That Kind of Woman (11 page)

“I got a bit of a late start this morning,” he said.

She sipped her tea from a delicate china cup. “So did I. We were up late, though.”

“Yes, so we were.” He shifted uncomfortably. “About that, Miranda, I wanted to apologize.”

“You were only being honest. I can hardly fault you for that.”
Besides,
she thought to herself,
I should never have asked you that question. I already knew the answer.
A woman who was too tainted to be decent company for a thirteen-year-old could hardly make a suitable wife and mother. At least, not in the eyes of someone like Major Carrington.

“It was tactless,” he said. “And you were so very patient with my rambling. I assure you, I won’t trouble you so again. Forgive me if I seemed overly familiar.”

She raised her brows. “Overly familiar?”

“There is no excuse, really. For a moment, I had allowed myself to forget that there are boundaries between us.”

Miranda stood abruptly.
Boundaries!
As though last night had been the only time he had ever opened his heart to her! What boundaries? Was she a suitable friend only when he was on the Continent and she in England? Was she his family only when they wrote, and he did not have to look at her and see her mother’s face?

“Heaven forbid you should be ‘overly familiar’ with me, Major Carrington. We are only members of the same family. Or is this your way of informing me that my only real connection to this family is upstairs dying?”

“Good heavens, no!” He stood as well. “I certainly never meant to imply that!”

“Then what, exactly, are you saying?”

“I only meant to assure you that, for as long as you are staying here, I will observe the proper limits. I didn’t want you to think that I—”

“That you would continue to treat me as a trusted friend, as you did when you were in Spain? Yes, that might make it substantially more
difficult
when you tell me it’s time I pack my bags and go along my merry way.”

“No!”

“For as long as I am staying here, you said. You already speak as though I’m your houseguest. Tell me, Major, just how long
am
I welcome once I become your brother’s widow?”

“Miranda!”

“You would do well to remember I am not here by your largess. For now, I
belong
here. But fear not. I will be out of your way as quickly as possible when you become the Earl of Danford.” Her back ramrod straight, she turned to retreat to the dining room door.

Andrew swore softly. What a fine mess he was making of this! Naturally, it hadn’t even occurred to her that his feelings went any deeper than friendship. Why should it? To a good and decent woman like Miranda, such a thing would be unthinkable! What else would she assume but that he was referring to her birth?

“Wait!” he called. Catching up to her, he took her hand and pulled her harder toward him than he intended.

Miranda was drawn back sharply, and she turned back to find herself face to face with him.
Please,
she thought, though she fought against her impossible hopes. Was it so much to wish that he would open himself back up to her? She hadn’t fully appreciated how much their exchanges had come to mean to her, but the thought of losing him, too, made all the rest so much harder to bear.
Tell me that I’m welcome here. Say you want me to stay.

Her eyes shimmered, and he thought she might cry. “I didn’t mean any of that,” he said, his voice suddenly softer.

“It’s just that—” She paused, searching for words. “I’ve waited all my life to come here.”

“Here? To Danford?”

“To a place—anyplace—where I was wanted.”

Now, his voice was barely above a whisper. “You
are
wanted here, Miranda.”
Damn
. Having come too close to the truth, he rushed on. “Emma and Henry cannot sing your praises highly enough, and even Lettie is softening, I suspect.”

“And you?” she asked.
Please,
she thought again.

“Me?”
God help me, I want you here most of all.

“You wouldn’t rather I left?” She held her breath, afraid of the answer. If he said yes, she was alone again. If he said no, she was back to wanting something she could never have. Suddenly she knew she couldn’t possibly bear either answer. She pulled away from him. “Never mind. There is time enough to decide what to do. For now, George is all that matters.”

George. Once again awash in shame, Andrew turned from her. “Of course.”

Miranda stared at his broad back, certain what his answer would have been, glad she had not had to hear it from his lips.

*

Pressed against the wall, just outside the dining room doorway, Emma held her breath. When it was clear that Randa was about to walk into the hall, Emma raced away to the library and let out a huge sigh. Eavesdropping was risky business. Adults never wanted you to hear anything important, and they generally got very cross if you listened in.

Why was it that every time her father was home on leave, or even permanently, like he was now, he just couldn’t be nice to anybody? Why couldn’t he just tell Aunt Randa that Danford was her home and insist she stay here for the rest of her life? She was
family
, for goodness’ sake.

But he simply had to contradict everyone. The first thing he would ask when he arrived home was whether the new governess had worked out, and since none of them ever had, he was straight after Emma about her behavior. Then he would review Uncle Henry’s latest gambling debts and scold him for his drinking, and he and Henry would get into a terrible row.

Papa’s treatment of Henry was as annoying to Emma as all those stupid governesses! She
liked
Uncle Henry, especially when he was in his cups. He was a veritable font of information that way, and she learned all the best gossip from Almack’s and White’s from him. Henry wasn’t like other grownups. In many ways, he wasn’t a grownup at all. In the years she had lived with him and Grandmama, Emma and Henry had discussed at length all the best ways to thwart his mother’s attempts to discipline the two of them. They were the very best partners in crime!

Of course, her father had figured that out, as well. He would tell Grandmama that she was milquetoast and she should be more forceful. Then Grandmama would purse her lips for days and barely speak to anyone until Papa reported back to the Continent for duty.

And now, Papa had hurt Aunt Randa’s feelings. Even from the hall Emma could hear it in Randa’s voice.

Fine then,
Emma thought to herself. She needed all the allies she could get, now that he was home to stay. Emma simply had to make sure Randa didn’t leave as soon as Uncle George passed away. How hard could that be?

The girl curled up on the tapestry cushions in the library window seat and shivered against the cold pouring in through the glass. She watched as Randa left the house and wandered the pure, white courtyard outside the window. After a while, a sly smile spread across Emma’s angelic countenance.

*

Yesterday’s snowfall had stopped, but a frosty wind slashed its way through Miranda’s good winter pelisse. She drifted down the snow-strewn garden path, among dormant rose bushes with thorns hidden deceptively beneath a smooth coating of white. Fragile, milky crystals clung to the hem of the violet wool that enveloped her, and her feet grew frigid through the thin leather of her shoes. She supposed she should have put on more sensible boots, but she had wanted to get out of the house and into the clean, bracing air, tinged with the scent of wood smoke.

The cold doused the hot sting of tears that had threatened earlier. She had been too long away from the conventional world. Her marriage had been too much like her childhood. She had been living an illusion—convinced herself that her odd arrangement at Danford was normal, just as she and her parents had pretended their family was like any other. She had deluded herself into believing there was an intimacy between her and Major Carrington that did not exist.

Another gust of wind bit through the weave of her pelisse. For all that she had hoped never to succumb to illusion again, she despised reality.

In time, she had come to understand why most of her father’s peers disliked her without ever getting to know her. She was tangible proof of the rot under the
ton
’s posturing. In many ways, her parents were not so unusual after all. How many lords kept mistresses in the drawing rooms and fashionable townhouses of London, while their forgotten wives pined on county estates? How many “virtuous” aristocratic ladies cuckolded those same husbands when they came to Town to enjoy the social season?

But only the Duke of Montheath flaunted his mistress in everyone’s face. Only he insisted that everyone treat Barbara Henley, a common shopkeeper’s daughter, like his legitimate wife. Montheath’s legal wife and three legitimate sons lived like recluses on his country estates, while his bastard daughter was thrust onto the London marriage mart like she had some business there. No, he wasn’t the only titled man with a mistress or a bastard, but he was the only one who refused to pretend any shame about them.

And then George had come along. Miranda hugged herself tightly against the cold and disappointment that cut her to the bone. He was supposed to be the answer to her prayers. He was going to transform her from “Montheath’s bastard” into the Countess of Danford. She was going to be the mother of a legitimate heir to a title and land and the respect that went with them. Instead, she had ended up with two men who, granted, were like brothers to her, who doted upon her and adored her. But it was a far cry from all she had dreamed of.

What if she had met Andrew first?

A pointless question. He’d made his feelings clear—she wasn’t Carrington caliber. Legitimacy and respect, it seemed, were cold comfort when all was said and done.

She sighed, and with it, tried to exhale the self-pity that had crept up on her. For all its flaws, her life at Danford had provided her with contentment, if not happiness, and her heart was breaking as it all slipped through her fingers. George, Reggie, Emma…

“Randa!” a voice called behind her, and she turned to see Reggie carefully picking his way through the snow.

Miranda rushed to Reggie’s side. He wore only a lightweight jacket against the November wind, and she tsked him as they turned back to the house.

“Whatever are you doing out here like this?” she chided. “For goodness’ sake, your lips are blue!”

“Malfrey told me you’d left the house quite upset,” Reggie said.

The too-efficient butler really was a frightful busybody, Miranda thought. “You should have had him fetch you a warm coat, at the very least,” Miranda replied.

“I couldn’t wait. He said he was terribly worried about you and that he hasn’t seen you look this upset through the whole ordeal.”

“Well, you still could have put on a coat. I don’t know how far you’ve traveled across Danford lands, but I can assure you”—she gestured in a wide arc around her—”there are no cliffs from which I can hurl myself. I was out of sorts, but it was hardly a matter of life or death.”

They had arrived at the kitchen door, and both of them stamped the snow from their feet before they entered. The warmth of the ovens went to work immediately against the chill on her skin, and the smell of warm bread and mince pie was soothing. It was not uncommon for Miranda to stop by the kitchen to speak with the cook or the scullery maids, but the servants paused from their luncheon preparations to stare at Reggie, who had never ventured into their domain.

Miranda waved to them. “Carry on. Mrs. Applebee,” she said to the cook, “would you be so kind as to send a pot of chocolate to the drawing room?”

In the main hallway she smiled at the frowning Mr. Malfrey and handed him her pelisse. “As you can see, I am quite all right, Mr. Malfrey. You mustn’t worry about me so. And certainly, you mustn’t send Mr. Toller into the cold without proper attire.”

Mr. Malfrey gazed down his narrow nose at Reggie with a look that implied the entire incident had been Reggie’s fault. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“This time,” she teased lightly before she and Reggie retreated into the drawing room.

A maid accompanied Mrs. Applebee into the room and coaxed a merry flame from the fire. The drapes were closed against the cold, so she lit several lamps while Miranda and Reggie seated themselves on the low-backed sofa.

Reggie waited until the chocolate had been set out on the table and the servants had cleared the room before he resumed their conversation. “Well, what was it that made you flee into the snow? You’ve quite ruined your shoes, you know.”

She lifted her skirt a few inches and glanced at the stained leather but couldn’t summon the energy to care. “I didn’t like them much,” she answered. Reggie was not about to be diverted. He only raised his eyebrows at her and waited.

“Oh, very well,” she said at last. “I have been doing some thinking. You offered some weeks ago to take me with you to Italy when George—when it’s all over.” At Reggie’s pained nod, she continued. “I think I should like to accept that offer.”

The corners of Reggie’s lips tugged upward slightly, but sadness won out over his attempt to be cheered. He took a breath and swallowed. “I don’t suppose it will be much longer. He’s still asleep, you know.”

Miranda nodded. “Yesterday tired him out so.”

“Breathing tires him out, darling. Living tires him out.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead. “Lud, it tires me out, too.” He tried again to smile, and this time the expression lingered a second or two longer. “Still, this is some good news. I had hoped you’d come, but you didn’t seem to care for the idea when I brought it up.”

She blinked hard, refusing to succumb to the tears that she had, so far, fought quite successfully. “Well, it’s become all too clear I cannot stay here, and I really cannot bear the thought of London. I loved the time I spent on the Continent as a child.”

A note of hope lifted Reggie’s voice. “It would be so good to have company. I didn’t know how I would bear to be alone after all this. We’ll have apartments right next to each other in Venice, and we’ll sneak into Paris. I’ll take you to all the best fashion houses! You’ll have nearly every man on the Continent eating from your dainty fingers!”