That Kind of Woman (6 page)

His face looked positively gray with remorse. “What else can I do? You’ll never forgive me, and I couldn’t blame you. Oh, God, Miranda, you’re beautiful and kind, and I never meant to hurt you, truly.” His voice cracked, and he sank miserably onto the edge of her bed.

Miranda clutched at her cramping stomach and sat on the bed, too, though on the other side, her back to him. She might be worldlier than most respectable women twice her age, but she was shocked and horrified, nonetheless. Her
husband
. Oh, God, not
her
husband!

“I liked you, George. I trusted you.” Her voice was soft now, wounded. “You weren’t like all the others, merely civil to me out of deference to my father’s power.”

“I never cared at all that your father was a duke.”

“I should say not! No, I was a perfect choice, a pathetic bastard who could never have hoped for what you offered. If I found out about this, what could I do?”

His voice was tight, as though he would weep if it were a manly thing to do. “It wasn’t like that. I told you, it was supposed to be over between us. I don’t expect you to understand but we—we are in love.”

“In love?”

It took obvious effort for him to say the rest. “Since we were barely more than children. But I was the Earl of Danford. I had to marry someone with the right bloodlines, produce heirs.”

“And a duke’s bastard was a good enough pedigree for you?”

“You were the nicest woman I’d met. If I couldn’t marry for love, it didn’t seem that marrying for friendship would be so wrong.”

“We were to be friends? Did you never wonder if I might want more from a marriage? Did you honestly think I could overlook this?”

“I thought it was over! I meant for us to have a real marriage. You were perfect—polished and worldly. But you were also genuine and thoughtful, and I thought we could live together quite happily.” He made a small sound of self-loathing. “I’ve destroyed any possibility of that now, and I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

Miranda lifted her head and stared hopelessly into the moonlight beyond her window. “There is nothing you can do. We will do what we must. We’ll stay married, but in name only.” Her head dropped to her chest in defeat. “Oh, George, what have you done?”

“You hate me. You must.”

She answered in a brittle voice. “I was naive, too trusting. I wanted too much.”

“I promise, this will be the end of it. The whole affair is over. We’ll never see each other again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, George.” She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway.

Andrew tucked a packet of letters inside his coat. It was nearly the end of January, but the post had been slow, so he assumed the packet to contain Christmas greetings. With the fall of Cuidad Rodrigo to English forces, the war was taking a turn for the better, and he found there were days when the end seemed tantalizingly close. Enough to drive him mad. The letters were a welcome reminder that there was a world beyond the rape and pillage he had seen committed by his own men here, in Spain.

He was scheduled to meet another officer for dinner, and he’d arrived at the inn early, so he settled into a chair in the almost deserted common room, ordered a drink, and pulled out the packet, breaking the wax seal. As he expected, several letters spilled out on the table, all addressed to him, each in a separate, distinct hand. He picked up Emma’s first.

Dearest Papa,

We have come to spend the holidays at Danford! Oh, it is a splendid sight, all trimmed in evergreens and tied with festive red bows. Aunt Randa’s mother, Miss Barbara (who has granted me leave to call her that) is ever so amusing, and she never speaks to me like a child.

Andrew shook his head. Obviously he had quite lost the battle for formality to his daughter. He straightened, and continued reading.

Of course, Grandmama is positively scandalized that she is staying with us, but Miss Barbara has yet to do anything that one might consider vulgar.

Now he smiled. Doubtless his daughter was more than a little disappointed by that. It surprised him that the family had returned to Danford at all. It had not been their custom since Caroline’s death.

Lord Montheath could not stay, but there are enough of us for dancing every night. Aunt Randa plays the violin or piano, and Grandmama, Miss Barbara, and I never give Henry, Uncle George, or his friend Mr. Toller a moment’s rest! Oh! And we all sing Christmas carols…

He felt a peculiar twist in his chest. It had seemed to him that being at Danford would have made Emma miss her mother, but apparently it was filling a void. He hadn’t received such a cheery letter from his daughter in a very long time. She enthusiastically reported on games played in the snow and meals taken with family all around. He could almost taste plum pudding.

Next, he picked up the letter from Miranda. He knew the handwriting well, for she wrote him the most regularly of all his family. They were light, newsy missives, but she seemed to know what it felt like to be far from home and uncertain of the future. Resisting the urge to break the seal, he set the letter back down. He really should want to hear from his blood relatives first.

Henry was bored, hated the country, but had plenty to say about their new sister-in-law. She was beautiful and warm and a deadly wicked card player. He had lost all his pocket money to her, not that it mattered in the country, where there wasn’t a worthwhile thing to spend money on.

Lettie admitted that Danford looked more festive than it had in years, and the new countess had been going out of her way to see to it the dowager wanted for nothing. Of course, Mrs. Charger, the head housekeeper, remembered her well and knew Lettie’s preferences in all things. Andrew shook his head. Heaven forbid she should just give Miranda full credit. Still, she seemed to be softening, and that boded well for the newlyweds.

George wrote of the pleasure of a full house at Christmastime. The whole family was in attendance, along with Randa’s sophisticated and clever mother and George’s own dear friend from his school days, Reggie Toller. The only thing that kept it all from perfection was the absence of Andrew. Andrew scratched his head. Leave it to George’s friend Reggie to interfere with George and Miranda’s first Christmas together. As though it wasn’t enough to have the rest of the family there. Then again, George had always treated Reggie like family. Andrew had never been able to quite put his finger on what it was that made him so uncomfortable around the man.

He carelessly broke the seal of the only letter remaining. This letter was certainly no more important than the others.

Dear Major Carrington,

I do hope this letter finds you safe and well and warm. I know how hard it is to long for a home and family during the holidays…

She assured him that Emma had arrived with her latest governess in tow, and while the girl led the woman on a merry chase most days, she hadn’t yet driven her teacher off. Miranda was also most encouraged by Emma’s skills on the piano. She told amusing tales of Henry’s antics and mentioned a neighbor’s daughter who seemed to have taken some interest in him. Andrew hoped she was a stout girl who would brook no nonsense, but then she’d hardly have taken a shine to Henry, would she?

One might have expected that a woman from Miranda’s background—having lived in bustling cities with a small family—would have preferred a different sort of Christmas, but she seemed thrilled by a country house filled with family and close friends.

Unlike all the other letters, hers did not stop with her report of Christmas at Danford. She inquired after his health and comfort and assured him that he and his men remained in her prayers. In addition, she noted each of their acquaintances who had returned from the front, temporarily or permanently—proof that some did come home and there was life after war for those who did.

The letter had been sealed in the packet with the rest, trapping the faint smell of roses wafting up from the page.

“Post came?”

At the sound of Major Mill’s voice, Andrew hastily folded the letter, acutely aware the involuntary reaction made him look like a man with a guilty secret.

Mill laughed. “Is that a woman’s handwriting?”

Andrew shrugged. “My sister-in-law.” He gathered the letters together and put them in their packet. “Letters from the whole family, wishing me a happy Christmas.”

Mill nodded as he took his seat. “At least they arrived before spring.”

The holidays were long over. Where were they all, now?

*

Miranda stood behind Emma at the piano, a satisfied smile on her face as the girl’s fingers glided over the keys and the simple melody filled the music room. “You see, Emma, your own discipline and practice are every bit as important as the quality of your teacher.”

“I
do
practice, Aunt Randa. Mrs. Smythe is a dreadful musician.”

Secretly, Miranda agreed, but she also knew when someone hadn’t been practicing, and such had been the case when Emma had arrived. “You must take your share of responsibility if you ever wish to accomplish anything.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like Papa.”

“Well, when you think of how many people depend upon his judgment, I shall take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant that way,” Emma said bluntly.

Miranda only laughed. “What shall I do when you all return to Town in the spring? Then it will be only George, Reggie, and me, and I shan’t have you to keep me on my toes.”

Emma brightened. “Come to Town with us!”

To Emma, London was a place filled with excitement and friends with whom to shop and have tea and play. She was too young to understand that her aunt would never be welcome as she was. The time would come for that realization, and Miranda hoped dearly that it wouldn’t spoil the bond between her and her niece. She would never have children of her own, so Emma would be the closest she would come.

That was the thing that had been nearly impossible not to feel bitter about, the absence of children. She had been able to let go of a real marriage. After all, before she met George, she had all but accepted the idea that such a thing simply wasn’t meant to be for her. Without Emma, Miranda might never have been able to move on and build the precarious relationships that were becoming such an important part of her life.

Of course, in time, Henry might get serious about choosing a bride and bring his own little ones home to Danford. That would require a number of other changes, for no father would trust his daughter to a young man who seemed to be making every effort to become the family wastrel.

Miranda worried about Henry, but he did seem to behave himself better at Danford than in London. Lord Throckmorton’s daughter had taken a bit of interest, but his lordship had made his disapproval quite clear. Even if Henry were of a mind to try harder to impress him, Lettie preferred the excitement of Town, and she was not about to cut the leading strings where Henry was concerned. Whatever seeds of affection might have been planted had no chance to germinate.

George’s friend Reggie strolled into the music room, a smile on his handsome face, as usual. He and George were of an age, having met in the classroom, but there was something perpetually youthful about Reggie. His blond hair was meticulously groomed, his clothes up-to-the-minute in fashion, but like George and Miranda, he preferred the ease of country life.

“Brava, Miss Emma!” he commended. “I do believe you’ve come leaps and bounds since you arrived.”

“Aunt Randa is the very best teacher.”

“Hmm,” Miranda said, “and it is a wonder what a little practice will do.”

Emma finished the piece with a dramatic crescendo. “Are we finished for today?” she asked Miranda. At her aunt’s nod, Emma jumped up and said, “I think I’ll find Henry. We’re reading
Pamela
.”

“Oh, dear. Does your grandmama know?” Miranda asked.

Emma gave a sideways look away from her. “I do not think I have mentioned it. But how can she object to a book with
Virtue Rewarded
in the title?”

“As I recall, that virtue is tested a time or two.”

Her eyes sparkling, Emma replied, “Oh, there are several close calls! But oughtn’t I know these things before I must face them when I am older?”

Miranda shook her head. If Lettie found out, she would have a fit, but truthfully, Miranda didn’t see the harm in it. In the end, she only sighed. “Tea is in an hour.”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t imagine Henry will wait for tea to quench his thirst.”

Miranda scowled. “Tell him that he had better. Mrs. Applebee has baked cherry tarts, and I shan’t allow him a bite if there’s liquor on his breath.”

“Someone ought to take the boy in hand,” Reggie commented as Emma scampered out of the room.

“I was thinking of asking Lettie if they might stay here. Danford seems to be good for them both.”

Reggie’s smile faded, and Miranda sighed. “Don’t worry, Reggie. She is sure to refuse.”

“It isn’t that I don’t like them,” he said.

Miranda put her hand on his sleeve. “I know. But I shall truly miss them all so.”

“Even Lettie?” he asked with a grin.

“Even her. She means well.”

He grasped her hand and pulled her into an impromptu waltz, sans music. “Don’t George and I keep you amused?”

Miranda chuckled. “Of course you do.” Sometimes it still surprised her, how easy he was to laugh and joke with. For so many reasons, Reggie had been the most unlikely person in whom she might have found a friend, but he was nearly impossible not to like.

He was a flawless dancer, and she allowed him to lead her through several more steps before she pulled away and strolled to the window, looking out at the gray sky and barren trees in the park.

“Just think,” Reggie said, “once things are quiet again, you can go back to that violin piece you’ve been composing, and we can resume that dreadful novel we three have been writing together.”