Page 21 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Ten

M iranda gave up on trying to sleep and threw back the covers. Reaching for her faded wrapper, she pulled it on, then lit the single taper by her bedside and made her way downstairs.

In the kitchen, she stirred the few remaining coals in the stove to life and brewed a cup of chamomile tea.

Rather than return to her own chamber, she wandered into her aunt’s cozy study and curled up on the comfortable sofa that faced the shelves of books.

Despite the soothing warmth of the herbal brew she couldn’t seem to banish whatever it was that disturbed her peace.

Try as she might, she couldn’t deny that she had an inkling of what it was that had sparked the warring emotions within her breast. With a heavy sigh, she took another sip and tried not to think about the past afternoon. Another few encounters like that and she would find herself totally lost!

How was it that a simple smile could be so devastating?

Good Lord, she would have thought that seven years—each and every day punctuating the wrongs she had suffered—would be enough to inure her to the mere superficial charms of a handsome face. Surely she was not so foolish as to imagine there was any real warmth behind the fleeting expression.

And surely she wasn’t so foolish as to allow any flame to rekindle in her own breast. She would only end up badly burned once again.

Still, Miranda couldn’t help but think on vignettes of her erstwhile husband and their son.

He appeared to truly care for the boy, and for that she felt a rush of happiness.

They made a touching picture together—the dark locks, the shape of the chin, the color of the eyes, one so reminiscent of the other.

She had feared ever having to share Justin with him, but rather than feel diminished in any way, she found it only brought her greater satisfaction.

And there was no doubt it was the best thing for their son.

But what of her? Was this reacquaintance the best thing for her?

There was no question that the Marquess of Sterling had thrown her emotions into a welter. She must learn to steady her resolve and not let his presence affect her so.

Yet even with that admonition, she found she could not tear her thoughts away from him quite so easily.

His recent behavior had been so … confusing.

Though she knew it could not be so, it was almost as if there still existed a shred of tenderness towards her.

At times, he had seemed to truly care—about her well-being, her hopes, her fears, her future.

Nonsense! she cajoled herself. She mustn’t mistake a sense of duty for anything more meaningful.

He would feel honorbound to see his son cared for properly, and if that meant he must evince a concern for her, he would do so, no matter how onerous he found it.

The past afternoon had made that only too clear.

He had pressed such a generous gift as the gray filly on her so that Justin would be sure to have proper supervision in his rides.

If he had seemed hurt by her refusal to accept the magnificent animal, it was only because his pride was wounded, not his heart. She could be sure of it because that was a feeling she knew all too well.

She shook her head, as if such action could banish the lurking image of that brief, fleeting smile. Now what could explain that? Her lips curled upward in self mockery. Mere illusion, she answered herself. She was simply giving way to flights of fancy to imagine there was any special meaning there.

After all, he had certainly not found it difficult to take his leave of them.

She couldn’t stop from wondering what why he had rushed off so abruptly.

Had he an engagement for which he must not be late?

Perhaps he was entertaining guests for the evening?

Her mind drifted off, imagining the trill of laughter over dinner, the clink of crystal, the shimmer of silk and jewels in candlelight.

And the tilt of a lovely face, hanging on his every word.

Despite his denial, she couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t remarry.

She read the papers from London and was not so far removed from Society that she couldn’t decipher what was said between the lines.

He was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the realm and had could have his pick of any lady he wished.

What possible reason could he have for not choosing a bride from among them?

And why did the notion of it make her feel so?—

“Miranda?”

A candle glimmered near the open door and Lady Thornton stepped softly into the room. “Is something wrong, child?”

Miranda gave a wan smile. “Only the fact that I am a bigger fool than I imagined,” she murmured.

Her aunt took a seat in the facing armchair. “And why is that?” she asked slowly, her keen eyes taking in the hint of wetness on her niece’s cheeks.

“I … I fear that of late I cannot help but let thoughts of … His Lordship disturb my sleep. I had thought I was well over such foolishness.”

It was some moments before Lady Thornton made any reply. “I can’t help but find myself agreeing with your first assessment—but not for the reasons you think.”

Miranda looked up in shocked surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”

Again, there was a long silence before Lady Thornton spoke. “I think, my dear, that perhaps it is best if I leave it to you to puzzle out my meaning. You seem to be doing a good amount of thinking on the matter already and I have no doubt that your innate good sense will eventually win out.”

“But—”

Lady Thornton raised her hand. “You know quite well my feelings about meddling in another’s personal life.

I vowed from the beginning I would not seek to influence your feelings.

I have always felt that it must be you, and you alone, who decide what is right for you.

And much as it has been difficult at times, I have abided by that promise to myself. I see no reason to change now.”

Miranda looked rather dazed. “But—you truly think me a fool?”

Lady Thornton relented only enough to say one last thing.

“I think it foolish to refuse to consider that things are not always as they seem. I also think it foolish to mistake stubborn pride for reason.” She gathered her heavy silk wrapper closer to her frail form and rose from the chair.

“And now if you will excuse me, this foolish old lady is feeling very sleepy. I shall see you in the morning.”

It was quite some time before Miranda rose and made her way back to bed.

There was no clink of crystal at supper the follow evening, only that of cut glass, and the light caught only muslin and the simple chain of garnets at Lady Thornton’s throat rather than figured silk and cut emeralds.

Miranda almost smiled to herself as she took a sip of wine and regarded the marquess from across the simple pine table as he conversed with his aunt.

No doubt the evening was as different from those to which he had become used to as chalk was to cheese, but he seemed to be keeping any dismay he might have felt at the simple surroundings well hidden.

She, too, had managed to mask her own unsettled emotions enough to appear outwardly unaffected by his presence at the supper table.

If truth be told, she was not as indifferent as she appeared. Despite all efforts to convince herself otherwise, she had actually been looking forward to his visit. The sound of his stallion’s hooves on the drive had only echoed the quickening of her own heart. Why, she could not begin to explain.

With all the thought she had given to dissecting the marquess’s true feelings, she had studiously avoided probing her own.

A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips at the irony of it. Perhaps it was because she was afraid of what she might discover. And perhaps that was part of what her aunt had meant by?—

“—isn’t that so, Miranda?”

Her eyes came up from where they had been locked, unseeing, on the glass of claret by her fingertips and a tinge of color rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I fear I haven’t been attending to you, Aunt Sophia,” she apologized.

Lady Thornton repeated the question, and as Miranda struggled to overcome her embarrassment, she noted that the marquess’s expression was not one of rebuke but rather one of gentle amusement.

“I hope that we are not proving to be such sad company that you wish yourself elsewhere.” The tone indicated that he meant exactly what he said—there was no trace of sarcasm or barbed teasing.

She colored even more. “Not at all, sir.”

There it was—that smile again.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said in return.

Somehow, Miranda managed to make a coherent answer to her aunt’s question. Then to her relief, Lady Thornton launched into an long, amusing anecdote that allowed her a chance to recover some measure of composure.

The marquess seemed to be engrossed in the story, which involved a hard-of-hearing Scottish shepherd trying to make sense of Lady Thornton’s London accent. Yet every so often, his gaze would cross with Miranda’s and the smile playing on his lips would soften even more.

She looked away, trying to suppress the little lurch she felt inside. Why, if she didn’t know better she would think he was … enjoying her company.

As the two elderly servants cleared the soup plates and brought out the simple roast fowl and accompanying side dishes, there a lull in the conversation.

It was the marquess who steered the talk in a new direction.

To Miranda’s surprise, he asked her opinion as to the work of a poet much lauded in Town.

In the past, they had much enjoyed discussing the merits of various verses.

That he remembered—or cared—of her interest in such things took her aback.