Page 28 of Entwined By Error (Madcaps of Mayfair #1)

Myra had stayed longer than she’d intended, so Uncle Kingsley insisted on sending her home in their carriage and Aunt Kingsley would brook no refusal.

“You have more than enough to think about on the way home. Allow your mind to settle as you ride in a carriage and give your horse a rest. The poor beast will need a week after your mad dash this morning,” she’d said, giving Myra’s hand a final squeeze.

Myra kissed her uncle and then her aunt before climbing up into the carriage. When she was settled, she smiled at her aunt. “Are you certain of the advice you gave?”

Aunt Kingsley pressed a bundle of wildflowers into her hands.

“To remind you that there is gentleness, even in a storm.” The carriage door closed, and then the conveyance jutted forward, taking her back to Blackbriar Hall.

The blooms rested in her lap, their scent mingling with the faint perfume of horse and leather.

The carriage ride back to Blackbriar was blissfully calm, the wheels turning over the rutted country road with a rhythm that allowed Myra to consider all that her aunt had said.

Myra sat nestled in the corner on the light-blue seat, her elbow resting against the window, her chin in the palm of her hand as she considered how best to go about encouraging a kiss.

She watched as the sun set, almost like a painting with the orange and red of the sun dancing across the sky.

Blackbriar Hall came into view as the sun dipped below the horizon, the lapping of waves in the sea offering calm to her overwrought nerves. The great house looked serene, and a sense of being home filled her chest as she looked upon the windows glowing with candlelight.

As she entered, she nodded to Melbourne. “Is Mr. Northcott at supper?”

“No, ma’am. He is not here.”

She nodded, the peace she’d experienced on her ride back slowly ebbing as she realized her husband was still away. Had she hurt him so deeply that he wouldn’t return that night? Perhaps she should have stayed at Kingsley Place.

She looked at Melbourne once more. “The countess?”

“In the drawing room.”

Myra entered the drawing room, her flowers still clutched in her hand as she noticed Lady Hastings sitting on the sofa, her eyes filled with tears as she dabbed them with a handkerchief.

Stepping forward, Myra didn’t wish to break the silence, but she had to know what had put the countess in such a state. “My lady, are you unwell?”

The countess stood, her handkerchief pressed against her mouth as she crossed the room. “Oh, Mrs. Northcott,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “How thankful I am to see you. I must apologize for all I said this morning. It was not my intention to cause you distress.”

Before Myra could inquire further as to what had put the countess into such a state, the elderly woman pulled her into an embrace reminiscent of the one her mother had given her upon her marriage to Mr. Northcott.

The embrace was firm, full of relief and fear.

Far different than what Myra had expected upon her return home.

They had scarcely stepped apart, Myra still searching the countess’s face for an explanation, when the doors to the drawing room burst open, crashing against the walls with a thunderous bang.

Mr. Northcott strode into the room, his cravat askew, his waistcoat half-unbuttoned, the flames in his eyes nothing short of a blazing fire that could have heated Blackbriar Hall for the whole of winter. He flung his hat toward Melbourne with more force than was necessary.

“Myra,” he barked, “where the devil have you been?”

She stepped away from the countess, the stems of her flowers slightly crushed in her fingers. “I wished to visit my aunt.”

“You vanished without a trace for most of the day,” he shot back, striding to the sideboard, where he poured a glass of brandy. Taking a sip, he turned back to her. “Do you not care for your husband’s peace of mind?”

“Peace of mind?” Myra arched a brow, holding tight to her crushed bouquet. “From what I recall, you had very little peace to begin with. I thought it best not to interrupt.”

Lady Hastings hovered behind her, looking helplessly between them.

“I rode to Kingsley Place,” Myra continued, “which, I might add, is a perfectly acceptable distance for visiting one’s relations.”

Mr. Northcott’s jaw ticked, a vein pulsating near his cheek. “You left no note. No word. No explanation. For all I knew, you'd flung yourself into the sea after our conversation this morning.”

“How flattering,” she said crisply. “You assumed my absence could only mean tragedy. Not a simple visit to my aunt for advice, since neither of you seemed keen to provide answers to my questions.”

“Advice?” His brows rose. “On what, precisely? How to ignore one’s husband altogether? Or how to vex a man so completely he cannot think of anything else?”

Myra stepped forward, cutting off her husband. “I sought counsel on how to remain in a marriage where one’s husband accuses first and asks questions...never.”

Mr. Northcott stared at her, his expression unreadable. “And did your aunt offer a solution?”

“She recommended wildflowers,” Myra replied, thrusting the bedraggled bouquet into his hands. She couldn’t very well tell him the actual recommendation, leastwise not while he was so angry. What good would a kiss do in this situation?

Mr. Northcott looked down at the bouquet now crumpled in his hands. A daisy hung limp, its head drooping as if it, too, had defended itself through the conversation. He let out a breath, low and strained.

“You rode all the way to Kingsley Place alone?” His voice had softened, barely above a whisper.

“I needed advice,” she said, her tone still guarded but her anger abating. “And I needed someone who wouldn’t look at me as though I were a fool for not knowing how certain things occur.”

He flinched and took another drink. “That was not my intention.”

“You failed miserably.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy. Lady Hastings cleared her throat. “Well,” she said lightly, “as you two appear to be less inclined to kill each other, I shall see about supper.”

She watched as Mr. Northcott turned the bouquet slowly in his hands.

His tone softened. “I imagined all manner of calamity,” he admitted.

“A broken neck from riding, a runaway carriage trampling you, a note left behind that I missed, my wife so distraught that she’d prefer to meet her maker than spend another moment with me. ”

Myra slowly lifted her head to meet his gaze. The furrow between his brows wasn’t just irritation or anger at her actions—he had been worried. “You were frightened,” she said quietly.”

“I was…concerned.”

Her lips curved just slightly. “It pains you to admit it?”

A sound, half-exasperation, half-amusement, escaped him. “You are vexing. Is it not enough that you have driven me to madness this night?”

She smiled, a bit of hope pumping through her veins as she matched his tone. “And you are impossible.”

He stepped closer, still holding the flowers. Reaching out to her, he dropped the wilted bouquet to his side before placing one hand on her cheek, cupping her chin as he pulled her gaze toward him. “Perhaps we might both try being slightly less of both.”

Myra hesitated. She reached for the bouquet, letting her fingers graze his as a flame caught hold and spread up her arm and into her chest. “I suppose it would not hurt.”

He nodded. “Indeed.”

They stood in silent agreement, a new and unspoken truce forming between them.

The warmth in her chest gave her reason to hope, something to hold onto as he led her into supper.

They hadn’t shared a kiss—he hadn’t even looked tempted to kiss her—but an inkling deep down told her that this night was something she could report back to her aunt.

A touch on her cheek, a nearness that from any other man might have indicated desire, and perhaps, that was exactly what it had been for Daniel Northcott.