Page 12 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)
Julian was forced to drive forward. “Let us not brangle in public,” he said sharply.
With a nod of his head, he indicated a group of laborers in a nearby field who had stopped their work to observe what was going on.
“If I am to visit Justin without creating gossip, it must be known that Sophia is my aunt,” he added.
“It would also help if we are seen to be on cordial terms.”
Miranda could not argue with the sense of his logic. Her mouth thinned in an obstinate line, but she came over to the phaeton.
“Pray, don’t bother,” she snapped as he started to dismount to assist her. She climbed up beside him, taking a place as far from his person as the seat allowed.
He gave a flick of the reins and the pair broke into a easy trot.
Rigid with wounded pride, Miranda turned slightly so as to stare out at the passing countryside. No doubt he was enjoying this, seeing her humbled so. A faint flush stole to her face. Well, let him , she told herself. His opinion mattered not a whit to her, not anymore.
A stony silence reigned as the wheels rattled over the ruts and rocks.
The wind had kicked up once again, causing her hands to clench together even more tightly in her lap, as if mere will could ward off the biting gusts.
Despite all her efforts to the contrary, she began to shiver uncontrollably.
Cold, exhausted, humiliated—she could only close her eyes and pray for the hellish miles to pass as quickly as possibly.
A soft, heavy warmth suddenly settled over her worn skirts.
Her lids flew open to find the Marquess’s gloved hands tucking the thick merino carriage blanket up over her waist. Before she could utter a word of protest, he had already shrugged out of his elegant capped driving coat and draped it around her quaking shoulders.
“That’s … that’s quite unnecessary, milord,” she mumbled though chattering teeth.
He didn’t answer but gently took one of her hands and uncurled it to reveal the chafed and raw skin. A muscle in his jaw twitched. In a trice, he stripped off his expensive kid gloves and slipped them over her fingers.
A cutting rebuke died on her lips as he looked up at her. The expression in his piercing blue eyes was neither gloating nor smug but rather something infinitely more complex. Startled by what looked to be a tinge of concern, even sadness, she turned away in some confusion.
“You needn’t go quite so far with the charade of friendship,” she managed to say.
“Justin hardly needs to have his mother catch her death of cold.” His hand came out to adjust the corner of the blanket. “What in the devil’s name were you doing out in such weather, so far from home?” he demanded. To her surprise, his voice sounded almost angry.
“Mrs. Smythe, the widow, is ill and her children have not eaten more than a crust of bread in several days,” she answered in a low voice. “She needed my help.”
“Why didn’t that hulking groom of yours drive you, or—or take it himself?”
“Thistle has pulled up lame and both Angus and Jem were needed at the barn. It could not wait.”
It was a few minutes before he spoke again. “Were you able to do some good?”
She nodded. “I think so. But she is still not out of danger.”
“When do you go again?”
“Tomorrow.”
A frown creased his features as he looked first at the basket then at her hands. “If you name a time, I shall be happy to drive you there.”
Miranda stiffened. “That won’t be?—”
An exasperated oath rent the air. “Fine. If you cannot tolerate my presence, I shall send Sykes with a horse you may use until Thistle is recovered.”
“I fear that …”
“That is, I shall send a horse to Aunt Sophia,” he added tersely. “What you choose to do with it is your own affair.”
He lapsed into a moody silence for the rest of the journey, leaving Miranda to puzzle over his strange behavior. Why, he sounded almost … hurt over her rejection of his offer of help. She shook her head slightly. That made no sense. After all, it was he who could not abide her presence.
“Major! Major!”
Justin jumped off the wooden hogshead, nearly tangling himself in the long leather reins he was holding for Angus in his haste to greet Julian.
“Here now, bairn, have a care,” growled the big groom as he steadied the lad, then returned to his work of mending the worn bridle.
Julian didn’t miss the black look thrown his way. He shrugged as he reached down to ruffle the lad’s dark hair. It was odd for the two stablehands to have taken him in such violent dislike, odder still that they had the temerity to show it.
Well, he had more important things to concern himself with, he thought as he reached down to take Justin’s small hand in his.
There was a slight constriction in his throat at the touch of his son’s soft little fingers and the sound of his voice chattering on about how the kitten had managed to overturn a pitcher of cream in the kitchen that morning, much to the Cook’s wrath.
They walked out of the barn towards where the marquess’s smart phaeton stood, its matched team jangling the gleaming harnesses in their haste to be off.
“Mama, Mama. We are going on a picnic!” The lad left off his story as Miranda rounded the corner, a basket of freshly gathered eggs on her arm. “Major says his Cook has fixed all sorts of good things to eat?—”
“But rather a small portion of shortbread,” added Julian, unable to repress a faint smile.
Miranda lips twitched ever so slightly. “How lovely,” she said to her son. “I’m sure you will have a very nice time.”
Justin’s face suddenly came alight. “Major, can Mama come with us?”
“Of course your Mama would be welcome,” murmured the marquess.
“Oh, I cannot,” said Miranda quickly. “That is, there are errands I must attend to …”
Her words trailed off as she watched the little boy’s expression crumple into one of disappointment.
“Perhaps they might wait,” suggested Julian in a soft voice.
She bit her lip in uncertainty, catching the unspoken plea in her son’s eyes. “Well, I suppose just this once?—”
“Hooray!”
“I shall have to deliver these eggs to the kitchen first,” she warned. Looking down in dismay at her dusty gown, she swallowed hard. “And see to … a few other things.”
“No hurry,” said Julian pleasantly. “I’m sure the horses will be more than happy to avail themselves of these lumps of sugar I have in my coat pocket. Just the right size for a lad’s hand, I should imagine.”
“Oh! May I really feed them?” cried Justin.
They strolled off together, leaving Miranda with no further chance to change her mind. She set off for the manor house, and after informing Cook that the stove would no longer be needed to brew a batch of peppermint tonic, went to fetch her only shawl.
As she passed the large oval mirror in the hallway, she paused at the flash of her own reflection.
Unconsciously, her hand came up and sought to rearrange the wisps of hair that had escaped from the simple bun at the nape of her neck.
A twitch of her shoulders sought to rid her gown of the worst of its sags and wrinkles as a slight grimace crossed her face at the hopelessness of making the worn fabric look any less sorry.
Just as quickly, it changed into a self-mocking smile. She forced herself to take a hard look at reality. It mattered not a whit whether a tendril was loose or her garment hung like a sack, she reminded herself. The Marquess of Sterling was hardly going to notice anything about her humble person.
After all, as one of the most eligible men in London, he was no doubt surrounded by the most elegant and lovely ladies of the ton , all vying for his attention. The only thought he might give to her was to take note of how low she had fallen.
But then, he had long since believed her sunk beneath reproach.
Still, came a small voice within her, she could cling to a modicum of pride. She would never let him see how hurt?—”
“Miranda?”
She spun around, a faint flush of embarrassment creeping over her at being caught studying her own image in the mirror.
Lady Thornton regarded the shawl in her niece’s hands. “Are you going out, my dear? I had thought you meant to spend the afternoon in the kitchen. Have you discovered you are missing some ingredients?”
“No, it’s not that,” stammered Miranda. “I—that is, Justin begged that I accompany him on a picnic with …with His Lordship. He was so eager that I come, I hadn’t the heart to say no,” she added quickly.
Any surprise the older lady might have felt was perfectly hidden. “Well, it looks like a very pleasant day for a picnic,” she said in a neutral voice.
“Yes—yes, it does.” Miranda studiously avoided her aunt’s eyes. “Ah, I suppose I had better not keep the horses waiting any longer.” With a nervous tug at her skirts, she excused herself and hurried out the door.
Lady Thornton stood deep in thought for several moments, staring first at the mirror then at the door through which her niece had fled.
“Hmmm.”