Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  He felt his face flush with the thought that his arousal might have become apparent. He reached for his coat.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, as the velvet coat slid back off her shoulders and he took it, folding it over his left arm.

  “It rather becomes you,” he smiled. “A lucky coat,” he added, blushing openly.

  She looked up at him, and this time she smiled. “You are a charming fellow,” she said.

  He felt his face flood with warmth and his chest glowed with it, as if he'd won the Newmarket Races. He took root in the doorway, his cheeks blazing like beacons with pride.

  This is ridiculous, he chided himself crossly. Anyone would think I was being granted the medallion of honor, not being told I'm charming.

  Many people had called him charming in the past – some almost sardonically, as if they called him shallow at once – but the word had never had the effect on him it did when it came from her.

  “Thank you,” he stammered.

  She was already walking back into the ballroom.

  Bradford stayed where he was, seeming rooted to the spot. He had no idea what would be appropriate – whether he should follow her, stay where he was, or find somewhere else to go, like back to Culver, for example – but it felt like his mind had stopped working.

  He looked out across the ballroom, and saw her get included in a group of somber-looking people dressed in dark velvet. He thought he saw the tall, gaunt presence of Lord Amhurst among them, and realized it was the poetry set. Her group.

  “Well,” he muttered to himself, heading out across the ballroom towards where Elton's group was standing, “I'll just have to ask Elton to teach me about poetry.”

  Not because he wanted to change himself, but simply so he could infiltrate that group without making a fool of himself. The man Lady Steele thought charming hadn't known fine verses to start off with. If he learned them he might lose some of that charm. No, all he wanted was a couplet or two to quote, so they'd let him in.

  After that, he would be Bradford North. The man who was, unutterably and, now, entirely permissibly, in love with Lady Steele.

  Who was, after all, quite unattached.

  Chapter 11: Matter of the heart

  MIRABELLE PAUSED ON the edge of the ballroom, checking her hair on a reflex. She was mile away in thought.

  You have nothing for which to apologize. Nor have you.

  The words had struck her like a ball from a canon. They had broken something inside her – a wall of ice.

  I have nothing to apologize for. I never did. I was never too quiet, too insignificant, too bland, too mild, too weak. I never spoke out of turn, or annoyed people, or was too soft, cried too often, or felt too much.

  All those words – thrown at her by Arthur, and, earlier, by her father, melted away, thrown into sudden clarity and insignificance. All those cruel words Lord Arthur had thrown at her, like broken glass, suddenly fell from where they'd caught inside her, cutting her.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Blue eyes stared back at her through a net of tousled curls. Her own beauty struck her, suddenly, almost as strongly as the hammer-blow of that realization. It was strange – she had tried to dislodge them, to disbelieve them, to mitigate them. She had, over the last months, started to forget about them and care about them less. But now, suddenly, with that one stark phrase, the hold of them fell away like shackles.

  I have nothing for which to apologize.

  It was so clear, suddenly, that she had been apologizing for the way she was all her life. Why Because it made Arthur pleased.

  I have been dancing to his pipes like a bear in a fairground. I always hated people who jeered at dancing bears.

  She shivered. She would have been angry, but the relief was too great for anger. She walked to a velvet, high-backed chair and settled down on it, feeling exhausted. It was a good feeling. She looked round the ballroom, watching as ladies in white nodded to lords in dark suits, and somewhere the musicians tuned their violins.

  “My dear lady? You look weary.”

  Mirabelle glanced up at the vision in spangled muslin who stood before her, pearls winking in her styled white hair.

  “Lady Elington?” she stood, curtseying to the duchess. “Thank you for the invitation. It's a lovely ball.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” the older lady said, patting her hand fondly with her own, where jeweled rings sparked on the arthritic joints. “You look in need of some refreshment.”

  “I'm just tired,” Mirabelle said, looking about for Marguerite. She caught sight of her dark silk dress on the edge of the ballroom, her back to her, clearly engaged in intense conversation. She tried to think of a polite way to flee out back onto the terrace, where she had peace and quiet to think.

  “You're a fine young woman,” Lady Elington said, making Mirabelle stare at her. “You could do well to remember that.”

  Mirabelle blinked, surprised. The older woman looked up at her, face serene, as if she had inquired about the weather that evening.

  “Thank you, milady.”

  “Now, off you go and enjoy the evening. You should be dancing. I have a fine set of musicians here, and not enough people to enjoy them.”

  Mirabelle curtseyed again. “Thank you, milady. It's a fine ball,” she said.

  “Good, good,” Lady Elington said, but she was already talking to someone else, a tall, dark-dressed lady from the group around Lord Amhurst.

  Marguerite saw a space open in the group and went to join them. Her head was still spinning. You're a fine young lady. Go and enjoy the dances. It had been a long time since Mirabelle thought of herself as young. Or considered she was of an age where dancing might be seemly.

  But that's not true – not necessarily.

  She felt a curious sensation in her chest, a little flutter, like wings beat there. She realized with surprise it was her heart, fluttering like it had when she was a girl.

  “Oh, why not?” she said, grinning. She gathered her silk skirt up in one hand and headed towards the dance-floor. Tonight she was not going to let the matter of the diamonds worry her. This was a ball, and she was thirty years young and she was going to enjoy each second.

  “Milady,” a stranger said, bowing low, as she floated past. She saw his eyes linger on her and curtseyed. She was heading towards Lord Bradford, where he stood, somewhat isolated, on the edge of the group by the refreshments table.

  He saw her coming and his brows rose. He bowed low and Mirabelle felt the same little flutter in her chest as those tawny-dark eyes held hers. Perdition, but he was handsome! She blushed and felt the tingle spread through her body.

  “Milady,” he said. “I am enchanted by your company.”

  “I am surprised by yours,” she said, raising a brow archly. She saw him smile and felt her tummy tingle with warmth.

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  “Pleasantly so,” she said, at once amazed that she was being so bold and entirely unsurprised by it. She had always enjoyed witty conversation. It was time she remembered she was more than able to provide it.

  To her joy, he tipped his head back, laughing. “Milady!” he said. “You do me honor. I likely do not merit it,” he added soberly.

  “Who says you do not?” she said at once. She had the pleasure of seeing him surprised.

  His brows shot upward. “Good point,” he said.

  “It is,” she smiled recklessly. The hall had quietened, she noted peripherally. Somewhere, the introduction of a dance played, slow and sweet.

  “The dances are starting,” Lord Bradford commented.

  “Yes.”

  He held out his hand. “My lady? Shall we join?”

  Mirabelle smiled, feeling her body melt with joy. She felt him take her hand and floated beside him as he walked to the dance-floor.

  “I don't see why not,” she said.

  He bowed, she curtseyed, and then they were on the dance-floor.

  The music was a sarabande. Slow an
d full of emotions. Mirabelle felt the music weave round her, carrying her through the steps that she had known since childhood. She drifted past Lord Bradford, and held up her palm to touch his. It felt as if warmth flowed from his hand to hers, nerves tingling with the sweet contact.

  This is dancing.

  She felt as if her body was part of the music, and as if the two of them were dancing alone, in some distant place untouched by time. He took her hand, his other hand in her waist, and she melted under his touch. Finally, it all made sense. This was why people had invented dancing together – this strange intimacy, this sweet touch.

  She looked into his eyes and found she could not look away.

  They stepped round each other, her feet delicate as she made the passage and then came back to where she was, drifting away to step round another man – the dance was done in fours – and then back to Bradford once again.

  His hand touched hers and it felt again like they were in a hall alone somewhere, and time stood still.

  The music rose and rose, reaching a sweet crescendo, and then trailed off. The dance wove out into wider circles, broader steps, and then into the final cadence when she faced him and the dance was ending, slowly.

  She stared into his eyes.

  All around them, couples bowed and curtseyed, some applauding each other, a clap or two of silken-gloved hands, as they drifted away. Mirabelle stayed where she was. She saw on Bradford's face a look that suggested to him that he was as much in another place and time as she herself felt.

  He bowed and she curtseyed. They stayed where they were. He had very brown eyes, she noticed, with rings of black encircling the tea-colored brown, touched with flecks of olive.

  “Milady,” he said. His voice was low and deep. He bowed again, and she lowered herself into a sketched curtsey, and then they drifted together, still connected, to the hall.

  “You have a...”

  “I thought when...”

  They spoke together. Bradford laughed, flushed.

  “Sorry, milady,” he said, bowing again apologetically. “You speak first.”

  “I thought when the dance ended, that the whole hall was empty,” she said, feeling her voice catch in her throat. “It seemed so quiet.”

  “I thought so too,” he said, smiling. He was looking at her with such a gentle, tender expression that Mirabelle thought she might melt. She felt her throat tighten and coughed, clearing the lump of feelings that had settled there.

  “I interrupted you,” she reminded him. “You were going to say something..?”

  He smiled, self-conscious. “I was going to say you have a beautiful style of dancing.”

  Mirabelle felt the compliment thaw the ice in her heart. It almost felt like a physical heat was spreading through her, rushing from the center of her chest to her fingers and toes, filling her with light.

  “Thank you,” she said. She cleared her throat again. Dash it, why was she so hoarse tonight?

  He coughed too, and looked over her shoulder briefly at a group by the table. “You think we should join them?” he asked, indicating the group round Arundel. She raised her shoulders, listless. Suddenly she didn't want to be anywhere else, except right where she was: Opposite Lord Bradford, with a forgotten glass of cordial in one hand, talking to him.

  “I think I would rather stay awhile,” she said.

  His eyes met hers, and she saw from the way they glowed warmly that he, too, felt as she did. He didn't want to go and stand over there with the rest of them, but would rather be here, with her.

  She blushed and looked at her feet.

  The conversation went quiet for a while. They both stood there, content in their shared stillness, watching the others. The ballroom was lively, the air alive with conversation. But it seemed almost as if the whole hall was silent, the words filtering into her silence as if through a satin curtain.

  “I think my brother is enjoying himself,” Lord Bradford said tenderly. Mirabelle looked at the direction to which he gestured, catching sight of a blonde man a year or two younger than Bradford was, engaged in conversation with a young lady with honey-colored hair. While she watched, the two went to join the dance.

  “He seems very much in love.”

  “He is.”

  They both stood silently and watched the beauty of the couple – both seeming younger than they likely were – dance together.

  I wonder if we looked like that.

  Mirabelle could sense the feelings of the young woman as if in her own heart – feel the delicate blush in her cheek, the way her steps glided around the younger man, as if their bodies danced to an inner music they shared. It was beautiful.

  “I came to London with him,” Bradford smiled. “I'm glad I did.”

  “Me too,” she said softly.

  Their eyes met again. In that moment Bradford leaned towards her and her heart leaped as she realized that he felt the same strange draw she did. It was so right, so perfect. But at the same time, it would scandalize everyone here if it happened. Kissing between two virtual strangers? She colored.

  He seemed to come to the same realization, for he straightened quickly, flushing scarlet. “Milady,” he said.

  She straightened up too. “Milord.”

  They stood side by side and watched the dance. As she watched, Mirabelle felt her heart beat faster. She was a mess of sweet emotions inside, as if someone had knocked the sugar bowl over, all the sweetness spilling out across the space of her heart. She felt her cheeks lift in a smile.

  I wonder if he would have.

  She had almost kissed him. She could see in his flushed cheek and his downcast glance he had too.

  She caught sight of Marguerite, off across the ballroom. She was still talking with some passion to someone standing half-obscured in the shadow of the corner, her arm thrown out as she gestured, poetically, about some point.

  I suppose Marguerite would condemn my dalliance with this man.

  The thought upset her. Marguerite had clearly been unimpressed by Lord Bradford from the moment she made his acquaintance, and his reputation, according to her, was not unstained. But, Mirabelle thought, smiling, who gave a toss? It was time she stopped clouding her joy with other people's judgments. Nothing should be more imperative to her than that she lived her own life.

  “Should we dance again?” Lord Bradford asked.

  “Mayhaps.”

  They danced, and once again that strange alchemy happened, whereby they were floating in a bubble of violins and timelessness, just the two of them alone.

  When they left the dance-floor, Mirabelle bumped into a lady in a dark blue dress. She saw with some surprise that it was Marguerite. She flushed at her friend's startled expression.

  Here it is, she thought sadly. The cutting sarcasm, the comments. Her friend was about to give her a talking-to about all the things she shouldn't be doing, and how unseemly it was for a widow of her age to engage in dancing at a friendly ball.

  “Mirabelle?” Marguerite said, taking her elbow and drawing her away from the dance-floor. “Have you a moment?”

  Mirabelle felt her heart sink, but all at once it was strengthened with a new resolve. She was not going to take any notice of the criticism. She owed no duty to anyone to do so.

  “Yes,” she said lightly.

  “Good,” Marguerite said. “I want to talk.”

  Her friend propelled her gently but quickly through the crowd and to the terrace, where the background noise of the ballroom was suddenly silent.

  Marguerite turned to face her. As she did so, Mirabelle noted that she didn't look affronted – if anything, her dark eyes were wary. She frowned.

  “Marguerite? What is it?”

  “Don't start,” her friend said quickly. “I know. I'm being tiresome, and awkward, and you are vexed with me, but..”

  “But what?” Marguerite said softly, feeling some alarm. Here it was – the talking-to she'd been dreading. She waited, back tense, for the recriminating and hurt. />
  “Oh, I know you'll think I'm a fool,” Marguerite exclaimed hotly. “But is it really that bad of me, do you think?”

  Mirabelle stared at her, and noticed with some distress her friend was about to cry. “What is it?” she asked, heart beating faster. “Marguerite! My dearest. Tell me...”

  She trailed off, her reaching hand falling to her side, listless, as Marguerite brushed it away.

  “Fine. Call me an old fool. But I've never met anyone like Lord Culver before.”

  Mirabelle stared. “Marguerite?” she distantly recalled the name Culver, recalling someone recently met, someone in Lord Bradford's circle. He must be in his early twenties, she thought. About the age of Lord Bradford's brother.

  “Yes, yes. Hold your judgment,” Marguerite said, flapping a tired hand at her. “I know what they all think. That I'm mutton, being lamb. But I don't care.”

  Mirabelle stared at her. Then, to her surprise, she laughed, delighted. She clutched Marguerite in a fierce embrace, holding her to her chest, tightly. When she let go, Marguerite was staring at her, part surprised, part horrified.

  “What was that?” she asked, shifting her skirts so they lay more evenly. “Mirabelle?”

  “I had to embrace you,” Mirabelle said, joyful. “You know how I feel, too, now! Isn't it wonderful?”

  “Mirabelle, you are well?” Marguerite said, frowning. “I hope my news didn't shake you beyond reason.”

  Mirabelle laughed, hearing her own laugh – rich, full, delighted – pour from her like honey into tea. She smiled.

  “Marguerite! My dear, sweet companion! I know how you feel! I'm in love with Bradford.”

  It was Marguerite's turn to stare. She looked at Mirabelle with wonderment. “My friend?” she asked. “You're earnest?”

  “Yes!” she laughed, joyful. “I am in earnest. It's wonderful!”

  Marguerite gaped. Then, suddenly, she was laughing too. Laughing and crying. They hugged.

  “Oh! Oh, my.” Marguerite said, drying her tears. “How silly we are.”

  “Silly, yes. Happy, definitely.” Mirabelle said, laughing and then sniffing, herself, as tears ran down both cheeks.