeted with the betrothal ring on her finger. Would an idea involving weavers truly change his demeanor toward her, impress him with her devotion and intelligence?

Just what kind of wife did he want her to be?

The butterflies circled her stomach again, and it was not the pleasant flutter she felt in Gilbert's company, but the swoop of birds of prey, evil omens, the nauseating sensation of anxiety and dread. She had come to associate that sensation with Kelton since her betrothal.

They pulled up under the elegant colonnaded portico of De Courcey House. “I will take you inside. I wish to speak with you.” Kelton—
Anthony
—said coolly.

The butterfly monsters circled like vultures. “Yes, I have news as well,” she said as brightly as she could.

He left the footman to hand her out, and followed her up the steps. Northcott led them through to the salon. He took Miranda's cloak, poured brandy for Lord Kelton and a small glass of sherry for Miranda, and left the room.

Miranda clutched the tiny glass in her hand and wished it was a tumbler filled to the brim with whisky, or hot rum punch. She looked at the fire, banked for the evening, and wondered if she should poke it into life, bring heat and light and warmth into the room, but she didn't think it would help. She forced herself to smile, and filled the dreadfully icy silence with chatter.

“Grandfather anticipates there will be nearly three hundred people at the Christmas Ball this year, and of course there's the wedding,” she began. “You will so enjoy the holidays at the castle. Everyone will be there, even Phineas and Isobel. It's been years since he's been home, and that alone will make it very special—” His expression had not warmed or changed. She broke off and gulped at the sherry as she cast a surreptitious look at the clock. Where on earth was Marianne? She probably thought she doing a kindness, giving a shy courting couple time, space for kisses and whispered endearments.

Miranda might have laughed, but the creatures in her stomach wouldn't allow it.

“We won't be going to Carrington Castle for Christmas,” Kelton said flatly.

Miranda felt her jaw drop. She set the sherry down so she wouldn't spill it. “What do you mean? The wedding is set for the day after Christmas! Even with bad weather, we can leave a day or two earlier, and—”

He looked at her as if she were simple. “I meant that we won't be going at all. I have decided that we will marry here in London on Tuesday next and travel down to Kelton Grange at once. My mother wrote to tell me that her companion has resigned her post. She is ill, and alone.

Miranda rose to her feet. Her knees felt like rubber, and she clutched the back of the settee to hold her. “But surely she can hire another companion, or have a relative stay with her! Or she could join us at Carrington Castle—” She felt tears sting her eyes as desperation crowded the butterflies, warred with them.

He regarded her coldly. “Why should she hire another companion when I will have a wife?”

Her head started to buzz. “What?” There was no regret, no compassion in his face. He looked—she swallowed, and rubbed a hand across her eyes, but the expression was still there— he looked smug, as if he enjoyed imparting the news, inflicting disappointment and pain.

She shook her head. He did not understand, surely, how much it meant to her to marry at Carrington. Surely something could be done, arranged,
fixed
— “Please,” she began, but he sighed and got to his feet, crossed the room to refill his glass.

“I hope you did not assume I would allow you to be the kind of wife your sister is. Westlake allows her far too much freedom. She needs discipline, in my opinion. I will not put up with that from you. You will be a proper wife and do as I say.”

She stared at him. Was he daring to insult Marianne and Adam while he stood in their salon, drinking Westlake's brandy?

“The Archers are notorious for scandal,” he continued. “In fact, your family's reputation almost kept me from offering for you at all” He walked toward her. He didn't look handsome now. He looked cold and cruel and hateful. She raised her chin as he approached.

“Then why did you?” she asked.

“You are the female foil to my masculine perfection, if you're fishing for compliments. You were the most beautiful debutante on offer, and no one else would do. You have money, pedigree, and you are young enough that I can teach you to become the kind of wife I want.” He reached her at last, and put his finger under her chin, pushing her jaw closed. “When your mouth is shut.”

Miranda stepped away from him. “You make me sound like a thoroughbred mare, good wind and fine legs, a little too high-spirited, but ready for the saddle.”

“I prefer to think of you as more like a statue of Venus. Perfection in glorious, magnificent silence.”

She wondered if it might be a joke. She scanned his face, but found no mirth in his eyes. Her hopes for a marriage of happiness, love, and respect died instantly. Kelton regarded her with the look of a greedy man who had won a prize, something others wanted. He was
gloating
. He would never love her, or even care for her. She was simply another possession.

She took a breath, felt it catch in the back of her throat, refusing to go in or out. She began to walk toward the fireplace after all, desperate for heat.

“Come here,” he demanded, his tone harsh, the way someone spoke to a dog that had misbehaved.

She froze where she was, stared at him, and with an impatient oath, he came toward her. She resisted the urge to flinch or run. He reached up and tugged one of the sapphire earrings off, pulling her hair in the process, hurting her. He examined the jewel, turning it over in his hand, appraising it.

“As I thought—the clasp is loose. Did you not think to check it before you wore it?” he demanded, as if she were stupid. “You could have lost it!”

Her mother's earring, one of the few mementoes that Miranda had left. She might have lost it forever. She began to shiver, felt anger turn to sorrow in a heartbeat. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, fighting tears now.

He held out his hand. “Give me the other one. I'll have the settings checked.”

Miranda hesitated, and he stepped forward and yanked it off. This time she yelped at the pain. “Your first lesson. Did you imagine I was joking when I said I expect you to obey me?”

She watched the jewels' glint go dark as he slid them into his pocket.

“Grandfather wanted me to wear them for the wedding,” she said, a weak protest in the face of the reminder that it wouldn't matter what she wore now.

He lifted her chin once more, tilting her face up to his, examining her, assessing her as he had the sapphires. She watched his gaze slide down the décolletage of her gown, and stop at the necklace. Under his eyes, the stones chilled against her skin. She shuddered.

He met her eyes at last, and smiled. Was it meant to reassure her, or console her? She held her breath, hoping he would say he'd changed his mind, would allow the wedding to take place at Carrington after all, but he didn't. He ran his fingertips down her jaw, a mockery of a caress, and stroked her neck. She clamped her lips shut and closed her eyes to stem the nausea that rose. She felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned toward her, caught the harsh fumes of the brandy on his breath.

“A perfect beauty. Almost flawless,” he muttered. He cupped the back of her neck with a sudden violence that made her cry out with shock and fright. He pulled her toward him and kissed her, crushing his mouth against hers, his lips hard, cold, dominating, His body ground against hers, and her gorge rose. His touch was abhorrent, frightening. She twisted her head and pushed against his shoulders, shoving him away.

He let her go at once and laughed, and she read interest in his eyes now. “I hope you won't be so missish on our wedding night.” He drew his hand across his mouth, “I think that's enough of a lesson for now.”

Without another word, he crossed the room and picked up his hat and cloak. Miranda stayed where she was, too numb to move, waiting for him to go so she could scrub the taste of his lips off hers. The nausea was real now, not just nerves. He regarded her with a smirk, a bully who'd gotten his way.

“We will marry on Tuesday morning, leave for Kelton Grange immediately after the vows are done,” he said coldly. “I trust you'll be prepared. You may arrange to have your clothing sent to you, since you will not be returning to London in the foreseeable future.”

She heard an iron door clang shut in her mind, the key to a prison cell turning. There was no point in replying, nothing left to say. She simply stood and watched him leave.

Marianne rushed in moments later, probably from where she had been lurking outside, waiting for Kelton's departure. Miranda wished her sister had arrived just ten minutes sooner, or even five. Her eyes danced with mischief and curiosity. “Well? Did he like the idea?” she asked. “We can go and see Mathilde tomorrow if—”

Miranda swallowed. “We did not discuss it.” She could not meet her sister's eyes, couldn't tell her she would not be going to Carrington Castle, that nothing was the way she expected it to be.

But Marianne was giggling. “Then he
kissed
you!” she crowed. “Did you like it?”

“Marianne,” Adam warned.

Marianne cast Miranda a look that promised she
would
pursue the topic in the morning when they were alone, drag every detail from her before she'd let the matter rest.

Miranda felt sick. “Would you excuse me? I'm very tired. I think I'll go straight to bed.”

She rushed out of the room before Marianne could call her back. If she stopped, she'd burst into tears.

She managed to reach her room and dismiss her maid before the tears spilled over.

She fell on her bed, and sobbed.

 

C
HAPTER
S
IX

G
ilbert hadn't slept a wink. He could see Miranda's face in his mind, and in the dark when he opened his eyes. He had held her, breathed in the soft, tempting scent of her perfume, felt the heat of her body. He'd wanted to kiss her, and it hadn't helped that he was aware that she wanted to kiss him back.

He'd been a fool. After listening to Phineas's concerns about his sister's happiness, he'd decided to go and see for himself, speak to her at Lady Endersly's ball, dance with her. He was certain he'd know at once if she was unhappy. A look in her eyes, the set of her head, a falseness in her smile would give it away at once—wouldn't it?

He'd watched her arrive with Kelton. The earl had scarcely looked at his fiancée, while Gilbert couldn't take his eyes off Miranda. Kelton seemed far more interested in Lady Anthea's lush bosom. All the while Kelton danced with Miranda, he was also playing flirtatious games with his hostess.

He had watched the hope and expectation fade in Miranda's eyes, saw her famous smile slip, watched her shoulders tense. That's when he'd stepped in and asked her to dance.

It had been a terrible mistake.

Holding her was the only thing that had felt
right
in months. And worse, she'd bloomed in his arms, her smile restored, her confidence back again. He wanted to waltz her outside into the shadows and kiss her, confess a love he had no right to feel. Kelton would probably call him out for that, and rightly so.

He had lived in the shadows too long, thinking of Miranda Archer and wishing things had been different, that he'd been born a little better-off, or she a little less so.

He couldn't have her. Not honorably, no matter what they felt for each other. Honor was the poor man's riches. If he squandered that, he'd have nothing.

Nor could he ever forget her. She was imprinted on his heart—the curve of her throat when she tossed her head, the way she moved, her wit and her intellect and her laugh. The sound of it always shot straight to his groin. He was hard now, even without hope of ever seeing her again, yet he didn't want any other woman.

By dawn, half-drunk and dazed with lust, he had decided the only thing for it was to leave London at once and put himself well outside of the reach of temptation. The Earl of Westlake had ships. He would go and ask Adam to give him a place on board the next outbound vessel. In Spain, at war, surely he'd be too busy to even think about Miranda.

He took a long ride in the park before he arrived at De Courcey House, and asked if the earl was in. If Northcott was surprised to see a caller on the doorstep so early, he gave no indication other than a subtle glance at the clock. He showed Gilbert to the salon and asked him to wait while he checked to see if the earl was at home to callers.

Gilbert turned to take a place on the settee, and came face to face with Miranda.

Well, not Miranda herself, but the betrothal portrait of her, painted by a famous Italian artist. It stood against the wall, no doubt in preparation for shipping to Kelton Grange, where it would grace her husband's home. He stood staring into the laughing eyes, his gut clenched with longing.

“Gilbert?”

Was the portrait so lifelike it could speak? “I need sleep, and food,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. He turned toward the bell pull, considering asking for tea, or a drink of water, and there she was, real this time.

Only her head was visible above the high back of the settee. Her hair was a loose tumble around her shoulders. Had he imagined the portrait true to life? She was infinitely more beautiful than that. The familiar ache in his chest poked him.

He pointed over his shoulder at the painting, his eyes fixed on Miranda. “There's a flaw. In the portrait. I only just noticed it.”

She rose to her feet. She wore a simple woolen gown, blue like her eyes, and as she came toward him, he saw that her feet were bare. She looked like a simple country lass, not a duke's granddaughter, fresh from the meadows. He imagined wildflowers in her hair, her hem wet with dew.

“What is it?” she asked. “The flaw?”

He pointed to her neck. “You have a birth mark. Just there,” his finger hovered inches from her skin, indicating the tiny spot just under her left ear. “He's painted it on the wrong side.”

She touched it self-consciously, her fingers long and white. The betrothal ring glittered. “It's a game the artist plays. He paints in a tiny mistake in every picture. I thought perhaps it was a religious foible, an acknowledgement that he could never be as perfect as God himself, but apparently he simply does it to challenge his patrons, to show them he is greater than they are. Marianne has been trying to find the error for weeks.”

He heard her voice break slightly, watched her swallow and turn away for a moment. Did she have tears in her eyes?

“I won't tell a soul,” he said, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to touch her, to clasp her shoulders, console her.

She shook her head and turned back, her eyes pools of rainwater. A tear spilled over her cheek. “Oh, it's not that. I daresay Marianne will be overjoyed to have the secret revealed at last. She will be utterly delighted to have the opportunity to write to Signor Condotti and tell him she has discovered his secret.”

He took a step toward her, then hesitated. “Then why are you crying?”

She swiped at the tears. “I-I've lost something. I was looking for it when you came in.”

“Can I help?” he asked at once. “What is it?”

“A necklace.” She dropped to her knees and looked under the settee. He joined her there.

“What does it look like?”

She looked up, her face inches from his. “It's the sapphires I was wearing at Lady Endersly's ball. I have to find it. It was my mother's.” She was searching among the cushions of the settee with desperate haste. “My grandfather wanted me to wear it at my wedding.” She rubbed at the tears that were obscuring her vision, hampering her search. “I still have to write to Grandfather and tell him we won't be at Carrington for Christmas, and—”

He watched her crumple, dissolve into sobs. He had no idea what she was talking about. He put his hand to her cheek, wiping away the tears, but they fell too fast. He gave up trying to stem the deluge and pulled her into his arms, let her soak his lapels, as they sat on the floor of her sister's salon and he stared at her pretty bare feet. He shut his eyes and rested his chin on the softness of her hair, breathed her in, felt the soft weight of her body flow against his, fill him.

“Kelton noticed the clasp on one of the earrings was loose. He was annoyed that I would be so careless. He offered to get them fixed so I wouldn't lose them, but this is worse, so much worse. What will Grandfather say?” she sobbed.

What would Carrington say indeed? Gilbert wondered. The duke was more terrifying than his martial counterpart, Wellington. Both dukes were known for their dislike of fools and wastrels and people stupid enough to let their heritage slip through their fingers.

“I have to tell him,” she said. “I have to tell him everything, and I don't know what to say,” she sobbed.

Gilbert had seen the way Carrington had looked at his youngest granddaughter, with love and pride clear in his eyes.

“He'll understand,” he said. “He loves you. I daresay he would forgive you almost anything.”

“Not now, not this,” she said.

He moved so his back was against the settee, and settled her more comfortably in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder, tucked her hand inside his coat and rested it above his heart, and he shut his eyes at the sweetness of the sensation.

Comfort, he reminded himself. This was simple comfort. He should not feel arousal, or desire. She was upset about losing a valuable necklace, nervous about her wedding. If he weren't here, she would be crying on Marianne's shoulder. His hopeful cock refused to believe that. He shifted so she wouldn't guess, and she looked up at him, her eyes a summer pond after a storm.

“Would you kiss me, Gilbert?” she asked. “I want to know what it might have been like, if we, um—”

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but he couldn't. Her breath was soft on his mouth, her eyes fixed on his lips. Her breasts rested there as they had last night, but this time he could feel her heart beating against his. She shut her eyes, parted her lips in anticipation, and he was lost. He cursed himself for a fool, praised his incredible luck as his lips touched the incredible softness of hers. He felt her exhalation of breath against his mouth, as if she'd discovered a wonder. She slid her arms up around his neck and kissed him back, clinging. He was surrounded by the scent of her, the softness of her, and he didn't want to stop.

He ran his tongue along her bottom lip, tasting the salt of her tears. He cupped her face in his palms, let his thumb caress the tiny birthmark.

She touched him, too, running her hand over his face as if she were memorizing it. He touched the tip of his tongue to hers, and she gasped, then closed her mouth and sucked, drawing him in. She shifted on his lap, her hips pressed against his, and he felt himself sliding, falling, slipping to the carpet with her on top of him. Her body was pressed full-length against him now, and she could not help but understand, even as a virgin, what she was doing to him. She shifted, brought her hips closer to his, brushing against the jut of his erection. She reached down, closed her hand on him, and sanity hit him like cold water. He sat up, pushed her away, and held her at arm's length, panting as if he'd been running.

“Miranda, we have to stop,” he said.

She shook her head “I don't want to stop. Not ever, Gilbert—will you marry me?”

He stared at her, wondering if it was a joke, but her gaze was earnest, not teasing. He read sorrow and desperation in her eyes. She hovered above him, her body inches from his, taut with anticipation of his answer. “We can leave now, this minute. We can be married, and I'll go with you to war, follow the drum with you.”

He could see that she meant every word of her proposal. She, Lady Miranda Archer, granddaughter of a duke, sister to a marquess and a countess, would give up everything for him.

And he could offer her nothing.

He shut his eyes, trying to find courage to let her go. She curled her hands into fists against his chest, out of desperation, or perhaps embarrassment at her outburst.

He released her and sat up, then rose to his feet, putting distance between them, stepping away. “How can we run away? You aren't wearing any shoes,” he chided gently, hoping to make her smile, to ease the tension.

He watched sorrow fill her eyes, and he held out a hand to help her to her feet, wiping away renewed tears.

“You weren't made for following the drum, sweetheart. You were born to be a countess. You would be exiled from your family for choosing me. Your grandfather would never forgive me for destroying your life, and eventually, you would hate me for that, too.”

She did not plead or beg. She lowered her eyes and stepped away from him, her spine straightening, duty rising above a moment's passion, as it must. He gave her his handkerchief and she wiped her eyes.

She wore her dignity like armor, hiding behind Archer hauteur and pride, but he knew how deeply he'd hurt her. He wanted to pull her back into his arms, but he stood where he was because it was the honorable thing to do—because he loved her, and he had pride of his own—and she deserved better than he could offer.

“Why did you come this morning?” she asked.

“I came to see Adam, to ask him for passage to the Peninsula as soon as he has a ship leaving,” he said truthfully.

She swallowed, her white throat working, but said nothing.

The door opened and Northcott entered the room. If he was shocked or surprised too find Gilbert alone with Miranda, he didn't let it show. If he'd arrived only minutes earlier . . . Gilbert straightened his cravat, but the butler's unshakeable discretion was
his
armor, his honor.

“Good morning, my lady. Countess Marianne is looking for you.” He turned to Gilbert. “Unfortunately, Lord Westlake isn't in, sir. He's at the docks, at his shipping office this morning. I'm certain you could find him there, if the matter is urgent.” He glanced at the clock, letting Gilbert know that he suspected it was, since it was barely eight o'clock. “He has a ship sailing with the evening tide, and he likes to ascertain for himself that everything is in order.”

There was nothing left to do but to nod his thanks to Northcott, bow to Miranda, and take his leave. He saw the suppressed tears in her eyes—the misery, the resignation—and he forced himself to turn away.

Her family would never let her come to harm. Not from Kelton, and most certainly not from him.

Lady Miranda Archer was destined for a charmed life. In a few weeks, she would settle into her married life and realize how foolish she had been to imagine running away with a penniless soldier.

And with just one kiss, he had lost any hope that he would ever be able to forget her.