That Kind of Woman (12 page)

Miranda shook her head. “I have another thought. Do you think maybe we could be married?”

Reggie could only stare for a moment before he finally asked, “Married?”

“Why not?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Miranda, you know I love you dearly, but it’s far too soon for you to make this kind of decision.”

“No, it’s not. It is perfect. We care for each other, you and I. And I don’t want to go back through that whole nasty business of finding a husband.”

“Not all of Europe is as prudish as England, dear. It won’t be like London.” He took her hand in his. “Miranda, life has given you a second chance …”

“At what cost?” she cried. “George and you have been the best friends I have ever had. I never wished for this.”

“Of course not, darling, but we must all play the hand we’re dealt. This past round, the cards weren’t in your favor. It is a new game now.”

“I’m not a gambler, Reggie, and I have nothing left to stake. I just don’t want to be alone.”

“You are twenty-four years old! You have your whole life before you.”

“And so do you. In the long run, this would serve us both.”

“How would it serve you?” he asked.

“I would have someone to talk to, someone to go places with, a way to belong—to a different social class, but that would make no difference.”

He dropped her hand, running his own through his blond locks. “God, I can’t even think about the future right now, not really. I haven’t thought any further than tearing myself away from this place and all the memories. It’s too much.”

“We’ll still be together, Reggie, comforting each other, protecting each other.”

He gave a sigh of resignation. “I’ll tell you what. Give yourself a year. Give us both a year. Open your heart. Dance and laugh and play music. After that, if this is still what you want, we’ll be married.”

“One year?” she asked.

“One year, darling. If you decide this is what you want, then I shall be unbearably proud to take you as my bride.”

“I love you, Reggie.”

“I love you, too, Randa.”

She reached over to him and they clasped hands, clinging to each other against the waves of anguish and despair that threatened to swallow them both whole.

*

Andrew was descending the stairs to search for Emma in the library when he paused at the bottom step. Reggie’s voice carried clearly from the French doors into the foyer.

“One year, darling. If you decide this is what you want, then I shall be unbearably proud to take you as my bride.”

“I love you, Reggie.”

“I love you, too, Randa.”

He froze, rooted to the spot. It was disgraceful, really, to stand there and eavesdrop on what was clearly a private conversation, but his transgression was nothing compared to what was being plotted within. When he moved again, it was noiselessly to the doorway where his sister-in-law and his brother’s best friend held hands, oblivious to his presence.

Like any good officer, he quickly considered his possible courses of action. At the moment, he could think of only two. The first was to pound Reggie to a bloody pulp and shake Miranda until her teeth rattled. Good God, his disreputable half-brother had been right! Miranda had no intention of waiting to replace her husband. Apparently, on some level, she already had!

Andrew considered himself a fair man. He knew Miranda would have to remarry. He had said as much to George yesterday. But really! To callously plan her marriage to her husband’s best friend, without even having the grace to wait until he actually died! It was too much!

The second option was to walk away and refuse to acknowledge what he had heard. So she had turned out to be like her mother, after all. It was none of his business, despite the sharp pain it was causing in his gut. It certainly solved the dilemma George had presented him with. Reggie could take care of Miranda, and Andrew could take care of his daughter and the rest of their family. Deciding that this was definitely a case where discretion was the better part of valor, he set his jaw and resumed his path to the library.

Once there, however, he all but ignored Emma, who looked up from her book and eyed him suspiciously. Roughly, he pulled a ledger from the desk drawer, which he then slammed shut. He opened the book and rifled impatiently through the pages, pretending to be absorbed by the figures before him.

“What are you angry about now, Father?” Emma asked, her voice full of acid.

He glared at her for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t want to fight with you right now, Emma,” he replied.

“Well, that’s a nice change. Is it Henry this time or Grandmama? Maybe Aunt Randa?”

He could have sworn by the way she had said it that she knew more than she was letting on. Had she overheard something, too? “Is there some reason I might be upset with Miranda?” he asked.

She shrugged insolently. “I’m certain I don’t know. You’re always mad at someone.”

Andrew winced. Did it really seem like he was always mad at someone? “I’m not angry. I’m tired and more than a little worried.”

Emma put her book down and walked over to him. There was something about the way that she stood in front of him. Perhaps it was the expectant look on her face. From old, unforgotten habit, he pushed his chair back and patted his lap.

She was much taller than she had been the last time she had sat like this, and her legs hung close to the floor. Her head had once leaned snugly against his chest. Now, it rested on his shoulder. But she stilled smelled like a mixture of Caroline’s perfume and sugar.

“I missed you, Papa,” she whispered, and his heart felt like lead in his chest.

“I missed you, too, Em. I know it must not have seemed like it, but I did.”

“Do you miss Mama?”

“Of course I do. Very much.”

“May I tell you something dreadful?” she asked softly.

He closed his eyes.
Dear God, what now?

“I miss Mama, too. I’ll always miss her. And I love Grandmama, of course, but I’m glad Aunt Randa’s here.”

“Miranda?” he asked.

“Yes, Papa. Grandmama’s so old-fashioned. Aunt Randa, well, she’s like having another chance for someone like Mama. Is that terrible? I’ll never forget Mama, I promise.”

She lifted her head and gazed earnestly into his eyes. He hated so much to hurt her. “I don’t think Miranda will be staying,” he said gently.

Her blue eyes went even rounder. “Have you fought?”

“No, sweeting, nothing like that. It’s just that Miranda has her own life to lead.”

The child in his lap went rigid. “But she’ll be in mourning for a year. Can’t she stay, Papa? Won’t you ask her to? Please? Must we lose Uncle George and Aunt Randa, too?” Her lower lip trembled, and tears shimmered at the edges of her eyes.

He groaned inwardly. She didn’t look at all like the petulant brat she had been on the journey from London. She looked like the motherless little girl he had left behind when he had returned to the army after Caroline’s death.

“I don’t know that there’s much I can do,” he said.

“Just ask her. Tell her that we
need
her. I know;
I’ll
tell her. She wouldn’t say no to me.”

She probably wouldn’t, Andrew thought grimly. For all her faithlessness, Miranda Carrington had an undeniable capacity for compassion. In all honesty, it was highly tempting to break up whatever was going on between her and Reggie. And now that he knew she was not to be trusted, he was certain he would no longer be vulnerable to his own emotions concerning her.

Emma, apparently pleased with her idea, put her head back down on his shoulder.

“Wait a while, Em,” he said. “Let’s get through this thing with George, first. We all have enough on our minds.”

“Yes, Papa,” Emma said, and he contented himself to sit with her and live, for a moment, in happier times.

It wasn’t until teatime that George had the energy for a visit. Tea was served in his chamber, where Emma and Henry sat in painful silence while Lettie prattled meaninglessly about life in London. Seated in a chair by the bed, Miranda attended to her husband, while Andrew stood at the window and stared at the stark landscape. Reggie was conspicuous by his absence.

“Poor Lady Randal was in quite a state,” Lettie gossiped, her chins wagging earnestly. “Everyone knew her ball was
the
event to attend that night, but she’s far too modest. She planned dinner for ten o’clock, but no one arrived until midnight, having to put in an appearance at all the other galas, you know. The fish was dry and dessert a disaster. I told her I thought she ought to give a breakfast instead. Then she can plan the meal for the afternoon.”

Miranda fussed over George’s covers and handed him his tea. “Why ever do we call a meal breakfast, when we serve it after noon?”

Lettie looked at her as though she were a slow-witted child. “No one can get up that early, dear. Not when they arrive at the best parties at midnight the night before. Why, they’re never to bed before four in the morning.”

“Ah,” Miranda replied dryly. It had been a rhetorical question. So much for making conversation.

The older woman put her second slice of cake onto her plate, next to the remaining half of her third crumpet. “It was a ludicrous idea, of course. People only give breakfasts in the country.” She turned in her chair to face George. “Have you two ever held a breakfast? They’re all the rage.”

“We have never been terribly social here, Lettie,” George said mildly.

“What a shame,” she answered. “You really should try a breakfast …” She paused at the looks of horror on the faces of everyone around her. She glanced around in silent supplication. “I mean, they should have tried …” She stopped again.

“No graceful way out of that one, Mother,” Henry commented. He slouched in his chair, looking, as usual, like a very elegantly appointed unmade bed.

George looked up at Miranda with exhausted eyes. “Is Reggie coming?”

From the corner of her eye, she caught Henry’s sneer, and she bristled. “He’s been in and out several times today, but I think he’s taking tea in his own room. Would you like me to fetch him?”

George quickly swept his gaze over the entourage filling every corner of his bedroom, then looked at her in tacit desperation. She rose crisply and, in a voice that brooked no argument, announced, “I’m afraid George has had enough socializing. Emma, dear, I think you and I shall practice the piano for a while. Would anyone care to join us in the music room?”

Henry jumped up eagerly. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he cried, obviously relived to quit the sickroom. Lettie looked a bit nonplussed, but then smiled and nodded.

“I’ll stay,” Andrew said. “But don’t mind me, George. Go ahead and sleep.”

“Really, Major,” Miranda insisted, “I rather imagine it has been a long while since you last heard your daughter play the piano. I’ll send Reggie in to take care of George.”

“Oh, yes, Papa,” Emma cajoled. “Come listen.”

He and Henry exchanged frowns, but he followed the group out the door.

Once in the hallway, Miranda said, “Why don’t you all go on to the music room? I’ll send Reggie to George and be right down.”

“Why Reggie?” Henry asked. “Why him over his own brother?”

“Reggie seems to be quite a favorite around here,” Andrew observed dryly.

Apprehension made Miranda’s pulse quicken. The last thing she needed to do, right now, was bring Reggie to everyone’s attention.

“He already knows how much laudanum to give, and when it comes to more personal care, George is often more comfortable with Reggie and me.” At Henry’s curious look, she added, “We have been providing his care all along.”

“Of course,” Andrew replied, but his voice was laced with sarcasm.

Despite Andrew and Henry’s obvious disapproval, Miranda sent Reggie to George’s room and then joined the others for the promised music lessons. As she suspected would be the case, Emma was, once again, quite out of practice.

Miranda encouraged her by playing a duet. One in which Emma’s part was very simple and repetitive, but added nicely to the more complex melody issuing from Miranda’s violin. Next, they sang together, and Miranda was reminded that her niece had a lovely voice, albeit very soft.

“You know, Emma,” she said, when they had finished the piece, “I believe we ought to add voice to your training.”

Emma blushed, and she smiled up at her aunt. “Do you think I could ever be as good as you are?”

“Oh, yes,” Miranda assured her, “but you’ll have to work at it. Your excuses mean nothing here, you know.”

With a vigorous shake of her head, Emma protested. “I’ve
been
working.”

Miranda regarded her from beneath arched brows, and Emma leveled an accusatory look at her grandmother.

Lettie pursed her lips. “Do not give me your looks. I never said a word.”

“She didn’t have to,” Miranda said. “I’ve told you, failure to practice shows up in the fingers. But if you work very hard, we can give a small concert together. Would you like that?”

“Let’s start now,” Emma replied with enthusiasm. “We can play that first piece again. I’m sure everyone would love to hear it!”

Henry, Andrew, and Lettie all murmured their agreement, and Miranda turned the sheet music back to the beginning. Emma played each note carefully, the light of accomplishment shining from her face.

His throat tight with emotion, Andrew watched his daughter gaze intently at the music in front of her. Every now and again, she would look away for an instant to beam in adoration at the woman who played beside her. Miranda’s arm wielded the bow fluidly and her body swayed while she smiled her approval in return. He fully understood Emma’s admiration.

And in this light it occurred to him that Emma, petulant, quarrelsome Emma, was beautiful, too. He suddenly realized her hair had been pulled off her neck in a perfect copy of Miranda’s elegant style. Her blond curls framed her face in an arrangement identical to Miranda’s own chestnut locks. Without its customary pout, her face was serene and confident.

The sight tugged painfully at his heart. For all that he was still furious at the conversation he had overheard, he had to admit Miranda was a natural with his child. She had been completely up front with Emma about both her negligence and her manipulation, but instead of throwing a tantrum, his daughter had accepted the criticism gracefully. Now, she basked in approval.