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

by Isabel Simonds

  “I assure you, I won't notice,” he said, grinning at her in that familiar way that turned her blood to lamp-oil. “I will be too busy looking elsewhere.”

  Mirabelle blushed. “You old tease.”

  He made a wry face. “I assure you, no teasing.”

  He shifted on the seat, readying himself to stand. She saw his face cloud and realized suddenly how much it did hurt.

  “You should take it slowly,” she advised him. “You really oughtn't to overdo it.”

  “I'll...be...fine.” He shifted so his hands were at his sides, supporting him, and stood up, slowly.

  He swayed a little on standing, and she could see his head hurt him. She stood beside him, taking his hand in hers. The cut on his head was bad: Hinsley had washed it out with white vinegar, and the scent of it clung to him, as did, faintly the scent of blood.

  “Come on,” she said encouragingly as he stepped forward. “It's not long.”

  “I hope not,” he said, wincing as he took a step forward. “Too far and I might need to sit down. My head feels like someone's got it in a steel belt.”

  “I can imagine. Or not.”

  He chuckled at that. “I hope not,” he said as they walked up the stairs, one step at a time. “I wouldn't like to consider you feeling it. Not even secondhand, in imagination.”

  She smiled at him and together they reached the drawing-room. Mirabelle smiled as he blinked, staring in.

  “It's a nice room,” he said.

  She felt a glow of pride. The drawing-room was her favorite room in the house: redecorated, despite Arthur's reluctance to let her do it. She had wallpapered it with yellow flocked paper, the design on it of green acanthus-print. The furniture was of nut-wood, and the chestnut gleam of it matched the cheery walls, making the space one of air and light.

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased he liked it.

  He walked to the chair and settled in it. She sat opposite him. He grinned.

  “I like the view,” he said, indicating the window, which was on his left shoulder. He barely glanced out of it at the excellent view it afforded, gazing instead at her. “But I rather prefer this one.”

  She felt her heart melt as he took her hands in his and gently, tenderly, leaned forward. His lips met hers and she felt her own mouth part to admit his tongue, feeling sweet arousal fill her as his tongue gently tasted her.

  They leaned back, and she could read the longing in his eyes. It matched her own. She sighed, amazed at how well they suited each other.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  His eyebrows lifted, surprised. She laughed.

  “I couldn't feel better,” he said.

  “You dearest man,” she said, squeezing his hands affectionately. “But truly. You are alright?”

  “Couldn't be better,” he said again. “Though I do crave tea.”

  She laughed. “I think some tea is a capital idea,” she added, standing and hurrying to the bell-rope. The returning appetite and thirst were good signs, both of them. She felt sure. She pulled the bell-rope, summoning Hinsley.

  When the older woman appeared, she smiled. “Yes, milady?”

  “A pot of tea, pray.” Mirabelle requested.

  “Yes, milady.”

  The tea arrived, fortunately accompanied by some of Hinsley's ginger biscuits. Mirabelle ate one and noted Bradford's hunger. They had neither of them had any dinner, and she was utterly ravenous.

  “So,” she said, as she finished a second biscuit, amazed that the fog in her head was slowly clearing. “I suppose we should think about what to do.”

  “Do?” he frowned. “Oh. You mean...those fellows. Yes.”

  She nodded, seeing his own expression grow grave. They had to do something. There was still the problem of the Captain, and whatever he meant to do to her. And the attack.

  Something had to be done.

  “I think I should contact Hensley,” she said. “I told him to deal with the fellow. I should address him. Find out what he did.”

  “Yes,” Bradford nodded. “I'll come with you.”

  She smiled. Though she knew she was quite capable of addressing Hensley on her own – had done it for years – having companionship would make it pleasant.

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased. “I'd like that.”

  “And afterward, mayhap we can take dinner somewhere in the town,” Bradford said. She heard a note of longing in his voice and she felt her heart lift with it. Having dinner together – knowing that they could, that they trusted each other and that neither of them cared, anymore, what anyone else thought – was a delight.

  “Yes,” she said. “That sounds pleasant. Providing you can..?” she frowned, indicating his head.

  “I'll do my best.”

  The morning passed smoothly. Mirabelle brought her sewing in and sat and stitched while he talked to her – telling her all about his childhood, and his four brothers. He frowned.

  “I need to send word to North Place,” he said, his brow creased with alarm. “My brother Elton will be frantic.”

  “I'll have word sent,” Mirabelle said, instantly rising. She sent Hinsley down with his card, to find a message-boy on the street to take word to him.

  When she got back to the chaise-lounge, Bradford looked relieved. She nodded. Sat down opposite him, resuming her stitching.

  He was looking at her with a wry smile on his face when she looked up.

  “What?”

  “Isn't it a little, well, isolated there?”

  She raised a brow, smiling archly. “I suppose it is chilly this morning,” she said, standing and walking to him. “I think someone sitting beside me might remedy that somewhat.”

  “I think that is a capital plan,” he agreed, grinning quite utterly naughty.

  She sat down beside him on the chaise and was touched as he gently shifted, his hand resting on hers, shoulder to hers, leaning his weight gently on her. They sat like that, almost chaste, for a full ten minutes. She felt her heart fill with warmth.

  It was a sweet closeness, this. So far removed from the mix of passion and terror she had felt, in turns, for Arthur. There had been infatuation, with him, at first,followed rapidly by alarm and then by the grinding, almost-habitual fear. But there was never this tenderness.

  She turned and smiled at him, and his fingers tightened round hers, a gesture of trust and gentleness that made her heart weep. She leaned towards him and his lips moved over hers with whispering gentleness, tasting and meeting and parting.

  When they had finished kissing, she leaned back on the chaise and looked up at the ceiling, her heart a sweet mix of wonder.

  This is what love is, she thought, knowing it absolutely. It was the first time in her life she had felt it. Now she knew what poets wrote of, and writers extolled. It was different for everyone, but she was sure that she had found her own complete bliss.

  A DAY SUCH AS THIS one was meant to be taken slowly, one minute at a time, Bradford thought, turning to face Mirabelle where she came back into the drawing room, steps soft on the sparkling parquet.

  She looked up at him, face a shy blend of hesitance and joy. It set a fire in him.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he nodded.

  The fellow they had dispatched to North Place had brought back a note from Elton, and his requests that whatever Bradford needed, a new suit or his traveling-things, he should request. Bradford duly had done so. One of the things he'd asked to have sent round was his evening suit.

  Now, standing in the drawing-room and staring at Lady Mirabelle, he was glad he had. He felt proud as her eyes traveled from his cravat to his boots and then back up to his face. He shifted, self-conscious, knowing he blushed.

  “Milady?” he asked, bowing. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, smiling. She, too, was dressed for going out: she wore a white gown of fine silk he'd never seen before – airy and light, it floated about her like a wisp. He thought that, paired wit
h delicate pearls and with her hair arranged in a loose, curly style, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

  “I am honored to escort you.”

  She laughed, a warm, happy sound. “Oh, you,” she said, grinning up at him in that sweet way he loved. “You're just flattering.”

  “I don't flatter,” he said, and meant it. “You are beautiful.”

  Her eyes held his and he stared back into them, feeling himself drown in that cloud-blue gaze. He was absolutely happy.

  They just had one more matter to settle. Alfred Stilton had to be stopped.

  “So,” he said to her, as he leaned forward in the coach. “A fine evening. Where should we go?”

  “I'd like to take dinner at The Governor's Rooms,” she said.

  “Well, then,” Bradford agreed, pleased that she knew her mind so clearly. “So we shall.”

  He called up the directions to the coach-driver, and they sped off together into the town.

  They had decided it was best if they recover fully before confronting Alfred Stilton. That could happen tomorrow. For tonight, they had each other. And the wonderful knowledge of how much they meant to each other.

  Chapter 20: Matter of urgency

  The Governor Rooms was a spacious and stylish establishment – once an inn, where the Governor had apparently stayed – the place had become well-known for its excellent dinners and soon the well-to-do of London were visiting it simply for its meals. Mirabelle looked round the room, seeing lords and ladies in black suits and white dresses at some tables, industrialists and merchants at the others, discussing their day's business over a plate of pie and a glass of wine.

  “The grilled plaice for me,” Bradford said, placing their order with the proprietor. “And for the lady the roast turkey.”

  Mirabelle smiled as he ordered their dinners, enjoying herself more than she had for years. She had forgotten how delightful it was to be in good company, enjoying simple pleasures together.

  “So,” Bradford said, regarding her across the table. They were drinking good port, and Mirabelle felt a little sleepy. She focused on his face, smilingly.

  “So,” he said again, warmly. “You would come and visit us at North Hall?”

  “Of course!” Mirabelle exclaimed. “I would like that.”

  “I hope so,” Bradford nodded. “It has excellent grounds for riding. You care to ride?”

  “I did,” Mirabelle nodded, frowning. It had been so many years since she had done so. Arthur had said she looked ridiculous on horseback and she'd believed him. Suddenly she ached to feel the freedom of the ride again.

  “Well, I thought so,” Bradford nodded, smiling. “You must visit us.”

  “I hope to meet your brothers,” Mirabelle added, raising a brow. “I met one, briefly. Elton?”

  “Yes,” Bradford nodded. “He's my closest brother. In age and in like-mindedness,” he chuckled. “You'll like him. You'll like all of them. Even William.”

  “He's the eldest?” she asked, frowning. An only child herself, the idea of having as many as three siblings was rather daunting. “You don't get on?”

  “Oh, we get on,” Bradford informed her, laughing fondly. “In fits and starts.”

  “I see,” she nodded. She wasn't sure she did, really. All this was a new thing to her. Marguerite, her closest companion, was likewise an only child. She looked forward to meeting Bradford's brothers.

  “When I introduce you to George, I'm sure he'll be quite jealous,” he added, smiling. “If he can look up from his books long enough.”

  “I think he sounds delightful,” she said, smiling. “I like reading too.”

  “I know,” Bradford said. His eyes sparked. “You know, I was worried you thought me doltish.”

  “You? Doltish? No!” she laughed, amazed. “When I first met you, I thought you a bit presumptuous, perhaps. But doltish? Never.”

  He laughed. “Presumptuous! Oh, what a terrific word! You did?”

  “I did,” she agreed, her foot leaning against his where he pressed his to her ankle, discreetly. The table was near the back of the establishment, but even so, Mirabelle found she didn't much care if someone saw them or not. The thought was refreshing.

  It is good to be liberated from the judgments of others.

  “Ah!” Bradford smiled. “It looks like our dinner. It smells wonderful.”

  Mirabelle nodded, her stomach twisting with fresh hunger. The delicate scent of fresh fish wafted towards them, followed by the more substantial odor of roast turkey.

  Around them, conversation rose and fell, blanketing them in a tapestry of sound. She closed her eyes a moment, feeling completely content. She would never have imagined that, a few weeks from her arrival, she could have such a different life.

  They just needed to settle this problem of Alfred Stilton.

  “More port?” the proprietor asked, appearing with the bottle. Mirabelle frowned at Bradford, who shrugged.

  “Another glass, please,” she said. The man obliged and filled their glasses, then passed along.

  Mirabelle enjoyed her meal, talking to Bradford as they ate. It seemed as if they had so much to discuss – from the stories of their childhoods to their future aspirations.

  I never spoke so freely with anyone.

  It was a revelation to meet someone she trusted so much. At the other tables, the laughter rose and fell, some of it brittle and harsh. Here, between them, was a sweet softness, a shared communication that barely needed voicing.

  They finished up the meal with syllabub and then headed, slightly sleepy from the port, to the door. Bradford helped her into her white evening cloak and they headed out into the night.

  It was as they headed up to the corner of the street to hail the cab that two dark-clad figures stepped out of the shadows. Bradford tensed beside Mirabelle, placing himself between them. Mirabelle stepped back, afraid. They were far from the crowd here, and no-one would hear them if they screamed. The Hansom drivers ran less frequently at this hour, and they would likely be already injured – or worse – when they did.

  Bradford whirled round beside her, grabbing at one of the men, who darted out of the way with surprising agility. Mirabelle watched without feeling as if she did so, the horror washing slowly through her.

  “You blackguards!” he shouted, threatening. “Show yourselves.”

  As one stepped forward, he grabbed at the figure, pulling down the scarf which his his face.

  Mirabelle gasped. It was Alfred Stilton.

  “You traitor!” she screamed at him. He had lied all along! She had suspected it, but now that she knew – finally – of his double-dealing, the fact burned. How dare he! How could he come to her, as if he were a friend? Who would do that?

  Bradford swore at him, striking out. Mirabelle screamed as the other man – she recognized the stooped, hulking form of his servant, now that she knew – stepped forward.

  “Bradford! Watch out!”

  As she screamed, shoving him aside, the sound of wheels ran across the cobbles, and horse hoofs, going fast.

  “The coach!” she shouted.

  As it rolled into view, a black, gleaming Hansom with a team of four, the driver perched high above, the men vanished.

  Mirabelle collapsed against Bradford, breathing strained. This time, though she was weary, she didn't feel the crippling weariness she'd felt before. She was too angry.

  “How dare they?” she said, rounding on Bradford, who shrugged. He looked weary. She remembered, suddenly, the wound in his head. She was furious that he'd been attacked when he was already barely-recovering. “Come on,” she added, turning him so that they walked towards the Hansom.

  “Dalford Place,” she called up to the driver. Bradford paused.

  “I have another idea,” he said. “Should we not go to my home? I think we need as much help as we can get with this.”

  Mirabelle's brow went up. A day ago, or less, she would have shied away from scandal. Now, she found she didn't p
articularly care. Life was too short to count each man's opinion above her own. She nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “Let's do that.”

  “North Place,” Bradford called up quickly. He called out the address, a place in the newer area of town, Chelsea, and they sped off.

  “So,” Bradford smiled. “It seems at least you'll meet Elton.”

  Mirabelle leaned back in the seat, suddenly tired. She nodded, smiling at him. “Yes,” she said. “That's true.”

  Oddly, despite the sudden shock of the betrayal, she wasn't shattered, as she might have been. The knowledge that Alfred had been lying all along – that there were no shadowy merchants, that he was lying to her, taking money for his own pocket – felt good.

  “We need to report this,” Bradford said quietly.

  “I have a better idea,” Mirabelle said softly. As the coach rattled along, she told him. She watched his eyes, seeing concern change to approval, then to questioning.

  “What if we...” he began, suggesting implementations that would make the plan safer, more able to work. At the end of their discussion, he nodded.

  “I think that's good,” he said.

  “Yes, Mirabelle nodded, leaning back, weary now that they had finally solved the problem, or found a way to do so. “I think it's a fine plan.”

  He laughed. “It's your plan, milady.”

  “You helped.”

  They were both smiling as they rolled up outside North Place.

  “Here we are, milady,” Bradford said, alighting first and helping her down carefully. “Welcome to my home.”

  Mirabelle looked up, staring. A gracious place, the facade molded and carved in a pleasing style, it was an elegant and refined townhouse. It was far grander than Dalford Place was, she thought, if not by a significant margin.

  He helped her up the stairs and the door opened, flooding them with honey-colored lamplight.

  “Milord?” a surprised, dignified man said.

  “We have a visitor,” Bradford said, undisturbed by the fellow's seeming surprise. “Lady Steele. Is Elton in?”

  “He is, sir. I'll call him.”

  “Thank you, Whitstock.”