Belgrave House www.belgravehouse.com Copyright ©2001 by Joan Smith
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Belgrave House www.belgravehouse.com Copyright ©2001 by Joan Smith
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. Chapter One
“I am thinking of changing my name, Miranda,” Mrs. Hazard said to her neighbor and best friend, Lady Wetherby, as they sat in Miranda's garden, taking afternoon tea. The blinking of Lady Wetherby's wide-set green eyes was the only sign of her astonishment. “Indeed, ma'am. I had no idea. I am very happy for you,” she replied with her usual composure. “May I inquire whom you are marrying?" “Nobody!” Mrs. Hazard said, and burst into a loud guffaw, her ample bosoms shaking until her pink cheeks turned red, striking a discordant note with her rust-colored curls. The ladies were a startling contrast in appearance, breeding, age, fortune, interests, and all those details that usually conspire to turn acquaintances into friends. Lady Wetherby was a quiet, refined gentlewoman of good birth and breeding and small fortune. Mrs. Hazard was as noisy as a brass band, as common as clover, as rich as a nabob and getting richer every day from her late husband's string of patent medicines. The only things they had in common were that they were both widows, and were neighbors. Yet an unlikely friendship had grown over the two years since Mrs. Hazard had removed from Manchester with her daughter to purchase a fine country estate in Surrey and turn it into a gaudy mansion. Unfortunately, she had stripped the priceless Chinese wall covering from the east wing, whitewashed some fine carvings by Grinling Gibbons in the saloon and thrown the Queen Anne chairs on the bonfire before making Lady Wetherby's acquaintance. Mrs. Hazard had little use for antiquity or secondhand furnishings. She preferred things shiny and new. All this had happened some time ago, and in no way affected their friendship. Perhaps their lonesomeness drew them together. Hornby Hall, the late Sir John Wetherby's estate, was somewhat isolated, and while Miranda was on good terms with the locals, she did not often see them, whereas Hazard Hall, formerly known as The Laurels, was within walking distance. Not that Mrs. Hazard and her daughter, Dorothy, were likely to walk. Even for the short hike to Hornby they had their spanking new carriage harnessed up and came with a groom and a footman. Miranda often walked to the Laurels, however. In her mind, she could not call the Laurels anything but the Laurels, even after Mrs. Hazard had cut down half the trees that gave it its name.
“But then why should you change your name? Miranda asked in confusion. “And pray, what are you changing it to?" “Ffoulkes-Hazard, with two f's,” Mrs. Hazard announced, and watched from her sharp snuff-brown eyes for Miranda's reaction. Lady Wetherby was her barometer for reading the vagaries of gentility. Although Miranda was seething with curiosity, she asked with perfect equanimity, “Why, ma'am, if you don't mind my asking?" “For the looks of it, dear, and the sound. Hazard has a cheap sound, like a game of cards." “I cannot agree with you. Hazard is a good old name. And everyone knows your name is Hazard.” Miranda also knew her maiden name was Sykes, so where had the Ffoulkes come from? “They don't know it in London,” the dame replied. “I am taking my Dotty up to London to nab a fashionable beau. I had hoped she would catch Lord Ippswitch's eye, but I hear he has gone and offered for that muffin-faced chit of Lord Egan's. I sent Dotty into the village this afternoon to buy a new bonnet to cheer her up. There is not another title available for miles around. Not that I care two peas for a title, but it was something Lyle always wanted.” Her late husband, Lyle, was held responsible for any lavish desire she was ashamed to claim for her own. “Dorothy is going to make her debut?” Miranda cried. It was beyond her formidable self-control to keep her voice low. Dorothy was twenty-five years old, and looked it. She was nearly a decade too old to be making her curtsey at St. James's. How would Mrs. Hazard arrange it? She had no friends high enough in society to handle the complications of a court debut. Her sole acquaintance in London was a cousin called Bertie Beazly, who handled her business affairs. “Mercy me, no. Dotty is far past it. No, we are just going for a visit, to give her a taste of the high life. We shan't be invited to the better parties, of course, but we'll hire theater boxes and have some parties ourselves. Bertie has hired me a dandy mansion on Berkeley Square. With luck, Dotty will nab someone. So that is why we are changing our names to Ffoulkes-Hazard. I had a great aunt married to a fellow called Henry Ffoulkes. Every time I see the name Ffoulkes in the social columns I think it could be some connection to me. It lends a touch of class, eh? What do you think, Miranda? The truth, now." “I think it is foolish and unnecessary." “But Lyle's patent medicines! Everyone knows his name was Lyle Hazard. It's on every bottle. ‘Owner and prop., Lyle Hazard, Manchester.’ I wouldn't want anyone to know the money came from trade. It would ruin Dotty's chances." Miranda just shook her head. “When such a lot of money has come, I don't think you need worry. Whitbread is accepted everywhere." “The beer fellow. Yes, but still, no need to broadcast we're in trade, eh, now that we live here at Hazard Hall?" “That is up to you, of course. Well, Mrs. Hazard, I shall miss you very much,” she said with real feeling, and already a twinge of lonesomeness. “When will you be leaving?" “As soon as Bertie hires extra servants and gets the house ready. I am taking over some of Lord Croft's servants. He owns the house I am hiring. Do you think you could get yourself pulled together in a week?"
“I?” Miranda gasped. “But I'm not going with you." “Of course you are, dear. I wouldn't dream of leaving you behind with your head stuck in one of those dull old books you read. It'll do you the world of good. There is no saying you might not nab someone yourself, for you really don't look the least bit hagged. And don't worry about the expense. It's paid." “That is very kind, but I couldn't possibly accept." “Pshaw. You'll earn your keep. You are to be our cicisbeo, or whatever they call it. Someone to show us the ropes." “But it's years since I made my debut, Mrs. Hazard. Over a decade, and even then, I did not move in the first circles." “There is no saying we will either, Miranda, for without making her curtsy at court, Dotty won't get a toe into the really first class places. But there, it's better to see Rome from outside than not to see Rome at all." “No, really. I couldn't." The argument continued for two days, but really it was lost almost as soon as it began. Miranda would miss the Hazards, but that was not the only reason she finally agreed. It was two years since her husband's death. She had just turned thirty, and was beginning to grow restless in her retirement. She did not particularly want another husband, unless he should be someone very special. She didn't know quite what she wanted, but she knew she wanted more than rusticity and reading. She felt a churning excitement inside when Mrs. Hazard spoke of London and the theater, and parties. And really Mrs. Hazard had no notion how to proceed in polite society. She had no suitable friends in London. Miranda had kept up a correspondence with one old friend, Lydia Sinden, who had married and lived in London. Lydia wrote back an enthusiastic reply requesting that Miranda let her know when she was to arrive. They must get together. The party left late in September in Mrs. Hazard's well-sprung, elegant chaise drawn by four matched bays. Miranda was to be their mentor in those areas where she was more experienced than they. She could help chaperon Dotty (who was only five years younger than herself, but was to be twenty for the duration of the visit). Miranda felt, when she entered the elaborate mansion on Berkeley Square, that she had bitten off a good deal more than she could chew. She had never run a house with twenty-four indoor servants, everyone of them looking down his nose at their new mistress and pretending not to hear when he was called. “Here, lad, take these bags upstairs,” Mrs. Hazard said. A slender footman looked down his needle nose at her and said, “Were you speaking to me, madam? My name is not lad. When Lord Croft is in residence, he calls me Gibbons. That is my name." Mrs. Hazard appeared quite defeated by such arrogance. She was easily intimidated by a title. Miranda knew it was best to begin as you meant to go on, and took charge.
“You are dismissed, Gibbons,” she said. “Pack your gear and leave at once. I shall see that Lord Croft hears of this impertinence.” Of course Gibbons would be re-instated, but this would trim him into line. Mrs. Hazard just stood with her mouth open, as if a robin had attacked an eagle. She had never heard Miranda Wetherby act so firm before. She was like cream with her own servants. Gibbons stood with his lips moving but no sound issuing from them. His face was white. The group of servants around him looked frightened to death. It was obviously a conspiracy, with Gibbons the ring leader, bent on having some sport at the hands of these provincials. Gibbons turned and fled, with something strangely like tears in his gooseberry eyes. Samson, the butler, had heard from his stand near the door, and came rushing forth to ensure his own continued employment. “Here, Jones, you and Peters, get the ladies’ trunks upstairs, and no monkey business. You, Bess, unpack for the ladies.” Then he turned back to Miranda. “May I offer you tea, madam?” he asked in a honeyed voice, assuming Miranda was Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard. “Ma'am?” Miranda asked, turning to her hostess. “Please. Thank you,” Mrs. Hazard said, and staggered into the saloon to recuperate. “It fair took the air out of my lungs, such brass from a servant,” she was soon confiding. “I didn't know which way to look. Upon my word, is that how servants carry on in London?" “No, it is not,” Miranda said. “But I doubt you'll have any trouble with them in future." The butler soon appeared with the tea tray. He handed Miranda a letter. She opened it and exclaimed, “It is from my old friend, Lydia Sinden. She married Lord Cowell's younger son, Lord Robert Dauntry. Scarcely a feather to fly with, but his papa got him some sinecure at court. They are excellent ton. She wants us to attend a small dancing party this evening." Mrs. Hazard's broad face broke into a gleeful smile. “There now, what did I tell you? You've earned your keep before we are even settled in.” She looked around the room, already planning her own party. The saloon was huge and full of gilt and blue velvet and bibelots and large, dark paintings. It was not at all to her own taste, but Miranda seemed to like it, so no doubt it was all the crack. She felt like a duchess as she sat scheming how to find a husband for Dotty. In a similar mansion on Hanover Square, another mama sat in a saloon not her own nursing a similar problem. The saloon in which the Dowager Lady Bolton sat belonged to her stepson, Lord Bolton, and there was the problem. She had managed to get her late husband's biddable eldest son married to her cousin, Helen. This ought, by rights, to have left her safe when her own husband died. But alas, Helen's husband had fallen off his yacht while racing off the Isle of Wight, caught pneumonia and died before producing an heir, pitching the younger son, Maxwell, into the title and estates. She had never felt it necessary to ingratiate a mere younger son. Colonel Maxwell Scully, lately returned from the Peninsula, was a horse of another color. He had no love for his papa's second wife, and didn't bother to pretend he had. Even the widow's pension and the occupation of the Dower House were in doubt now, with two widowed Lady Boltons to be taken care of. For the nonce, they were all staying at Hanover Square. Maxwell wanted to enjoy some socializing after his sojourn in Spain, and the elder Lady Bolton wanted him to fall in love with Helen, his brother's widow.
That would tidy everything up nicely. She could go back to being the only Dowager Lady Bolton, with legal right to the dowager's pension and Dower House. And of course Helen was like a daughter to her, so Hanover Square would also continue to be her home. Helen might even soften Maxwell's hard heart to do something for Jeremy West, the older dowager's son by her first marriage, who scraped along on the small competence left him by his papa. She felt it inevitable that Maxwell would fall in love with Helen eventually. Helen was an ethereal blond beauty, with big blue eyes and a helpless air that turned most gentlemen into putty in her hands. Unfortunately, the war had hardened Maxwell. She saw something very like contempt on his harsh visage when Helen cried. And she cried beautifully. The scheming lady was flipping through a small stack of invitations when the delectable Helen joined her before dinner for a glass of sherry. “What are we doing this evening, Cousin?” Helen asked. She called her stepmother-in-law Cousin or her Christian name, Adelaide, to avoid the pesky shared title. “Here are the cards. I wonder which Maxwell will attend. Lady Hertford's will be the best party, but of course he will not go there." Helen was happy to hear it. She was the ambitious sort of lady who would have married Maxwell if he asked her, but some renegade corner of her heart was infatuated with an older and perhaps even richer roué, Alfred Hume, who would not be invited to Lady Hertford's, for it seemed he was so unwise as to have won money from the lady's very special friend, the Prince Regent. “Max will probably go to the Dauntry's dancing party,” Helen said. “That is where the younger crowd will be. You know how he loves to dance.” Alfred also loved to dance, preferably with younger ladies. “It would be just like him to go there. The worst invitation we have. But we had best go, I expect. What will you wear, dear?" “My new blue silk taffeta with the gauze overskirt." The Dowager Lady Bolton nodded her satisfaction. She had recommended the gown. Maxwell's heart must be hard indeed if he could resist that madly expensive piece of enchantment. Chapter Two
Miranda took a last look in the pier glass before going belowstairs. She had not had time to have new gowns made up before coming to London. The deep blue velvet she wore was two years old, but had only been worn twice. She had had it made up shortly before John's death. It was simply designed for country parties. Her only adornment was the set of pearls John had given her as a wedding gift. Would she look hopelessly provincial beside Lydia's more stylish friends? Her coiffure was also simple. She had drawn her dark hair back from her forehead to nestle in a chignon low at the back of her head. John had liked it like that. He said it showed off the classical lines of her face. It also showed the fine pearl earrings to advantage. Her green eyes looked somber against her pale face. Her full lips were pursed as she remembered the
trauma and turbulence following John's unexpected death. He was only thirty-five years old, in the prime of his life, when he fell from his mount and broke his neck. He had lain in the meadow undiscovered for an hour, while she grew angry with him for being late. She had invited friends to dinner that evening. She had been wearing this same gown and pearls. It felt strange to be dressing up for a party again after all this time. Almost as frightening as making your debut. Two years had passed since John's death, and for a decade before that she was his wife. Going to a party as a wife was different. You didn't have this nervous fear that you would be a failure, that no one would like you or stand up with you, because you were with John. To add to the strain, Miranda wondered what Lydia's friends would make of the Hazards—or to be fair, of Mrs. Hazard. Dorothy had spent three years at a ladies’ school and was more polished than that rough diamond, her mama. Unless Lydia herself had changed a great deal, she would not mind Mrs. Hazard's roughness. And Miranda reminded herself that she really didn't care if no one danced with herself. She hadn't come hunting a husband, but merely as an observer, and of course to help the Hazards. She had tamed Mrs. Hazard's exuberant toilette before making her own. When she went belowstairs, she noticed that several of her hints had been ignored. She was wearing the larger set of diamonds after all, that looked as if a crystal chandelier had fallen from the ceiling and landed on her chest. And she had opted for the pink feathers to wear in her hair. Miranda had recommended the darker blue, to match her gown. Well, at least she had not chosen the scarlet ones that were so noticeably unsuited to her rusty hair, and had limited herself to three diamond rings. Dorothy was also overdressed, but somehow one hardly looked at her when her mama was in the room. Dorothy's pale coloring faded to a shadow. Her pale blue gown was garnished with a surfeit of lace and ribbons, but the pearls were well enough. Only two strands, and her thin blond hair defied any overly elaborate arrangement. Rosie, the ladies’ dresser, had done it up in rags to lend it a curl that was already wilting. “Time to be setting out, eh?” Mrs. Hazard said, glancing at the long-case clock in the corner. “It is nearly half past eight. We don't want to be late." “One never goes until at least half an hour after the suggested time, preferably an hour,” Miranda replied. “In London, punctuality is considered the virtue of the bored, Mrs. Hazard, and boredom is the cardinal sin. To arrive on time would suggest we had nothing else to do, and were waiting all day for the appointed hour." “I have been on pins and needles since you got the invite,” she replied. “But we don't want to announce that, do we?" “Then let us have a glass of sherry,” Mrs. Hazard suggested. “I am as nervous as a setting hen with a weasel in the coop. Do we look all right?" “You look very elegant,” Miranda said, for there was no point in adding to her nervous condition by hinting otherwise at this late hour. “You won't forget to tell your friend the name is Ffoulkes-Hazard, with two f's." “I have already told her, ma'am.” She turned to Dorothy to include her in the conversation and complimented her on her gown.
“Should I take a fan?” Dorothy asked. She carried three, and held them up for help in making a selection. “I wouldn't bother with any,” Miranda said. “It is not warm enough to need it in autumn, and it is just one more thing to juggle while you dance." “But what will I do with my hands if I don't have a fan to hold while I'm sitting down?" “Just fold them in your lap." “Let her take a fan,” Mrs. Hazard said. “Her fingers find their way into her hair if they don't have a fan to shred." This being the case, Miranda suggested the simplest of the three fans, an ivory one with a silken knot tassel, and they all had a glass of sherry. As the long-case clock chimed the half hour, Mrs. Hazard could no longer be held back. Fifty years of punctuality couldn't be overcome in one evening. Her papa had been a stage coach driver and had reared his brood to perfect punctuality. Miranda asked the groom to take the long route, to delay their arrival a little. She pointed out what exalted personages lived in which mansion to enliven the trip, and wondered as she spoke whether her information was au courant. Twelve years was a long time, and she and John had not returned to London for the Season after their marriage. It was expensive. John didn't have a house in London, and she knew he preferred to spend what he had on improving Hornby. They had both hoped to have a son to leave it to, but this joy had been denied them. They arrived at Lydia's party at nine o'clock. Lydia and Lord Robert were staying at his family's mansion on Manchester Square. Torches were lit outside, with two footmen to assist the guests, suggesting a grander do than Miranda had anticipated. Miranda was every bit as nervous as the Hazards as she was handed down from the carriage and made the short trip to the front door. “My insides are shaking like a blancmange, as if I were going to meet the queen,” Mrs. Hazard confessed. The two dozen guests who preceded them did not begin to fill the ballroom, where the dancing party was being held. It was not a formal ball, however. They were not announced, but greeted at the door by Lydia and Lord Robert. The years had not been kind to Lydia. Although she was dressed in the highest kick of fashion, she looked thin and pale and tired. No doubt it was the three children in the nursery that accounted for it. Miranda still remembered her as a healthy, buxom country lady with bouncing red curls. The elaborate coiffure did not really suit her. But she was delighted to see Miranda again and welcomed her and her friends with enthusiasm. Dorothy was found a partner for the country dance that was just beginning, Mrs. Hazard was introduced to a group of older guests and Lydia rushed Miranda off to a corner for a private cose. “You look marvelous, darling,” she exclaimed. “It must be all that clean living and country air." “And the early nights, too,” Miranda said. “It's been two years since John's passing. Do you have a new beau in your eye?"
“No, not at all." “We'll soon take care of that. Now, who would you like to meet?" “This isn't a husband-hunting expedition, Lydia. I am really here as a sort of guide for the Ffoulkes-Hazards. A case of the blind leading the blind." “Who are they?" “Neighbors from home. A little provincial, but really very nice." “But who are they?” Lydia repeated. Miranda was sworn to secrecy on that score. “They are well to do,” she said vaguely. “They bought Lord Wilton's estate, the Laurels, and spent a fortune redoing it. They have rented Lord Croft's place for this visit." “Ffoulkes-Hazard is dead?" “Yes, he passed away a few years ago." “Nabob or merchant?” she asked bluntly. “He didn't make his fortune in India." Lydia nodded. “A merchant, then. The reason I ask, my brother Tom is on the lookout for an heiress. Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard is not bad looking, or wouldn't be if someone took her in hand. Tom is not in town at the moment, however, so let us see whom we can find for you. I see Alfred is casting his lecherous eyes this way. Alfred Hume, frightfully rich—but don't ask where he got his blunt. When he hears you're a widow, he'll try to make you his mistress. Don't accept any gifts from him—unless you are interested in becoming his mistress,” she finished, with a daring smile that sat uneasily on her pale face. The old Lydia would not have suggested such a thing. As she spoke, an aging roué advanced toward their corner. He was tall and lean, and so carefully dressed and groomed he made every other gentleman in the room look sloppy. A jacket the color of brandy clung to his shoulders. In the folds of his cravat a brown diamond twinkled. His dark hair, just touched with silver at the temples, was brushed back from a high brow. A pair of reckless blue eyes twinkled in his swarthy face. His bow, as he reached them, was a pattern card of grace. “Lydia, my dear,” he said in drawling accents, placing a kiss on her upturned cheek. “Why are you keeping your most charming guest to yourself? That is infinitely mean of you." Lydia introduced them. “You must not say or do anything to shock Lady Wetherby, Alfred, for she is a dean's daughter, and a country lady of impeccable morals." “Surely the cotillion is permitted, even in the country?” he asked, feigning astonishment at the charge of misbehaving. He led Miranda off to the floor, where he showered her with compliments so highflown and ridiculous that one could only laugh at them. He pointed out the various famous and infamous guests present, and
made up awful stories about them, all involving sexual peccadilloes. She said she had been warned against him, called him a lecher, and removed his fondling fingers from her waist when he walked her back to Lydia after the dance. He claimed she was much too beautiful and innocent to be allowed loose in wicked London, and proclaimed himself her cicisbeo. He was enchanted with her. So was Lord Bolton, when he eventually arrived at eleven o'clock. The younger Dowager Lady Bolton had not wasted any time discovering Miranda's name when she saw her dancing with Alfred Hume. The elder dowager was a more experienced conniver. Within ten minutes of her arrival, she knew as much about Miranda as Lydia could tell her. It was not Hume's infatuation she feared. Helen kept her secret tendre for him locked in her heart. No, it was Maxwell's title and fortune that concerned her. This widow was just a little too pretty for her ease of mind. She was ready for Maxwell when he sought her out. It was so rare for him to do so that she knew at once he was after information about a lady. That was the only reason he ever spoke to her on purpose. “Who is the lady in the deep blue gown dancing with Lord Robert, Adelaide?” he asked. He always called her Adelaide. After four months, she could still not decide whether it was a compliment or an insult. She could hardly expect him to call her Mama after all, and as there were two Ladies Bolton to contend with, their first names seemed the easiest solution. “The countrified creature in the dark gown? She is no one, Max. Someone mentioned she is Sir John Wetherby's relict. You wouldn't remember him. He had a little place in Surrey. She must be well over thirty, and scarcely a feather to fly with. Two thousand a year, I believe." “Ah, a widow!” he exclaimed, with a smile of anticipation curving his lips. “Yes, come to nab some undemanding widower, I expect. She has stood up with Hume. She is wasting her time if she hopes to get any offer other than that of mistress from that old roué. It is a husband she would be after. Her papa was some sort of minor cleric." Lord Bolton wafted away without taking a proper leave of his stepmama. He procured a glass of wine and stood sipping it while watching Miranda. He liked her simple toilette, and the way she wore her hair in what he thought of as a Spanish style. Many of the Spanish ladies favored the same coiffure. It suited the classical beauty of her face. He admired the graceful movements of her slender body as she performed the steps of the dance and her quiet, unfidgetting manner when she was not dancing. But most intriguing of all was the expression on her face. She wore a gentle smile that did not quite conceal an edge of ennui. That smile seemed to say that she accepted society, but she did not really care for it. She would rather be reading, or riding, or with someone else. That wistful expression made him feel akin to her. He had felt the same way since his return to England. Of course he regretted his brother's death, but there was no denying it had profited him enormously in a material sense. It had catapulted him from near obscurity into the title and estates, and to very near the top of the list of eligible bachelors. The very cream of the country's beauties were dangled before him, including his late brother's beautiful widow—and he smiled that same wan smile as Lady Wetherby, acknowledging the tribute, but not really caring for it. He wondered if it was the war that had made him so blasé that nothing excited him. Until he saw Lady Wetherby. Miranda was sitting a moment with the Hazards between dances when Lord Bolton entered the ballroom. She noticed him at once. It was hard not to, when so many heads turned in excitement to gawk
at him. He certainly stood out amidst the throng, not only because of his height, but because of his general bearing. He looked as if he owned the room, and everything and everyone in it. His toilette was simple but elegant. The immaculate cravat at his throat held only a small diamond pin. His dark green jacket was exquisitely cut to show off his manly figure. The shoulders were not eked out with wadding and the waist was not pinched in. His natural physique required no such enhancements. He held his head proudly as he surveyed the throng. He had a haughty, arrogant face, fine-featured, with delicately-etched eyebrows rising in arches above dark eyes. But it was the tolerant smile that revealed his lack of genuine pleasure. Lady Bolton rushed up to him, with the other Lady Bolton in tow, both of them smiling an eager welcome, which he accepted as his due before strolling away. His eyes toured the room, stopping a moment at each pretty face, but soon passing on. Lydia's husband, Lord Robert, came to ask Miranda for a set, and she forgot the newcomer. But as she danced, she noticed he was watching her from the edge of the room. He didn't use a quizzing glass. Such foppish toys were not for him. He just looked, and when she glanced at him, he didn't look away. He kept on looking, not smiling, but that bored expression was no longer there. A moment later, she glanced at him again, and he was still gazing at her. He bowed his glossy head a fraction of an inch. It was easy to ignore such a token gesture, if it even was a gesture. Lord Robert noticed and said, “That fellow looking at you is Lord Bolton. Quite a prime parti. All the ladies are running mad for him. He's one of Wellington's heroes, just lately returned from Spain, loaded with honors." “It's unusual for a lord to join the army, is it not?" “He was only a younger son—like me—when he left. His older brother got his yacht caught in a storm and was pitched into the ocean. He caught pneumonia. It happened just off the Isle of Wight. Quite a shock for the family." Miranda didn't wish to appear overly curious and didn't ask any of the dozens of questions that swarmed through her mind. She was careful not to look in Lord Bolton's direction again, but she felt his dark eyes watching her as she danced. As the set drew to a close, she allowed herself one quick peek to the corner. He was just handing his empty glass to a passing footman. Then the music stopped, and he detached himself from the wall and advanced toward her, making slow progress through the throng, with his eyes never leaving her. Her heart began to flutter, like a moth edging dangerously close to the flame. Her instinct was to flee, she could not think why. She should be flattered, yet she dreaded meeting this hero-lord paragon. Was it because she knew in her bones he would be disappointed in her? Something in her appearance had attracted his attention, but he would soon discover she was only a dowdy, dull, provincial widow. She must escape—but she could hardly push and shove her way off the crowded floor. She just waited, with a feeling of dread, gratification and excitement boiling inside her. Chapter Three
“Lady Wetherby, may I present Lord Bolton?” Lord Robert said, and completed the introduction.
Miranda was glad she already knew who Bolton was, because all she heard during the introduction was a strange ringing in her ears. She knew Lord Bolton must have asked her to dance and she had agreed, because Robert was suddenly saying, “I leave you in good hands then, Miranda,” and walked away, leaving her alone with this intimidating Adonis. All she could remember of it later was how Lord Bolton had stared at her with a keenly penetrating gaze, as if she were a specimen on a pin, like the butterflies hung behind glass in the study at Hornby. His eyes were an inky blue so dark they looked black in the shadowed room. His face was weathered—that would be from the hot Spanish sun. Then he had smiled a slow, disturbingly intimate smile and put out his hand, and her heart was suddenly pounding so hard she feared he could hear it. The hand he reached out to guide her from the floor was brown and strong, with long fingers and a heavy gold ring on the smallest finger. He held on to her elbow lightly, yet with a sure grip, as if he were afraid she might bolt. “The musicians are taking a break,” he explained in a well modulated voice. But the voice, like the hand, left an impression of power held in check. “Shall we have a glass of wine and become a little acquainted? My spies tell me you are a widow, from Surrey. I don't believe I ever had the pleasure of Sir John's acquaintance." It seemed odd to hear her husband's name fall so casually from this elegant stranger's lips. Odd, too, that he had been asking about her. But soon enough he would know the whole, dull truth. She was no fit match for such a dasher as this. A widower or an aging bachelor was as high as her hopes flew. She decided to just blurt it all out, and let him be done with her. “We didn't come to London for the Season after our marriage,” she said. “We couldn't afford it.” This sounded rather hard on John, and she added, “We were very happy in the country. I am really a country mouse at heart, I daresay." His head turned to look at her, and she noticed his eyebrows were raised in surprise. He wasn't exactly smiling, but she sensed amusement in his expression. “I beg to differ, ma'am. A country something, if you like, but decidedly not a mouse,” he said. “A doe, perhaps, but the eyes are the wrong color. A doe's eyes are brown. I had thought yours would be blue, because of your gown. Green, are they?” He used the question as an excuse to look deeply into her eyes, until she felt hypnotized by the darkly dazzling gaze directed at her. “Yes, John was used to say they are wine bottle green." His lips quirked in amusement at this inferior compliment but he refrained from mentioning emeralds. He sensed she would despise such triteness, even if it was sincere. “Punch, orgeat, or wine?” he asked, when they reached the refreshment parlor. He made a mental wager with himself that she would choose punch. “Punch,” she said, and wondered why that pleased him. He handed her the punch and took a glass of wine for himself. “A toast?” he suggested. “To new friends." She lifted her glass but didn't touch it to his before taking a sip. He led her from the parlor, out to a pair
of chairs beside a palm tree in the entrance hail, away from the crowd. “Now that we're friends,” he said, “you must tell me all about your fascinating self, Lady Wetherby." She refused to be flattered into infatuation. “I am probably the least fascinating lady at Lydia's party,” she said blandly, and ignored the slight shake of his head. “My papa is a deacon at Bath, married for the second time to a widow I have scarcely met—just at the wedding, you know. My mama presented me twelve years ago. I married John Wetherby, and since then have lived quietly at Hornby Hall, in Surrey." He listened as if she were Scheherazade, relating a tale of enchantment. “Children?” he asked. “No, no children,” she said in a wistful voice, with a light flush coloring her cheeks at having failed in this prime duty of a young wife. “It must be lonesome for you at Hornby Hall. Why did you not return to Bath, where I'm sure you must have many friends?" “Hornby Hall was left to me during my lifetime, or unless or until I remarried. I feel a certain duty—and after a dozen years, it has come to seem like home to me. I have friends there. In fact, I shall be returning in six weeks’ time. I am only in London for a visit." “Any special friend?” he asked at once. She sensed a sharp edge to his voice and looked a question at him. “I mean, are you seeing a gentleman,” he explained, with an unusual bluntness that left no doubt as to his interest. “No." “Ah!" Miranda felt a shiver up her spine at the way he spoke that simple syllable. Or perhaps it was the way he smiled at her, in an assessing, almost predatory way. “He's after a mistress,” she said to herself. Some amenable lady to oblige him for a few weeks, until he is tired of her. Young widows, she knew, were considered fair game. And a young widow without even children to worry about was the best of all. “In the absence of your better friends, while you are in London, perhaps I can do as a poor substitute,” he suggested. “That won't be necessary. I have come to town with my closest friends." He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Not even a polite, ‘No, thank you, milord,’ but just ‘No.’ Who are these irreplaceable friends?" “Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard and her daughter." He studied her a moment over the top of his wineglass, then said with unconscious arrogance, “If I can't beat out a pair of ladies for your affection, then I shall hang up my dancing slippers and become a hermit." This ridiculous statement drew an easy smile from her. “Somehow I cannot see you living in a grotto, wandering through glades with a staff in your hand.” Fleeting dimples appeared at the corner of her lips to enchant him.
“How do you see me?" “As a gazetted flirt, sir, and I am not interested, so pray go and direct your charms at some more credulous lady." “So you do find me charming, at least,” he said, with a triumphant smile. “What I should have said was your ‘wiles.’ Some ladies might find them charming." “That ‘some ladies’ suggests you are not amongst them. And wiles’ suggests I am hiding a snare." She stared at him with her clear, green eyes and said, “Well, aren't you? To save you time and effort, milord, I shall tell you quite frankly I am not interested in being your mistress." He shook his head sadly. “I am shocked that you would think such a thing, Lady Wetherby." “No, you're not,” she replied calmly. “You are only shocked that I should say out loud what you're thinking." “No, ma'am. Don't dump your salacious imaginings in my innocent dish. You said what you were thinking. I was only thinking how green your eyes are, and how rose-like your cheeks are, and how I would like another glass of wine. More punch for you?" “I don't believe there's time,” she replied, a little flustered at this sophisticated banter. “The music is beginning again." “A waltz! The angels are kind to me tonight. I was hoping our dance would be a waltz. Come.” He set their glasses aside, rose and took her hand to lead her to the ballroom, where he swept her into his arms and whirled her about the floor, light as a zephyr. Miranda was afraid the dance would prevent her from keeping pace with his conversation, for neither was performed with such esprit in Surrey, but he didn't talk while they spun around the floor, and so she was free to enjoy the magic of the music and the dancing. When it was over, he held on to her hand tightly a moment before releasing it. “That was even better than I imagined,” he said softly. “Worth coming home for. May I have the honor of calling on you tomorrow, Lady Wetherby?" Caution urged her to say no, for she was still convinced he wanted her as his mistress. But her instinct and inclination wanted to say yes. She hesitated a moment, with her lower lip tugged between her teeth. He cocked his glossy head to the side and said jokingly, “I can supply references if you like." “I'm sure that won't be necessary for anyone Lord Robert introduced me to. We are staying at Lord Croft's house on Berkeley Square." “I look forward to seeing you again soon, Lady Wetherby. And now you must introduce me to your—better friends,” he said, with a teasing look. Mrs. Hazard's natural exuberance was subdued during this evening, her first foray into the world of high
society. If Lord Bolton found her appearance odd, he was too polite to indicate it by as much as a blink. He asked Dorothy to stand up with him, which delighted Mrs. Hazard. “A lord!” she cried, after they had gone to the dance floor. “I knew how it would be once we got our toe into society. It was kind of you to introduce him, Miranda." “It wasn't my doing. He asked to meet you. I believe he is nothing else but a flirt, Mrs. Hazard." “He might flirt with a widow. You know how the gents feel they can make free with ladies like you and me, Miranda. But I doubt he would flirt with a single lady like my Dotty." Miranda didn't feel Lord Bolton would be so overcome by Dotty's indifferent appearance as to lose all sense of propriety and agreed with her. A gentleman Miranda had met a dozen years ago when she made her debut recognized her and came to claim her for the next set. Later, she and the Hazards sat at Lydia's table for the midnight supper. “I saw you waltzing with Maxwell, Miranda,” Lydia said. “What a charmer, but don't lose your head over him. Max's little affairs and flirtations keep us entertained here in London." “You must be talking about Lord Bolton,” Miranda said, as he was the only gentleman she had waltzed with. “Yes, I must remember to give him his title,” she said, and explained the situation to her friend. “That is his stepmama he is sitting with now. She's rather horrid, but Helen, the blond lady on his other side, is nice. She was his older brother's wife. She'll certainly make another match soon, she's so lovely. Is she not?" Helen was certainly the loveliest lady in the room as far as Miranda was concerned. She found it a little strange that Lord Bolton wasn't flirting with her, but then he would have too much respect for his brother's wife. Miranda noticed that he stood up with Helen for the first set after supper, and behaved as indifferently as if she were his real sister. There was no air of flirtation on either side. Mrs. Hazard was much of a mind to stay at the party until the last dog was hung, but when the guests began to leave, Miranda convinced her it was time to go. She didn't speak to Lord Bolton again, but he was much in her thoughts, and she soon realized he was also in Mrs. Hazard's. They sat in Lord Croft's Blue Saloon, sipping cocoa as they reviewed their first foray into society. “What did you think of young Bolton, Dotty?” the mama asked. Her triumphant air left no doubt as to what she thought. “He was very lively and charming. He said he'll see me tomorrow." “Coming to call!” her mama squealed. “Did you hear that, Miranda?" “Actually, he asked me if he might call,” she said, to alert Mrs. Hazard that it was not Dorothy he had in his eye, but Mrs. Hazard interpreted it in her own way. “That was well done of him, to ask you for permission first, since he hadn't yet met me. Very proper
behavior, but we shan't encourage him just yet." This last speech left Miranda in some confusion. “You think him too fast for Dorothy?” she asked. “Nothing of the sort. I just don't want to annoy his stepmama. Mrs. Harper, a lady I had a chat with, told me Lady Bolton wields a big stick in society. A bosom bow of Lady Hertford, who is close as inkleweavers with the Prince himself. She could make you or break you, and we don't want to set her jaw against us before we get started. The thing is, you see, she has Bolton in her eye for the other Lady Bolton, the good looking one they call Helen. Those noble folks all stick together like a wad of dough." With a memory of Lord Bolton's brash behavior, Miranda said, “I doubt he would be ruled by his stepmama." “No more he would, but that Helen is certainly a looker. What Lyle would call an Incomparable. We'll just step cautiously at first till we get the lay of the land." “Actually, Lord Bolton asked if he might call on me,” Miranda said, “but I think he was only flirting." “You may depend upon it. If you are thinking of marrying again, you don't want to waste your time with a fellow like that. At your age, my dear, you want to keep your eye out for a well-greased widower or older gentleman who will do the right thing by you. What of that dandified fellow, Hume? They say he is well to grass." “He's a wicked flirt." Mrs. Hazard nodded pensively. “I like that in a man, providing he keeps it within reason. I've no use for one of those rakes who can't keep his hands off the ladies, but a pretty speech, even if it is a wee bit naughty, is unexceptionable. Lyle was used to flirt with all the girls, until I clipped his wings. Did Hume mention calling?" “No. That is—he said something about being my—our cicisbeo while we are in London. I didn't encourage him." “We'll invite him to our party. We must have a few dinners and routs. You will know how to set about it, what to serve and who to invite and all that. And tomorrow morning we'll call in a modiste to see about some gowns." As Miranda lay in her elaborate canopied bed that night, she couldn't sleep for thinking of Lydia's party. The strains of the waltz reeled through her mind, and again in memory she whirled around the ballroom with Lord Bolton. She had never met anyone so dashing and handsome, and so dangerous to a lady's virtue. Sir John's more simple style had just suited a dean's daughter. She had been perfectly happy with him, except for not having any children. She still wanted children. It was not too late... Then she thought of her duties as Mrs. Hazard's mentor and wondered how one set about throwing a grand party. Any party Mrs. Hazard threw would be on the grand scale. There would be invitations to write, food and wine to order, musicians to hire. She must ask Lydia how it was done. At length her eyelids fluttered down and she slept. Chapter Four
Lord Bolton wasted no time in his pursuit of Miranda. He called at Lord Croft's mansion on Berkeley Square the next afternoon, where he was welcomed with open arms by Mrs. Hazard, and with some reservations by Miranda herself. “This is a magnificent house you've hired, Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard,” he said, glancing around the marble hail that spread like a lake around him as she met him at the doorway to the saloon. “You have certainly done yourself proud." “The three of us are floating around like tadpoles in a pond in such a huge place. I got lost on my way to the morning parlor,” she confided, as she led him into the Blue Saloon, where he greeted the other ladies. Mrs. Hazard continued sharing her confidences as she showed him to a seat. “My late husband, Lyle, was used to say, ‘How are folks to know we've got the blunt if we don't spend it?’ And there's plenty more where this came from. It's not my Dotty's dowry I am spending, if that's what you think." Lord Bolton accepted this outpouring with no visible change in his usual demeanor. Miranda cleared her throat, trying to signal Mrs. Hazard to stop, but the lady raced on. “Twenty-five thousand on the nail head when she marries, and like I said, there's more where that comes from. I might do something in the way of a house for her and whoever is lucky enough to nab her, if it should be necessary. Of course we'd expect the husband to bring more than a handsome face to the altar, eh Dotty?" “Lord Bolton is not interested in all this, Mama,” Dotty said, peering to see if he was impressed. “Rubbish. When gents come calling on a lady, they are always interested in the dowry. Am I right, or am I right, your lordship?" “The dowry is certainly one consideration in any match,” he replied. “It comes right after beauty and breeding." Miranda gave him a sharp look. She suspected this was a jibe at his hostess's lack of breeding, but he did not show any air of censure. “I'm sure your charming daughter will do well, ma'am, with or without that fabulous dowry,” he added. “Do you think twenty-five too much?” she asked at once. “I wouldn't want to give anyone the idea we are desperate, for we're not trying to buy her a husband, I promise you. She is only twenty, and has had offers past counting, but not from the sort of fellow I hope to see her hooked up with. My Dotty went to a ladies’ private school." “I doubt any of her suitors will complain of an excess of dowry,” Lord Bolton said, with a charming smile at Dotty. His close examination to determine her true age was mistaken for admiration by the mama. The smile was intended to reassure Dotty he was not shocked by her outspoken mama. As she had a proper education, he assumed she knew her mama's conversation was outrageous. Dotty, however, did not seem in the least discomposed by it. She smiled back shyly, but with a flutter of the lashes that warned him she had misunderstood his little overture at friendship. He felt the wise course was to gather up Miranda and escape, before he found himself entangled in an unwanted romance. “The day is so fine, I thought we might go for a drive, Lady Wetherby,” he said,
looking a question at her. “Miranda will be happy to play propriety,” Mrs. Hazard said at once. “Run along, ladies. I'll have a look through the cupboards while you're gone to see if the house has everything we need for our little party. You will come, of course, Lord Bolton. We'll let you know the date and time when we've decided.” It wasn't a question. Bolton cast a helpless eye on Miranda, who returned a mischievous smile at his predicament. “I will be happy to chaperone Dotty, ma'am,” she said, and went for her bonnet. Dotty was not nearly so talkative as her mama. She took a narrow view of a young lady's social duties. Mrs. Fisher had told her girls they were to dress appropriately to any occasion, always wear clean gloves, and behave with propriety. They were to memorize the current dance steps, accept compliments with a smile, and were to be deaf to anything in the nature of broad talk. Their musical education consisted of memorizing three pieces on the pianoforte. They were not to put themselves forward in an ill-bred way, and never to speak ill of anyone in public. Mrs. Fisher had not stressed the importance of intellectual endeavors, reading, or conversation. Dotty saw her duty in that last respect as listening to others, and accepting compliments with a gracious smile. “Where would you like to go, ladies?” Bolton asked, as he led them to the carriage. Dotty looked to Miranda. “Does Hyde Park suit you?” Miranda asked her. “Or would you rather go to New Bond Street?" “That would be fine,” Dorothy replied with an air of compliance that did Mrs. Fisher proud. “Which one?” Lord Bolton asked. “Whichever you like, milord." Bolton bit back his impatience and said, “But I would like to please you ladies.” The look he directed at Miranda was not much short of a glare. “Hyde Park,” she said, and he spoke to his groom. “I know Lady Wetherby has had a Season, but is this your first trip to London, Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard ?” he asked, when they had settled into the comfortable chaise. “No, I have been here before,” she replied. “Ah. Are you quite familiar with the city?" “We used to attend the Christmas masquerade at the theater." “That's nice,” he said, and waited in vain for more details. “Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard was ten the last time she was in London,” Miranda explained. He took the opportunity to switch conversational partners. “Unlike yourself, Lady Wetherby, who must have been ‘sweet and twenty', or thereabouts. Do you notice much change?"
“As we arrived only yesterday, we have not seen much yet. The gaslight was a surprise. I had read of it, of course, but had no idea it was so bright and so beautiful. I noticed the roads into London were much busier than they used to be, and the smoke even worse." “The price of progress. The place is growing by leaps and bounds. I was away only two and a half years myself, and I noticed quite a difference in that short time. I gladly inhale the smoke, as it comes at a lower temperature than Spain's clean air." “What campaigns were you in, in Spain?" Bolton mentioned a few by name only, before turning the talk to more genteel aspects of Spain, like the food, the houses and music. Miranda asked some questions, and Miss Hazard sat, gazing out the window. They conversed almost as if she were not there, but Miranda was glad she was, for it kept Lord Bolton's brash tongue in check. Dorothy smiled and was polite and agreed to everything Lord Bolton said or suggested. She thought Hyde Park was very fine, and when he asked if she would like to get out and go for a little stroll, she said, “If you like." Miranda, with an apologetic glance at Bolton, said, “Yes, let us,” and he opened the door. The trees were beginning to fade from green to yellow and brown but the grass was still green, the sky was blue, birds sang and a warm breeze welcomed them. Dorothy placed her hand on Bolton's arm for the walk. Lord Bolton was extremely frustrated, the more so as he could see Miranda was enjoying his predicament. The only way he could show his displeasure was by lowering his eyebrows at her when Dotty's attention was directed elsewhere. A juggler was performing, with a small crowd gathered around him. Bolton managed a private moment while they stopped to watch it. He stood back to let Dotty in front of him for a better view. Her vague smile told him she was well amused with this simple display. He turned to Miranda and said, “Did you do this on purpose, wretch?" “No, but I am in London as the Ffoulkes-Hazard's guest, and naturally I do as my hostess wishes." “I shall bring along a distraction for the young lady the next time. What sort of fellow does she like?" Miranda looked at him from the side of her eyes. “She likes you, milord. But if you wish to bring along another fellow for me—." His mild oath was delivered in Spanish, but his tone left no doubt as to its nature. Her quelling stare brought it to a halt. “As I was saying, I prefer a gentleman, preferably one with a stable temper." He smiled through his chagrin. “Like this, do you mean? See how calm I am at your wretched stunt? Where can I find you this evening?" “Why, truth to tell, I have no intention of being lost."
“You will be at home?” he asked, biting back his impatience. “I don't know. If we are not invited out, then perhaps we shall go to a theater. We all like the theater." “How delightfully vague. Will it be Drury Lane, Covent Garden, the Coburg?" “I'm afraid I have no idea.” The juggler bowed and passed the hat. Bolton tossed a coin in and Dorothy was back with them, to prevent Lord Bolton from any further queries. They returned to Berkeley Square. “Am I invited in for a glass of wine?” he asked bluntly, when they reached the house. “It is tea time,” Miranda said, looking a question to Dorothy. “Yes,” Dorothy replied, “let us all go in and have tea." Bolton saw he must ingratiate Mrs. Hazard if his romance was to prosper. He was already running through his mind what gentleman he could introduce to the daughter, to free himself and Miranda from her spectral presence. It had occurred to Mrs. Hazard that Lord Bolton would be returning to take tea with them, and she had ordered a lavish spread, with three choices of tea. Lord Bolton chose Soochong, he praised it and every cake and bun on the table, and told her he had never seen such a generous tea, which was true. His approval had the unfortunate effect of loosening her tongue. “Samson, the butler, told me there was nothing in the house but gingerbread and cream buns,” she said. “As if I would serve a lord such country fare. ‘I suppose there is a pastry shop in town,’ I said to him. Servants! You have to tell them to blow their noses when they have a cold, and for that we pay them a fortune. “Samson tells me Gunters is where he got these little petty fours you like so much. Have another. There's scarcely a toothful in one. The three you've had don't equal one piece of cake. Gunter charges a fortune, but then I do like a good tea, and Miranda tells me folks in London don't sit down to dinner till eight o'clock. Foolishness I call it, but then when folks are gallivanting until past midnight, I expect they need a good meal before they set out." As Bolton ate his way stolidly through half a dozen sandwiches and cakes he didn't want, he set himself to charming Mrs. Hazard, to discover her evening plans. “Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at Mrs. Bannington's little rout party this evening, ma'am?” he asked. “No, I think not,” she replied, quite as vaguely as her daughter, but for a different reason. She wasn't eager to reveal her lack of friends in high society. “You will surely attend Lady Comfort's do the next evening? Everyone will be there." Mrs. Hazard was beginning to look flustered. “We haven't decided." From the corner of his eye, he saw Miranda shaking her head to discourage these questions. “No one
knows we are here yet,” she told him, for she couldn't like to announce the truth, that they didn't know anyone. If they went out, it would be to some public place where admission was by purchased ticket. He soon rose, thanked Mrs. Hazard for the delightful tea and the other ladies for their company. His last words were directed at Miranda. “I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you soon,” he said. When he was gone, Mrs. Hazard refilled their cups and said with satisfaction, “That went pretty well, don't you think, Miranda?" “A lovely tea. Almost too much food,” she added. “Lord Bolton didn't seem to mind,” the dame shot back. “And by the by, I have had it out with Gibbons. He came to see me with his tail tucked between his legs. I told him he may stay if he behaves himself. He said, ‘Yes, madam. Thank you, madam,’ meek as a lamb. I have been too backward in asserting myself. That's what it is." Miranda took this as an assertion of independence by her hostess, and feared what might follow. “But if he cuts up on us again, he's out the door, and so I told him,” she continued. “Well, ladies, what shall it be tonight? A play or a concert? Let us make it a play. I always fall asleep during a concert." They called for the journals and read through the advertisements to discover a play they would all enjoy. “Shakespeare,” Mrs. Hazard scoffed. “I don't call that entertainment. Lyle took me to see Hamlet once. What a takein. It was nothing else but a blood bath, with everyone killing everyone else. And the prince didn't even marry the girl at the end!" “Hamlet is a tragedy, Mama,” Dorothy explained. She was a little more forthcoming at home than in company. “That means a great many people die in the end, and usually there is no wedding." “We shan't pay out good money for that sort of thing. We can watch girls getting jilted at home for free." “There is a comedy at the Coburg Theater,” Miranda mentioned. “Oh I don't think we would meet anyone there, dear,” Mrs. Hazard replied. “Covent Garden and Drury Lane is where you meet people. Pity, for I could do with a comedy. Well, I daresay we must make do with a concert. I hope there aren't violins and men singing in high voices like ladies. I do like a man to have a mannish voice. Like Lord Bolton,” she added, with a waggish glance at her daughter. After her success with the tea party, Mrs. Hazard was eager to throw a real party, and she and Miranda settled down in Lord Croft's study to discuss strategies for attracting guests, and plans to entertain them. It was decided to invite Lydia and Lord Robert for dinner the next evening, and perhaps Mr. Hume and Lord Bolton and one other unspecified gentleman to even up the numbers. When this had been decided, the ladies went to their rooms to dress for the evening. Miranda was just choosing a gown when Mrs. Hazard came bustling in. “You cannot wear that old blue gown, Miranda,” she cried joyfully. “We are going to Mrs. Bannington's rout party." “But we don't know her." “Aye, she mentions that, but says Lord Bolton has been singing our praises, and she is eager to meet us. He will have told her of my Dotty's dowry. We shall invite the Banningtons to our little party. Bolton has
fallen head over ears in love with my Dotty, depend upon it, and wants to show her off to his friends. I knew how it would be, for she is so well behaved and rich. So you will have to choose a different gown. Rosie is doing Dotty's hair up in papers. She will have to eat her dinner in them. Thank goodness I didn't ask Lord Bolton to stay for dinner!” She flew out of the room, still chattering a mile a minute. Miranda was happy to be rescued from an evening of violins and Italian tenors, but she was unhappy with Mrs. Hazard's notion that Bolton was dangling after Dotty. She must find a moment this evening to speak to him. And she must also provide herself with some new gowns as soon as possible. Mrs. Hazard was right. The ‘old blue’ simply wouldn't do. She went to the clothespress and thumbed through the few gowns she had brought with her. After careful consideration, she chose the burgundy Italian crape, and spent the time until dinner fiddling with her hair, before deciding to wear it as she always did, drawn back in a chignon low on her neck. When Mrs. Hazard announced triumphantly at dinner that she had received a card from Lady Comfort inviting them all to her party the next evening as well, Miranda added a visit from the coiffeur to her list of things to be done. Chapter Five
Mrs. Hazard's eagerness to enter society made it impossible for Miranda to delay their departure to a suitable hour, despite her best efforts. They arrived embarrassingly early, the first after-dinner guests to arrive at the do. Mrs. Bannington was not the sort of hostess to take offense, however. She led the guests into the saloon where the ladies who had been invited to dinner were taking coffee while the gentlemen enjoyed their port and cheroots in the dining room. Amongst the guests, Miranda recognized Bolton's stepmama and Helen, his sister-in-law, both looking shocked that after-dinner guests should arrive at such an unseemly hour. Mrs. Bannington made the introductions. “Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard and her daughter and Lady Wetherby." “That's Ffoulkes-Hazard with two f's,” Mrs. Hazard inserted hastily. She accepted a cup of coffee and reached in front of the lady seated beside her for the cream and sugar. She had heard a familiar name. Feeling quite an intime, she leaned forward and said to the haughty dame who looked like a horse in ringlets at the other end of the sofa, “Lady Bolton, I believe I saw you at the Dauntry's do last night. You would be Lord Bolton's mama?" “Stepmother,” Lady Bolton said stiffly. “Are you acquainted with my stepson?" “That is one way of putting it,” Mrs. Hazard announced triumphantly. Her fear of Lady Bolton's squashing their social career had evaporated upon the receipt of two invitations in one evening. “He took my Dotty for a hurl in the park in his rig this afternoon, and invited himself in to take tea with us after." “How nice for you,” Lady Bolton said with great condescension, and turned away. Not about to accept a snub from anyone, Mrs. Hazard continued in a louder voice, “Pretty nice for him as well. He seemed pleased with his tea. He must have devoured half a dozen of my petty fours, the dear ones from Gunter's. I expect he will be here any minute, wanting a dance with my Dotty."
“Which of the—ladies—is your daughter?” Lady Bolton asked, although she knew perfectly well. She merely hoped for some further examples of poor breeding to relay to Max. “This minx here is my Dotty,” she replied, pointing a thumb at her. “Say ‘How do you do,’ Dotty. I'm sure Mrs. Fisher taught you that much at that fancy school we sent you to.” She turned back to Lady Bolton and added, “Miss Fisher's Academy, in Bath. Lord Carleton's daughter was there." “I am surprised,” Lady Bolton said, looking down her nose. “Most noble young ladies who live near Bath attend Miss Trimmer's school." “Miss Fisher is very fussy. She doesn't take just anyone,” Mrs. Hazard retorted. “Really?” A pair of insolent eyes glanced dismissingly at Dotty. “I would have thought otherwise." Miranda was tense with frustration. She wanted to intervene, but she knew Mrs. Hazard was impossible to stop. Once she got the bit between her teeth there was no saying what she might crop out with. If she had not told Lord Ippswitch he ought to get rid of his old Dutch pictures and get some decent English paintings for his gallery, Dotty might have nabbed him. Ippswitch was the proud owner of three Rembrandts. “Well you would be wrong,” Mrs. Hazard said. “She charges a fortune, and half of those noble families have scarce a feather to fly with. Younger sons, and so on." Mrs. Bannington hoped to restore tranquility to the party by asking where the Hazards were from, but she only stirred up new excitement. “We're from Manchester, but we're living in Surrey,” Mrs. Hazard said. “I bought a place called the Laurels when my Lyle upped and died on me. I thought we would like the country, and so we do, but there is no denying it is dull as dish water. Very thin of company." “The Laurels!” Mrs. Bannington exclaimed. “Not Lord Wilton's lovely estate!" “Aye, that's the one. We call it Hazard Hall now, and it is lovelier than ever, if I do say it myself. I have touched it up a little. It was becoming run down. Just a lick of paint and a bit of paper here and there. Oh and I threw out a bow window in the morning parlor, for it was dark as a dungeon. The paper in some of the bedrooms was brown with age as well." “I hope you didn't replace that priceless Chinese paper in the east bedroom!" “No, I didn't touch that,” Mrs. Hazard said at once, with a warning glance at Miranda. “I am not a savage after all,” she added, no matter what Lord Ippswitch said. A general stirring of interest ran around the room. It was Helen, the young Lady Bolton, who said what they were all thinking. “But the Laurels is huge, and all those acres. It must have cost you a fortune!" “It wasn't cheap, as you can imagine,” Mrs. Hazard replied, with a wise nod of her head. “We haggled Wilton down to a decent price, however. Thirty thousand, but the rents give us a good rate of interest, and Lyle, my late husband, always said property is a sound investment. With land, if you lose everything else, you can always throw up a tent, plant a patch of potatoes, and at least you won't starve."
“But the Laurels— However did you afford to buy it?” Helen asked bluntly. “Lyle left me pretty well to grass, and I have only the one child to see settled, my little Dotty.” She cast a doting smile on Dotty and patted her hand. The elder Lady Bolton felt weak. Max had never shown more than a polite interest in Helen. He had ferreted out this incredible heiress and would certainly marry her. This muffin-faced chit out of that dreadfully common Miss Fisher's Academy would be installed as mistress of Bolton's estates. The dowager's pension would have to be divided between the two dowagers, and as to the Dower House—She felt so ill she drew her vial of hartshorn out of her reticule, uncapped it and inhaled deeply. Mrs. Hazard's broad face broke into a smile at the sight of the familiar blue bottles with the silk tassel attached to the lid. The tassel had been her own suggestion, to make it easy to draw out of the reticule in an emergency. “That is Lyle's hartshorn, is it?” she asked, like a proud mama whose child has just won a prize. “Yes, I always use it,” Lady Bolton said weakly. A frown of comprehension wrinkled her brow. This impossible woman had mentioned her husband, Lyle. “Are you Lyle's patent medicines?” she demanded. After warning Miranda a dozen times not to mention it, she launched into the details of the business herself. “Lyle's Tonics for the Ton,” she said. “The name was my idea, to ensure that the commoners would lap it up, as indeed they do, as well as the real ton like yourself, your ladyship. I couldn't count the number of those blue bottles of hartshorn we sell per annum. “The original tonic still goes like hotcakes as well. It's a dandy picker-upper for whatever ails you. We flavor it with crème de menthe for the medicinal flavor. That's why it's green. We sold over a quarter million bottles of that green tonic last year alone. At half a crown a bottle—two shillings and six pence—you figure it out,” she said, and went on to do the ciphering herself. “Of course the cost is six pence, including the bottle and distribution, which leaves twenty-five thousand per annum clear on the green tonic alone, to say nothing of the pills, Lyle's pick-up pills for tired tots—another dandy product. Sweetened, you see, and without the alcohol. We wouldn't want to get the kiddies tipsy. Just a little laudanum to make them sleepy. And then there's the hartshorn and the paregoric draft and the purge— but we shan't speak of that in polite company. Another two thousand per annum for the purge alone. I'll not tell you what we make on the laudanum, for you'd only think I was boasting." “Oh no indeed, my dear Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard,” the elder Lady Bolton exclaimed weakly. Ffoulkes-Hazard indeed. She glanced at her blue bottle and read, ‘Owner and prop., Lyle Hazard, Manchester.’ How did plain Mrs. Lyle Hazard suddenly become Ffoulkes-Hazard, with two f's'? But Lady Bolton didn't care if she gave herself a dozen hyphens and a hundred f's, for she had just been struck with the sort of sublime idea that made her believe in God. She must call her son, Jeremy, back from the Cotswolds at once to marry Dotty. What lady in her right mind, providing, of course, that she didn't need money, would not rather marry her handsome son than cold, cynical Maxwell? Her eyes told her that Dotty was not a day under five and twenty, and indeed her having been at school with the Carleton chit confirmed it, whereas Lord Jeremy was only twenty-three. But Jeremy was wise enough to know the value of money. There was nothing like not having it to make
one aware, and Maxwell had refused to increase his allowance when he was made Lord Bolton. “Did you sell the company when your husband died, or do you still own it?” Helen asked. She never bothered to sugarcoat her words. Her amazing beauty was sugarcoating enough for any impertinence. Mrs. Hazard, being a plain, outspoken woman, did not take offense. “I would be a fool to sell such a gold mine, and I hope I am not a fool. When my Lyle took ill, he trained a sharp young cousin, Bertie Beazly, up to run the works. Cousin or no, I have an outside accountant keep a sharp eye on the books for me. I go over them with a fine tooth comb every month. Better safe than sorry." “Why don't you sell the Laurels and live in London?” Helen asked. “It's ever so much livelier than Surrey." “I am thinking of buying a house in London, but I shan't sell Hazard Hall. I've done a lot of work on the place, and I have come to like it. Plus it adds a certain jenny saykwa to have an estate. That's French, dear. I'll ask Lord Croft if he's interested in selling his place, though. I'm renting it at the moment,” she said, and mentioned what rent she had battled Croft down to. The elder Lady Bolton added another zero to the sum she had estimated as Mrs. Hazard's probable fortune. Her instinct told her to race to Mrs. Bannington's study and dash a line off to Jeremy that instant, but she feared one of the other ladies would push her son or nephew or cousin forward if she left, so she remained in the saloon, asking any questions that did not occur to Helen to ask, and listening closely to the answers until the gentlemen came from taking their port to join them. Miranda's first interest was to see whether Lord Bolton was amongst the dark jackets wandering into the saloon. She was aware of a stab of disappointment when she didn't find him. She turned her attention to the other new arrivals. Whispered conversations were taking place between the gentlemen and the ladies. Curious, assessing eyes turned to the Hazards. Then the newcomer was brought forth and introduced, with many smiles and compliments. A child could see that word of the Hazards’ financial status was being disseminated, and conned for possible advantage. Miranda watched closely. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. All these social lions and lionesses, many of them titled, were fawning like sycophants over Mrs. Hazard. They didn't care that she was vulgar and common. They didn't care that she was also lively and clever and honest and generous. That was not what had won them over. It was the money, plain and simple. They wouldn't care if she had two heads or was a heathen or an axe murderess. She was as rich as Croesus, and so they courted her. Mrs. Hazard was no fool. She would realize what made her acceptable, but she was only human after all. And her one unfulfilled dream was to move with ease amidst the ton, to see her Dotty established as a fine lady. If anyone could take advantage of her weakness, it would be these self-seeking, aristocratic sharks. And her only defense was an unsophisticated provincial widow. This was a responsibility Miranda had not foreseen. The job she had come to do was to ease the Hazard's way into the ton. That job was already accomplished with very little help from her. Any door they wished to enter would not only be open, they would be rounded up and herded in. Miranda saw that her job now would be to see that her charges didn't enter the wrong doors. And she was hopelessly inadequate to the task. She didn't know where the traps lay, which gentlemen
were rakes and fortune hunters and thieves and gamblers, who would play ducks and drakes with the Hazard's hard-earned fortune. She needed an advisor herself. She looked up and saw Mr. Hume striding purposefully toward her. Lydia said he was fabulously wealthy, which suggested that he would not be interested in the Hazard's fortune. Perhaps he could help her. “What a tornado you have let loose in society, Lady Wetherby,” he said, taking a chair beside her. “The clubs will make a fortune on bets as to which gentlemen wins Lyle's Tonics for the Ton. My money is on young Cleary. As handsome as can stare, in debt to his beautiful blue eyes, and utterly without scruples. He'll find an excuse to challenge any serious competitor to a duel and kill him, compromise Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard in some manner, and walk off with the lot." Miranda gasped in horror. “Oh! Which one is Mr. Cleary?" “The buck who has already ousted Mrs. Bannington from her seat and gained access to the young heiress." Miranda looked and saw a dissipated looking young gentleman who was certainly handsome, but much too raffish for Dotty to handle. “Oh dear! What shall I do?” Miranda asked. “Sit back and enjoy the charade, milady,” he said, laughing. “This is better than a raree show. There is nothing so droll as the English gentleman chasing an heiress. Mincing and capering and showering compliments does not come naturally to him. It is done better by the Latin races. It is as Doctor Johnson said of ladies preaching. ‘It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.' “There, by Jove! Young Cleary has found a pretext for taking hold of her hand. Reading her palm, is he? He's tried that stunt before. Let him once get hold of her hand and the heart will soon follow. I fear she is lost." “But can't we stop him?" “Meaning, can't I stop him? Yes, at risk of my life. For that I shall require some extraordinary reward—like the first set of waltzes with you, madam.” He bowed his sleek head and reached for her hand. “Anything,” she said, tossing up her hands in relief. “How interesting!” he murmured. “In that case ... Ah, young Bolton has beat me to it." In her panic, Miranda had not seen Lord Bolton enter the room. She had not seen his searching gaze settle first on herself, frowning to see her with Hume, before discovering Dotty's peril. She watched with mixed emotions as he came forward to greet the Hazards, and put out his hand to draw Dotty up from the sofa and lead her off. She was vastly relieved he had removed Dotty from Cleary's dangerous society, but was struck with the unhappy thought that he was also after Dotty's dowry. The details of the Hazard fortune were not known earlier, when he was dangling after herself. Bolton looked around the room. When he espied Miranda, he came forward, drawing Dotty with him.
“Congratulations, milord,” Hume said. “You have just diddled me out of my reward. Lady Wetherby had promised me a very interesting reward to rescue Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard.” He turned to Miranda. “I hope, ma'am, you will still honor me with a dance for my good intentions." He smiled and walked away. Bolton lifted a delicate arch of eyebrow and just stared a question at Miranda. Without his saying a word, she knew what message he was conveying: that he was vexed at that “very interesting reward.' When he spoke, he said blandly, “The music is beginning. Shall we go to the ballroom? Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard has promised me the first set. And as her rescuer, I claim the waltzes with you, Lady Wetherby.” Then he lifted his eyebrow again and added in an irritated voice, “Unless you can think of a more interesting reward." He put one hand on either lady's arm and led them to the ballroom, where they met up with Lord Robert and Lydia. Lydia drew Miranda aside to chide her. “You didn't tell me they were the Lyle's Tonics heiresses,'’ she said sotto voce. “Everyone is talking about it, and I had them at my party first. If I had known, I would have insisted my brother Tommie come to meet them. He has only two thousand a year." Even her old friend Lydia was infected with this lust for gold. “Better Tommie than Cleary,” Miranda said wearily. “Oh, I have been meaning to speak to you, Lydia. Mrs. Hazard wants to have a party. Can you help me arrange it?" “With pleasure, darling, but really you have only to tell your butler and he will look after all the details. Lord Croft was not one of the great entertainers, but he had one or two parties each Season. He's a widower, you know, with no lady to handle the social end. I'm sure he didn't make the arrangements himself." Mr. Calvin, one of last Season's eligible bachelors, came forward to be introduced to Miranda. When the music began, he asked her to stand up with him. They joined a set with Bolton and Dotty. During those moments when conversation was possible, Mr. Calvin's talk was all of Dotty. It was pretty clear he had only feigned an interest in Miranda to meet the heiress. Lord Bolton also had a few words with Miranda when the steps of the dance brought them together. “Who let the cat out of the bag?” he asked. “Mrs. Hazard—that is Ffoulkes-Hazard, did it herself, after practically swearing me to secrecy." “I wondered about that Ffoulkes,” he said, with a glinting grin. “It isn't on the tonic bottles. We'll have our work cut out for us staving off the fortune hunters,” he said, suddenly serious. “We'll talk later.” Then the moves of the cotillion took them apart. Miranda thought of what he had said. It didn't sound as if he was chasing after Dotty himself. And if that were the case, he could prove an effective ally. He had cut Cleary out very neatly. But what were his intentions regarding herself? Was protecting Dotty just a pretext to throw himself in her path, in order to seduce her? She was strangely excited at the notion, until a worse one occurred. Was he feigning an interest in her to gain the inner track with Dotty? Yes, that was probably it. Why should he be any different from the others?
Chapter Six
Miranda had the next set with Lord Robert, and again the subject of conversation was the Hazards. Even Robert, who had no penniless brother to see matched up, was fascinated with them. “Don't be too hasty to hand your friend over to some gent, Miranda,” he said, laughing. “You could go into business for yourself and charge a guinea for an introduction to her. The mama is quite an original, isn't she?" “Yes. It never occurred to me that they would be such a success. I fear they won't want to go back to the Laurels. I shall miss them dreadfully." “Why not remove to London yourself? You could rent John's place for a tidy sum and hire a flat in London. You'd have a more amusing time, and better prospects for making another match. You're too young to wilt into a widow, my dear." “Good gracious, I'm not in the Ffoulkes-Hazards’ league. Who would want to marry a thirty year old widow with only life tenancy in her home, and an income of two thousand a year?" “A fifty year old bachelor with his own very handsome estate and a reported income of twenty-five thousand a year,” he replied. “I'm talking about Hume. He is mighty interested in you." “He's a wretched old flirt!" “So he is, but he's getting to that age where he'll soon realize how ridiculous he looks, chasing after the young girls. I believe he's about ready to settle down with some pretty lady still young enough to give him a son and heir, and the money is no matter to him. Think about it. Lydia believes you could nab him if you played your cards right. We'd love to have you here in London, near us." The idea of renting John's estate was interesting. London was certainly amusing, and if the Hazards left Surrey, the place would be even more lonesome than before. But she wouldn't marry a fifty year old man whom she didn't particularly like, and with some shadow hanging over his past besides. “Where did Hume get his fortune?” she asked. “Best not to ask that question. It is avoided—like the paternity of one's friends’ children." “You have become very cynical, Robert,” she chided. “I have been spending too much time at Whitehall. To be serious, Hume is not that bad. Society would cut him if he had married a series of wealthy women and murdered them, or anything of that Bluebeard sort. It was just a crooked business deal, I believe. If you look closely into the past of any wealthy family, you will find more pirates and brigands and rogues than heroes. It is a rare man who becomes wealthy honestly. “Time is the great healer, and Hume's peccadilloes, whatever they were, have assumed an aura of respectability over the years. He would be sitting in the House of Lords if he hadn't argued with Prinny. If he chooses his bride wisely, he'll end up there yet."
When Mr. Hume came to claim his dance, Miranda began to sense that he was more than a little interested in her. For one thing, he didn't flirt. He talked more seriously, gently quizzing her about her life. Like Lord Robert, he hinted that he would like to see her remove to London. She didn't dislike him. His morals, while not so sterling as her late husband's, were no worse than the rest of the ton, but she knew in her bones she would never care for him as a husband. If she married him for his fortune, she would be no better than those sharks dangling after Dotty. There was neither physical nor mental nor emotional attraction on her side. This was not at all the case with Lord Bolton. She found him dangerously attractive. Her heart fluttered like a caged bird when he took her in his arms for the second set of waltzes. The mere touch of his hand on hers as he led her to the floor made her breaths come unevenly. Their conversation was not in the least romantic, yet her heart pounded as if she had run a mile. “What are your plans to protect Miss Hazard from the fortune hunters?” he asked, omitting the farce of adding Ffoulkes to the name. “I don't like the way Cleary is dangling after her. Or Lord Warnville either." “Which one is he?” she asked. “I know Cleary by sight." “Warnville is his friend, the tall, blond gent flirting with Mrs. Hazard." “Oh dear! A pity the fortune hunters are always so handsome! Only see how she is lapping his flattery up like a schoolgirl! She's probably invited them both to her party by now." “What party?” he asked at once. There was that in his tone that hinted at offense at not having been invited. “It was supposed to be a simple dinner party, but tonight has been such an unexpected success I foresee it becoming a regular squeeze." “And who was invited to this more intimate do?” he persisted. “No one, yet. We had planned to ask you and Robert and Lydia and Hume. We need one other gentleman to even the numbers." “I accept,” he said, a smile curving his lips as his pique vanished. “Yes, and so will Cleary and Warnville, if I don't warn Mrs. Hazard not to invite them." “So will Hume accept, but we'll look out for Dotty." “At least Hume is not after the money,” she said, with a troubled look. Was it possible Bolton had his flashing eye on that jackpot? Setting himself up as Dorothy's watchdog made access to her sure and easy. She would come to rely on his protection. It would be very easy, in fact only natural, for that sort of relationship to turn into hero-worship on the lady's part. “No, he is even more dangerous,” Bolton replied. “He is after you—which leaves me with two vulnerable ladies to protect. And I think the best way to ensure my help being accepted is to butter up Mrs. Hazard. Fear not, Lady Wetherby, I shall be at your side, challenging all comers,” he said, not grimly, but with a certain relish.
When the set was over, he took a firm grip on Miranda's arm and wedged a path through the throng surrounding Mrs. Hazard. The Hazard party received dozens of invitations, to tea parties and routs, to assemblies and concerts and plays. “Why thank you, we would be delighted,” changed to “It sounds lovely, but I'm not sure we are free that evening.” Cards were to follow, to help the ladies sort out their schedule. When they reached home, Mrs. Hazard fell into a well upholstered chair, eased her feet out of her slippers and sighed. “I feel as if I had climbed up the Alps and fallen down t'other side. I had no idea society was so tiring. And tomorrow I am calling on Lady Bolton. She quite insisted. I felt I should, because of Lord Bolton." “Did you notice how he walked in and drew my Dotty away from all the other men, Miranda? Jealous as a green cow, I warrant. I like a fellow like that who can take charge. I wager he could run Lyle's Tonics for the Ton as well as he ran the war, or his own regiment as least. It would be good to have Dotty's husband at the helm. Not that I don't trust Beazly, but he is only a cousin. Is Lord Bolton calling on you tomorrow, Dotty?" Miranda chewed back a smile to think of lofty Lord Bolton hawking patent medicines. Dotty yawned and stretched her white arms. “I can't remember, Mama. Ever so many gentlemen asked me if they could call." “He had better come early if he comes at all, for we are to call on his stepmama at four. But perhaps he will see us there instead. It's his house after all, not hers, however high she holds up her nose." The next day was a busy one. The saloon was cluttered up with gentlemen and some ladies from two until four, when Mrs. Hazard dismissed them without ceremony and called the carriage to take her to Hanover Square. As Lord Bolton had not called at Berkeley Square, Miranda assumed he would meet them at his own house, but he was not there. It was the two Ladies Bolton who awaited them, seated in an elegant saloon done in deep blue, with red and gold accents. Miranda was surprised that there were no other guests. Both the hostesses were charming. They welcomed the guests like old friends, informed Mrs. Hazard which shops held the best merchandise, who were the best milliners and modistes, where to hire musicians and caterers, where to buy wine, and all the things Miranda had been wondering about. She drew out a little pad and pencil and began to jot down the names and addresses, for she knew she wouldn't remember them all. Until that point, she had been virtually ignored. Seeing her writing, the elder Lady Bolton said, “Is Lady Wetherby your secretary, Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard? How original! Most people have a male secretary. But then you are an Original. I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you." “Lady Wetherby is a good friend who is helping us out a little getting established,” Mrs. Hazard replied. Lady Bolton translated this to “poor relation,” and paid no more heed to Miranda. She went on to talk about her son, Jeremy, who was apparently hunting in the Cotswolds. Helen was not so quick to dismiss Miranda. While the other Lady Bolton quizzed Mrs. Hazard and Dotty, she quizzed Miranda. “I saw you dancing with Mr. Hume last evening. Is he a good friend of
yours?" “No, I never met him until two days ago. He was at Lord and Lady Robert Dauntry's little do. Is he a friend of yours, milady?" Helen's velvet cheeks brightened to a rosy hue. “He was a good friend of my late husband. He helped us with the business details when Algernon died, for Max was in Spain at the time of the accident." “Oh yes. Now that Lord Bolton is back, I daresay he handles all the family business." Her pretty face firmed to annoyance. “He has certainly taken over completely,” she said. The front door opened and she added under her breath, “Speak of the devil." Within seconds, Lord Bolton entered the saloon. He had been a good deal in Miranda's mind, but when she saw him again in person, he looked even better than she remembered. A blue jacket of superfine was molded to his broad shoulders, that still had a military air to them. His cravat was a model of simple elegance, his Hessians gleamed. Miranda, watching him closely, noticed that his expression hardened to annoyance to see the company assembled there. She could only assume it was the guests who annoyed him, as he would presumably expect to see his stepmama and sister-in-law. He soon had his smile in place and strode forward to greet them. But why was he angry? These two ladies were no danger to the Hazards. They were the tip of the ton. “Oh, you're back, Max,” Helen said. “You said you were going to Tattersall's to see about a hunter. We didn't expect you back before dinner." “The nag was a jade. I just paid my bill and came dashing home, to the bosom of my family,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I trust you don't mind that I choose to take tea in my own saloon, Helen? Would it be too much trouble for me to have a cup?" Helen performed her duty with a very bad grace. Bolton took his cup without thanking her. There were vacant chairs beside both Miranda and Dorothy. With an impish grin at his stepmama, he chose the chair beside Dotty. “Well, young lady, has my stepmama chosen your husband yet?” he asked her. Dotty blushed and simpered and said daringly, “I plan to have something to say about that myself, milord." “And so do I!” Mrs. Hazard added firmly. Lady Bolton laughed nervously and said, “Good gracious, the poor child has just arrived in town. There is no hurry to get her married off. I was just saying to Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard she ought to present her daughter next Season. Half the bachelors have left London to go hunting. The spring is the time to make your choice." “I would have loved to give my Dotty a Season,” Mrs. Hazard said at once, “but to tell the truth, I hadn't a notion how to go about it. I had an inkling a patron or sponsor or some such thing was needed if you didn't know anyone."
“You will find gold needs no other sponsor, ma'am,” Bolton said, in his ironic vein. “There is a good deal of rigmarole to it, but I would be delighted to usher your daughter through the shoals of her debut,” Lady Bolton said at once. “Well upon my word, that is mighty fine of you, milady. Did you hear that, Dotty? How would you like to bend your knee to Queen Charlotte, eh?" “I would be scared stiff,” Dotty replied. “You will be bored stiff, I promise you,” Helen informed her. Then she turned and spoke to Bolton in a low voice. Miranda thought she heard the words “Alfred Hume." When the tea was finished, Lady Bolton said, “I am taking Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard to show her the family portraits in the small gallery, Max. You will look after the ladies for me." He rose with a challenging eye. “Let me take her, ma'am. You won't want to abandon Mrs. Hazard." She noticed that simple “Hazard,” and thought Max was a fool to let the woman know he had discovered her stunt. “That necessary, dear. Helen can entertain Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard." “The whole name is such a mouthful we often just ourselves Hazard,” Mrs. Hazard said, with red climbing up neck. “I insist on conducting the tour,” Max said. “Don't worry, Adelaide, I shall make sure she sees the picture of Jeremy. I expect that is why she is being shown that wall of inferior artworks.” He turned to Dorothy. “The better family portraits are in the gallery at South Winds, the family estate in Hampshire." “If you insist,” Lady Bolton said, smiling through clenched teeth. ''I do." “Take Lady Wetherby with you. She would like to see the pictures." “It was my intention to invite her to join us,” he said, holding out his hand to her. He squeezed her fingers and gave her a conspiratorial smile as she put her hand in his. She sensed some private rancor between him and Lady Bolton, and wondered why the dame wanted her to accompany him and Dotty. The only explanation she could find was that she was to play propriety, which hardly seemed necessary when the study was only two doors away. As Bolton had said, the pictures were inferior. Stiff likenesses of his ancestors in historical costume hung in rows around the four walls of the rectangular room. “Which one is Jeremy?” Dotty asked, her eyes moving quickly along the age-dimmed portraits. “That is Jeremy in the place of honor at the far end of the room, just between the windows." They all walked forward to study the picture of a young man standing beside a bay mount. It was done in the style of Gainsborough. The young man stood in an idealized country setting, with misty trees behind. As Gainsborough had died in the last century, it was obviously not the work of that master.
Miranda didn't recognize the signature. She thought Jeremy was a handsome looking fellow, but with a petulant mouth. His auburn hair fell in a lock over a high forehead. He stood with his right hand on the horse's head, his other hand holding a crop. The shoulders of his blue jacket were broad, tapering to a narrow waist. The dotted kerchief at his throat lent him a casual air. “There he is, Lady Bolton's pride and joy,” Bolton said. Dotty examined the picture, then turned to study Bolton. “He doesn't look much like you,” she said. “Why should he? He is no blood relation to me. He is my stepmama's son by her first husband. I had only one brother, and he is dead." “What is his family name?” Dotty asked. “West. Jeremy West. I expect you will be meeting him next spring, if not before.” After a frowning pause, he added, “Probably before. Yes, almost certainly before. What do you think of him?" Dotty looked up at Bolton shyly from the corner of her eyes. “I always preferred dark haired gentlemen,” she replied. Miranda had never seen Dotty flirt before, but she was certainly flirting now. And Lord Bolton was not displeased with her effort either. He smiled and bowed, taking the compliment in his stride. He was obviously used to such speeches. “What good taste you have, Miss Hazard. I, on the other hand, have nothing against blonds,” he said, his eyes just flickering over Dotty's blond curls. Then he turned to Miranda and added, “Nor have I anything against sable curls. I own I admire ladies of all sorts and sizes and complexions." “You are easy to please. You shouldn't have any trouble finding a wife,” Dotty said, and laughed archly as she took his arm to leave. Bolton waited until Miranda joined them. “I have two arms,” he pointed out, nodding at his free one. “And I have two feet. I don't need assistance, thank you,” she said, but she said it playfully. “You two go ahead. I want another look at Jeremy's portrait. He reminds me of someone. I can't think who." “Try Lady Bolton. He has her sulky expression." “But Helen is lovely!” Dotty exclaimed. “I meant his mama, Adelaide, actually. Yes, Helen is lovely. There can be no argument there." Miranda lingered a moment after they left, wondering why Lord Bolton had insisted on showing them the portraits. Had he hoped to be alone with Dotty? It was Adelaide who had suggested that Miranda accompany them. He had not actually flirted with Dotty, but he had more or less encouraged her to flirt with him. There was no doubt as to why Lady Bolton had suggested the tour. She wanted to put Jeremy forward. Bolton couldn't quite hide his dislike of both Jeremy and his mama. It was harder to distinguish how he felt about Helen. He didn't seem to dislike her as much, but he
showed no particular affection for her either. What a strange, uncomfortable household it must be to live in. She wondered why the ladies didn't set up their own house, or a flat at least. In a rich family like that, surely there was no shortage of money—was there? She assumed Bolton was rich, but perhaps he was not so well to grass as she believed. Many noblemen squandered their fortunes away. And if that was the case, then of course he would be looking for an heiress Chapter Seven
“Now what was the point of dragging us over there and not having a soul to meet us?” Mrs. Hazard asked, when they were at home in their own saloon. She had eased her feet out of her slippers and was wiggling her toes. “I believe she wanted to put Jeremy forward,” Miranda suggested. “Aye, it's the money she has in her eye, depend upon it. And he a younger son! My Dotty can do better than Lord Jeremy, I hope." “He's not even a noble younger son,” Miranda pointed out, knowing her friend's love of a title. “Lady Bolton mentioned she was married before, you recall. Jeremy is her son by her first husband, Mr. West." “So he hasn't even a handle to his name! Heaven knows I am not the poor sort of creature who puts any store by such things, but for the size of Dotty's dowry, I think she deserves better than Mr. West. She may go to the devil. It was kind of her to offer to sponsor Dotty next Season, but if the price is Mr. Jeremy West as a son-in-law, I shall decline. Much better to stick with Lord Bolton." Dotty, who had been listening to this discussion with only mild interest, as if it had nothing to do with her, suddenly said in a dreamy voice, “Lord Bolton is ever so nice." “What kind of a title would my Dotty have if she took him?” Mrs. Hazard asked Miranda. Miranda, less certain that Lord Bolton was Dotty's for the taking, replied discreetly, “Lord Bolton is an earl. When he marries, his wife will be a countess." Her hint went unnoticed. “And with a tiara in her curls for grand parties,” Mrs. Hazard beamed. “How would you like that, Dotty?” Dotty didn't bother to reply. “Would I have a handle to my name?” her mama inquired. “No, ma'am. For that, you would have to marry a titled gentleman yourself. And it wouldn't be hard for you to do either." Mrs. Hazard laughed and slapped her knee and said she might offer for one of the royal dukes, if they weren't all so demmed ugly. “We'll find some well-greased gentleman for you too, Miranda. I shall put you forward with Mr. Hume." “No, please don't! Why does everyone push Mr. Hume at me. I do not care for him in the least. I much prefer—that is—” She came to a flustered stop, trying to think of some gentleman other than Bolton that she could mention.
Mrs. Hazard shook her head in commiseration. “You prefer Lord Bolton, of course. Who would not? But it's pretty clear he has my Dotty in his eye. He was most particular in his attentions. Nothing personal, Miranda, but you are a widow of a certain age and very small fortune. Bolton will be looking a little higher on the shelf for a match. And now I shall go upstairs and have a liedown to prepare for the party this evening. You ought to have Rosie do your hair up in papers, Dotty. Your curls are wilting." After Mrs. Hazard had picked up her slippers, she said in a casual-seeming way. “Oh, by the way, Lady Bolton mentioned something about a person's background being checked before she can be presented at court. I thought it better to get that Ffoulkes business out of the way now and told her to put Dotty down as Miss Hazard. I wouldn't want Queen Charlotte to know I was fudging. Thank goodness Lady Bolton didn't ask any questions." After she left, Dotty turned to Miranda. “I have noticed you are fond of Bolton, Miranda. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I feel I ought to tell you what he said this afternoon, when we were going to the saloon after looking at the pictures." Miranda came instantly to attention. “What? What did he say?" “He said he was not interested in marrying a widow. He said it right out in so many words. I know he likes you. Indeed he seems quite partial, but I cannot think his intentions are honorable. It would be only an affair. Gentlemen think widows are fair game, you know." Miranda's first reaction was disbelief. Not of Bolton's intentions—that was easy to believe—but that he would blurt them out to Dotty. He was much too suave for that. She must have said something to him, teased him about dangling after herself. Yes, it might have happened like that, because Dotty would not make up such a story. She even looked rather sorry at carrying the tale. “If that is true, about an affair, then are you sure he would do for you, Dotty?” she asked. “I know you would never do anything like that, Miranda. And if he gets to dangling after some other widow who would, I think Mama and I between us could handle him." Miranda didn't think anyone could handle Lord Bolton once he set his mind to something. It was painful to hear he had no serious interest in herself, but she was grateful that Dotty had told her. Miranda had felt an instant attraction to him, and the feeling did not lessen on closer acquaintance. It was best to nip it in the bud, before she went tumbling into love. Now she knew the worst, and would be on her guard against his insidious charm. She needed every ounce of protection, because his behavior at Lady Comfort's assembly that evening left no doubt that he wanted her for his mistress. Mrs. Hazard, as usual, insisted on going early. It was over an hour before Lord Bolton strolled in, between sets. He looked all around the room, and as soon as he spotted Miranda and the Hazards, who were surrounded by fortune hunters, he came toward them. “I fear you are too late for the next dance, Lord Bolton,” Mrs. Hazard said. “Dotty's card is full for the next set, but she has left one blank for you." Dotty proffered her book and he scribbled down “Bolton,” murmuring that she was too kind to think of him.
As soon as Dotty retrieved her book, she was accosted by another suitor. Bolton turned to Miranda. “And is your book also full for the next set, Lady Wetherby?" “I fear it is, milord,” she had the satisfaction of replying. Without waiting for her to show him her book, he reached out and took it. He glanced at it, scribbled his name down for the waltzes, and “refreshment parlor with Bolton” for the next set after that, then handed it back to her with a cocky, conspiratorial grin. Miranda's heart gave a lurch when she read the entry. Despite her caution, some part of her was gratified at his interest, yet now that she knew his intentions, she was also angry at his highhanded tactics. He watched as her emotions played on her lively face. When she looked up, he gazed deeply into her eyes and said, “That was encroaching of me to be sure, but I intend to waltz you off your feet, ma'am. You will require a rest and a glass of champagne to recover." She took the pencil and struck out the second entry. “You will find I am not quite that easily bowled off my feet, milord. I shall give you the waltzes as you are a good dancer, but you must allow me to choose my own time and companion for refreshments." He graciously bowed his capitulation. “Your wish is my command, Lady Wetherby. But I wouldn't be in a hurry to fill in that next set after the waltzes, if I were you. It is to be a country dance to let the youngsters, who are not allowed by the despots at Almack's to waltz, have their day. The older ladies usually choose to sit it out." “Older ladies?" His lips quirked in a bold grin. “Age, like so many things, is relative, n'est-ce pas? Of course you seem young to Hume, but folks of our age, yours and mine, know the scrambling about of a country dance is for the infantry.” She just looked, with fire smoldering in her eyes. “That will teach you to strike my name off your card,” he said, and went to find another partner for the coming set. Miranda's temper was not improved to see him choose a striking redhead. She asked Lord Robert, with whom she was dancing, who the lady with Bolton was. “That's Lady Halton, a high flying widow. Lovely, isn't she? She has just given her latest patron, Lord Musgrave, his congé. All the bucks are vying to capture her. She's a friend of Helen, Bolton's sister-in-law." “I see." When Mr. Hume asked her for a set, she wrote his name in for the country dances after the waltzes, to show Bolton a lesson. “Older ladies” indeed! She was not that old! Yet she was no longer young either. It was the grain of truth in it that annoyed her. As the evening progressed, she saw Bolton not only standing up with Dotty, but taking wine with her and Mrs. Hazard, and apparently enjoying himself very much, to judge by his lively expression. Miranda was in no good mood by the time the waltzes began. She was of half a mind to go to the refreshment parlor and pretend she had a headache, but the waltz was her favorite dance. And besides, to cancel their dance would give it too much significance. Bolton appeared at her elbow just as the first note was struck.
“Ah, good! I was afraid you would already have chosen another partner to show me a lesson. I was unavoidably detained." “Having a hard time landing a mistress, are you?” she asked, with an air of ennui to hide her chagrin. “Au contraire. Having a hard time avoiding their importunities. The ladies are not all so demure as your charming self, milady. Shocking how loose London morals have become while I was away,” he declared, but with no trace of shock. Indeed his tone denoted more approval than anything else. She read a challenge in his voice when he continued, “I'm glad you have kept yourself sequestered at Hornby Hall, all chaste and modest, Lady Wetherby." Was he trying to goad her into professing a lack of modesty in her past behavior? She leveled an ironic stare at him from her clear, green eyes. “I'm sure chastity is of great importance to you, milord,” she said. “What's got your tail up your back?” he demanded inelegantly. “I have gone to considerable pains to weasel my way into favor with your chaperon by protecting Miss Hazard for you. I am bound to say, Lady Wetherby, you are not performing that duty so diligently as I expected. I could have used your help when Cleary was trying to whisk her out of the ballroom for what he chose to call refreshments, but I doubt his refreshments came in a glass. In his carriage is more like it." Miranda suffered a pang of conscience. She had hardly glanced at Dotty all evening, except to notice when she was with Bolton. But Dotty was with her mama, and Mrs. Hazard had been warned to watch out for Cleary and Lord Warnville. “Did you manage to rescue her?” she asked. “Yes, at some danger to my own safety. As a hardened old veteran, I shouldn't complain of danger, but I do insist on receiving my reward." In the blinking of an eye, while she was watching him, his expression softened to tenderness. It was as if a mask had fallen from him, revealing a younger, more innocent man beneath. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle. “Come, I have been waiting all evening for our waltz,” he said, reaching for her hand. This sudden transformation threw her into confusion. He held her hand tightly as they went to the floor. And when he swept her into his arms, she forgot all the wise precautions she had been planning to take. It felt strange and a little wicked to be held in a man's arms, with the warmth of his hard chest heating her body. Their legs brushed intimately as he whirled her around the room. She felt he was holding her a little more tightly than decorum decreed, but she didn't ask him to loosen his grip. Life was too short to spend in constant worry. She needed this brief respite from reality. That's what the waltz was for her, when she danced it with such a partner as Lord Bolton. Cares were left behind as she floated on a cloud of make believe, with a prince charming gazing at her as if she were a marvel, as if he loved her. Perhaps he did, in a way. If she were higher born, he might offer her marriage. At least he liked her enough to want to make her his mistress. She was quite sure of that. He would not say such things to her if he didn't. She listened like one in a dream as he told her his feelings and wishes, in a velvet soft voice that echoed with sincerity. “The moment I saw you across the room last evening, Lady Wetherby, I knew you were the one. I felt I
had known you for a thousand years—or a thousand nights, as if our souls were old friends. I had nearly given up hope,” he said wistfully. “Truly, I was about to retire to South Winds and set up as one of those tiresome ‘improving farmers,’ boring his neighbors with talk of marling and mulch. Truth to tell, I am a little inclined that way." “You, a farmer,” she said, and laughed. “It is easier to picture you as a soldier, leading a fearless band into battle." “I've tried that. Thank God it is over. No, a man likes to accomplish something useful with his life. Feeding men instead of shooting them." She didn't answer, but he read the interest and approval in her expression and was encouraged to press on. “I had such plans when I returned from Spain. I heard, while I was there, of my brother Algernon's death, and realized the brevity and uncertainty of life. Odd it didn't occur to me when I saw my comrades being mowed down every day, but it was Algernon's drowning that brought it home to me. I couldn't wait to get home, marry the most beautiful lady in London, and turn South Winds into a rural Eden. Fill a nursery with sons and daughters and live to a hundred. “Then to come home and find the ladies I had been dreaming of didn't exist. I wished I had brought a sweet señorita home with me. They are sweetly gentle and innocent, the Spanish ladies, yet with fire in their eyes too, when you offend them. You remind me a little of them. Perhaps it's the way you wear your hair, and its dark sheen." “What was it that displeased you in the local ladies?” she asked. “The debs were just mindless, giggling girls, and the older ladies were all scheming hussies, dangling after the title —until I met you." “What makes you think I don't want a title?” she asked. “Because a lady like you could have had one long ago, if that was what you were after. With those Spanish eyes of yours, you could have had all London at your feet if you had condescended to flirt and tease a little. But you are too proud to resort to such tricks. That, too, is a Spanish trait. It is a part of what I love about you." He gazed into her eyes, bemused, and she listened, enchanted. Was this how gentlemen talked to their mistresses? How different from the way John talked to her. It almost made a lady want to become a mistress. “You realize you saved my life,” he continued, pretending to be stern now. “That entails a great responsibility on you. You must now see that the life you saved is a happy and fulfilled one, Miranda. I should not call you that until you give me permission, after a month or two. But I have waited too long, and am too impatient to get on with it to observe all the niggling proprieties that don't really mean anything. And besides, we have been quasi acquainted for a millennium. “To me, you were ‘Miranda’ the moment I heard Mrs. Hazard speak your name. And Hornby Hall is your desert island, where you were insulated from the dissipations of London. I am referring to Shakespeare's Tempest, in case you have lost track of my rambling and think I have run mad."
“I knew what you meant,” she said. She smiled and listened to his invention and ingenuity, believing one word in ten. But it was flattering to be courted in this romantic style, even if the aim wasn't marriage. Of course she would not become his mistress, but a lady could listen. There was no harm in that. Forewarned was forearmed. Their waltz was over too soon, and it was time for her country dance with Hume. It would be like going from a moonlit garden into a rowdy fair, but Hume's name was on her card, and it didn't even occur to her to ignore it. Chapter Eight
Lord Bolton was looking forward to seeing Mr. Hume make a spectacle of himself by undertaking the boisterous country dance, but he was disappointed. When Hume came to claim Miranda, he carried her off across the dance floor to the refreshment parlor. Now what was the old bleater up to? Bolton decided to go and investigate. At the very least, he would have the fun of watching Hume make his excuses for avoiding the boisterous romp. But when he reached the parlor, he saw Hume speaking to Cleary, while Miranda stood with an arm protectively around Dotty a few yards away. When Dotty saw Bolton, she detached herself and hurried forward to greet him. “The most shocking thing, milord!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Cleary was trying to induce me to leave this lovely do and go to a masquerade party at some place called the Pantheon. He said we could be back in time for supper here. I very nearly accepted, for it sounded ever so much fun, and he said it was unexceptionable. His own sister is there. But then Mr. Hume came and rescued me just in time." “Mr. Cleary doesn't have a sister,” Bolton said. “I know. He was making it up to deceive me. Mr. Hume told me. Miranda said that Mama had seen me with Mr. Cleary, and asked Mr. Hume to just see that he wasn't up to something horrid. Mr. Cleary seemed very angry when I told Mr. Hume where we were going. And Mr. Hume was angry, and I expect Mama will be angry as well. I had no idea Mr. Cleary was so horrid." Tears trembled but did not quite course down her cheeks. “Oh I am so glad you came to rescue me, Lord Bolton,” she said, and leaned weakly against him. He instinctively put his arm around her, and led her to a chair as he disclaimed credit for her rescue. Miranda watched as he obtained a glass of punch for Dotty and sat a moment consoling and advising her. Cleary directed a hostile glare at the group and left at a stiff-legged gait. Mr. Hume and Miranda joined Bolton and Dotty. “That was well done of you, Mr. Hume,” Miranda said. “What did you say to Cleary?" “Did you challenge him to a duel?” Dotty asked, with an air of eager anticipation. “Indeed I did not, Miss Hazard. Duels are for foolish young hotheads. There is nothing Cleary would like better. I told him that if he pestered you again, he would find himself persona non grata at all his favorite gambling clubs. He knows I could arrange it, too. That will have more effect than challenging him to a duel, and it will keep any whisper of scandal from your fair reputation as well."
Dotty expressed her lukewarm appreciation. It was for Miranda to give him his due. “We are very grateful, Mr. Hume,” she said warmly. “You handled the matter with commendable discretion." “Experience counts for something in the world,” he said modestly. “But it cost me a good deal. We missed our dance, and I am sure you have every other set on your card filled." “I have, but you shall have whatever set you wish at the next party,” she said. “I am too eager to wait for the next party,” he said archly. “Say you will come with me to the theater tomorrow evening. You and the Hazards, of course. Ca va sans dire." “I shall have to speak to Mrs. Hazard first,” she replied. It seemed impossible to refuse after the favor he had just done them. With Lord Bolton listening with both ears, she even took some pleasure in accepting, although she did not want to give Hume too much encouragement. “Let us go and speak to her at once.” He turned to Bolton and Dotty. “We can safely leave Miss Hazard in your care, eh, Bolton?" Lord Bolton rose and helped Dotty from her chair. “Let us all speak to Mrs. Hazard. She will want to hear what happened here, and know that her daughter is unharmed." “What a gossoon you are, Dotty,” Mrs. Hazard exclaimed, when the tale was told. “Didn't I tell you a dozen times to have nothing to do with Cleary? This isn't Manchester or Surrey, where you can go waltzing off to a party without knowing what you're going to.” She turned to Bolton. “What is wrong with the Pantheon, then? A vice den, is it?" “It is not a fit place for young ladies,” he replied discreetly. “Well, Dotty, you are fortunate to have a young gentleman looking out for your interests, for it seems to me you have no more sense than a peahen." “It was not my doing,” Bolton said. “The credit belongs to Mr. Hume." Hume accepted their thanks with becoming modesty and put forward his scheme of taking them to the theater the next evening. “Shakespeare, is it?” Mrs. Hazard asked, with very little enthusiasm. “They have just opened one of Murphy's comedies called All in the Wrong at Covent Garden, if you prefer,” Hume replied. “That's dandy. Let me see, now. You and Miranda, Bolton and my Dotty, and me. That leaves an empty seat. Who could you dredge up for an old relict like me?" Hume bowed and lifted her hand to his lips. “The problem will be of selecting one fortunate gentleman from the throng, madam,” he said. “Go on with you,” she said, laughing, and gave him a clout on the shoulder, but her face was pink with pleasure.
The evening was not going at all the way Bolton had hoped. It seemed he became more tightly enmeshed with Dotty every time he tried to see Miranda. Dotty was hanging on to him like a barnacle now, casting languishing glances his way. And he knew that if he called on Miranda tomorrow afternoon, he would somehow end up with Dotty in his rig. To put the cap on his vexation, he sensed that Miranda realized his predicament, and was laughing at him. She did find the situation amusing. What concerned her was that she was being drawn more closely into Mr. Hume’ s net. Mrs. Hazard and Lydia might say he was interested in marriage, but she didn't think a seasoned bachelor of fifty years was likely to change his stripes so easily. And even if he was serious, she had no interest in marrying him. She consoled herself that she hadn't come to London to find a husband, so it was no tragedy. She could always tell Mr. Hume she was not interested in whatever offer he made, if he made one. As the supper hour approached, the elder Lady Bolton came bustling across the floor like a hurricane in puce satin to join them. “Let us all sit together,” she said, edging her way into the circle beside Dotty, and nudging Bolton aside in the process. “Helen has saved us a table. You, too, Mr. Hume,” she said, gathering him up by the elbow. Bolton followed behind with Miranda. He put his hand on her arm, inclined his head to hers and said in a quiet voice, “You must look to your laurels now, Lady Wetherby." She was ridiculously pleased that he had fallen into step with her, and strangely excited by the warm intimacy of his hand on her arm. “What do you mean?” she asked, with an air of indifference. “Did you not realize you have dangerous competition in Helen?" Miranda just looked at him blankly. Was it possible he was so conceited he not only assumed she was chasing him, but said it out loud? And why competition in Helen? He had never seemed the least interested in her. “I can't imagine what you're talking about, as I am not competing for anyone or anything. It is Dotty you should speak to." “Dotty?” He looked at her a moment, then laughed. “Well now, there is a facer for me. I had the notion our Dotty was throwing her bonnet at me, not Hume." “She is,” Miranda said, and blinked. She appeared to have lost the thread of this conversation. It happened all too easily when she was with Bolton. She had never before met a man who excited her in this physical way. “Why are you grinning like that?” she scowled. He looked at her, a long, deep look that was like a caress. “Because I have just learned what I wanted to know: that it is my poor self you are ‘not’ competing for." Miranda quickly reviewed their conversation, and as she figured out that she had read his speaking of competition to refer to himself, she felt the blood rush to her face. “What are you talking about, if
anything?” she asked disdainfully. “I was talking about Hume, actually. But never mind. It's not important—now.” The fingers on her arm gave a squeeze. “You mean Helen has a tendre for Hume?” she asked. “This is the wicked London I was telling you about. Such well-inlaid gents are never lacking for admirers." “But he's much too old for her!" “Yes, he is. She's about your age, actually." Miranda noticed that Helen seated herself beside Hume, and did indeed put herself to great pains to amuse him. As Miranda, seated on his other side, did not encourage him in the least, Helen had a good deal of his attention. The other Lady Bolton spoke loudly and often to Bolton of some Lady Virginia, whom he had apparently been seeing a good deal of. “I advised Virginia's mama to tell her daughter to forget you, Max,” she said playfully. “You have become a dreadful flirt since returning from Spain.” She turned to include Mrs. Hazard in her noisy confidences. “He dangles after every new girl for two weeks, then drops her when the next pretty face comes along. A lady would be a fool to waste her time on Max, and so I told Virginia's mama." “You are mistaken, Adelaide,” Bolton said. “I am, in fact, eager to marry and set up my nursery. It was just a question of finding the right lady." Dotty gave Lady Bolton a triumphant look, and Bolton mentally winced as he saw how his reply had been interpreted. The Hazards assumed he had met his bride in Dotty. “What is Lady Virginia's dowry?” Mrs. Hazard asked. “Ten thousand,” Mr. Hume said, and everyone laughed, perhaps to ease the tension, as ten thousand was not to be sneezed at. There was an uncomfortable air of tension at the table. Miranda was hard put to account for it. Was it Lady Bolton's blatant efforts to turn Dotty away from Lord Bolton? Was it Helen's desperate efforts to attract Mr. Hume? Was it embarrassment at Dotty's die-away airs because a rake asked her to the Pantheon? Or was it her own acute awareness that every time she glanced at Lord Bolton, he was gazing at her with an enigmatic smile lurking in his dark eyes, as if the two of them shared a secret. When the ladies were back in their own saloon after the party, Mrs. Hazard said, “Is Bolton calling on you tomorrow, Dotty?" “No, I asked him to tea, but he has to go to some place called Manton's. Something to do with the army, I believe. He mentioned guns and shooting." Miranda didn't disillusion her that Manton's was just a shooting gallery in Davies Street where gentlemen went to practice. It sounded like an excuse. A strange way for a gentleman who claimed to be interested
in marrying and setting up his nursery to behave. But then no stranger than to be courting a mistress and a bride out of the same house simultaneously. “Is Mr. Hume calling?” she asked Miranda. “He asked if he might. I told him we would be busy with modistes. You remember we have asked Madame Blanchard to call tomorrow. I could not like to postpone it. We are all running out of gowns." “I am looking forward to it. I shall get a new turban to match my next outfit, and pin my diamond brooch on it, as that lady with the liverish complexion did this evening. It looked very stylish." The conversation was easily diverted to turbans and gowns and bonnets. Even Dotty stirred from her lethargy long enough to agree to a few new gowns. The next day passed pleasantly examining materials, choosing patterns, and being measured. Mr. Cleary called and was told by a stern-faced Samson that Miss Hazard was out. Helen was allowed admittance. She called, ostensibly to invite the ladies out for a drive in her tilbury, but her real aim was to discover what they were doing that evening. When she learned they were to attend the theater with Mr. Hume and Lord Bolton, she rushed off to Covent Garden to hire a box and round up a few friends to fill it. The Hazards had purchased new shawls ready-made from the modiste and added them to their gowns for the trip to Covent Garden. Miranda, who had to watch her money, wore her white fringed shawl over a dark green gown, and didn't know whether she was underdressed or the Hazards were overdressed when they came down to dinner glittering in diamonds and shining like sunlight on water. She only knew that in an hour she would be seeing Lord Bolton, and the knowledge both thrilled and frightened her. Chapter Nine
The gentleman Mr. Hume “dredged up” for Mrs. Hazard was Lord Peter Potter. Though not far short of sixty, he was a younger son, with his most fashionable pockets entirely to let. He made his living by cadging off his noble friends and relatives, with an occasional donation from his elder brother, the Duke of Dalmain, when he was in actual danger of being thrown into debtors’ prison. Despite his lack of funds and unprepossessing appearance (shortish, corpulent, balding), he was well-bred, well-dressed, well-liked and welcome everywhere. Mrs. Hazard looked him up and down as if he were a horse she was thinking of buying and decided he would do for one outing, but she wouldn't want him in her stable. A bit frisky for her simple tastes. She was not aware of the intricacies of noble titles, but she knew that a lord who used his first name wasn't the preferred kind of lord. And when he was the youngest of six sons, he might as well be a commoner for all the title meant. The group met at Berkeley Square for the trip to Covent Garden. Lord Bolton suggested that Miranda and Hume go with Dotty and him in his carriage. Mrs. Hazard gave him a sly wink and said, “We'll leave you two youngsters to yourselves. You won't want us hanging over your shoulder, your lordship. Miranda and her beau can come along with me and Lord Peter. But mind you don't do anything I wouldn't, Dotty." “You may be sure I will be on my best behavior, ma'am,” Bolton replied. Dotty gave him a shyly adoring smile and attached herself to his arm like a plaster.
Covent Garden had burned down and been rebuilt since Miranda's last visit to London. The new theater was a vast compound done in the classical style. The auditorium held nearly three thousand people. They were led to their box on the grand tier and ushered into fringed plush seats. Lord Bolton enjoyed a brief respite from Dotty's clinging arm when it was decided that the ladies would have the best view of the stage from the front row of the box, leaving the three gentlemen to sit behind them. He sat, gazing at the back of Miranda's head and shoulders, admiring the way a wayward curl escaped from its pins and settled on her creamy neck, like ebony on ivory. His fingers ached to reach out and touch that warm, velvet skin. How could he arrange some time alone with her? Mrs. Hazard was a farouche creature, and Miranda was her guest. If he offended either the mother or daughter, he would be as unwelcome at their door as Mr. Cleary. Yet to go on as he was doing was only aggravating the problem. What he required was a gentleman to replace him in Dotty's affections, and he needed him quickly. There was no shortage of candidates, but he could not like to produce a gentleman who was only after the Hazard fortune. The mama, whatever of Dotty, would not settle for anything less than a lord. He mentally ran likely candidates through his mind as the farce on stage began. The deuce of it was that, with the Season over, not many of the lords were in London. Miranda was relieved to be seated a little apart from Mr. Hume. For her, the real night's entertainment took place not on the stage, but in the audience. The comedy was an inferior one she had seen before, but she enjoyed watching the fashionable throng, observing how the ladies were doing their hair this season, and what they were wearing. Tier upon tier of boxes encircled the auditorium. Jewels flickered and glimmered like fireflies in the darkness, white shoulders stood out against the gentlemen's dark jackets. The graceful movement of fans and gesturing hands reminded her of butterflies in her garden at home. She had missed the glamour of the balls and theater when she left London. With the passing of time, it had all begun to seem like a dream. She never thought she would be back, but here she was, going to parties with grander lords than she had the first time. As she looked around at the other boxes, she noticed a lady had trained a pair of opera glasses on her box. A few casual glances during the first act showed her the lady was examining her box again—or still. Later, she raised her own glasses to see who was studying the box so closely. It was Helen. Was it Mr. Hume she was watching? He seemed the likeliest target of her interest. She could see Bolton any time. She would not watch three ladies with such keen concentration. As to Lord Peter—Helen could have no conceivable interest in a dumpy, impoverished younger son. What Miranda could not understand was why Mr. Hume did not return the interest. Helen was beautiful, she was an aristocrat, and she was obviously available. At the first intermission, many of the box holders went out to stretch their legs and enjoy a glass of wine. The elegant foyer formed a gallery sixty feet long, ornamented with columns, statues and plush sofas. Mr. Hume took Miranda by the elbow and rushed her along to introduce her to some of his friends, elderly folks, like himself. Lord Peter and Mrs. Hazard accompanied them. They were soon ensconced on a pair of the plush sofas, talking of politics and investments. Mrs. Hazard appeared to enjoy the latter. Miranda wished she could be strolling down the gallery as the other people her age were doing—greeting each other, stopping for a chat. She noticed several gentlemen ogling her, and wondered
if their interest was due to her association with the Hazards. Further along the foyer she saw Bolton and Dotty talking and laughing with a younger crowd. The gentlemen were making a fuss over Dotty, and the ladies were flirting their heads off with Bolton. She was not sorry to return to their box when the bell sounded. At the next intermission, Helen came to their box just as they were rising to go out. She looked lovely in a gown of her favorite color, ice blue, spangled with sequins that shimmered like diamonds under the light. “Oh Alfred! You are here with the Hazards,” she exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise.” Miranda mentally complimented her on a performance that rivaled the one on the stage. Surprise indeed, when she had spent half the first act observing him! “Adelaide wants to know if you will all ,join us after the play for supper at the Clarendon." “That is very kind of her, Helen, but we have made reservations at the Grillon,” Hume replied. “Oh, but you always go to the Clarendon,” Helen said. “It is the only place one can get a real French dinner. Jacquiers is such a treasure." “I'm sorry, Helen, our arrangements are made. Another time." Her eyes glittered angrily, but when she spoke, she used a wheedling tone. “Then perhaps you could spare me a moment now. There is something I particularly wanted to ask you. You don't mind, Lady Wetherby?” Even as she spoke she slid her arm beneath his and turned him away from Miranda. Miranda was positively relieved. Bolton invited her to join Dotty and him for a walk. They were no sooner out of their box than the elder Lady Bolton came rushing up to join them. She took hold of Dotty's arm to lead her off to meet Lady Jersey, who was eager for her acquaintance. “She is one of the patronesses of Almack's,” she explained to Dotty. “It is vital to know her if you hope to establish yourself in London. Lord Bolton took Miranda's hand and placed it on his arm, drew a sigh of relief and said, “Alone, at last." She damped down the rush of pleasure that bubbled up in her and said blandly, “Shall we join Mrs. Hazard and Lord Peter? You must tell me all about him." “He's too old and too poor for you. You would do much better to stay with me." “I can see he is old, and the youngest of six sons is seldom wealthy. My interest in him is whether he is suitable for Mrs. Hazard. As to character, I mean." “Meaning is he after her blunt,” he translated. “One assumes he would have no objection to sharing it. On the other hand, he is related or connected to all the right people. He has a pleasant personality and no criminal record. If Mrs. Hazard wants a rich beau—and folks do say that money usually marries money—she should steal Hume from Helen." “I wish you would be serious."
“I am. I have told you all I know of Lord Peter. Now I am warning you that Helen has Hume in her eye. Remarkable the way she stormed in under your very nose and carried him off without a shot being fired by you in his defense. When she's interested in a gent, she is not so backward as some young ladies, who shall be nameless.” He directed a long look at Miranda to make sure she understood him. “As there is no young lady present, I must assume you are referring to someone I don't know. I am generally considered to be an ‘older lady.’” “I see that jibe hit home!" “Yes, the truth hurts, does it not?" He tilted his head and studied her a moment, as if hearing this cliché for the first time and considering its merits. “That depends on the nature of the truth. Does it hurt you to hear you are the most adorable woman I have ever met? That I have spent the evening admiring the back of your ears and your insouciant shoulders? That I mean to have Canova hew a copy of your upper torso out of marble and place it on a pedestal in the long gallery at South Winds? That I shan't stop hounding you until you are mine?" She smiled demurely. “It does not hurt in the least to hear you confirm that you are a raving lunatic, milord, for I already had a strong inkling of it. But we were speaking of Hume and Helen. The reason she came to our box is that she wants Hume's opinion on something. Her investments, likely.” Bolton gave a snort of derision, which Miranda ignored. “He seems very knowledgeable in that respect." “Yes, he is intimately acquainted with pounds and pence, and francs and sous and rubles and all the other foreign currencies. Quite the financial linguist. One does not usually discuss financial matters at a play, however, and I can hardly believe Helen was so interested in Murphy's comedy that she could not wait until tomorrow to discuss it." “Well, perhaps she was in urgent need of some financial advice." “Is that the sort of sweet nothings he was whispering in your pearly ear during the last intermission? ‘Don't waste your blunt by placing it in Consols at five percent, m'dear. I can put you on to a stock that will give you a better yield.’ I was worried for no reason." She smiled reluctantly, for he had quoted a speech of Hume's nearly verbatim. “You need not worry about me, milord. I can look after myself. Your job is to keep the rakes and rattles away from Miss Hazard." “I didn't volunteer for the assignment! I only allowed myself to be drafted as it guaranteed me access to you. But no harm will come to her tonight. She is in Lady Bolton's extremely capable hands. Not even Cleary—not even the Dragoons would dare to accost such a formidable chaperon. For once, I am in charity with Adelaide." “Why don't you like her?” Miranda asked. “It is hard to like strangers who billet themselves on you uninvited, taking possession of your house, trying to arrange it—and you—to suit their convenience." “Strangers? But she is your stepmama!"
“I was away at university when she married my father. Then in Spain. She was virtually a stranger to me when I returned. I should like to keep it that way. I prefer to choose my own friends." She stopped walking and gave him a grave look. “She was your father's wife, milord. One assumes he cared for her. Surely it is a son's duty to look after his father's dependents when he is no longer here to do it himself." “Spoken like a good little dean's daughter,” he said, and patted her hand. “My father took care of all that while he was still alive, however. Adelaide receives a large income from the estate and the use of a very fine Dower House, which she has thus far not deigned to enter. Helen is also well looked after financially, though not so lavishly as she would be if she could nab Hume. Better her than you. She would know how to handle him. I don't mean to stick my oar in where it is not wanted, but Hume is—er, a bit of a high flyer for a provincial miss." “You forget I am a provincial Mrs. I'm not a green girl; I'm a widow, as you are well aware, I think,” she said with a cool stare. “That does not make me a loose woman, however. I know a little something of Mr. Hume's reputation. He is just a friend. He is amusing, handsome, rich. Even if his intentions were serious—" “If by serious you mean honorable, I can only say I take leave to doubt it, ma'am,” he said with a cynical laugh. “You might be right, but I am not concerned. I can handle Hume." “Good. But enough character blackening for one evening. Not a word shall I utter regarding Emily Cowper and Lord Palmerston, or Lord Byron and the rest of the female population. Would you care to drive out with me tomorrow, preferably without Miss Hazard, if we can think of some other diversion for her?" “Oh no, milord. I must look to my reputation." “Surely you don't think being seen in my company would damage it?" “You are a bit too dashing for a provincial widow, I fear. Like Mr. Hume, your reputation precedes you, sir." He gave her a long, kindling look, then asked with studied obtuseness, “Is that my reputation in the Peninsula you are referring to?" “Why no, milord. I don't believe word of your dallying there has reached London—yet." “I wasn't dallying!" “I used the wrong word. You don't dally, you charge ahead at top speed." “I wasn't chasing women in Spain. I was fighting. I was shot! Right here on the left arm.” He began to pull up his sleeve. “By an irate husband?” she asked, looking around the foyer to show her disinterest. He scowled. “No, by an irate French soldier who wanted the same hillock that I wanted."
“It seems a great to do over a hillock, but there is no accounting for taste." “This is a fine way to treat a veteran, wounded in the defense of king and country.” He peered down at her for signs of softening. “No kind word for my heroism? The wound still hurts when the wind is chilly." “I recommend Lyle's Tonic for the Ton—a sovereign remedy for all ills. That's the green one." “Thank you, ma'am, but I prefer my liquor like my women—straight, strong, not too sweet. But I don't mind if they're a little green,” he added with a teasing smile, just as Mr. Hume overtook them. Helen was with him, trying to keep up with his long strides. “Thank you for looking after Lady Wetherby for me, Max,” Hume said. “What, you didn't get her a glass of wine?" “We indulged in sparkling conversation instead, Hume." “Dear me. Have we time for a glass now? Perhaps you would be kind enough to see Helen to her box. The bell will be sounding any moment now." Lord Bolton displayed not a jot of the annoyance he was feeling as he offered Helen his arm. Hume turned to Miranda. “Sorry, my dear, but Helen wanted a word with me. She treats me quite like a Dutch uncle. To tell the truth, the lady is becoming a bit of a pest. I was a sort of cicisbeo to her when she lost her husband, and she has come to rely on me. Oh dash it, there is the bell already, and I didn't have a moment to talk with you. But we will have a good chat later, at supper." He escorted her back to their box, where she was relieved to take her seat between Dorothy and Mrs. Hazard for the final act of the play. Supper afterwards at Grillon's was a rich meal which no one except Mrs. Hazard and Lord Peter seemed to enjoy much. Hume was too busy pointing all the other patrons out to Miranda, and telling her scandalous stories about them in such an amusing manner that she laughed despite her upbringing, which did not prevent her from reading him a lecture. He smiled fondly, and called her a scold. Hume knew everyone. A dozen people stopped at their table to be introduced to the Hazards and Miranda. Between his gossip and all the interruptions and taking note that Lord Peter was making a play for Mrs. Hazard, she hardly had a moment to notice Lord Bolton, but when she could spare him a glance, he looked bored to flinders with Dorothy, though trying hard not to show it. That would be his good breeding. John had been the same, but she recognized the glazed eye and strained smile of utter ennui. It had become a ritual for the ladies to have a cup of cocoa in the saloon before retiring, to discuss their evening. Mrs. Hazard also had one of Lyle's paregoric drafts that evening, for she found the Grillon's seafood did not agree with her. But despite her upset stomach, she was chirping merry. She had made a conquest in Lord Peter, and while she would no more marry him than she would wash her own dishes, it pleased her to have won the heart of a duke's brother.
“We know enough people now that we can have our own little party without blushing for the small turnout,” she said, pushing one slipper off with the toe of the other and wiggling her toes to restore circulation. “We shall begin making our preparations tomorrow. Lord Peter hinted that his brother, the duke, would not say no to an invite. “Think of that, ladies! A duke in my saloon. How Lyle would have loved it. He always had a hankering after titles. Title or no, I haven't met a man yet who is worth Lyle's little finger. He scratched his way to the top by his own hard work and cunning. He wasn't born with a silver-plated spoon in his mouth like the dukes and princes." She drained her cup and set it on the table with a clatter. “It was a dandy play and a lovely evening, but I am for the feather tick." Miranda, yawning behind her fingers, was happy to hear it. But she wished Mrs. Hazard had asked Dotty if Lord Bolton was calling tomorrow. Hume had asked her to drive out. She told him she was busy, without giving an excuse. He had not taken offense, worse luck, but said he would no doubt see her the next evening at some do or other. They had received half a dozen invitations. Chapter Ten
At ten o'clock the next morning, the ladies were sitting in Lord Croft's oak-lined study making up a list of people to be invited to their party when Samson tapped at the door and handed Mrs. Hazard a note written on rich, crested paper. “Now who can this be from? Lord Peter, I wager,” Mrs. Hazard said, scanning the page. “No, it is from Lady Bolton. The older one. She wants to call on us this afternoon. She asked me to take tea with her today and I told her very firmly that I had a full load on my plate." “Her footman is awaiting a reply, madam,” Samson said. “Tell him we are too busy. I've had enough of her undiluted company, and I haven't invited anyone else. It would just be her and us." “You had best write a note and send your regrets,” Miranda suggested. Mrs. Hazard looked at the ladylike script on the sheet before her and felt a qualm. She could read and write as well as anyone and cipher better than a mathematician, but her penmanship had the awkward look of a homemade gown. It did not flow, it staggered. “You write it for me, Miranda, and I'll sign it,” she said, handing Miranda the note. Miranda cast an eye over the page. “You might want to reconsider, Mrs. Hazard,” she said. “She mentions bringing someone she particularly wants you to meet." “Who could it be?” Mrs. Hazard asked. She took the note back and read it again. “I wonder if it would be Lord Peter's brother, the duke. I wouldn't mind getting a look at him before inviting him to our party. If he's one of those nose-in-the-air fellows who thinks he's doing you a favor to drink your wine and eat your mutton, he may go to the devil." After a frowning pause, Miranda said, “As Lady Bolton has offered to present Dotty, it might be
someone important. One of the patronesses from Almack's, perhaps. It would be a great coup to be invited to join Almack's.” This triumph had been denied Miranda when she made her debut, and as a goal she had failed to achieve, it loomed large in her mind. “I met one of them last night,” Dotty said. “Lady Guernsey." “Lady Jersey,” Miranda corrected. Such a gaffe as that could ruin her chances of ever entering Almack's. 'Very likely Lady Jersey recommended you, and some of the others want a look at you,” Mrs. Hazard said. “Very well, then, we had best let her come." Miranda wrote the note, Mrs. Hazard signed it, and Samson returned it to Lady Bolton's footman, who returned it to Hanover Square, where it was read with glee. Immediately after lunch, Dotty was put into Rosie's hands to have her toilette arranged to impress the important caller. “Dotty's thin, lank hair is so hard to arrange, and almost impossible to keep in place,” Mrs. Hazard complained, with a jealous eye at Miranda's glossy tresses. “The pins fall out of it with the least movement, like nuts out of the trees in an autumn gale. Good gracious, what next?” she exclaimed, as Samson appeared at the saloon doorway. It was the modiste, come to have Mrs. Hazard try on a gown that had been hastily basted together the night before. “I'll begin writing the invitations,” Miranda said. She felt a twinge of premature lonesomeness to think of her future. The Hazards’ success ensured that they would soon remove permanently to London. She was tempted to rent out Hornby Hall and do the same, but she could not like to be a hanger on. The famous portals of Almack's would not be open to her. The Hazards would soon have their own crowd, running with dukes and countesses, and she would be a mere nuisance to them, someone they felt they ought to visit from time to time, and invite to their larger parties. She sat, staring at a partially written invitation when the knock came at the study door. The door was open. She looked up, thinking it was Samson, and saw Lord Bolton gazing at her with a gentle smile curving his lips. A smile that took her breath away, and left her so shaken she forgot to greet him. Here was another reason she must not remove to London. She could not go on resisting this dashing charmer's advances forever, when every atom of her body wanted to give in to his blandishments. She had never met anyone before who had this magical, magnetic effect on her. “Then it is true,’ he said, strolling in. “Fortune does favor the brave. I had reservations about coming here today, thinking I would be hurled into a carriage and sent off with Miss Hazard—and instead I find you alone. I planned to make it quite clear today that I am not courting her." He paused a moment, frowning at the window, then turned a worried eye to Miranda. “Will I be persona non grata if I do? Is your friendship with the Hazards strong enough to keep the door open to me? I would dislike to find myself cast into the role of a Cleary, having to fight my way past butlers and maiming grooms to see you."
“I wager you could handle it,” she said. “You must have encountered a few chaperons in your day." “It is really you I am thinking of,” he said, in such a gentle way that she almost believed him. “It could be uncomfortable for you if I set you at odds with your hostess. If I were less impatient to claim you, I would arrange for some suitably dashing fellow to win Miss Hazard from me.” His cocky smile returned. “I have spent considerable time conning the problem. The difficulty is finding someone more dashing than myself." “What a sad commentary on London gentlemen,” she said with a withering glance, and picked up the pen to resume her writing. “Yes, isn't it?” he agreed, and sat down on the corner of the desk to peer down at what she was doing. “Pity the Iron Duke is already taken. Ah, we're having a party. Excellent. Am I on the list?" “You know perfectly well you are at the top of the list." “I wish I could be as sure I was at the top of your list, Miranda,” he said in a wheedling voice, taking her fingers. When she wrenched her hand away, he rose and went toward the door. She thought he was leaving, and felt a stab of regret. But he just closed the door and came back to the desk, wearing a smile she didn't trust an inch. Sensing danger, she rose at once. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “Why do you think, Miranda?” he asked softly, and took the two steps that put him within touching distance of her. She took a step back behind the desk chair. Lord Bolton reached out one hand and seized her fingers, pulling her toward him. The other hand rose and gently stroked her cheek with an open palm. Her breaths quickened to light panting gasps and she stared at him as if hypnotized while his two hands settled on her shoulders. She didn't say a word as he drew her into his arms. She just stared at him, staring at her, while his head descended slowly, inevitably, to hers, and the dark glitter of his eyes misted to a shimmering haze in the silent room. Their lips brushed, then he was kissing her, not a gentle, tentative kiss, but a deep, hungry embrace, while his strong arms crushed the air out of her lungs and her knees turned to water. It had been two years since any man had touched her in this way. She hadn't felt the lack—until the evening she met Lord Bolton. But she had felt it often since then. The former emptiness inside her had swelled to an aching longing for this moment. And now that it had found an outlet, the longing rushed out in a torrent that engulfed her. Every nerve end quivered as he pressed her feminine softness against the hard wall of his chest. A moaning, inchoate sigh echoed from her throat as his tongue pressed between her parted lips, sending a shudder of desire coursing like a tidal wave through her body. She knew she was a fool, that she should stop, but she could no more stop the rushing flood of emotion than she could stop a burning house with a puff of breath. Just when she thought she could take no more and she must let him do what he would, he stopped. He lifted his head and pressed his forehead against hers a moment, with his warm fingers stroking the vulnerable nape of her neck, as if catching his breath before another attack. Their light, gasping breaths
echoed in the still room as they gazed at each other in silent awe. Soon his fevered lips moved across her cheeks to nibble at her ears, and softly murmur breathless words of love. “Oh Miranda! I love you, my darling. I love you to the edge of madness. If I can't have you soon, I can't be responsible for what I might do. Say you love me, Miranda, as I have dreamed. Say it." “Don't, Max,” she said in a shaking whisper, with her arms holding him tightly. “You want me. You know you do.” He drew back and stared down at her, with a frown between his eyes. “I can't be that wrong about a woman." The words were like a bucket of ice water, quenching her fire. A woman! Was that all she was to him? Some convenient partner to share his lust? She drew back, lifted her hand and slapped him across the cheek with her full force. He fell back, stunned and disbelieving. Before he recovered, Miranda rushed to the door and opened it, just as Mrs. Hazard came bustling down the hall. Miranda was so flustered she just stared, wondering what she should say, or do. She was relieved that Lord Bolton recovered so quickly, yet it angered her too that the interlude meant so little to him. Oh lord, and the imprint of her hand was on his cheek! Would Mrs. Hazard see it? “Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard,” he said, with a graceful bow. In his confusion, he reverted to Ffoulkes-Hazard, the only sign of what he was feeling. “And looking charming, as usual." “Samson said you were here, milord,” she said, making an abbreviated curtsy. She didn't seem to notice the red mark on his cheek. “Did you know your stepmama is calling on me this afternoon? She has someone special she wants Dotty to meet. Miranda thinks it must be one of the patronesses from Almack's. Now what should I say to her?" He shrugged. “Just what you would say to any other lady. They are but flesh and blood like the rest of us, ma'am. Don't let them intimidate you. Almack's is a demmed dull place when all is said and done. Cards for a penny a point, and orgeat to drink. Nearly as dull as court." “It sounds a dull scald to be sure, but it is the place, eh? Or so Miranda tells me. Let us go into the saloon and have a glass of wine to set up our spirits for the visit." She drew Bolton off to the saloon. As he left, he directed a long, searching look at Miranda. She had no idea what he meant to convey. Was it a threat that he would have revenge? Was it a request that she not reveal his lechery, perhaps? She was in a quandary as to how to treat that harrowing episode. He would not behave in that manner to Dotty, so she was in no danger. But Mrs. Hazard must be told. And how could she reveal that she had not resisted as she ought? The blame was not all Bolton's. He was the instigator, but she had almost encouraged him, at least by her compliance. A simple shout would have brought Samson to her rescue. But she had not wanted to be rescued. She had thrilled at that passionate outpouring of love—lust. She knew she would hear those words again in memory a hundred, a thousand times. In the very bottom of her heart, she wanted to hear them again in reality. She was not so utterly abandoned that she would encourage a rake, however. She would caution Mrs. Hazard that Bolton was a rake. But she had a sinking feeling that Mrs. Hazard would make light of it, so long as he behaved himself with Dotty. It was herself who was in jeopardy, and her best defense was to
keep away from Bolton as much as possible. She must take pains not to be alone with him. There was safety in numbers. When Dotty came downstairs, Miranda went to the saloon with her, carefully averting her eyes from Bolton. Dotty looked overdressed and with a too elaborate coiffure for afternoon. Bolton rose and greeted her politely but without enthusiasm. When she sat beside him on the sofa, he moved a few inches away from her. No one but Miranda seemed to notice. She didn't look within a right angle of him, but from the corner of her eyes she was aware of every move he made. Mrs. Hazard called Samson to pour them a glass of wine. During the little commotion, Miranda darted one quick glance at Bolton. He was watching her like a cat watching a mouse. She felt a telltale warmth stain her cheeks and looked away, relieved that her mark was fast fading from his cheek. Mrs. Hazard kept the conversation lively, with some help from Lord Bolton. Miranda was grateful to be left alone. She doubted she could say a word, for her mind was still in a whirl. It was not long before the expected sound of the door knocker alerted them Lady Bolton and the mysterious guest had arrived. All eyes turned to the archway to see who the guest could be. They were all expecting another lady, and stared to see a foppish young fellow with a lock of auburn hair tumbling over his forehead swagger in. It took Miranda a moment to recognize him, for he had changed a little in the two years since having his portrait painted. During the moment, Lady Bolton came into the room, smiling proudly at one and all. “Here he is, at last!” she cried. “My son, Jeremy. Make a leg to the ladies, dear." Jeremy's sharp eyes just flickered over Mrs. Hazard and Dotty before settling on Miranda, and his sulky lips arranged themselves into a sort of smile. “By Jove,” he said in a light, boyish voice as he made an exquisite bow. “Mama did not tell me you were a beauty, Miss Hazard, or I would have been here sooner." An awful silence settled on the room. It lasted only for seconds, but it seemed long. The awkward pause was followed by a gasp from Lady Bolton and a suppressed snort from Lord Bolton. “Over here, dear,” Lady Bolton said, taking Jeremy by the elbow and directing his gaze to the heiress. “This charming young lady is Miss Hazard." “By Jove,” he said again, but without the enthusiasm of the first utterance. It was, strangely, Mrs. Hazard who remembered her manners. “And I am Dotty's mama,” she said, giving his limp white hand a shake. “This is my dear friend, Lady Wetherby. And I expect you know Lord Bolton." The gentlemen acknowledged each other's presence with a nod. Lady Bolton recovered from the wound of Jeremy's incredible gaffe and shot an angry, gimlet glance at Bolton. “What are you doing here?” she asked sharply. “Afraid of the competition, Adelaide?” he replied mischievously. “Why don't you all sit down and we'll have tea,” Mrs. Hazard said, and rang the bell to summon Samson.
Chapter Eleven
Lord Bolton nudged his way to the end of the sofa to make room for Jeremy between him and Dotty. It was a good try, but it put Miranda directly in Jeremy's line of sight, and he couldn't keep his eyes off her. He lacked experience in the petticoat line, and with has mama's gimlet eyes boring into him, ordering him to make up to the heiress, he could make no headway with Miranda, but he kept gazing at her in such a way that Dotty had no idea he had come courting her. Miranda was old enough and clever enough to realize exactly why Jeremy's mama had brought him, and gave the callow boy not the least encouragement. It seemed hard that she should be the subject of Lady Bolton's fiery stare and sharp jabs when she had done nothing but sit mute in a chair, sipping her tea. “How did you enjoy your outing with Mr. Hume last evening, Lady Wetherby?” she asked, and added aside to her son, “Lady Wetherby is seeing Mr. Hume, Jeremy. You remember old Hume, a friend of your late papa.” She turned back to Miranda and added, “It would be nice to see him settled with some lady of a suitable age, like yourself, Lady Wetherby." “We are only new acquaintances, ma'am,” Miranda replied in a small voice. “Sometimes new acquaintances prove the best. Why don't you take Dotty for a spin while we oldsters have our tea, Jeremy, and you two new acquaintances can get to know each other better." “I am entertaining Lord Bolton, ma'am,” Dotty replied. “I can hardly leave before he does." “I expect it is just a dashing visit as Mrs. Hazard is so busy,” Lady Bolton said, with an imperative stare at her stepson. “I get the feeling you wish me at Jericho, Adelaide,” was Bolton's unhelpful reply. She had to simulate amusement at this remark. “Max is such a jokesmith,” she said through tight lips. “The only reason I suggested a drive is that it is such a lovely day, and youngsters like Miss Hazard and Jeremy always prefer to be out and doing." “If Dotty feels like a drive, I'm sure Lord Bolton will take her,” Mrs. Hazard said. “Certainly, ma’ am,” Bolton replied. “These tired old limbs are still supple enough to make it to the carriage. Would you like to go for a drive, Miss Hazard?" “That would be nice,” Dotty said. Lady Bolton bridled up like an angry mare, but soon pulled her chestnuts from the fire. “Why don't the three of you go? Jeremy, you would like a drive, eh?" “And Lady Wetherby, I hope you will join us as well,” Bolton said, directing a hopeful eye at Miranda, who refused to meet his look. “By Jove! There's an idea,” Jeremy exclaimed, and received a withering glare from his mama. “Lady Wetherby will not want to go out on such a day,” the dame said at once. “We older ladies feel the
chilly wind. That wind is pretty sharp." “Surprising, on such a lovely day,” Bolton murmured mischievously. “Actually I am busy,” Miranda said. “I am writing the invitations for Mrs. Hazard's party." “Don't forget to write one for Jeremy,” Lady Bolton said, struggling to achieve a playful tone. The tea tray arrived. While they were taking their tea, Lady Bolton set herself the task of discovering where the Hazards were to be found that evening. When she learned that the only invitation she had in common with them was to a rather boring do at Lady Harold Hiscott's, she decreed it was the place to be. When Dotty and her two escorts rose to leave, Lady Bolton said, “I shan't be staying long, Max. As I'll need my carriage to get home, you can give Jeremy a lift home in yours.” This arrangement had the advantage of ensuring that Max did not out-sit Jeremy upon their return to Berkeley Square. Once away from the lure of Miranda, Jeremy took heed of his mama's instructions and tried to make up to Dotty. She really wasn't a bad looking gel, and if an out and outer like Bolton was dangling after her, she must be all the crack. Well, the Lyle's Tonics heiress. By Jove! The chit must be worth a fortune. He was not fool enough to think he really stood a chance against Bolton, and was surprised to see how easy it was to engage Miss Hazard's attention. Bolton was so sure of himself that he wasn't trying to impress her at all. As they drove down New Bond Street, Bolton “remembered” that he had an appointment with his man of business, and said he would leave the carriage for Jeremy and Miss Hazard, and catch a hired cab home. “This may take a while. I wouldn't want to make you wait, Miss Hazard,” he explained. “I'll see you this evening at the Hiscott's party,” she said, and watched as he strode off, with his curled beaver at a cocky angle on his jetty hair, and his broad shoulders and straight back making a fine display. She could not see the scheming smile on his face. “You can tell he was an officer,” she said dreamily. “Yes, pity,” Jeremy replied, damping down his rampant jealousy of that physique. “What do you mean, pity?” Dotty asked, frowning. “Everyone says he was a hero in the Peninsula." “Oh nothing really. It's just that all that killing and so on brutalizes a man. They are never the same when they come home. Mama says Bolton is impossible to live with. He insists on having everything done just so, a regular despot. Not his fault. Someone had to go and fight Napoleon, but there is no gainsaying it roughens a man's nature." “I don't find him rough,” she said, scanning her memory for past evidence. Perhaps he was just a little impatient from time to time. And really not such good company. He always seemed to be thinking of something else. Probably about killing people. “They put their best foot forward when they're courting,” he explained. “It's later, after they're married,
that it crops out more. I had an uncle, a colonel in India. Used to beat his sons till they were black and blue. They develop a taste for torturing is what it is. Uncle Horace came home drunk one night and slit his throat. War—there's the culprit." Dotty was impressed by this awful tale. She sat, worrying, until Jeremy had the idea of getting down from the rig for a stroll. They had a pleasant outing, stopping at all the shop windows and admiring the toys and trinkets. After much discussion in a toy shop, she bought a pretty fan with silk tassels and an illustration of the Prince's pavilion, and Jeremy bought a very dashing dotted Belcher kerchief. She could not imagine Lord Bolton being such an obliging and amusing companion. Mrs. Hazard and Miranda were in the saloon when Dotty returned. “I hope you didn't encourage Mr. West. Not that he needs any encouragement,” Mrs. Hazard said. “He's very nice,” Dotty replied. “We went shopping.” She showed her mama the fan and described Jeremy's kerchief. “And what did Lord Bolton buy?” her mother asked. “Oh he wasn't with us. He had to do some business and didn't want to make me wait. He left us the carriage." “That was well done of him,” Mrs. Hazard said, but with a little frown between her eyebrows. Miranda also found this interesting. It was hardly the behavior of a lover. Was he serious about finding someone else to get Dotty off his hands? This must mean he didn't intend to marry her. He had realized it was too farouche to have an affair with his bride's best friend. But it didn't mean he was interested in marrying herself. Not a widow. He would never marry a widow. A gentleman would not make such violent love to a lady he respected as he had made to her that afternoon. He would not say such things to her. It was understood that the Hiscott's do was only a small, informal affair, so the ladies did not worry unduly about their toilettes. Miranda, bored with her coiffure, parted her hair in the center and pulled it back in a chignon. As she was wearing a deep burgundy gown, she wore the garnet necklace and ear drops John had given her as a birthday gift. “I wish they were rubies,” he had said. So sweet. The stones were not very valuable, but she liked the baroque setting of dark gold, like something from a medieval painting. She had mentioned Mrs. Hazard's custom of arriving too early at the parties to Bolton, and he decided to do the same that evening. He might find an opportunity to talk to Miranda before the crowd arrived. He knew she was angry with him, and that she would try to avoid him. He meant to apologize and explain, if he could. How did you tell a lady you were so overcome at being alone with her that you literally couldn't control yourself? If she believed it, she would think him an animal. And if she didn't, he would seem either a liar or a demmed fool. He would control himself this evening. He would behave with perfect propriety, and trust to words to do his job for him. But when he saw her walk in the door, looking like a beautiful Spanish señorita with her black hair framing that exquisite, pale face, he was bereft of words. His eyes lingered on the perfection of her sculptured white shoulders rising from the rich wine of her gown. He watched as her dark eyes made a darting, wary tour of the room. Who was she looking for? Not
that old slice, Hume, surely? And when she saw himself, her moving eyes stopped, and she became even paler. She hastily averted her gaze, but not before Bolton caught the flash of interest that enlivened her face. Was it pleasure or disdain that caused her eyebrows to lift a trifle, and her lips to open just a fraction? Those beguiling cherry lips, that burned like divine fire on his... He looked at his hands, and noticed they were trembling. Trembling like a schoolboy at his first grownup party. God, what was happening to him? He hadn't felt like this since ... A rapid survey of his checkered past told him he had never felt like this before. Certainly not about a woman. The closest he could come to matching this nervous clenching of his stomach was just before engaging in battle. He took two deep breaths and went forward to greet her. He didn't notice that Dotty was regarding him with a peculiarly assessing eye. He didn't notice that Mrs. Hazard was smiling in pleasure at his advance. He only noticed that Miranda had turned and swiftly walked away to speak to someone. Lydia, it was, her old friend. Miranda had not publicly cut him, but her action told him as clearly as words that she wanted no part of him. How was it possible? He had made love to enough women to know her body wanted him. He was eligible, his character was good, he had a title and fortune that exceeded anything she was accustomed to, his intentions were honorable. Why did she behave in this inexplicable manner? When he found himself standing up with Dotty for the first set, he had no memory of how he had got there. He must have said the proper things, done the right things from force of habit, as his feet performed the accustomed steps of the cotillion without conscious effort on his part. “You're looking very lovely this evening, Miss Hazard,” he said. The polite, social lie came out without thought. Miss Hazard did not look lovely. Miss Hazard never looked lovely. Her appearance was only tolerable at the best of times. And due to the onslaught of admirers since her arrival in London, she was acquiring a certain air of condescension that sat very ill on such a plain lady. She didn't even bother to reply to his compliment, but just looked over his shoulder, searching for —whom? He didn't know. He certainly didn't care. “Did you enjoy your outing this afternoon?” he asked, making conversation for civility's sake. “Yes, Mr. West is very amusing,” she said, with a smug look that he realized was meant as a setdown. It was the emphasis on Mr. West that did it. More amusing than the present company, that tone implied. Well, thank God for that anyway. “His manner is not so rough and impatient as some gentlemen,” she added. He took this as a slur on the provincial gentlemen she was accustomed to and thought nothing of it. Conversation was desultory during those spaces in the dance when they were together. When the set was over, he returned her to Mrs. Hazard, glancing around the room to see if Miranda was also joining her friend. She wasn't. After a moment, he discovered her in a corner again with Lydia and Lord Robert. She didn't see him. He began walking purposefully toward her. That is when he realized she had only pretended not to see him, because she turned and hastened away as he drew closer. He asked Lydia to stand up with him, thinking Miranda might have said something to her. But a discreet quizzing told him that Miranda had not spoken of him at all. Lydia's teasing was just good natured banter about Miss Hazard, and how he had captured the heiress's heart.
“You won her before the rest of the field got a whiff of her,” she said. “Killed in covert, as you sporting gentlemen would say. Is she really worth fifty thousand?" “I believe twenty-five or thirty thousand,” he said vaguely. “I'm really not sure. No doubt your friend, Lady Wetherby, would know." “I must ask her. And what do you think of her catch? I swear old Hume is mad for her.” He felt the angry blood pulse through his veins. “And is she mad for him?” he asked. “Oh heavens, I don't know what she thinks. Miranda was always a perfect oyster. The very soul of discretion. Robert and I are trying to convince her to remove to London. You must add your persuasions, Bolton." He was convinced that the discreet Miranda had said nothing about him, not even to her oldest friend. Since Miranda was playing hide and seek with him, he would have to take her by surprise, preferably in some private place where she couldn't easily escape. It proved impossible to accomplish at a polite party when she was on her guard against him. Even when he shared her table at supper, she managed to place herself well away from him, and never once met his eye. She was guarded like a Vestal Virgin on one side by Hume, and on the other by Lord Robert. Bolton sat between Dotty and Mrs. Hazard. He was too distracted to notice that Dotty spent most of her time talking to Jeremy, on her other side, although he did notice that Jeremy kept casting languishing glances down the board to Miranda. It was a wretched, interminable evening. The only words he exchanged with Miranda occurred when she was with the Hazards, waiting at the door for their carriage. Lady Bolton and Jeremy were also there, which meant they had a large audience. “We didn't have a dance this evening, Lady Wetherby,” he said, trying for a polite, neutral tone. Her dark eyes just flickered over his face for a brief second. “No, we didn't,” she said distractedly, fumbling with the catch of her reticule to avoid looking at him. “Perhaps the next party,” he said. “There is our rig now,” Mrs. Hazard exclaimed. “The footman is signaling us. Goodnight, all." “We'll see you tomorrow,” Lady Bolton called as they left. She cocked an ear to hear if Max also planned to see them tomorrow, and was delighted when he just turned and walked away with a distraught look. “His nose is out of joint that you took Miss Hazard to supper,” she informed Jeremy. “I didn't get a dance with Lady Wetherby,” was his sulky reply. “Deuce take Lady Wetherby. She is near old enough to be your mama. And furthermore, she hasn't a feather to fly with, goose. Miss Hazard is worth hundreds of thousands.” “But Lady Wetherby is marvelous,” he said simply.
“Old Hume seems to think so. He is looking as calf sick as you are. I'm sure I don't know what the gentlemen see in her. She is not a day under thirty, and dresses like a vicar's lady. Those were garnets she was wearing this evening. Not rubies." The ladies on Berkeley Square met as usual for their post-party cocoa discussion. “I thought Lord Bolton looked a bit put out tonight,” Mrs. Hazard said, settling her slipperless feet comfortably on a footstool. “You were paying too much attention to young Jeremy West, Dotty. I would watch that if I were you." “Bolton is actually quite a boor,” was Dotty's surprising reply. “Really, Mama, he hardly bothered to talk at all when I stood up with him. He was frowning like an old grouch. Mr. West says it is the war that does that to men. His uncle was so out of sorts when he came home from the war that he slit his own throat. Imagine!" “Good gracious!” Mrs. Hazard cried. “Have you noticed this streak of melancholia before?" “He was always moody,” Dotty decided. Miranda's first jolt of alarm at this talk of suicide soon settled down to cynicism. This sounded like Jeremy's efforts to turn Dotty away from Lord Bolton. And as far as Miranda was concerned, it was no bad thing. His morals were not what one could want in an innocent girl's husband. “Mr. West says so, does he?” Mrs. Hazard said, with heavy sarcasm. “It is a scheme to turn you against Bolton. Don't be such a gudgeon as to be taken in by it. They just want our blunt for themselves. Mr. West indeed! We are not home if he should come calling in a crested carriage borrowed from his mama to make him seem what he is not." “He will be a baronet when his Uncle Deveril dies,” Dotty said. “Like Miranda's husband." “A baronet's lady isn't a countess though, is she?” the mama retorted. “A baronet is only one of those Lord Christian name sorts of handles. Lord Peter or Jeremy or John. No offense, Miranda." It was Dotty who took offense. "You always said you don't care about such things, Mama." “Your papa wished it for you." “Papa is dead,” Dotty said, with unaccustomed vigor. “What do you think, Miranda?” Mrs. Hazard said, to spread the blame a little. “I don't care much for Jeremy,” she said. Dotty turned on her like a viper. “You only say that because you want him for yourself. You think because you're an older lady that all the gentlemen like you, but don't expect them to offer marriage. That is not what Lord Bolton has in mind, or Jeremy either." On this setdown, she stomped from the room. “Well, what on earth ails her?” Mrs. Hazard said. “She almost sounded jealous of you, Miranda. It was
the way young West was trailing after you all evening that accounts for it. Surely she cannot think you would give a penniless lad like young West the time of day." “I expect she is just tired and overly excited,” Miranda said. “Aye, that's it, depend on it. She is not used to trotting so hard as we have been doing. I shall keep her home tomorrow evening." “A good idea,” Miranda said. And it was a good idea for her too. She was tired of the whole business of love and marriage. No man seemed right for her. Lord Bolton was too rich and noble and too lecherous. Mr. Hume was too old. Jeremy was too young and too poor, and besides he was an ass. She had been happier at home at Hornby Hall. She wished she had not come to London. Chapter Twelve
By the next morning, Dotty was over her fit of the sulks. She apologized to Miranda, who assured her she had no interest whatsoever in Jeremy West. In the afternoon, the modiste brought the new gowns she had made up for Dotty and Mrs. Hazard. The gowns were so lovely that an evening at home was no longer deemed necessary. On Lady Bolton's advice, they attended a private concert at which the audience was subjected to a bad Italian tenor and a worse English amateur pianist. As the hostess had the notion of ending the concert with a magician who did clever things with silk scarves and cards, she was forgiven. The evening pleased Miranda as it left little opportunity for harassment by any of the three gentlemen who were making this visit to London so complicated. She contrived to seat herself between Dotty and Mrs. Hazard and kept her eyes on the platform that was being used as a stage. She only had to awaken Mrs. Hazard once. Fortunately, no one heard the gentle snore that escaped before Miranda roused her. The following days proved busy ones at Lord Croft's mansion on Berkeley Square. The main preoccupation was Mrs. Hazard's party. As it grew in size and magnificence to a ball in all but name, Miranda found it beyond her experience to organize. The Ladies Bolton were only too happy to lend their expertise. Adelaide found it made an excellent excuse to bring Jeremy along and dangle him under Dotty's nose. Helen soon realized she was more likely to run Mr. Hume to ground there than anywhere else and added herself to the list of helpers. Jeremy's mama found many reasons and invented a host of excuses to send her son and Dotty off together in her carriage—to hire musicians and select flowers, to speak to the caterers (which speaking consisted of telling them to call at Berkeley Square), to deliver invitations and if all else failed, to ‘get a breath of air,” for dear Dotty was looking peaked from working so hard. Jeremy courted Dotty assiduously during these outings, with nothing to distract his thoughts from her fortune. But at Berkeley Square, he took every opportunity to dangle after Miranda as well. She could not lift a vase weighing no more than sixteen ounces without him darting forward to help her. “Let me give you a hand with that, Miranda. We don't want you to tire yourself out.” They had achieved a first name basis. “I can manage, thank you,” was no deterrent.
He took the vase from her with a great show of virility and much fondling of fingers and gazing into eyes. During the intimacies of frequent visits, the ladies were also soon on a first name basis with each other. The nuisance of having to identify which Lady Bolton one was speaking to sped it along. They became Helen and Adelaide, the Hazards became Minnie and Dotty, and Lady Wetherby became Miranda. Lydia and Lord Robert were also frequent callers. Miranda was always happy to see them, happier than to see Mr. Hume (now called Alfred by all save Mrs. Hazard, who called him Alf.) He called on Miranda daily, and more than once she went out for a drive with him to escape Jeremy's or Bolton's attentions. Lord Bolton also came, and was now Max to everyone except Miranda, who did not call him anything. She didn't speak to him. She didn't look at him if she could avoid it. With so many other people in the house, her trick went unnoticed by everyone except Bolton himself. It infuriated him to see Miranda smiling and chatting to that old rake, Hume, who was old enough to be her papa. Jeremy's attentions to her bothered him less. He knew Adelaide's influence, if not Miranda's own good sense, precluded any serious entanglement in that quarter. As his frustration grew, he was often seen wearing a scowl. Dotty feared the war had permanently destroyed his temper and gave up any thought of accepting an offer from him, although she was not above using him to make Jeremy jealous from time to time when he was paying too much attention to Miranda. Helen had by no means thrown in the towel in her pursuit of Hume. She found nearly as many errands to run as Adelaide found for Jeremy and Dotty. As an experienced hunter, she knew the value of a disabled carriage. For four days hers “was having a new wheel put on,’ which necessitated her coming to Berkeley Square with Adelaide, and requiring a drive on whatever errand she could find to perform. These errands had the cleverness to occur only when Dotty and Jeremy were out in Adelaide's rig. On a gusty, overcast afternoon two days before the party, she joined Hume and Miranda in a sequestered nook in the saloon, where they sat at a corner desk arranging the seating for the dinner that was to precede the party. Bolton sat on the sofa a few feet away, ostensibly reading the Morning Observer, but with his ears cocked, ready to take advantage if Hume should leave the desk for a moment. “Dear Alfred, would you mind terribly to drive me to New Bond Street?” Helen asked, batting her long eyelashes at him. “My carriage is hors de combat. Lord Croft has only two dozen wine glasses in the house! Can you imagine? Minnie wants me to pick up a few more dozens for her. You must come and help me choose." “I am helping Miranda with this seating arrangement, Helen,” he replied. “I see Max is not busy. Ask him to take you." She lowered her voice to a seductive purr. “But he hasn't your exquisite taste, Alfred." Hume was proud of his exquisite taste. He also liked shopping for expensive, beautiful things, like crystal and jewelry and women. Nor had he any aversion to being seen on the strut with young, lovely ladies. “What do you say, Miranda?” he asked. “Shall we take a little break and give Helen a hand in choosing wine glasses?"
“No need to interrupt the work,” Helen said brightly. “Max can help Miranda with the seating. He knows everyone who is coming as well as you do.” She turned to him. “Max, you won't mind giving Miranda a hand?" Miranda spoke up before he could answer. “As a matter of fact, I would like to get out for a little air. I have been cooped up all day." “There you are, then,” Hume said, satisfied. Helen agreed, before it should occur to Hume that he and Miranda could select the crystal, and she could remain behind to help Bolton with the seating plan. No one was really happy with the arrangement except Hume, but Bolton was the most dissatisfied of all. He had heard the edge of panic in Miranda's voice when she agreed to go with them. She didn't want to be alone with him. That was the top and bottom of it. He had never met such determined opposition in his quest of a woman, and didn't know how to overcome it. His experience was all of the opposite sort, having to extricate himself from a lady's unwanted advances. For three days he had come and observed, listening and watching her from the corner of his eye while he mingled, growing more frustrated by the minute, waiting for his chance for a private word. But she was wily as a fox. She was never alone for an instant. She preferred any company, even Jeremy's, to his. Yet he knew as surely as he knew his name that he was the one she was always thinking of. Her unwavering vigilance confirmed it. The haunting memory of that stolen kiss told him he could win her yet, if only he could be alone with her for five minutes. At odd moments he would glance up and see her eyes studying him in an uncertain, perplexed way. Almost as if she regretted her arctic behavior. She would invariably avert her eyes in haste. Sometime she would flush, sometimes she would grow pale. Or perhaps that was his imagination, or a trick of light. Why was she behaving like this? At least she was not indifferent. It was as if an invisible bar joined them, holding them together, but at a distance. Patience was not Lord Bolton's long suit. He knew he could not endure this treatment much longer without doing something rash, probably something that would destroy his chances irrevocably. But he had not quite reached that stage yet. It was Helen, hoping for a few private moments with Hume, who said, “Why don't you come with us to choose the glasses, Max?" Max could foresee no opportunity for privacy when Hume and Helen were present. He felt the need of air and exercise. He would go for a long, hard ride, and not in polite Rotten Row either. He would take his mount out the Chelsea Road and ride away these blue devils. “Actually I have something I must do,” he said, and turned away. Was he imagining the tense strain on Miranda's face before he replied, and the look of relief after? “Will we see you at the Morrison's party this evening?” Helen asked. He looked over his shoulder and saw the rigid, wary look was back on Miranda's face. To settle his doubts, he said, “I'm afraid I won't be there, Helen. I have another commitment.” No, he wasn't imagining it. As his eyes flickered to observe Miranda's reaction, he noticed she looked vastly relieved to know she would have an evening free of his unwanted presence. And yet ... She was not entirely happy
either. There was an air of regret on that wistful, beautiful face. “I must take my leave of Mrs. Hazard,” he said, and left abruptly, for he knew if he stayed he would grab Miranda and shake an answer out of her. He also knew he would be at Morrison's party. He couldn't stay away. He drove to Newman's stable and rode his horse out to the Chelsea Road. Once away from the city traffic, he urged Rosinante on to a gallop. He had brought the mare back from Spain. His colonel, who had been killed in battle, had bequeathed the mount to him. Colonel Sanderson had named the horse after Don Quixote's mount, for he felt, at times, like that foolish, chivalrous gentleman, tilting at the windmills constructed by the lords at Whitehall who sent such impossible orders to Wellington. Rosi was a sweet goer, sensitive to the slightest hint. She intuited her master's frustration and put her large heart into the effort of pleasing him. The inclement weather just suited Bolton's mood. They galloped into the wind, mindless of the dark clouds gathering overhead, past farms where cattle grazed in cropped fields, past orchards with apple pickers gathering the fruit into baskets for market, past meadows dotted with fat, lazy sheep, their fleece thickening for the coming winter. And as he rode past the richness of rural England, he remembered the poverty and desolation of war-torn Spain, and his heart grew heavy. He was back in prosperous, peaceful England. He was young, he had all his limbs, he had wealth, he should be happy. Yet he felt as bereft as the poorest peasant of Spain. What was the good of it all if he couldn't share it with the woman he loved better than he loved South Winds? What did it all matter, if Miranda despised him? Miranda, with her glossy black hair, her ivory face and her dark, Spanish eyes. Eyes that studied him in secret, looking for—what? In his preoccupation, he didn't see the rabbit that darted from nowhere and caused Rosinante to lose her stride and stumble. Max wasn't thrown from his mount, but as Rosinante picked up the pace, he noticed her uneven gait. He dismounted at once and examined her ankles. She emitted a pained neigh when he massaged the right foreleg. He had just passed an inn. He walked Rosinante back and took her to the stable. Rosi was more than just a mount to Bolton. They had been through hell together in Spain. He couldn't leave her in the hands of strangers. He worked with the groom, tenderly massaging the ankle, applying liniment and a bandage. He was relieved to see the groom knew what he was doing, and had a real love of horses. “She won't want to be rid for a day or two,” the groom said. “Let the sprain heal. I can lend you a hack to get to where you're going. I'll see this beauty's well cared for." Max noticed that the stable was clean. The oats were fresh, the loose boxes in good repair. “I'll just put a blanket over her and make her up some hot mash,” the groom continued. “They like a little pampering when they've been hurt." It was what Bolton would have done himself. He was satisfied that Rosi wouldn't suffer. He stayed with her until she had eaten the mash, patting her velvet nose and caressing her flank, and she whinnied her gratitude. He decided to take dinner at the inn. If Rosi seemed well after, he would return to London on the hired hack. Since Miranda thought he wasn't attending the party, her guard would be down. Perhaps he could catch her unawares and get some sense out of her. He wouldn't frighten her. Just some calm, sane talk, to
learn what bothered her. At Berkeley Square, Miranda was easy in her mind that the party would be just a party. Bolton wouldn't be there to annoy and excite her. She wouldn't have to duck around corners to escape him. She wouldn't look up from a conversation to find his dark eyes gazing at her with an intentness that made her heart thud like thunder and her throat ache. There would be no possibility that he might outwit her and actually get her alone in a room to overpower her again with his hot kisses and words he shouldn't say to anyone but his wife. What a dull party it would be after all. Chapter Thirteen
It occurred to Miranda that with Lord Bolton's absence assured from Morrison's rout party, she would not have to use Hume as a shield. This was her chance to turn him off once and for all. He was becoming peculiarly proprietary in his attentions. He had slipped an arm around her waist that afternoon in Lord Croft's conservatory and tried to kiss her. She had let him know she was not interested in an affair. He hadn't flinched, but said, “Nor am I, my dear. It is a long time since I have met a lady with whom I could anticipate spending the rest of my life without dying of boredom." “No, please, Alfred. I am not thinking of marrying again. Truly I am not.” He looked so crestfallen that she had added, “It's nothing personal, you understand. I—I like you. It is just that I am not ready...” Her breathless voice petered off to silence. “I have taken you by surprise,” he said. “We shall speak of this again when you have had time to think things over. I am a wealthy man, my dear, and would be a generous husband. My wild oats are all sown. I would be a faithful, loving companion. I doubt you will find another in all of England who appreciates you so much as I do. At least tell me you will think my offer over." “Yes, thank you, Alfred,” she said, eager to escape the conservatory. When she had time to review the meeting later, she realized she had not made herself at all clear. In fact, in her eagerness to escape, her reply had been almost encouraging. She had led Hume to believe she was mulling over his offer. She appreciated that it was an excellent one from a worldly point of view, but she had felt like a trapped animal when he put his arms around her. Every muscle in her body had tightened in repulsion when he tried to kiss her. He was too old, too cynical, too much like an uncle for her to be comfortable in a more intimate role. It was not right to lead him on like this. Tonight she would tell him she was definitely not interested in marrying him. Perhaps he would turn to Helen for consolation. All thoughts of Hume were put out of her head when she met Helen at the rout party. “Is Alfred here?” was Helen's first speech, after saying good evening. Helen arrived quite late, having stopped at another do first. She looked exquisite, as usual, in a gown of Olympian blue. “Not yet,” Miranda replied. “He wasn't at Lady Erskine's do, either. Where can he be? What a dull party this promises to be. And
now it seems Max won't be coming either." “No, Bolton said he wasn't coming." “I thought he might change his mind. Ollie Winters told me at Erskine's do that he saw Max pelting out the Chelsea rode hell for leather early this afternoon. Going to visit his chère amie, of course. What else would he be doing out on the Chelsea Road? He doesn't know anyone there. After getting such an early start, I thought he might be planning to return in time for this do, but since his accident, of course, he won't." Miranda felt a searing shot of fire in her chest at the casual words “his chère amie.” What followed quenched the fire and turned her blood to ice. “What accident?” she asked in a hollow voice. “I don't know exactly what happened. But when Ollie was coming back from visiting his aunt, he stopped at a little inn for an ale, and saw Maxwell's mount in the stable. The groom told him there'd been an accident. Ollie—he's such an old gossip—he went into the inn and looked for Max, but he wasn't t here." “Was he badly hurt? Did they have to take him to hospital?" “Ollie says Max got a lift back to town with some friends who had stopped to change their team. I assume the friend took Max home. It must have happened after we left for Erskine's." “Don't you think you should go home and see if he needs help?” Miranda said, shocked at such cavalier behavior. “He wouldn't appreciate it. His valet will take care of him. He'd have his doctor called in if he's badly hurt. Doctor Ross was looking after his arm when he first got back from Spain. Ross is excellent. He's Prinny's doctor—or one of them. It takes a team to keep Prinny in high feather. Oh, here is Alfred now!” Helen hurried off to welcome Hume. Miranda was so shaken she went to the refreshment parlor and got a glass of wine to restore her nerves. She found a quiet room across the hall and went there to be alone to sort out her chaotic feelings. She wanted to close the door against any intruders, but in another lady's house, this seemed presumptuous, so she left it open a few inches. Her mind was in profound turmoil at what Helen had told her. She pictured Bolton, bloodied and broken, being lifted into his friend's carriage and driven to London, losing blood all the way. If he died—But that was foolish. Helen hadn't said he was badly hurt. It was probably just a sprained wrist or ankle. And besides, he had been visiting his chère amie so what did she care what had happened to him? But the awful heaviness in her heart told her she still cared very much, in spite of all. She sat alone in the still room for half an hour, trying to sort out her feelings. She was desperately worried that Bolton was seriously hurt. She was furious that he had been visiting a lightskirt, and she was vexed with herself for caring so much about him, knowing what sort of man he was. It was the worst possible mood for her to be in when Lord Bolton finally ran her to ground and pushed the door open to enter. She thought for an instant that it must be a mirage conjured up by her thoughts of him. But it wasn't a bloodied patient who stood before her. It was a hale and hardy Lord Bolton, the most handsome, dashing gentleman she had ever met. Even in a state of fierce irritation she acknowledged that.
He looked the very pineapple of perfection in a closefitting jacket of bronze velvet that displayed his broad shoulders and board-flat stomach. The immaculate cravat at his throat was set off with an emerald cravat pin. His crow-black hair was exquisitely barbered. The only sign of distress was the tense expression on his pale face. “So here you are,” he said, and was at her side in half a dozen quick strides, while she stared at him with disbelief, as if he were a supernatural apparition. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a trembling voice, while her eyes moved over him, looking for signs of his accident. “Looking for you, Miranda,” he said, and sat down beside her, with a small smile of triumph lifting his lips. She rose at once. “I have nothing to say to you, milord,” she said, and strode toward the door. Bolton leapt up and was right behind her. His long arm shot out and closed the door with a bang as she reached it. His smile had turned to an angry scowl. “You'll not leave this room until you tell me what is going on." She turned on him in a fury. “How dare you!” she cried, her eyes shooting green fire and her voice breathless with emotion. “What gives you the right to demand anything of me, sir?" She turned to grasp the doorknob. Bolton clamped his fingers on her wrist and spun her roughly around to face him. They stood toe to toe, each glaring at the other, while the air between them crackled with tension. “You have treated me abominably, madam, and you know it. I see the way you look at me, as if I were a son of Beelzebub. You flee every time I come near you. Common decency demands that you at least tell me what I have inadvertently done to merit this treatment." “Common decency! What do you know about common decency? I run for my life because you are a lecher, sir. You molested me in my own home, and your behavior tells me you would do it again if you had the chance." “I didn't molest you! I kissed you—but you're right about one thing. I'd do it again. And you kissed me, too. Don't deny it. I'm not a fool.” He pulled her, resisting, closer to him and spoke on, the words tumbling out now in a low, intimate rush, as his dark eyes devoured her. “I want you. I love you. What is so vile about that? And you love me, too, I know what you were feeling." A dangerous ripple of joy quivered through her as he acknowledged his love. But there was no mention of marriage —and he had been visiting his chère amie earlier. “You may consider yourself an expert on love, sir, but you don't know the first thing about me,” she said with a sniff. “You didn't bother to find out. I am not the sort of woman you visited this afternoon. I don't want a patron, and if I did, you would be the last man in London I would choose. I would rather have—Alfred Hume than you!” Alfred was the most objectionable lover she could think of. A quick frown drew his eyebrows together. “I didn't visit a woman this afternoon."
“Why else would you be driving out the Chelsea Road in such vile weather?" His blinked in surprise. “Someone has been busy carrying tales, I see. Do I have Hume to thank for feeding you this mischievous notion?" She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. “Alfred doesn't carry tales. He is a gentleman." “Then I am the King of Romania. Whoever it was didn't get the story quite right. I did go for a ride, because if I stayed in that house with that throng of pestilential people one moment longer I would have done something rash. I needed some physical exertion to ease the emotional strain of your feigned indifference." “Feigned! Do you find it impossible to believe that a lady is indifferent to you?" “I find it impossible to believe you are,” he shot back. “You watch me like a hawk." “Yes, because I am afraid of what you would do if we were alone." “Meaning I am some sort of sex fiend?" “Precisely. When I evaded you this afternoon, you wasted no time before calling on some woman." “The only physical exertion I indulged in this afternoon was a long, hard ride,” he said, his voice rising. “I expect it was your accident that accounts for the lack of more interesting doings." “The gossips even know about that, eh? My only reason for riding was to ride. I did not call on or plan to call on a lightskirt and I did not have an accident. My mount stumbled. I left her at the inn and was fortunate enough to get a lift back to town with friends." For a long moment they stared at each other, with the first blaze of hostility gradually dwindling to embers. Encouraged by this, Bolton put his hands on her shoulders and tried to pull her into his arms. “Oh Miranda—darling!” he said in a soft, coaxing tone. She wrenched away, frightened by those fateful words, fearing he meant to attack her again, and that she wouldn't have the fortitude to resist. “Leave me alone,” she said in a desperate whisper, and pushed him away from the door to allow her to escape. As she fled, she heard his fist crash against the door panel and the echo of something that sounded like Spanish curses. She looked over her shoulder, but the door was stoutly made. He hadn't put his fist through it. Bolton didn't follow her, but she was too overwrought to remain at the party after that interlude. Indeed London was beginning to seem impossible. She ordered Mrs. Hazard's carriage, asked her hostess to tell Mrs. Hazard she was leaving and would sent the rig back, thanked Mrs. Morrison, and left. She was in bed when the Hazards returned. When Mrs. Hazard sent Rosie up to see if she wanted one of Lyle's sleeping drafts, Miranda pretended to be asleep. She actually lay awake for hours, listening to the measured tick-tock of the long case clock at the end of the upstairs hallway. She heard the Hazards
come upstairs, heard the clock chime two o'clock, three, four o'clock. She pondered what she should do. The Hazards no longer required her help in establishing themselves in society. She had been little enough help in any case. But it seemed ungracious to bolt off just before their party. As the golden lutestring curtains at her window began to lighten, she finally fell into a troubled doze. When she awoke, she had made her decision. She would remain until Mrs. Hazard's party, but she would not attend any other parties in the interim. She would claim fatigue, perhaps a lingering headache not serious enough to require a doctor's help, but too unpleasant to venture out in society. She would avoid Lord Bolton like the plague. And before she returned to Hornby, perhaps the night of Mrs. Hazard's party, she would tell Mr. Hume that she did not wish to marry him. Then she would go home, and begin to forget this awful visit. Chapter Fourteen
When Alfred Hume learned of Miranda's indisposition, he sent a roomful of flowers and a playful note couched in that proprietary tone she loathed, ordering her to get better soon. Lord Bolton, suspecting her trick, told himself he was a fool and sent neither flowers nor a note. With Miranda absent from the saloon, Hume's visits and Bolton's fell off. With Hume absent, Helen no longer paid more than a darting visit each day. When the visitors dwindled to Adelaide and Jeremy, and especially when Jeremy took Dotty out, Miranda found it safe to recover sufficiently to venture belowstairs to help in any way she could. She told Mrs. Hazard of her plan to leave London soon after the party. “I'll be sorry to see you go, but I can see London doesn't agree with you,” the dame said. “What about Alf?" “He is just a friend." “And Bolton? I had the notion he was sweet on you, since Dotty has given him the cold shoulder." Miranda felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I cannot seem to get along with him,” she admitted. “Strange, my Dotty can't get along with him either. I thought she was talking through her hat—or young Jeremy's—when she spoke of his dark moods, but I have noticed lately he is disturbed. The war, I daresay, is the cause of it. Pity. I had hoped—that is, Lyle would have liked a title for her, but young West will have a sort of handle to his name eventually, and her little heart seems set on him." Miranda nodded her agreement and Mrs. Hazard rattled on. “Between you and me and the bed post, I don't know what she sees in the fellow. But there, it's not me that'll have the gumboil in my bed. I'll not let her rush into it, though. She will have her presentation first and meet some other fellows. And if she still wants him after that—well,” She drew a resigned sigh. “I married for love, and I expect she will do the same. “I wouldn't rush into anything if I were her."
“It's Lady Bolton who is in a rush, but she'll not bullox me. I'll be back to Hazard Hall from time to time to keep you posted, Miranda. Write me and let me know all the news at home. You know I am not much of a correspondent. You shall come here to visit me, I hope. We'll always have a room for you, my dear. You're like a daughter to me. My Dotty and me find the city agrees with us. We'll be staying on. We must have a going away party for you." “I don't plan to tell the others I am leaving,” Miranda said. “I don't want any fuss about it. I'll just slip away quietly. You understand." Mrs. Hazard didn't understand, but she assumed it was some ladylike qualm and didn't question it. “Just as you like, dear. I'm glad you're staying for the party at least." A state of inner peace descended on Miranda despite the frenzied party preparations going forth around her. She had made her decision, and even if all had not turned out as she had hoped, coming to a decision calmed her. The ladies had each had a new gown made up for the occasion. Dotty's was ice blue, as close to one of Helen's that she admired as the modiste could make it. Mrs. Hazard's was a deep red velvet fit for a queen, and Miranda's was an elegantly simple dark green peau de soie. She wore her hair piled high on her head with loose curls around her face. She looked wan from her days of incarceration, but excitement put a sparkle in her eyes and a touch of rouge lent a glow to her cheeks. The lady in her mirror looked so confident Miranda had to wonder how she had let the ill behavior of three gentlemen spoil her visit. A sense of resentment took root and began to grow. She was fed up with hiding and avoiding her various suitors. She decided she had been too timid. Why should she be consigned to the house because they could not behave themselves? Tonight she would tell Mr. Hume that she didn't want to marry him, with no foolish evasions to spare his feelings. She would tell Jeremy to please stop pestering her, and she would tell Lord Bolton that—that—Well, he hadn't made any further efforts to contact her, so it seemed he was through with her, and she tried to convince herself she was glad. Two dozen people in all were to sit down to dinner before the dance. Those who had been helping to prepare the party were, of course, amongst them, along with Lord Peter, Lord Robert and Lydia, and a few others. Miranda did a little re-arranging of the seating and placed herself well away from both Hume and Bolton. She sat beside Lord Robert, with Mrs. Morrison's unobjectionable, elderly husband on her other side. The dinner was a veritable feast. A choice of two soups was followed by a turbot à la l'anglaise with lobster sauce, followed by poulets à la chevry and l'oie braisée aux racines glacées. Ham, veal and beef followed, each accompanied by an assortment of vegetables. The desserts were equally numerous. All manner of brioches, croques-en-bouche, nougats, gelées and cakes filled the board, all accompanied by a choice of wines. Lord Robert provided Miranda a lively dinner companion, and as the meal progressed and the wine flowed, she was surprised to find herself enjoying the party. Helen sat between Lord Bolton and Hume, giving most of her attention to the latter. On Bolton's other side sat Dotty. Perhaps this arrangement had been unwise. It left Bolton no one to talk to, since Dotty spent most of her time with her other partner, Jeremy.
Having no conversable companion left his attention free to wander down the board where Miranda had marooned herself below the salt to avoid any possibility of trouble. But he behaved himself. He only glanced at her from time to time with a darkly accusing look which she ignored. He drank a little too much wine, but then so did everyone else, and it didn't seem to have any deleterious effect on him. Lord Robert inclined his head to hers and said, “I see Bolton is looking daggers at us. What happened? He seemed mighty infatuated with you a short while ago. He hardly took his eyes off you the last time Lydia and I called. Have you two had a falling out?” he asked, then answered the question himself. “I expect he is piqued that Hume won the inner track." Miranda was surprised that anyone had noticed Bolton's interest in her, but then love and a cough, folks said, could not be hidden. Mrs. Hazard had mentioned it, and now Robert. “Something like that,” she replied, and immediately changed the subject. Other than that incident, all was still flowing peacefully when the ladies returned to the saloon and left the gentlemen to their port and cigars. Helen, hoping to discover how matters were progressing between Hume and Miranda, took a seat beside her. “Alfred has been very worried about you,” she said. “You seem to be recovered remarkably, Miranda." “Yes, I believe I just needed a rest. “And now that you are all rested, I expect you will be going to Alfred's house party in Hampshire. He has a dozen guests for a week every year in October." “No, I plan to return to Surrey before that,” Miranda replied. Helen's eyes lit with instant suspicion. “Is Alfred going with you?" “No, certainly not. I have estate business to attend to,” she said vaguely. “Is Max accompanying you?” was Helen's next eager question. So Helen had noticed some interest on Bolton's part too. “No, I shall be going alone." “How long do you plan to stay away? When will you be back?" The rapid and persistent onslaught of Helen's questions caught Miranda off guard. Now that the time for her departure drew close, there seemed no need to keep it a secret. There wasn't time for anyone to go planning any parties. “I don't plan to return soon. This was just a visit,” she said. “I never planned to remain for the whole winter." Helen assumed it was a stunt to force Hume into an offer of marriage. It was a clever enough ruse, but a dangerous one. If she told Alfred and he didn't offer marriage, then she was either forced to leave London or reveal that the threat was only a trick. “You've told Alfred, of course?" “Not yet. I plan to speak to him later this evening." Helen was thrown into an agony of conjecture. Would Hume propose to Miranda? Had she lost him for good?
But as the evening progressed, Miranda had no opportunity for any privacy with Hume. She had the first dance with him, but a busy square with three other couples all chatting and laughing wasn't the right venue. She had promised him a set of waltzes, and planned to tell him then. His tender queries regarding her recent “illness” and doting behavior throughout the evening told her it wouldn't be difficult to find the opportunity. She felt in her bones he would leave the floor early for a private moment to repeat his offer. All this was a mere distraction from her real interest, Lord Bolton. She was surprised that he behaved with complete propriety once they left the dinner table. He didn't pester her for a dance, he didn't stand at the edge of the room casting those dark glares at her. He didn't pay her any heed at all. He danced with other women, some of them pretty and available, some obviously duty dances. It was as if they two were strangers, and while she was grateful to avoid a scene, she felt somehow cheated. She had expected a more melodramatic finis to her involvement with the dashing lord. All this ran through her mind as she romped through a country dance with Jeremy. At the end of the set, he led her to the side of the room, lifted her fingers to his lips, gazed soulfully into her eyes and murmured, “Delightful, madam. You have made this evening memorable.” He peered around for Dotty, and not seeing her, he continued, “Let us go and find a quiet corner where we can talk, Miranda." This was to be avoided at all costs. She knew what his ‘talk’ would consist of—a wrestling match. She was almost relieved when Lord Bolton appeared behind him. Jeremy didn't repeat the request, but just scowled and slunk off. “Robbing the cradle, Lady Wetherby?” Bolton said. His tone was jesting, but there was a hard edge to his glinting smile. He had tried to put Miranda out of his mind, but failed miserably. It didn't help that he felt in his bones she loved him. It wasn't in his nature to give up as long as one faint ray of hope remained, and her fleeting but frequent glances in his direction all evening provided that hope. “It seems it is that or robbing the grave,” she replied, before she realized what had slipped out. He would surely recognize a reference to Hume in that slip. “You take to extremes, I see. Why not try your hand with a gent who is out of short-coats, but not yet halfway into a shroud?" “If you mean yourself, I've told you, I am not interested in an affair, Lord Bolton." “What delightful notions you put in a fellow's head, but I was not suggesting an affair, madam. Just a dance. Come, Miranda,” he said, offering his hand with a disarming smile that turned her insides to molten honey . “I am not an ogre after all. We shall be meeting each other at all the parties. Carrying on like this, behaving as if we don't know each other, only causes talk. More than one gossip has already asked me if we've had an affair that ended so badly we aren't speaking." The prying questions Miranda had been subjected to did not use the word affair, but it was what some would think. She would soon be away from all this, but in the interest of her reputation, and because her instinct was to make peace and part as friends, she agreed. He had apparently accepted that she was not interested in becoming his mistress, and if he was willing to behave like a gentleman, then she would oblige him with a dance. Sensing her softening mood, Bolton said, “We'll have the waltz together, for old time's sake." “Are the waltzes next? I have promised them to Alfred, Bolton.” Was he imagining the disappointment in
her voice, in those green eyes that looked at him so sadly. “I'm sorry,” she added softly. And she was. This might very well be the last time she saw Lord Bolton. It would have been fittingly romantic to end their relationship as it had begun, with a waltz. It would have provided a pleasant, bittersweet memory to conjure with as she sat before the blazing grate at Hornby in the coming months, remembering this chaotic season. “Ah.” For a moment they just looked, each sensing the disappointment in the other. “Well, we have a few moments before the waltzes begin at least. Let us not waste them” His anger dissolved like dew drops in the sun when he was with her again. Miranda sensed that he regretted their past arguments, regretted having insulted her with his advances. Indeed his attentions would not be considered an insult by most widows, but a conquest. “Yes,” she said eagerly. But as she glanced up, she saw Robert and Lydia staring at her, their heads together. A quick look around showed her that others were watching them as well. “But perhaps not here,” she said. “I feel as if I'm in a fish bowl,” he scowled, and led her from the room. The corridor was also busy, but in the library there were lights burning and a fire blazed. An elderly couple stood by the grate, talking quietly, to provide unwitting chaperonage. “In here,” Bolton said, leading her in. She was a little concerned when the elderly couple smiled at them and left, but not really worried. Bolton was behaving very rationally. “Don't close the door,” she said. “It will look odd." He didn't close it, but the sofa he led her to was not visible from the corridor. They sat, and he turned to face her. “Will you tell me just one thing, Miranda? What made you suddenly turn against me?” he asked quietly, but with obvious passion lurking beneath the words. “It was a misunderstanding,” she said simply. “When we first met, I—I thought you...” She couldn't bring herself to say what she meant, that she thought he wanted to marry her. It seemed presumptuous. “I didn't understand your intentions,” she said. He listened, trying to make sense of it. “What was there to misunderstand?” he asked. “I love you." A soft smile lit her face at his eager admission. At least he had loved her. He still loved her. That was something. “I know widows are considered—well, not so vulnerable as single girls. They are prey to unwanted attentions of a sort that—that is considered acceptable in London. I didn't quite understand. Things are different in Bath, where I grew up, you see." Bolton began to understand the gist of her talk. She had thought he was offering to make her his mistress. His frown softened to amusement, then to pleasure. “Is that what all this was about?” he asked, shaking his head. First he smiled, then his smile stretched to a grin, then he began laughing out loud. It was all too ridiculous. He had been to hell and back, he knew Miranda had also suffered, and it was all due to some foolish misunderstanding. His mind darted to Adelaide as the probable perpetrator. “My sweet idiot, don't you know I love you?” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I have told you often
enough." Her instinct was to throw herself into his arms and hold on tight. When he looked at her like that, with love blazing like sunshine on his face, she felt helpless to resist. But nothing had changed. She struggled free and stood up. “Don't start that again, Maxwell,” she scolded in a breathless, shaking voice, and began tidying her skirt to avoid looking at him. Because if she looked at him, she was lost. “I thought you had changed, that you were being reasonable,” she said. “I am,” he retorted, and drew her into his arms to kiss her, while she fought him off. But her heart wasn't really in it. She wanted him to overpower her. She wanted to feel again those hot lips taking hers. Her mind reeled as his strong arms pulled her against his chest and his lips chased nibbling kisses across her fevered cheek. They were scuffling in this intimate manner when Mr. Hume appeared at the doorway. He had come to claim Miranda for their waltz, and was outraged to see the lady he considered his in all but name being mauled by that handsome rogue, Bolton. “What is the meaning of this, sir?” he demanded. At the sound of his voice, they moved apart in a hasty, guilty manner. “Oh Alfred,” Miranda said, and was deeply dismayed to realize tears of frustration were gathering in her eyes. “Pray do not—It is nothing, nothing at all." “You are too generous, my dear,” he said stiffly. “I really cannot permit this behavior toward the lady I am going to marry. I must demand satisfaction, milord.” He straightened his shoulders and uttered the dread words, “Name your second." It was unfortunate that the waltzes were about to begin. People were thronging from the refreshment parlor toward the ballroom. Mrs. Hazard, hearing their voices and sensing that her party was about to turn into a shambles, darted into the room. Helen, who had spied Hume entering the room, darted in behind her and closed the door. Mrs. Hazard placed her hands on her substantial hips and lit into them. “Such carrying on,” she scolded. “I would think I was at one of Lyle's parties for his workers, except they were never so foolish as to speak of duels. Drawing corks and darkening daylights was more like it—and a good thing too. Now what is afoot, eh?" Mr. Hume drew his shoulders back even farther and looked down his nose at Bolton. “Lord Bolton has insulted the lady I am engaged to. I have demanded satisfaction. Well, milord? Name your second." Helen emitted a high pitched squeal and fainted, causing a helpful diversion. Mrs. Hazard ordered the gentlemen to place her on a sofa. Miranda ran for wine. While Mrs. Hazard held it to the victim's lips, Miranda delivered a scold to the gentlemen. “There will be no duel,” she said. “If you persist in this foolishness, Alfred, I will never speak to you again." The sneering grin of anticipation that flashed across Bolton's face made Alfred realize how little he relished meeting this veteran, who had killed only God knew how many men in the Peninsula, at dawn with a pistol pointed at his heart. Bolton's grin faded as quickly as it had come. His face was deathly pale, but showed no expression
whatsoever. “I'm sorry, Hume,” he said in a quiet voice. “I didn't realize you were engaged to Lady Wetherby. My apologies to you both." “Accepted,” Hume said with a great mental sigh of relief. He reached out and gave Bolton's hand a quick shake to seal the dangerous rift. Lord Bolton bowed and strode proudly from the room without a backward look. “Well now!” Mrs. Hazard exclaimed, smiling from ear to ear. “I fancy this means you will be staying in London, Miranda. Engaged, and not breathing a word to me, sly puss. Let us go and spread the word." Helen emitted a loud moan from the sofa. Miranda wished Helen would recover, so that she herself might have the pleasure of fainting on to the sofa. What had she done? “My congratulations to you, Alfred,” Mrs. Hazard said. “You have got yourself a real treasure here." “I know it well,” he said, smiling triumphantly and seizing Miranda's hand in a crippling grip. “All of London will be jealous of me. I want to shout it from the rooftops. Come, my dear. Let us tell our friends." Miranda wanted to disillusion him, but not in front of Mrs. Hazard and Helen. It would be too humiliating for him to be publicly rejected, and especially after wanting to fight a duel to defend her honor. “Let us not tell anyone tonight, Alfred,” she said weakly. “I am feeling shaken. I shall go straight up to my room, if you will pardon me. We'll talk tomorrow." She made a brief curtsy and fled. As she reached the hallway, she saw Bolton had got his cape and was leaving. He didn't look back, but in the quick glimpse she had, his face had the grim, frozen aspect of a death mask. Her only solace was that it had not come to a duel at least. Chapter Fifteen
Knowing that sleep would be impossible for her that night, and knowing how miserable her waking thoughts would be, Miranda took a dose of Lyle's sleeping powder and didn't awaken until nine o'clock the next morning. As memories of the preceding evening washed over her, she wished she could draw the coverlet over her head and stay in bed for a month. But she had to tell Alfred how she felt before he announced to the world that they were engaged. How could she face him? It would be easier on her—and it might be kinder to him—to write a letter, and let him receive the news in privacy. He would no doubt insist on talking to her, but at least he would know her feelings beforehand. It would be just a matter of explaining and apologizing. She got out of bed, got dressed and went belowstairs. She thought the Hazards would be at breakfast discussing last night's party, but she learned from Samson that it had lasted until after two o'clock, and the ladies were still in bed. The servants were bustling about with brooms and dusters, with beeswax and turpentine, restoring order to the house. She was surprised to discover that she was ravenously hungry. While she flipped through the post and read a letter from her housekeeper at Hornby Hall—vicar had suggested a stain glass window in honor of Sir John—she ate her breakfast alone, gammon, eggs and toast. When she had finished, she took the
morning journal to the saloon to check that her engagement to Hume was not in the notices. It was a vast relief to see it wasn't. With luck, no one outside their own tight little circle would ever hear of it. She went immediately to the desk in the corner and began her letter to him. She pondered over what words to use to soften the blow. “I am honored that you should choose me,” “I will always remember your kindness,” “I am sorry if I caused you one moment's pain.” It all sounded banal and insincere, and so it was. It was Hume who should be apologizing to her. Why should he think she had accepted him when she did not say so? He had a good opinion of himself, even for a wealthy man. Did he not realize he was old enough to be her papa? As to remembering his kindness! The sooner she could forget all about him, the better. And furthermore he had very likely caused her a good deal more pain than she had caused him. Really it was too bad of him to announce in front of Bolton and Mrs. Hazard and Helen that they were engaged. She squashed up the letter she was writing and tossed it into the wastebasket. Angry with the world, she wrote a stiff note reminding Hume that she had never agreed to marry him and was sorry, but she did not feel they would suit due to the disparity in their backgrounds. She trusted he was clever enough to realize this was a polite way of saying she did not care for him. Completely absorbed in her chore, she paid little heed when the door knocker sounded. It was too early for callers. Someone's servant was probably dropping off a thank you bouquet after last night's party. Even when she heard Samson's footsteps approach the saloon, she felt no qualms. He often offered her tea when she was writing letters downstairs. She sealed up the letter to give Samson for delivery by a footman. But when he cleared his throat nervously and announced, “Lord Bolton to see you, milady,” she came to sharp attention. Her first baleful glare as she leapt up from her chair was for Samson, who ought not to have shown Bolton in without notifying her first. Her second glare was for her caller. Her instinct was to demand that he leave, but something in his expression stopped the words in her throat. It was the sad, uncertain way he looked at her, almost as if he were at a funeral. And he was pale, with dark smudges beneath his eyes revealing either a sleepless night or a bout with the brandy bottle, or both. He looked much as she felt, and when she greeted Bolton, her voice was more than polite. It was almost gentle, with much of the same sadness as he felt himself. Samson breathed a sigh of relief and left. He knew he had done wrong to show his lordship in, but a golden boy! Such a large bribe was the stuff of butlers’ legends. One had never come his way before. “I'm glad I found you alone,” Bolton said. He didn't sit down, and Miranda didn't think to ask him to. She remained standing by the desk. “I have come to apologize. Why didn't you tell me you were engaged to Hume? Why did you let me prattle on, making my offer, when you were already engaged?" Her anger began to seep back at his accusing questions. Give these London gentlemen an inch and they took an ell. “Because I was not engaged!” she retorted sharply. She watched as Bolton's sober expression shifted with lightning speed through confusion, to hope, to anger. “What do you mean, not engaged? You didn't deny it when he told me." “It happened too fast. The idiot challenging you to a duel. It would be just like you to accept! I didn't
want you killing each other on my account." “But—you love him? You do plan to marry him?" “Love him!” she cried. “I despise the man. I have just this minute written him a letter telling him I won't marry him.” And what business was it of Bolton's in any case? His smile, as he gazed at her, was not far from gloating. “Well, well, well,” he murmured. “One can hardly blame him for being mistaken in the matter. He has virtually lived in your pocket the past weeks. Naturally a lady is permitted to change her mind, but this surely sets a record for fickleness." “Never mind grinning like a monkey. This is half your fault, Bolton, and if you were a gentleman, you would help me instead of laughing at my predicament. If you hadn't been pestering me to be your mistress, I would never have given Hume the time of day." “Mistress!” he howled. “I never said mistress. Dammit, I love you. I want to marry you." He waited for her squeals of joy, which did not come, although she did feel a surge of triumph at the words. Still, a gentleman ought not to use such language in front of a lady. Especially when they were discussing love and marriage. Her deference to all their whims had got her in a pickle, and she did not mean to continue in that way. She had feelings too, and it was time they were taken into consideration. “That's not what you told Dotty,” she said. “You said you would never marry a widow." “I never said anything of the sort!" “You certainly did! Dotty wouldn't have the wits to make up something like that. It was the day we called on Lady Bolton, and you took Dotty to see the picture gallery." His brow furrowed with the effort of memory. “I recall her speaking of—Good God, I didn't mean you! We were talking about Helen.” His graceful hands fanned the air as they did when he was excited. “Dotty was praising her beauty, wondering how I had not fallen in love with her. Good lord, how could you think I meant you?" “You didn't say Helen. You said ‘I would never marry a widow.’” He batted her objection away with an impatient hand. “One can hardly name names in a discussion of that sort. It is more discreet to stick to generalities. I don't remember my exact words, but I certainly didn't mean you. And is that what you thought? That I was badgering you to be my mistress?” He gave a little laugh to show he took all this in good part, then added ironically, “I am flattered at your assessment of my character, Lady Wetherby." Miranda wasn't in the mood for levity. “I knew virtually nothing about you, milord. We had just met. But I knew enough of gentlemen of the ton to know such a view was not only possible but quite likely." He moved closer, with a certain light in his eye that caused her to step back, putting a chair between them. “Have you never heard of love at first sight? Love that comes like a lightning bolt out of the blue and knocks you flat on your back?" “Yes, and I have heard the moon is made of green cheese, too, but some stories are hard to swallow.”
She blushed, for she knew all about love at first sight. The lightning bolt had struck her as well. “As I said, I hardly knew you,” she finished lamely. “But you know me better now, Miranda,” he said, in a softly insinuating tone, drawing a step closer. She stepped back. “Yes indeed. I know that you are as conceited as Alfred Hume,” she replied, and watched as his expression turned to confusion. “You could not conceive that a lady who scarcely knew you would not jump at the chance to marry you. You behaved in a childish, boorish manner, sulking and spying on me out of the corner of your eye. You hadn't the courage or honesty to tell Mrs. Hazard you were not interested in Dotty, but used her as an excuse to be near me." “I was thinking of you! I feared Mrs. Hazard might take a pet and treat you badly if she knew." “Well, you didn't know her very well either, did you? You do her a great injustice to hint she would behave so poorly." “Miranda,” he said in a wheedling tone. “Now that you know my intentions are honorable—" “An honorable gentleman does not court another man's fiancée, milord. At the moment I am engaged to Mr. Hume." “Then I shall have to do something about that. You said if I were a gentleman, I would help you be rid of Hume. I will gladly help you. Give me the letter. I'll deliver it in person this minute. And then, I shall return.” The glow in his eyes hinted at his meaning. She handed him the letter. “Thank you, milord. I would appreciate your taking the note to Hume, but you need not return today. I expect Alfred will call, and it would be embarrassing if you two should meet." ''We are likely to meet a dozen times a week in future." “Yes, but today it would be particularly embarrassing and unpleasant for me. As no one else ever seems to think of my feelings, I must do it myself." She waited, wondering if Bolton would balk at this. She was trembling inside, for she knew she was trodding on his pride and patience, perhaps even risking his love. But a love that only took and did not give was not the sort of love she wanted. He stared at her for a long moment before speaking. Bolton had always admired Miranda's gentleness, her womanly deference, that reminded him of demure Spanish ladies. Those flashing eyes now betrayed a hint of Spanish passion and pride lurking beneath the prim exterior. He found this new, independent, demanding Miranda even more fascinating. She put him on his mettle. A slow smile began at the corners of his lips and spread slow as a sunrise up to his eyes. “Quite right, my dear,” he said. “I shall do myself the honor of calling on you tomorrow after this matter is cleared away." He bowed and left, and Miranda sank weakly onto the desk chair. She was trembling but proud of herself. She didn't know where her courage had come from, to say aloud all the petty things she had been
thinking. John had spoiled her. He always put her comfort and convenience first. It was her way to think first of those she was close to, but if it was not reciprocated, then one soon became a doormat. She sat, thumbing distractedly through the journals, expecting a call from Hume at any moment. The Hazards came down to breakfast at ten-thirty and she joined them for coffee. Tired with her life of pretense, she told Mrs. Hazard exactly what had happened last night, and what she had done about it. “If that is what you want, then good for you!” Mrs. Hazard said. “A woman would be a fool to shackle herself to someone she actively dislikes. As to young Bolton, you're wise to start out as you intend to go on. It's like making a medicine bottle. You have to set the pattern while the glass is hot. So you'll not be rushing back to Hornby right away?" “I shall wait a few days,” Miranda said. The ladies spent the next hour overseeing the packing up of leftover food to send to a local orphanage. They had a few callers in the early afternoon. Miranda found her nerves growing taut as time dragged on and still Hume did not come, or even send her a note. At three, Jeremy West arrived, brandishing an afternoon journal. “My compliments, Mrs. Hume,” he said, handing the paper to Miranda, with the announcement circled. She read it and felt ill. “But I told him I would not marry him,” she said, looking from one to the other, then back to the journal in disbelief. Jeremy's eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Not marry him! But why not? He is rich as Croesus. Anyone would leap at the chance. He has more blunt than anyone in London, outside of the Hazards.” As he realized what he had said, he looked guiltily at Mrs. Hazard, to find her sharp eyes narrowed to slits. His face turned beet red. “Not that that matters,” he added, and uttered a foolish, nervous laugh. “Thank you for bringing the journal, Mr. West,” Mrs. Hazard said. “I'll have to ask you to run along now. We are pretty busy counting all our money,” she added. Jeremy blushed and bowed and made a dozen disjointed speeches about seeing them soon, then he left. “You were right, Miranda,” Mrs. Hazard said. “He is only after the blunt.” She turned to Dotty, who was looking sullen. “There's better fish than that gudgeon in the sea, Dotty,” she said. “And other ladies than Lady Bolton to help you with your presentation. Lord Peter's sister has as well as offered. She's a widow with no daughters and would enjoy it, she says. A duke's daughter, and she was married to an earl as well. That was her son you were standing up with for the quadrille, Dotty." “I thought Lord Anscombe was ever so handsome,” Dotty said pensively. “He says all the gentlemen are jealous as green cows of Jeremy." “And he is not a younger son either,” Miranda said, to urge this romance forward. But her immediate concern, of course, was the announcement of her betrothal to Hume. “What are you going to do about it?” Mrs. Hazard asked. “You'll have to send in a denial, eh? A retraction or some such thing. The sooner the better, I should think."
“Yes. But why did he do it? Bolton took my letter to him early this morning. There should have been ample time to cancel the notice." “I wouldn't be surprised if he did it in spite to make you look like a jilt,” Dotty suggested. She was newly awakened to gentlemen's treachery after Jeremy's gaffe. “It would keep others from offering, for the present at least,” Mrs. Hazard added with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows and creasing of her forehead. Miranda felt in her bones that Mrs. Hazard had hit on the truth. Hume was so petty he had done it to delay an engagement to Bolton. It would be too farouche to announce a new engagement within days or even weeks of jilting a suitor. She wrote up a retraction and sent it off that same afternoon. Mr. Hume did not call, so she could not quiz him about it. After a visit to the Ladies Bolton, where he learned of Jeremy's awful error, Hume sent a chilly note saying he agreed completely that he and Lady Wetherby did not suit. He twisted her phrase “disparity in our backgrounds” to imply that she was too hopelessly provincial for one of his exalted taste. Not a word about the announcement in the journal. She had to wait until evening to learn how it had come about. Lord Peter took the ladies to a do at his sister, Lady Anscombe's, house in Pall Mall. Miranda's first impulse was to remain at home, but as she recalled that she had forbidden Bolton to call, she felt she might meet him there without bending her principles. He was a friend of Lord Anscombe. Bolton was there, and he rushed up to her as soon as she entered the room. “I'm glad you came,’ he said. “I have been wanting to talk to you, but after your injunction against visits, I was afraid you'd set the dogs on me." “We don't have any dogs with us,” she said. “I was speaking metaphorically. You saw the announcement in the afternoon journal?" “Yes, what happened this morning?" “I gave Hume your note. He was furious, but trying to make a joke of it, you know. He asked how I came to be delivering it. After the fracas last night, he could be in no doubt of my interest in the matter. I mentioned that at least the engagement had not been announced, and he said he had just sent a footman off with the announcements. I suggested he have the notices recalled before they were printed. He agreed." “Then what can have happened?” she asked. “I thought he would have done it. I can't imagine why he didn't. Well, perhaps I can imagine, for he was looking daggers at me, but I have no proof, and I wouldn't like to traduce the poor fellow." “He did it to make me look like a jilt,” Miranda said. “And to make any other engagement difficult,” Bolton added, peering to see if she understood him. “That, too,” she agreed through thin lips. “You should see the horrid note he sent me."
Bolton was delighted to see this romance was dead and buried. “Shall I call him out?” he suggested facetiously. She gave a tsk of annoyance. “That is how all this trouble arose, if you recall." “That is not exactly my recollection. The trouble arose because you didn't tell Hume the truth when he said he was engaged to you. But I take your point. So, what is to be done?" “What can I do? He has put me at point non plus." He gazed at her a long moment, then said gently, “Don't worry, Miranda, love will find a way." A dozen friends rushed up to compliment Miranda on her match with Hume. She was embarrassed and uncomfortable trying to explain the error. When the stares and whispers behind raised fans became intolerable, she decided it had been a mistake to come out that evening and called the carriage to take her back to Berkeley Square. And when the Hazards arrived home later, she was glad she had left, because it seemed Hume had stopped in at the party with the Bolton ladies and Jeremy after attending a play. “Helen was chirping merry to have wrested Hume away from you,” Mrs. Hazard said. “You should have seen her hanging on to his arm like a blood-sucking leech. Jeremy was there wearing a hang-dog face. I am proud of my Dotty. She refused to stand up with him. Fancy him having the gall to ask her!" “Did Lord Bolton remain there long?” Miranda asked, in a casual-seeming manner. “He hung around until he realized you had left,” Mrs. Hazard replied. “I thought he might have come back here." Miranda had rather thought he might have done the same, although she had not told him she leaving the party early. “No, he didn't." “I expect he'll come tomorrow, dear,” Mrs. Hazard said, and called to Samson for cocoa as she sat down and pulled off her slippers to massage her aching toes. Chapter Sixteen
The retraction of the engagement was published in all the morning papers. Not the simple retraction Miranda had sent in, but a large one, edged in black like a funeral announcement, sent in by Hume. “The editor regrets any embarrassment to Lady Wetherby by the inadvertent announcement that she was engaged to Mr. Alfred Hume. Mr. Hume wishes to make clear that while no engagement ever existed, he in no way blames Lady Wetherby for the misunderstanding." Miranda read it once with satisfaction. Then as she read it again more slowly, she felt the blood begin to pound in her ears. The wretch! He made it sound as if she had claimed to be engaged to him without his knowledge or approval! Stating publicly that he did not blame her only inferred that she was, in fact, responsible, but he pitied her in her disappointment and wished to exonerate her. Really it was too bad of him. She rushed the journal to Mrs. Hazard without saying how she interpreted it. Perhaps she was imagining
the slur against her. Mrs. Hazard ran her sharp eye over it and said, “The scoundrel! And not a word in it that could let you turn the lawyers on him. It is an insult, Miranda. It is nothing less than a slap in the face." “Then you have read it as I have, to mean I published the announcement without his knowledge." “That's the way it looks to me. It's what he wants folks to think, why else would he talk about blame? I shall ask Lord Peter what we ought to do. I'll tell you what Lyle would have done, and he had a deal of experience with lawyers. He would have waylaid the villain under cover of darkness when there were no witnesses and darkened his daylights. I wager Beazly could hire a couple of ruffians to do it and no one would be the wiser. You have only to say the word, my dear." It was a tempting idea, but a dean's daughter was not quite ready for such rough justice as that. She wanted to discuss it with Bolton, and waited eagerly for his call. He had still not come when Samson announced luncheon. The ladies had several callers that afternoon, all full to bursting with curiosity about Hume’ s announcement, and sly innuendoes that Miranda's stunt of trying to get him to the alter by announcing a nonexistent engagement had failed. They were shown short shrift. Late in the afternoon, Lord Peter brought his sister, Lady Anscombe, to call. She was of that long, lean build that earned her the description, “a ladder.” Her face was of an equine cast. These disadvantages were overcome by her lively nature, her birth and breeding, and of course her success in getting an earl to the altar. “You should see Helen swanning down New Bond Street on Hume's arm,” the countess said. “She is chirping merry, whatever of anyone else. She will get the old bleater to the altar now, see if she don't." “The reason we arrive so late, I stopped for a word with my solicitor, Lady Wetherby,” Lord Peter said. “Nothing can be done in law about his low stunt. It is all insinuation, you see. He didn't actually come out and say you sent in the notice without his approval. Your only recourse would be to send in your own notice saying that you did not send in the initial announcement. But that only makes a circus of it. Best to let it die a natural death. A nine day's wonder, it will soon be forgotten." “What do you think of hiring a couple of thugs to beat him up?” Mrs. Hazard suggested. “After dark, I mean, when no one can see them." Lord Peter considered this atrocious idea with interest. “I could put you on to a couple of fellows,” he said. Lady Anscombe had no objection either, but Miranda vetoed this solution, which was no real solution. It did nothing to clear the cloud from her reputation. “What would put old Hume's nose out of joint,” Lady Anscombe suggested, “is if you could marry someone else pretty quickly, Lady Wetherby. That would show the ton you ain't so desperate you have to invent a betrothal to that old crook, Hume. You know how he got his blunt, of course?" “No, how?” Mrs. Hazard asked eagerly, for she never ignored any means of adding to her pile. “It was a great scandal twenty years ago. He bought up for an old song a row of rat-infested shacks in Long Acre that were condemned, slipped some gold into the proper pockets to keep them from being torn down, got them reinstated as habitable without so much as touching a hammer to them. He rents
them out to prostitutes and thieves and fences and worse. And buys some of the stolen goods as well, or so I've heard. A regular twister. Despite all his money, he can't buy a title from Prinny. That shows you what sort of creature he is, when Prinny won't be bribed." Miranda was appalled. Even Mrs. Hazard was not so keen for gold that she was ready to become a slum landlord. “And he looking down his pointy beak at me as if he were a duke, because I'm in trade!” she cried. As the afternoon wore on, Miranda wondered that Bolton did not come to commiserate with her and help in her time of distress. He must know how Hume's stunt galled her. She was free of any other romantic entanglement now. There was nothing to prevent him from making his offer. Lady Anscombe had suggested that an engagement would go a long way toward renewing her dignity. But he did not come. Lord Peter and Lady Anscombe insisted that she accompany them and the Hazards to a party that evening. “The last thing you want to do, Lady Wetherby, is behave as if you are hiding your head in shame,” Lady Anscombe informed her. “It would suit Hume right down to the heels for you to tuck your tail between your legs and skulk away out of sight. He would have the field to himself to propagate his version of what happened. You must go out with your head high and look as if you're enjoying yourself." “That would be excellent advice if I planned to remain in London, and cared what the ton thought,” she replied. “I plan to return to Hornby very soon." “I'd be demmed if I'd let Hume get away with thinking he had got the best of me,” Lady Anscombe replied. “Where's your gumption, gel?" Her gumption, she feared, had melted away when Bolton did not come to call. He would have read Hume's announcement. Perhaps he even believed it. The Bolton ladies were living at his house. No doubt Hume spent a deal of time there as well. Between them, they had convinced him she was not worthy of being his wife. “Of course she'll go with us,” Mrs. Hazard said. “Miranda never lacked gumption. You should have seen how she took hold of the reins and ran Hornby when her John went and died on her." This word of praise did much to give Miranda heart. She realized then that it was not only Hume and the ton she had to prove herself to. It was the Hazards, and even herself. “Where did you plan to go this evening?” she asked. “Lady Everett's assembly, I expect?" “The duke is having a few friends in this evening,” Lord Peter said. “Only a hundred or so. You'll be quite comfortable there at a small party." “Very well.” She felt Bolton was more likely to be at Everett's, but she could not go there alone. And in any case she wouldn't run after him. She went to the duke's party, and put on a smiling face while she wished with all her heart she were at home. Bolton was not there. The morning brought new trials. She was alone at the breakfast table at eight-thirty. Mrs. Hazard and Dotty usually came down at nine. Samson, who had his finger on the pulse of all the doings in the house, brought her the Morning Observer as she ate breakfast.
She found it strange he had the journal open at the social page when he handed it to her. He tacitly tapped the paper and she glanced to see his finger pointed at the engagement announcements. The words Lord Bolton leapt out at her. Bolton was engaged to someone! The shock of it left her giddy. For a moment, she felt she was going to faint dead away. Samson discreetly averted his eyes from her ashen face, bowed and vanished. She read the notice with a shaking heart. Then read it again, and sat blinking her eyes and breathing hard. “Lord Bolton is pleased to announce the engagement of his sister-in-law, Lady Bolton (nee Helen Otter by), to Alfred Hume, of the Briars, Hampshire, and Grosvenor Square, London. The private wedding ceremony is to take place on Saturday, at St. George's, Hanover Square, with a reception at Bolton House. Honeymoon in France to follow. Hume was marrying Helen—tomorrow! He had bested her once again. He had got in first with not only an engagement but a wedding. This would confirm in society's eyes that he had never proposed to herself, that she had announced the engagement without his knowledge or consent. And Bolton must have connived at it. It was he who made the announcement, he who was giving the reception at his house. They had won him over to their side by some misrepresentation of the facts. She could fight Hume, she could fight Helen and Adelaide and Jeremy, she could fight the whole of London society, but she found she had not the heart to fight Bolton. If he had turned against her, then there was no reason to remain here. She would go home to Hornby and settle into unrelieved widowhood. But first she had to face the wrath of the Hazards when they came down to breakfast and read the announcement, and soon of Lord Peter, who was making a great play for Mrs. Hazard, and of his sister, who had an eye on Dotty for her son. They both came running as soon as they read the notice. “I wonder Bolton didn't give us a warning of this,” Mrs. Hazard said, as she pondered the announcement. “Has he gone over to their side?” It was a battle royal as far as she was concerned. She observed no niceties of language. If you weren't with her, you were against her, and it seemed Bolton had chosen the enemy's camp. “I own I am disa—surprised,” Miranda murmured. “I wouldn't have thought it of him. But there, he was always a bit of a twister, first legging it after my Dotty as hard as he could, while making up to you on the sly, Miranda. You're better off without the likes of that." “We should not be too hard on him. It was the war that destroyed his character,” Dotty reminded them. No one paid her any heed. Lady Anscombe combed her mind for an impecunious relative who would be happy to marry the pretty mistress of Hornby Hall and an income of two thousand pounds per annum, but none came immediately to mind. Unless they were actually in danger of debtors’ prison, her kin never married an income of less than five thousand no matter how pretty its owner. The visit and the talk dragged on. There was a discussion of where they should go that evening to show the world how little Miranda cared about any of this. After an hour, it all sounded to her as pointless as the cackling of geese or the gobbling of turkeys. Her head pounded from the racket. No one even noticed when she slipped away. As she went toward the staircase, the door knocker
sounded. She froze with her hand on the pineapple bannister post, hoping against hope that it was Bolton. She heard a man's deep voice and turned to look. But it was only Lord Anscombe, come to court Dotty. “Oh, Lady Wetherby!” he exclaimed, when he caught sight of her. “I have a message for you from Max. I just ran into him. He is hopping about like a headless chicken arranging Helen's wedding. Quite a surprise, eh?" Her heart thumped in excitement. “What is the message?” she asked. He handed her a folded copy of the Morning Observer, opened again at the social page. He gave her a conspiratorial smile and said, “He said you would understand." “Thank you.” She took the journal up to her room, thinking there would be a note concealed in the folded pages. But as she thumbed quickly through it, she found no note. Nothing was written in the margin. Hume's wedding announcement was outlined in red, followed by three exclamation marks. Was that the message? Anscombe said Bolton was running around like a headless chicken helping to arrange the wedding. He was too busy to come in person to explain anything to her. It was nothing but another insult. He had not only gone over to Hume's s side, he sent her this announcement to rub salt in the wound. What had happened to change his mind? What wretched lies had Hume told him? And why had he believed Hume, whom he must know to be a scoundrel? Was it possible that simple Dotty was right, and the war had wrought some awful damage to his brain? She felt if only she could see him, talk to him!... But he didn't come, and she had enough self respect not to go chasing after him. She didn't think Bolton would be at any do this evening when Hume and Helen were being married the next day. He would very likely be holding a private dinner party for them at Hanover Square. Lord Peter and Lord Anscombe took Mrs. Hazard and Dotty to a concert that evening. Miranda stayed at home, ostensibly reading The Vicar of Wakefield that she had found in Lord Croft's library. The book sat open but unread on her knee as her mind roamed over the recent past, looking for a clue to Bolton's behavior. Hope died hard. She had a lingering feeling that he would come, that he would at least write and explain these inexplicable goings on. But at eleven o’ clock there was no message from him, and she went up to bed. Her eyes were dry, but her throat ached with holding back the tears. She wouldn't cry over Bolton. It would be unworthy of her, and disrespectful to John's memory. Chapter Seventeen
It was Lady Anscombe who came up with the idea of going to Hume's and Helen's wedding. She, her son and her brother called at Berkeley Square the next morning. “I wouldn't give them the satisfaction,” Mrs. Hazard declared, when the suggestion was put forward. “I don't mean right into the church,” Lady Anscombe explained. “Just linger about outside in the carriage to have a look. They'd recognize my rig, or yours." “We'll hire a carriage or a hansom cab,” she countered. “There will be such a crush we'll never be
noticed. Hardly anyone is actually invited to the wedding, but after all the talk, half of London plans to go to the church to gawp." “I own I would like to see what she wears, and who they invited,” Mrs. Hazard allowed. “We could wear dark veils over our faces. Who have they chosen for best man and bridesmaid?" They looked to Anscombe, Bolton's friend, for an answer. “Bolton and Adelaide,” he replied. “It is very much a family affair." As far as Miranda was concerned, this put the final nail in Bolton's coffin. It was traditionally the groom's best friend who had the honor of being best man at his wedding. If Bolton was Hume's best friend, then he was certainly no friend of hers. The more she thought about it, the less sense she could make of it. It was as if she had got caught in a living nightmare, where her world was turned topsy-turvy. The wedding was to take place at two in the afternoon. Mrs. Hazard and Dotty were talked into going with Lord Peter and the Anscombes, but Miranda drew the line at spying on the party. Anscombe dallied behind for a private word with Miranda on his way out. “You're sure you wouldn't like to come, Lady Wetherby?” he asked. He seemed surprised at her refusal. “Quite sure,” she said firmly. “Have you any message for Bolton? He is so busy he hasn't time to come in person. I could make a quick visit to Hanover Square on my way home." “I have nothing to say to Lord Bolton,” she said, and left with her chin high and her lips clenched. The Hazards entered into the trip with all the excitement of attending a masquerade party. They were careful to wear pelisses and bonnets that no one would recognize, and draped their faces in such a quantity of veiling that vision would be difficult if not impossible. When the unmarked carriage drew up to the door, they darted out like a couple of thieves with their pockets full of silver spoons and climbed in. After they had left, Miranda asked Samson to send up her trunk. Packing for her trip home would help to pass the dreary afternoon. She declined Samson's offer of one of the maids to help her. She had a feeling she would not be able to overcome tears as she wrapped her gowns in silver paper. Each gown held a memory. This was the one she wore the first evening she met Bolton. And this burgundy one he had particularly liked. He said she looked like a Spanish lady in it. This was the gown she wore on that fateful occasion when he kissed her in the study ... She sat, nursing her poignant memories, heedless of the gown that had slipped from her fingers and lay in a puddle on the floor. Why had he done it? Why had he made love to her if he only meant to cast her aside? She could not spend the rest of her life wondering and worrying. She deserved an answer. She had told Anscombe she had no message for Lord Bolton, but she discovered that she had a few things she did want to say to him before she left London. While the spirit was on her, she dashed to her desk and scribbled down all the anger and hurt of the past days. She thought he was despicable, and his behavior cowardly, to pursue his wretched ends behind her back. If he hated her, he might at least be man enough to say why. At the back of her mind was the idea that she would not actually send the note, but writing down all her
hurt was proving a good catharsis. She felt better when she was done. She read it through, and sat, wavering. Should she send it? Well, why not? He deserved a good dressing down. She took the note downstairs and asked Samson to send it to Hanover Square, before she lost her nerve. Then she went back to her room and began packing in earnest. She had burned her last bridge behind her. At six o’ clock Samson sent up a note on crested paper. Miranda's hand trembled and her face turned pale as she accepted it silently, wondering what sort of reply Bolton had made. But it was only a note from Mrs. Hazard, using Lady Anscombe's stationery. She and Dotty were taking potluck dinner at Lady Anscombe's, and invited her to join them. No need to dress, it was strictly informal. They would tell her all about the wedding. Miranda was curious to hear about it, but she could wait until they returned. She sent an answer declining the invitation and told Samson not to have the table set; she would take a tray in her room for dinner. She discovered a loose strip of lace on her best petticoat and spent the interval until dinner making minor repairs to it and various garments. The tray arrived at seven, a little early, perhaps because she hadn't taken any lunch. The servants, feeling sorry for her, had added a late rose in a crystal vase to the tray. That was thoughtful of them. She must leave a generous pourboire for the servants when she left. She sipped a little soup, nibbled a chicken leg and drank a glass of wine, while the tomb-like silence closed in around her, until she was overcome with the eerie sensation that she was alone in the world. At seven-thirty, a servant came to take away the tray and ask her if she would like tea. She had had enough of the silent room. She needed a change, some life, some movement around her. “Yes, I'll take it in the saloon, Bess. No need to make another trip upstairs. I shall be down in half an hour." She passed the next half hour filling envelopes for the servants. Even Gibbons, the footman she had scolded the day they arrived, received a guinea. He had shaped up nicely after her reprimand. At eight o'clock she took a fashion magazine and went downstairs. She was too distracted for serious reading. All she was good for that evening was looking at pictures. Even that proved beyond her powers of concentration. She sat, wondering if Bolton had received her note yet. He would probably not get it until after the wedding reception was over. Perhaps the butler would hand it to him as he went up to bed. He might be making a speech now, inventing fine things to say about that old crook, his friend, Hume. That would challenge his imagination to the limit. She felt the anger begin to rise in her again, making her heart thud and her breaths come quickly. She tried to will it down, but failed. She needed more than tea. She poured a glass of wine and drank it quickly, then poured another. That was better. Her fingers were not twitching now but she couldn't sit still. She rose and began to pace the room. She was at the mirror, staring at her pale face and the dark blur of her eyes, misted with unshed tears, when the door knocker sounded. Any noise from that source immediately called up the image of Bolton. Common sense told her that he could not leave the wedding reception to come here, but still she felt in her bones he had come. And he had. Samson came to the door and said in an apologetic manner, “Lord Bolton wishes to see you, madam. I told him you were—indisposed, but he is very insistent..."
Should she see him? Her pride wanted to refuse him entry, but every instinct craved a last sight of him. While she stood an instant, frozen in indecision, he appeared in the doorway. He looked exquisite in the fine burgundy jacket he had chosen for the wedding. His broad shoulders, his proud head and military bearing gave the perfect image of a hero. His face, she noticed, was nearly as white as his cravat, with the ruby glowing in it. And it was rigid with anger. Samson looked a question at her. She nodded, and he left. Bolton took a tentative step into the room. “I received your letter, Miranda,” he said in a tense, angry voice that was making an effort to be polite. She willed down a sharp retort and answered coldly, “I am surprised you left your friends’ wedding to reply in person. It was not necessary, I assure you. I just wanted you to know my opinion of you, milord." “And I want to thank you in person for that assessment of my character,” he replied, equally cool. But he could not long keep his feelings in check. When he spoke again, his voice was louder, accusing. “After all I have done for you!" Shock temporarily robbed her of speech. When she recovered, she gasped. “All you have done for me?” she cried. “That is rich! Upon my word, I can't believe you have the gall to stand there and say that to me, after what you have done." “I have done what was necessary for us to get married, as soon as possible, and it took some doing I can tell you. I have got Helen and the others out of my house, so that you will not be afflicted by their presence." “You were best man at Hume’ s wedding! You held a reception for him at your house. You put the announcement in the paper, knowing it would make me look a fool and a scheming hussy. If that is your idea of helping me, I wish you would leave me alone." He looked abashed, but soon returned to the attack. “I know how it looks to others, for the moment. Our engagement would soon put the lie to their gossip. Desperate situations call for desperate remedies. What do we care what people say? I had to strike while the iron was hot. Hume was in a fit of pique at your refusal. Helen was buttering him up. Between the two of us, we convinced him that a marriage to her would mend his shattered reputation. I had to rush the thing forward before he changed his mind. “It meant chasing after an archbishop for a special license, reserving St. George's, arranging for a bishop to perform the ceremony. They both insisted on some sort of reception to follow. I've hardly had time to breathe. I thought you would understand why I was doing it." She sniffed. “I daresay it was your idea to put that notice in the paper, kindly not blaming me for the first engagement notice." He threw up his hands, as if warding off a blow. “Adelaide gets the credit for that one. I didn't know a thing about it until I read it. It was a mischievous, spiteful thing to do, but to counter with any other sort of announcement would only blow it into a full scandal." “Why did you not tell me what you were doing? You didn't call, not even a note." A quick frown seized his brow. “Did Anscombe not give you my message, that I was too busy to call in person?"
She remembered it, but in a sort of haze. Her tone was defensive as she said, “He gave me a copy of the journal with the announcement outlined in red. What was I to make of that?" “That Hume was engaged, and we were now free to announce our engagement,” he explained patiently. “You forbade me from speaking to you while you were engaged. I told you I would have to do something about that. Well, I did it.” But soon his patience was gone. “I thought you would understand,” he growled. “I'm not a mind reader, Bolton! Three exclamation marks do not convey that much." “I hadn't time to write a proper note. You wouldn't believe what the past days have been like. I had to sit on Hume's tail to keep him convinced a wedding was his only recourse. Then I had to devise a scheme to get Adelaide and Jeremy bounced off. The three of us, Helen, Adelaide and I were with the lawyers for hours getting everything down in black and white. Adelaide gets the Dower House and a larger pension, on the condition that she remove from Hanover Square and not return. I didn't even eat for two days!" “You could have sent a note at least,” she said, but her manner had softened remarkably upon hearing what he had been doing. “I asked Anscombe to explain. He must have done a poor job of it. He did mention that you gave him short shrift. I thought we were in this together. You gave me an assignment, I carried it out. The whole plan would have blown sky high if Hume had suspected for a single moment why I was doing it. And don't think he wasn't suspicious! He watched me like a hawk. Helen and Adelaide knew, but it was to their advantage to help me." “I didn't give you an assignment,” she said, but her tone was apologetic. “You imposed conditions. I considered it an assignment. You could have trusted me, at least a little. First you accused me of being a lecher. Then you forbade me from courting you while you were engaged. There's no pleasing you. You're impossible, Miranda. Would you have agreed to marry me, when Adelaide and Helen and Jeremy were making their home at Hanover Square?” He didn't wait for an answer. Her sulky silence was an admission that she would not live there under those conditions. After a moment, he spoke again. The anger was gone, but his tone now was businesslike, with no air of the lover. “I wanted there to be no possible obstacles in our way, no excuses when I presented the family engagement ring to you." She didn't object when he reached out rather roughly, drew John's wedding ring from her finger and set it aside. In fact, she felt a thrill at such masterful behavior, but she also felt a little pang of conscience, and had to remind herself that John would not want her to go on grieving forever. That part of her life was over, and it was time to move on. In her heart, she knew it was no one but Bolton that she wanted to continue her life with. “I had to beg and finally bribe this back from Helen,” he said. As he spoke, he drew a small, worn blue velvet box from his pocket and flipped it open. “It was entailed, but that meant less than nothing to her. It was my mama's engagement ring, and my grandmother's before her. I wanted you to have it." The ring glittered in the shadows. As he raised it from its satin nest into the lamplight, the sleeping, iridescent fire shot forth from the facets like concentrated, mini rainbows. It was a large diamond, cut lunette style, a square with rounded corners. The actual band looked too small for her finger. But when
he lifted her hand, the ring fit snugly. Miranda gazed at it a moment in wonder. Then she lifted her eyes and gazed at Bolton, with the love glowing in his eyes, and her lips quivered. How could she have doubted him? While she had nursed her anger in silence, doing nothing, he had taken hold and made their marriage possible. And when she finally took one step, what she had done was write him a ranting, childish letter accusing him of betrayal, of cowardice. Tears welled up in her eyes, when she thought of the things she had written. “I'm sorry, Maxwell,” she said. “I didn't know what you were doing." He squeezed her fingers, smiling a soft, gentle smile. “It's all right, darling. I should have remembered that you're an innocent soul, not used to the sort of scheming that goes on here. Helen and Adelaide understood the first moment I opened my mouth. It's to your credit that you didn't. Knowing your usual shy nature, I had some inkling of your outrage to have written such things to me." “I'm sorry." “I'm glad. Such hostility had to be the other side of love. If you had written a cold letter, I would have feared you were indifferent. Now that would have hurt.” He lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across her fingers. “I'll never understand you,” she said, amazed at his feat of logic. “As long as you understand how much I love you,” he said, and drew her into his arms to show her. He wasn't a gentle lover, like John. His passion was fierce, and as his hot lips plundered hers, she felt an answering, fierce response rise in her. Making love with Bolton would be like riding a whirlwind, but he had a gentle side, too, when he sensed her uncertainty. They were on the sofa, enjoying the wine that Samson had brought them, when the Hazards returned. As soon as Mrs. Hazard saw the lowered lamps, she suspected what was afoot. Her eye went unerringly to the third finger of Miranda's left hand and spotted the flash of fire. “So you have landed him! Congratulations, Miranda. When is the big day?" Bolton put his finger to his lips and said, “Shhh! I haven't sprung that on her yet. I have the special license in my pocket. Picked it up while I was getting one for Hume and Helen." Miranda laughed. “You did not! Did you really, Max? Show me!" He drew the paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “I've promised Helen we won't do it until they are safely out of England. They leave tomorrow for Paris. No one gets married on Sunday. I figure the next day. Adelaide and Jeremy are moving out in the morning. We could get married Monday afternoon. That gives you a whole thirty-six hours to throw together a trousseau, madam." “And a wedding party, here at my place,” Mrs. Hazard said. Dotty worried her lip to see Miranda fall into the hands of a man whose mind was warped by the war. “What is the rush?” she asked.
“You're right, Dotty,” Mrs. Hazard said. “We had best make it Tuesday. The caterer won't be open on Sunday. He'll need a day to prepare the feast." “I'll need weeks to prepare my trousseau!” Miranda objected. Bolton scowled. “Well, a week at least,” she said. After some bickering, the wedding was set for Wednesday at two o'clock. That meant the announcement could go in the journals on Monday, and a few notes of invitation to special friends. By the time they had had cocoa and Bolton had told them all the amusing details of Hume's and Helen's wedding, Mrs. Hazard's feet were sufficiently recovered to carry her up to bed, taking a worried Dotty along with her. Bolton put down his cup and said, “Well, it was a rough battle, but the course of true love never did run smooth. Are you as happy as I am?" “To tell the truth, I'm terrified. I never thought I would marry—someone like you,” she said simply. “I mean, a lord, with estates and—all that,” she finished vaguely. “You're not marrying the estates. I'll take care of ‘all that.’ You're marrying me. Now, the truth, are you happy, Miranda?" “Very happy,” she said primly. “And do you love me?" “I wouldn't agree to marry you if I didn't,” she replied reasonably. “Then say it. Tell me. You never have, oyster." She looked at him shyly. “I love you madly, Maxwell. I never loved anyone so much in my life. If you hadn't married me, I would have—I don't know.” She looked at him and smiled a sweet, trusting smile. “I'm very happy." “Oh Miranda!” he said, and kissed her again.
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