That Kind of Woman (20 page)

“Francis Fenton’s girl?” He gave her a skeptical look. “He’s only a baronet.”

She stood and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. “Well, if you prefer, I’m sure that we can find Henry a young woman who is more his social equal. Forgive me, I lost my head for a moment. I was thinking of what would be best for Henry, rather than the status of Danford.”

Andrew rose quickly after her. “That wasn’t what I meant. I just hadn’t really thought to look so far down—no, that’s not right either. I had simply been thinking of families we’ve known longer.”

“Those worthy of socializing with those of your family’s position?” She gazed at him wide-eyed, deliberately obtuse.

“Listen here, Miranda, it is most regrettable how you’ve been treated by the
ton
, but suddenly you seem to have it in your head that
I
see you as beneath me somehow. I like you very much. I respect you. Your past means no more to me than it did to George. Still, I am a product of my upbringing, just as you are.”

“I see. By birth, you are a snob, and I am a whore.” She reached for the cake tin to pack it away.

With an angry, guttural sound, he blocked her from her task. “Oh, no, my dear, it isn’t that easy. How convenient it would be if I were the heartless aristocrat and you the noble commoner. You could feel very self-satisfied and smug with that, couldn’t you?”

“How dare you?” she snapped.

“How dare I? You were the one who started the name-calling.”

Miranda pulled herself up to her full height and tugged her shawl tightly around her. “Would you care to explain just what you meant when you said I was a product of my upbringing?”

“Yes, I would.” He stepped closer to her, enveloping her in his warmth and the masculine scents of leather and horse. His face was mere inches from her own, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of retreating. “I meant that you are more like your mother than you care to admit. You are passionate and vibrant, full of life. You are no whore, Miranda, but neither is Barbara Henley. I watched your parents while they were out here last autumn. I listened to your mother speak of Montheath throughout the holidays. Any fool can see they are madly in love. You are very like her. You cannot live forever like this.”

The indignation that had stiffened her spine deflated, and her shoulders dropped a little as she took a step back. No one had ever spoken of her mother like this, with respect and kindness. The wall she tried so hard to keep between her heart and this man began to crumble, and she couldn’t shove the bricks back into place fast enough.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like Emma’s maiden aunt. You’re young. You should have a husband, children of your own.”

She didn’t dare to look at him. She knew his eyes would be filled with a longing that was sure to be reflected in her own. “I don’t mean to be in the way,” she said.

“Damn it, Miranda!” he shouted, taking her hands in his. “Why are you deliberately twisting my meaning?”

Against her better judgment, she looked up at him, seeing just what she expected and yet shocked to the core by its intensity. The wall around her heart was in ruins, and she reached up to caress his smooth jaw. “Because
I
cannot hide in the library or ride all over the estate. Because I have no excuses to flee to London. Those are
your
defenses. The least you can do is allow me some pitiful excuse to leave you.”

It was a mistake. She knew the moment the words were out that both of them had laid themselves entirely too vulnerable before the other. And yet, even as he tilted his head closer, and she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. His mouth, tender but demanding, moved upon hers. She parted her lips, inviting the invasion of his tongue, which still tasted sweet and spicy from the cake they had shared.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt his every muscle through the wool of his jacket and the thin muslin of her gown. Like the springtime of the earth around them, she felt life, pure and passionate, flowing through her, warming her, then heating like full summer. Desire unfurled like the petals of flowers, only ten times faster than they bloomed in the garden. She felt her shawl fall to the ground, but she had no need of it. Her body was on fire.

Andrew deepened the kiss, tasting every corner of her mouth. For this moment in time, nothing mattered. Propriety didn’t matter. Their integrity didn’t matter. Even the memory of George faded against the passion he’d unleashed when he had taken Miranda’s lips against his own. He was just on the verge of pulling her down onto the blanket when he heard a horse whicker in the distance.

Emma!
He pulled away from Miranda, as she did the same. Both of them glanced guiltily toward the river, but the girl was still hidden behind the trees. They looked at each other, slightly breathless, lips tingling. Speech was out of the question. What could either say?

I want you. I need you. Take me.
Impossible.

We must stop. This can’t go on. It is wrong.
Oh, no! None of those!

Miranda broke the heated gaze between them, stooping to pick up her shawl. “I should pack up.”

“No!” The word was torn from his throat. “You can’t go back to London.”

Despite the wild emotions inside of her, Miranda had to chuckle. “The picnic. The food—dishes—”

Andrew permitted himself a grin at his own expense. “Let me help.”

They knelt and reached for the cake tin together, and their hands collided. Their eyes snapped up to meet again.

“What now?” Miranda asked. “Now that we have breached this boundary, what are we to do?”

Andrew swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I know what I want to do.”

“We can’t. You don’t know how hard it is. Emma won’t be my daughter; no one will call her a Henley Harlot, but she will live with us. People will know. Having been raised in a home with two people who live in open sin, they will assume things about her. They will have been right about me, and she will pay dearly.”

“No one need know.”

“They
will
know. You said it yourself. You have seen how my parents look at each other. You’ve heard my mother speak of Montheath. Do you honestly believe that what we felt just now will not show? That no one will see it?”

“We are far from London…” he said.

“Will you burden your child with the secret, then? Is she to live in shame and fear of discovery? Is she to think of me as a mother, but never speak of me to others?”

“We’ll marry.”

“Letitia will not stand for it. She could do nothing to stop George, but she has the law on her side between us.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She would.”

Miranda picked up the cake tin and put it in the hamper. “I’ll finish up here. Go find your daughter. You need to tell her that there is nothing—can be nothing—between us.”

“Tell Emma?”

“Do you think it a mere coincidence that she chose a picnic spot right in your path?”

He stood and looked toward the trees. “She loves you.”

“I love her, too, but we mustn’t allow her to carry false hopes.”

He looked back at Miranda. “And who is to stop me and my false hopes?”

Danford really did raise some of the finest horses Miranda had ever seen, and the rolling hills and shadowed forests of the estate made for the best riding. It was just after breakfast, and the grounds were turning lush as spring progressed. Miranda leaned forward and let her mare set her own pace across the hill and toward the trees. Fast on her heels, she heard Henry’s horse gaining behind her, his laughter ringing out.

He had presented himself to her after breakfast and invited her for a ride, and as far as she could tell, he was sober as a judge. Hoping to encourage him toward fresh air and exercise and away from spirits, she had enthusiastically agreed.

When she reached the edge of the park and the beginning of the forest path, she slowed down and let Henry catch up.

“You ought to let me win at something, Randa,” he complained good-naturedly. “If not whist, then a horse race every now and again.”

“You want practice, Henry.”

“Is that your answer to everything? Emma and music, me and riding?”

“It is, indeed. We should ride together more often. You very nearly had me.”

Henry beamed. His face was round and his eyes bright, and it seemed to Miranda that he still looked like he belonged in the schoolroom.

“Then we shall ride every day, and I will have you yet.”

Miranda shook her head, then ducked it just before a low branch could knock her hat askew. “You must return to London for the Season. Your riding may be rusty, but your wit is well polished. You’ve need of a place to wield it, and young ladies who will appreciate it.”

The path was too narrow to ride abreast, but Henry stayed close behind. “Have you no appreciation for my wit?”

Miranda laughed. “More than you know. I love having all of you here at Danford. But surely you miss the scandal, the entertainment of London.”

“I enjoy being with you.”

“A widowed aunt? You are sweet, Henry, but Emma and Andrew will keep me company, and you and Lettie will be back before the holidays.”

“You shan’t miss me then?”

The path widened, and Miranda allowed him to pull beside her. “Of course I shall.”

“You’re half through your mourning.”

Miranda cocked her head. “True, but I won’t be joining you and Lettie in London next year. I’m through with all that.”

Henry frowned. “Surely you miss the culture—the music and the plays.”

“Napoleon can’t hold on forever. Someday I will be able to travel again. I prefer Vienna or Paris to London.”

His face brightened immediately. “The Continent! Now there’s a capital idea! You could show me all your childhood haunts.”

“Well, I have promised Emma that I will take her there with me someday. You might join us, if you’d like.”

“I wasn’t thinking of taking Emma with us.”

Miranda gave an inward groan. She had known that sooner or later Henry was going to make his feelings known to her on some more formal level than flirting and mooning after her. She just wasn’t up to it yet. It was easy to snub an arrogant lecher in a London drawing room. Far harder to crush the hopes of a well-intentioned boy who was part of her family.

In a way, he was right. She would be safer from herself in London. But it was so hard to think of facing the very things they spoke of—the gossip, the cuts direct, the cruelty. If she could but hold out a little longer, surely the war would end and she could go somewhere more suitable. In the meantime, she needed to deal with Henry.

“I think Emma would be very hurt to be left behind, and I’d never want to upset either of you. You’re like the brother I never had, Henry.”

He reined his horse to a stop, and courtesy demanded she do the same. She maneuvered her mount to face him, and he said, “Well, I don’t think of you at all as a sister.”

“Someday you might.”

He raked a hand through the shock of hair at his brow. “I don’t want to be a brother to you, Randa. I want—”

“Henry!” she snapped. “I am still in mourning for
my
husband and
your
brother.”

“Half-brother,” he grumbled.

“Your father’s son. Now, let’s just turn ‘round and finish the ride.”

The way home was silent but for the sound of horses’ hooves and birdsong. Left to her thoughts, Miranda asked herself (and not for the first time) whether it was the incivility of London that kept her at Danford, or a deliberate desire to sabotage herself.

*

“Henry thinks he’s in love with Aunt Randa,” Emma proclaimed to her father. They were in his sitting room, and Emma stood at his window, overlooking the stables, where Randa and Henry had just ridden up to return their mounts.

He set down the book he’d been reading and rose from his chair to join her. “They went for a morning ride. You and Miranda go riding all the time. It doesn’t mean a thing.” But he scowled when Henry took Miranda’s arm as they walked back to the house.

Emma frowned as well.
Stupid Henry!
“Is it true that a man cannot marry his brother’s widow?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Henry.”

Andrew relaxed a little and moved away from the window. “Well, yes, it’s true. So you see, it doesn’t matter how Henry feels about Miranda. He’ll have to look to London for a bride.”

“He says that
he
can marry her, because he was only Uncle George’s half-brother.” When she saw her father stiffen again, the corners of Emma’s mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. He didn’t like that bit of news.

“Is that what he thinks? Well, he’s quite mistaken there.”

“That’s good. Oh, wait! What if they were to become lovers?”

Andrew yanked her away from the window. “Emma Louise! What kind of thing is that for a young lady to say?”

“Oh, Father! I’m not a child. I know people have liaisons.”

“I should never have allowed Miranda to have that talk with you.”

“I’ve met her parents. I know they aren’t married.” She had to squelch another grin at the flummoxed look on her father’s face.

“Don’t worry, Papa. I’m going to get married someday, and I’ll stay pure as snow till then. I would never want all the scandal, and I want to be able to go to Town and hold my head high. I’m not going to become a fallen woman, just because I know what’s what. But surely you must agree that sometimes, if there’s just no way two people who are in love can be together legally—like the duke and Miss Barbara—”

“You’ve seen what a scandal that has caused, and Miranda has been the one to pay.”

“But out here, in the country—”

“Miranda and Henry are not having an affair!” Andrew shouted.

Emma’s blue eyes went wide. “I’m not saying that they are. Yet.”

“Go to your room!”

“I just don’t think such an arrangement would be all that shocking. But not with Henry, you know, he’s too immature…”

“Now! And you’re to stay there all through luncheon. You may think on more appropriate topics of conversation for a young lady while your stomach is growling!”