All the Pleasures of the Season (6 page)

 

C
HAPTER
T
EN

M
iranda decided it was simpler to write a note to Kelton. She told him she could not marry him, did not wish to see him again, and signed her name. By the time he called to demand the return of the betrothal ring, she would be gone.

Then she went to see Marianne. Her sister was making lists of parcels of food and clothing and toys to be sent to her tenants at Westlake, since she would be at Carrington for Christmas.

“You look like you haven't slept a wink,” Marianne said, laying down her pen and dismissing the faithful Northcott, who would travel to Westlake in the earl's and countess's stead to see their wishes carried out.

“I've come to tell you that I have ended my betrothal to Lord Kelton,” Miranda said without preamble. “I hope you will not try to change my mind. No doubt the news will be all over London by noon tomorrow, and there's bound to be embarrassing gossip and speculation.”

Marianne sighed and got to her feet. “Oh, Miranda. I'm sorry. I can't help but think this is my fault. I thought he would be the perfect match for you. Would you have chosen him if I hadn't pressed you?”

Miranda swallowed, studied the finger where Kelton's ring had been. Her hand felt free and light without it. “I chose him to make you happy, and to please Grandfather. You were all so eager to see me married. I didn't want to disappoint any of you, or make Grandfather come to Town for another Season next year. I thought Kelton would make a good husband. But he hasn't even made a good fiancé.” She regarded her sister fiercely. “I am causing you much disappointment and scandal, and for that I am sorry, but I do not feel any dismay at breaking things off with Kelton. Never that.”

She braced for Marianne's argument, but Marianne came and took her hands, led her to the window seat, tucked a wayward blond curl behind Miranda's ear. “I wanted nothing but your happiness. I would face any scandal for you.” She dabbed tears from her eyes. “Adam would say that since I am the cause of so much scandal, I should be an expert at navigating through the storm of consequences. What do you wish to do? I will stand by you.”

“I wish to go to Carrington Castle—now, today,” Miranda said.

“There is no need to run away. We are Archers. We will face this together no matter what happens, though I think his lordship is entirely in the wrong—”

“I am not running away, Marianne, though I considered it. I must see Grandfather, tell him myself before he finds out some other way.”

Marianne leapt to her feet. “You're perfectly right. We'll go this afternoon. Grandfather is bound to read of this as soon as the London papers are delivered to Carrington. He has learned to expect scandal from one of us every time he opens the
Times
.”

“No, Marianne, I'm not a child anymore. I wish to go alone. It is my responsibility, since it was my decision to end my betrothal.”

Marianne paused with her hand hovering over the bell pull. She studied her sister's face for a moment. “Oh, Miranda, you truly are all grown up, aren't you? This is a woman's decision, not a debutante's or a girl's. Are you sure?”

Miranda raised her chin. “Can you arrange a coach for me?”

Marianne hesitated. “This won't be easy, even if Carrington takes the news well. In a few days, the whole family and everyone of consequence within a hundred miles will be descending upon the castle, expecting a wedding.”

“I know. That's why I must get there as quickly as possible, so I can smooth things over and help Grandfather make other arrangements.”

Marianne pulled the bell and came to hug her sister. “I'm proud of you. We'll get through this together, all of us.”

Marianne's maid arrived and curtsied. “Eliza, would you help Lady Miranda's maid pack? She'll be leaving for Carrington Castle this afternoon. Please ask John Coachman to come and see me for instructions, and I'll be there in a little while to help you.”

She waited until the door was closed. “Adam always said my matchmaking would cause trouble. Who would you have chosen if I hadn't interfered?”

Miranda lowered her eyes, afraid her sister might guess the answer to that. “It doesn't matter. There was a gentleman I thought I could marry, but he didn't offer for me. He's left London by now.”

Marianne's eyes lit up with the familiar glow of interference and mayhem. “Yes, yes, but who
was
he?”

Miranda shook her head. “Grandfather would never have allowed me to marry him. I had foolish hopes, but he was more sensible than I.”

“Thank heaven you didn't elope!” Marianne said.

“I would have, if he'd asked, but he was too honorable for that.” She felt tears threaten, closed her eyes.

Marianne touched her cheek. “Oh, Miranda, I would not see you unhappy for anything in the world!”

She felt a tear fall. “I thought I could bear any unhappiness if it would make you and Grandfather happy, but I can't. I want to be happy, Marianne, and loved.”

The coachman arrived before her sister could reply, and Miranda left her to give the necessary orders for the trip.

In her room, all was in uproar as three maids packed her trunk. Turning away from them, she looked at herself in the glass. She looked older than her nineteen years, she thought. It had been a busy year. This time last year, as she helped her grandfather plan the Carrington Christmas Ball, she had been looking forward to her debut, certain she would find the perfect husband, be married by now.

She'd made countless lists of eligible lords, researched peerages, pedigrees, and fortunes. How naive she'd been. She had imagined it would simply be a matter of meeting the gentlemen on her list, and picking the one she liked best, like sweetmeats at a buffet.

Phineas had asked her what she would do if she fell in love with a parson, or a second son, instead of one of the noble names on her list. She had laughed at him. That was before she met Gilbert. Phineas had described him as honorable, a good shot, kind, and pleasant, intelligent company. But even Phineas had known that he would not make a suitable husband for the granddaughter of a duke. She smiled, recalling now that Phineas didn't want her to marry
anyone
. He guarded her jealously, protected her.

Like Gilbert.

Someday, Gilbert would find the perfect wife, and he would marry and make her very happy. Miranda stared at her reflection and wondered what her own future would be. She had no intention of marrying now. It wouldn't be fair to tie herself to one man when she loved another. What husband could live up to the memory of a perfect and untried love?

She picked up her hairbrush, undid her hair, and brushed out the long length of it, the strokes soothing.

Who would have thought the Belle of the Season would end up a spinster?

 

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

G
ilbert paced the floor of his lodgings, watching the clock. The polite hour for paying calls did not start until three o'clock.

It gave him time to think, to plan what he would say. He would see Miranda, tell her he loved her, ask her to marry him. If she said yes, he would leave at once for Carrington Castle. If the roads were good, which was a rarity in December, he would be there in three or four days, just before Christmas.

He had not planned further than that, or decided what he would do if Carrington refused his suit.

He could not stop thinking of her kiss. He looked at the clock again. It was barely half past one. He burned to take her in his arms again, show her he loved her, tell her he'd been a fool to reject her proposal.

He would still walk away if Carrington said no. He wished he'd never touched her at all. Would he ever kiss another woman without comparing, remembering Miranda? That kiss would live in his heart and burn in his soul for the rest of his life.

He ran a hand through his hair, checked his cravat in the mirror once more. He'd been dressed to go since seven o'clock this morning.

Was Westlake right? Was there a chance?

He had to try.

Carrington was older and wiser than both of them, sensible to the fact that there was a very slim chance that an ordinary man could keep Miranda and make her happy.

Gilbert's own father would be shocked that his son would even dare to reach so high above his station. He would predict the worst, say that those who the climbed to great heights where they did not belong fell. Sir William would be the first to tell his son “I told you so.”

And if he succeeded, won Miranda's hand?

Nothing else in the world would matter. He would spend his life making her happy, loving her, repeating that kiss a dozen times a day.

He loved her. The thought made him dizzy. He glanced again at the clock, but the hands seemed to have stopped. He went over and tapped them to make certain they were working. He checked his watch, but it offered the same depressing news. Still two hours to go. He glanced at the door, wondered if Westlake had been in earnest when he said that he intended to forbid the admission of callers who arrived early.

Perhaps he should send Miranda a note, let her know he was coming at precisely three this afternoon to see her. He got out paper, quill, and ink.

What if she had patched things up with Kelton? What if her sister had convinced her that she could not break her betrothal mere days before the wedding?

He crumpled the paper, tossed it away.

He couldn't wait. He picked up his hat and his cloak, since it was raining the cold, gray, icy drops that meant Christmas was nigh in London.

He tried to ride slowly through the streets of Mayfair, pace himself, not arrive too early.

His watch showed he was half an hour early when he arrived at De Courcey House.

“Bugger it,” he said, and marched up the steps.

Northcott glanced at the clock as he opened the door. “Are you here to see his lordship?” he asked.

“I am here to see Lady Miranda,” Gilbert replied.

Was it his imagination, or did the butler's snowy brows twitch ever so slightly? Northcott did not say anything. He simply led Gilbert to the salon, put him inside, and shut the door.

Gilbert paced the carpet, humming to try to keep his tongue from knotting itself around his tonsils when Miranda appeared. He clasped his hands behind his back, wondered if he should be standing by the fireplace or near the settee. Would that remind her of the kiss they'd shared there, on the floor?

He realized in a panic he'd completely forgotten the proposal he'd practiced all morning. He reached into his pocket, took out the simple betrothal ring he'd bought. It wasn't as grand as Kelton's. It was two small diamonds set among pearls, ice and snow, when she deserved the fire of rubies and emeralds.

He turned when the door opened, expectant, his heart climbing into his throat. Marianne entered. “Mr. Fielding. I expected Lord Kelton.”

Gilbert's heart rapidly descended to his boots, hid there. He tucked the ring back into his pocket and bowed, trying to keep his expression bland. “I came to see—” he began, pinned under her sharp gaze.

Her hands flew to her mouth before he could continue. “Good heavens, it's
you,
isn't it?”

“In the flesh, countess. Is Lady Miranda here? I'm sure she is very busy preparing for the wedding, and I will keep her only a moment—”

“I meant
you're
the one she
loves
!” Marianne blurted. She began advancing upon him, her eyes glowing. Gilbert backed up, felt his skin heat. “I assure you we have not acted upon our feelings, countess—” He bumped into the settee, the exact spot where they'd kissed. “Aside from a single kiss,” he felt honor-bound to admit.

Marianne clapped her hands, and he flinched. “
Our?
Then you love
her
as well?”

Gilbert swallowed the lump in his throat, wondered briefly what Miranda had told her sister, and what the countess had assumed by his presence here. She was standing only inches from him now, gazing at him with a kind of goggle-eyed wonder. It reminded him of a dog eyeing a chop.

“Countess, is Lady Miranda here?” he asked, looking hopefully over her shoulder at the door.

“No. She left for Carrington Castle some hours ago.”

Gilbert felt his heart sink. “I see. Then I shall take no more of your time.” He sidled along the back of the settee, but Marianne stepped in front of him, matched him step for step, and blocked his way.

“Where are you going when you leave here, Mr. Fielding? Please say Cumbria.”

“I—”

“Did you know she's broken her betrothal to Lord Kelton?”

“Uh—” he began again, taking another step. She flanked him, keeping him in place.

“It was my fault, you see. Westlake says that matchmaking gets me into trouble, but I simply wish to see everyone as happy as I am. Especially my own sister. Do you understand, Mr. Fielding?”

He felt a bead of sweat slip between his shoulders and looked desperately at the bell pull, wondering if he should send for someone, yell for Westlake, or duck around her.

“I imagined Lord Kelton would be perfect for her,” she said, frowning. “I can see now that he is not.” She turned away, pacing, only to turn back. “The Archers are an unconventional family. We are not happy unless we are in love. We cannot help but follow our hearts over our heads at times. Do you understand?'

He smiled to placate her. She cornered him again. “I was wrong about Kelton, Mr. Fielding. I can see quite clearly now that you are the one she needs.” She grasped his lapels. “You must go to Carrington Castle at once.”

“I see,” he murmured.

“And you mustn't worry about Grandfather. He wants her to be happy, Gilbert. May I call you Gilbert, since we are almost related by marriage?”

“Are we?” He felt a frisson of surprise.

She smiled as if the dog had indeed won the chop. “How fast can you ride?”

G
ilbert nearly collided with Northcott in the doorway in his rush to leave. The stately servant was guiding another visitor into the salon.

Kelton.

Gilbert felt his lip curl.

“You!” Kelton said, eyeing Gilbert. “It's
you
, isn't it?” he said, parroting Marianne. “You were dancing with Miranda the other night. Do I have you to thank for this?” He held up a note, and Gilbert assumed it was from Miranda.

Then he noticed the sapphires in Kelton's cuffs.

The last time he'd seen them, they'd been earrings.

Miranda's earrings.

Gilbert glared at the earl, took in his perfect face, the foolishly complicated knot of his cravat. Kelton would have destroyed Miranda. He wanted to take her away from her family. He had even taken her mother's jewels, made cufflinks of them, gave them to his mistress as if they meant nothing.

Kelton glared at Marianne, who was standing behind Gilbert in the doorway. “I've come for my betrothal ring,” he said coldly, not bothering to greet her. “It is a family heirloom, and I want it back. Your sister is a fool, like the rest of the Archers. I'll see to it that she never makes a decent marriage for this insult.”

Gilbert didn't hesitate. He hit Kelton square in the face. Surprise lit in the earl's eyes for a moment before they rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the tiled floor like a sack of meal.

Gilbert bent to remove the sapphires from his monogrammed cuffs as Marianne looked on.

“I believe these belong to Lady Miranda,” he said, and held them out. She blinked at them, lying in his palm, then closed his fingers over them with a smile.

“So they do. Take them to her, Gilbert. She'll want to wear them for Christmas.”

She looked down at Kelton. “He doesn't look so handsome now, does he? He'll have quite a bruise when he wakes up.” She turned to Northcott, who stood by quietly, still holding Kelton's hat.

“His lordship appears to have slipped on the tiles, Northcott. Best have his coachman step in and fetch him.” She bent and tucked the betrothal ring into his waistcoat, and grinned at Gilbert. “There, that was tidy—and most appropriate, I think.”

He stared at her, and her smile faded slightly. “What are you waiting for, Mr. Fielding? Carrington Castle is nearly two hundred miles away, and Christmas is only days off. It is quite common for snow to block the roads. You'd better be on your way at once.” She opened the front door herself, since Northcott was busy with the fallen Lord Kelton, and waved him on his way with her handkerchief.