Terri Brisbin (10 page)

O
nce again, the punishment inflicted after a breach of the rules proved why the rule existed. Dying, even in the most terrible way imaginable, could not feel this bad. Every movement, every sound caused pain—vibrant, echoing, intensifying pain—in her head. Her stomach twisted in tempo with it and Miranda swore to the Almighty that she would never drink again.

Never.

Ever.

A light pierced the darkness of her room and she clenched her jaws against the pain. What she feared most in that moment happened next.

“Your Grace?” Fisk asked. Even her whispered words slammed into Miranda’s head. “His Grace is inquiring about you.” A cold cloth placed on her forehead gave her a brief amount of comfort before the weight of it pressed down too much and she flung it away.

“Tell him,” she began, and winced at the loudness of her own voice. “Tell him,” she whispered, “that Her Grace has died.”

His laughter was loud and painful and completely inappropriate for the situation. From the noises his shoes made on the floor, she knew he was walking closer. Miranda prayed she
would
die before he saw how terrible she looked. Lifting her arm to try to cover her face did not work, because nothing in her body answered her commands.

“Although you may feel like dying, Miranda, very few of us actually die from one night’s overindulgence.” His whisper sounded like a shout.

“Thank you for your kind information, Windmere,” she said, trying to open her eyes. They would not respond, either. “One of your shooting pistols would finish this faster and more mercifully.”

She felt his touch as he smoothed her hair back from her face, and the cloth, now refreshing and cold, was placed back on her forehead.

“It will pass, Miranda. It will pass.” There was some whispering she couldn’t understand, and then he kissed her cheek. “Fisk will care for you. I must go out, but I will check on you later.”

“Windmere,” she called out.

“Yes?”

“I apologize for being sick on your evening clothes.”

“Do not think on it, Miranda. Feel better.”

Then he was gone, and all she could do was worry
over the parts of their conversation in the study that she could not remember and those she could.

Hours passed before she could open her eyes and sit up in her bed. And a few more hours before her stomach calmed enough for her to sip the remedy sent up by the cook. It was nearly evening before the pounding in her head lessened a sufficient amount so that she did not wince with every noise.

The staff were especially kind—although she knew they all carried out their daily duties, somehow they managed to do it quietly today. She did not ask how they knew of the need for it, but she suspected that everyone knew that the duchess had been drunk as an emperor and tossed up the contents of her stomach on her husband. Well, the embarrassment of facing them would be nothing compared to what she faced with Adrian.

It was nearly nine o’clock when she finally sat before the fire and sipped some of Fisk’s special herbal tea. After the beverage stayed quietly in her stomach, Miranda nibbled on a dry biscuit. A soft knock warned her of a visitor and this time it was her husband and not her maid.

“May I visit with you for a few minutes, Miranda?” he asked, peering into her room but not entering it.

“Of course, Windmere.” She nodded but regretted the action, which made her head hurt again.

He spoke to someone outside and then closed the door behind him. Walking to where she sat, he wore an expression of concern. His brow crinkled in a frown, but then he smiled.

“Well, your color is certainly better than the last time I saw it. And—” he nodded at the tea and biscuits “—you’re able to keep something in your stomach.”

“I do apologize again, Windmere. I cannot quite remember the order of events last evening, but I am certain there is no excuse for my drunkenness.”

Adrian sat down on the chair next to hers and smiled; it was the knowing smile of someone who had suffered in the same manner himself. “Thompson is the one who may never recover, Miranda. The trousers and stockings are a complete loss.”

When she was about to offer another apology, he laughed out loud at her. “I am also certain that he will make do somehow with my others. Now,” he said, leaning closer to her and lowering his voice, “how are you feeling? Truly?”

“I am at the point where I believe I might live through it.”

“As I said you might.” There was a hint of humor in his voice. “My mother sends her regards and hopes that your state of indisposition does not last long.”

“Oh, good gracious! I completely forgot!” Miranda dropped the cup noisily onto the table and tossed her napkin aside. Standing, and too quickly at that, only made her head pound furiously until the nausea returned. She clutched her stomach.

How had she forgotten her morning appointment with the dowager? She’d always gone, regardless of her condition, the weather or the situation in the world,
when summoned by Adrian’s mother. It was easier than facing the endless diatribe that would be her punishment for not appearing on time.

“Miranda! Here, let me help you,” Adrian said as he came to her side and guided her back to the chair. “Fisk reminded me of your appointment and I went to my mother’s to give your regrets personally. Mother had hoped that your visit to the country at this time of year would have strengthened your constitution.”

Miranda looked at him, and the frown and pasty color of her complexion returned. Damn! After experiencing his mother’s brand of hospitality for the short time he’d spent there, and after extracting a few truths from her, he had no wonder Miranda dreaded going.

“I explained to her that your regular visits would be discontinued until I said otherwise. Although I know she will miss your company, I made it clear that you had other responsibilities to carry out during the Season.”

“I… Windmere…”

Miranda stuttered out a few words but none of them made sense. After discovering that her weekly appointments were no more than excuses for his mother to inspect, berate and embarrass his wife, he’d put a stop to them. How had she endured it without a word of complaint to him? Even worse was the next question—how had he not noticed it?

“If she—beg your pardon, if the dowager—summons you, I want to know about it. You are not to set foot within her home without my express permission.”

She gave a start and looked at him now. “Thank you.”

As usual between them, she did not argue. But her words, softly spoken, told him things were most likely much worse than he’d been able to discover.

Before he could say anything, a commotion broke out in the corridor and he walked to the door to find out the cause. The household was under orders to keep noise to a minimum in deference to the duchess’s illness. Fisk’s voice and another woman’s rose, and the doorknob turned and twisted as though someone fought to open it against Fisk’s wishes. Adrian grabbed the door and pulled on it.

The women spilled in, slamming into him and nearly tumbling them all to the floor. The Viscountess Allendale tried to push past him for the second time this day.

“If you please, Lady Allendale,” he said, putting his arm out to stop her progress. “I told you that the duchess is indisposed and not seeing anyone.” He would have said more and been more forceful, except that Miranda’s hand on his arm and her presence at his side stopped him.

“Sophie,” she said. “What is this about?”

Fisk, now back on her feet, stepped to the door to wait. Adrian dismissed her with a nod.

“Miranda, Lady Allendale came by to see you earlier and I told her you were not receiving. Obviously, she has decided not to heed my words.” He crossed his arms over his chest, hoping that Miranda’s friend understood his displeasure. “This is awfully late to be mak
ing a call, Lady Allendale. Do you not have an evening engagement to attend?”

“I am here, Your Grace, due to my concern for Her Grace,” she said, glaring at him as though he were some threat to Miranda’s well-being. “She, Mir…Her Grace missed the luncheon we had planned for today without a word, and I was worried. My queries, sent here to your house, were returned unopened and unanswered.” Then she did the most unladylike thing and crossed her own arms across her chest, challenging him in some way!

“Sophie, I am well,” Miranda began, stepping between them. “That is not exactly true, but I am improving.” She met his gaze for a moment and then turned to her friend. “Why ever would you think that there is more to this than what Windmere told you earlier?” Her hand rested on his arm, and he wondered if she even realized she was touching him.

“Her Grace has been indisposed, as I mentioned to you, Lady Allendale. But as you can see, she is feeling much better now.”

He could sense that there was some reason why Miranda’s friend worried over her, but he knew she would never reveal it in front of him. It was time for a strategic retreat.

“Miranda, if you will allow me to escort you back to the chair, I will excuse myself so that you may have a short visit with Lady Allendale.” He took her hand and walked her back to the chair closest to the fireplace. Then he turned and glared at Miranda’s friend, to make
certain she understood his displeasure. Adrian offered a slight bow to both women and then walked to the door, opening it to expose Fisk’s presence.

“I will send Fisk to you in a quarter hour, my dear, to help you prepare for bed. I will be in my study if you need me.”

He had almost closed the door when she spoke to him. “Windmere?”

Adrian paused and looked at her.

“I am truly grateful for all you’ve done.”

Her words sent shivers through him, ravaging pulses of heat and ice, centering somewhere near his heart, he realized. Her eyes glistened with a hint of tears and her voice trembled as she said the words, leaving him feeling strangely moved.

“Your servant, madam,” he said, closing the door. After a word of instruction to Fisk, he went to his study and sent word to Parker to meet him at the club for a late supper.

After waiting what he thought to be an appropriate amount of time without being called back by Miranda, Adrian met Parker as planned. Walking in and accepting a glass of port, he saluted his friend with it as he took a seat next to him in the sitting room of the club.

“I have learned several more things about the duchess,” he boasted.

“You certainly apply yourself with vigor to a task when you want to, Windmere,” Parker said. “And what have you learned?”

“Several items that cannot be discussed, things of a personal nature, of course,” he started, thinking of his mother’s true reasons for summoning Miranda and of Miranda’s rather adamant admission just before she’d emptied her stomach all over him. “But I do know now that her friend, the termagant, would defend her to the death. If the woman were a man, I might have made a challenge to her over her behavior in my own home.”

“Your pardon, Windmere. What termagant are you speaking of? Surely not that chit, Miss Stevenson?” Parker shuddered again, and Adrian wanted to laugh. His friend’s discomfort had only just begun.

“No, the Viscountess Allendale. She was nearly intolerable to me. She actually had the nerve to push her way into the duchess’s bedchamber! The woman almost knocked me over doing it!”

Parker looked as though he did not believe him. “Allendale seems a likable chap. Too bad to be saddled with a wife like that. Will you speak to him about her behavior?”

Adrian sipped the rich, red port and shook his head. “No. If things go as they may—” he raised an eyebrow to Parker “—Miranda will need her as a friend.”

“Ah, I see your meaning,” Parker said. He took a mouthful from his own glass and shook his head. “I still find it difficult to believe the news.” They sank into a momentary and mutual silence, and Adrian knew they were both thinking of the short future facing him.

“If you are not morose about this, then neither shall I be,” Parker said, breaking the silence. “Tell me what you have learned other than the viscountess’s deplorable behavior.”

“The duchess, although she takes her responsibilities seriously, is still not comfortable being the wife of a duke.”

“There’s not much to be done about that, Windmere. She
is
the wife of a duke. Oh…I mean to say…” Parker stumbled over his words.

“No offense taken, Parker. This is a strange circumstance to find oneself in.”

“Just so.” His friend nodded. “Anything else?”

“I learned that the duchess cannot handle brandy and is quite candid and entertaining under its influence. Well, entertaining to a point.”

“The duchess was drunk? I mean…”

“Corned, pickled and salted,” he replied. It had not been his intent to see her in such a state; indeed, he had not realized how much she’d had until it was too late to make a difference. “Hence her state of indisposition today.”

Parker just shook his head. “First that incident by the lake. Now this. Where could this all end?”

Where indeed? The very thought of her admission made Adrian hot with anticipation. These last few years, as he’d heeded the dowager’s instructions and taken over control of the rather sizable fortune and power of the estates, and spent more time and attention on his titles, lands and possessions, he’d allowed Miranda to slip away.

He’d believed his mother’s words as she made suggestions about delicate matters between him and his wife. Miranda’s apparent indifference had seemed to confirm the rightness of his mother’s recommendations. He did not want to offend his wife, so he’d found a mistress,
as men of his station did to deal with those more personal needs and affections,
never dreaming of what he was missing in his own bed.

Shaking his head to rid himself of his mother’s echoing orders, he looked at Parker. “One can only imagine.” Intending to stop the arousing images of Miranda that he knew would fill his mind, Adrian stood. “Before I tell you about the gentleman who has captured Miss Stevenson’s fancy, let us find an interesting game of whist for a while.”

“Miss Stevenson, you say? Setting her cap for someone this early in the Season? He must have deep pockets.” Parker laughed, most likely never realizing that he was the subject in question.