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

by Isabel Simonds

  “You wouldn't try...” Stilton hissed.

  Prychley didn't move, just raised a brow. “I remember enough of you, Captain Stilton, to have had you up with the provost years ago. I didn't then. I didn't think it was worth my trouble. Don't think I'd make the same mistake twice.”

  Stilton had been pale. Now he turned an ugly gray color. Bradford saw him take a step back.

  “You wouldn't think of trying it...” Stilton stammered, but he was already backing away across the room shouting for his manservant.

  When the servant arrived, and raised a brow, seeing three people crowded in the front doorway, Lord Prychley spoke again.

  “See that your master gets a physician for that cut. And, should he seek to follow us, or do any sort of mischief, remind him that it would be worth his while to avoid a run-in with the law. Good day.”

  With that, he turned and walked slowly down the steps. Bradford stared after him for a moment or two in sheer amazement. Then he turned to Mirabelle.

  She was silent, tears tracking down her pale cheeks. She reached out a hand to him and he went to her, enfolding her in a big embrace.

  She leaned against his chest and he held her and when she looked up at him, her eyes were damp. He leaned down and gently kissed her lips. She stroked his face.

  Stilton was somewhere in the room still. Bradford didn't look round, or even particularly care. He only cared about Mirabelle, and, for the moment, she was safe.

  “Come on,” she said softly.

  He nodded. “Let's go home.”

  They walked down the steps into the cool afternoon.

  They went back to Lord Prychley's house to leave him and his coach at their place of residence. Bradford had been worried about Prychley, but as it happened it seemed as if the confrontation had given him fresh life. He walked up the pathway to the townhouse with a straight back and markedly more spring in his step than he had before.

  “Thank you...” Bradford began, but the old man, turning on the top step, shook his head.

  “Mirabelle is an old friend,” he said. “I'd do anything for her. Take care of her.”

  He regarded Bradford steadily a moment, and Bradford nodded, making that nod a wordless promise.

  Then Prychley turned away and walked slowly back into the house.

  Bradford turned to Mirabelle, who still looked in shock.

  “I'll call us a coach,” he said softly.

  She nodded, wordlessly. He went to the corner and waited there until something approached, then waved to the driver, making him wait for them.

  In the coach, Mirabelle looked up at him, blue eyes wide with shock.

  “I hit him,” she said. “I never hit anyone before.”

  “You hit the thug that struck me,” Bradford reminded her. He'd been almost unconscious when it happened, but she'd told him about it.

  She looked up, surprised. “You're right,” she nodded.

  “You wouldn't have hit him unless he threatened you. Or us,” Bradford said, reaching for her hands. They were cold. He held them.

  “You're right,” she whispered. “But I still hit him.”

  She looked so distressed, and Bradford found himself at a loss as to what to say.

  “Mirabelle,” he said softly. “Nothing bad will come of it. It was a good thing. It's finished now.”

  “Yes,” she whispered softly. “It's finished now.”

  The coach rolled down the street, carrying them back towards North Place.

  MIRABELLE LOOKED AT herself in the mirror over the nightstand. She stared at the face she saw there. She would never have believed she would do such things as she had done. She had confronted a thug, helped a man to safety, and now, she had slapped one of those hangers-on of Arthur's.

  The face that looked back at her was pale, with slight gray prints around the eyes from weariness. But in that face, her eyes shone, like sapphires. She felt free.

  She splashed her face in the wash-basin and dried it. Then she pulled the bell and called Della, the made assigned to her, to help her dress for dinner.

  It took a while for the shock to wear off, and the truth to start to settle on her soul. Things could truly be alright now. She and Bradford had faced down Stilton and exposed him. There was no going back for him now. Her debts were settled and the way ahead was clear. Her life was finally free.

  When Della had gone, Mirabelle sat on the bed and felt, through all the weariness and exhaustion of the day, the beginnings of real joy inside herself. She was free now, and safe. Her journey could finally begin.

  For the moment, what she really wanted was a bath, and a dinner. And to go home.

  Chapter 24: A happy day

  THE SUN SHONE IN THROUGH the window onto Mirabelle's eyelids, warming her. She stirred in the bed, under the warm blankets, and smiled.

  She sat up. The sunlight was thinner here, in the North, or so it seemed, filtered through mist over the distant hills. The curtains were open.

  “Milady? You awake already? I was just coming to clean the grates...”

  “Glenna!” Mirabelle beamed, as her gaunt, stalwart maid and friend came lugubriously through the bedroom door. “I'm awake.”

  Glenna's severe countenance softened as she saw her there. “Och, mistress. That's a fine thing. You'll take breakfast here, or in the breakfast-room?”

  “In the breakfast room, I think,” Mirabelle said, smiling. “I have a long day planned.”

  “That's good, milady.”

  While Glenna brushed her hair, she gave Mirabelle a rich and largely-biased account of the goings-on in Dalford, peppered with lamentations and slurs, delivered as richly as custard on dessert.

  “...and then that fellow, as runs the inn, said...Oh!” she interrupted her own train of thought, exclaiming, “I clean forgot about the eggs! A minute, mistress!”

  “Off you go,” Mirabelle said, smiling contentedly. “I'm in no hurry.”

  As it happened, she wasn't. Even though her stomach had been fluttering with joy ever since she woke this morning. Today was an important day.

  Mirabelle was in the parlor sewing, feeling her stomach churn with excitement, when the coach arrived.

  “Mistress! Visitors downstairs!”

  Mirabelle stood and walked briskly down, heart thumping. She saw him in the hallway.

  “Mirabelle!”

  “Bradford!”

  She had barely let out the sound of his name when he caught her in a huge embrace. She felt herself enfolded in those warm arms, held against a chest scented with the musky scent of him, and knew her heart had never felt so happy.

  “I'm so glad to see you,” he said, looking down into her face. His hazel eyes were soft with wonder. She smiled up at him, feeling her heart melt in that tender gaze.

  They kissed.

  Later, as they walked in the grounds, he told her his news. His brother had stayed on in London – apparently there was some need to settle matters for his friend. Culver had decided to marry Marguerite, and rashly confronted his father. The family had rebelled initially, and Elton had stayed to calm the waters. It seemed all was going well.

  “I couldn't be happier for them,” Mirabelle said, her throat tight with joy.

  “No, me neither,” Bradford agreed. “It's a wonderful occurrence.”

  “It is.”

  They stood in silence for a while. They had reached her rose garden, the one she'd made with pride and in defiance of Arthur, all those years ago. Now the antique, precious scent of roses washed across to her on the cool morning air, and there was no longer any defiance. Only love.

  She looked up at Bradford. Together they walked into the garden.

  “You know,” he said, coughing. He wasn't looking at her, and beside her, Mirabelle could feel he'd suddenly gone tense. “You know...with all this going on, and people settling, it occurred to me that I, um...no. Wait. That isn't how I wanted to say it. Mirabelle. Will you marry me?”

  Mirabelle stared at him. He'd slipped i
t in so innocently, she hadn't heard him. Now, caught unawares, his words sneaked up on her. She stared up at him in wonder. Her heart shone.

  “Bradford,” she said, disbelieving. “You...Yes!”

  And then there was no holding back, and all that was left, all she wished, was to hold him in her arms and kiss him, again and again. He was her Bradford, her love, her friend. And now there was nothing between them, but the wonder of their shared joy.

  He was laughing, and when she looked up she saw tears in his eyes, barely reined. She held him and kissed him and laughed, too, at the sheer wonder and enormity of their love, and the joy they shared.

  He looked down into her eyes, and she reached and rested a hand on his shoulder. There, in the midst of her silent, scented garden, they kissed.

  The marriage was set for September. It was the longest they could bear to leave it, but the shortest they could spring it on his relations.

  The day dawned. Mirabelle dressed simply in a long white gown trimmed with Brussels lace, a slender veil on her head, encircled with a wreath of lace. Glenna helped her dress. When she stepped back, her eyes were wet.

  “By, mistress! You're a beauty.”

  Mirabelle sniffed, and looked away, not wanting to spoil her looks by crying. Glenna – crusty, aloof – was crying openly, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “Go on with you,” she protested, flapping a hand at her friend. “I don't want to cry.”

  “No! Don't cry, you silly thing,” Glenna said, reaching for her bouquet, picked from their garden. “Now off you go. Coach is waiting.” She turned away and blew her nose, noisily. Mirabelle hugged her, then stepped away, batting her eyes furiously to stop her tears.

  She headed down the stairs to the hallway.

  The coach was indeed awaiting her.

  She stepped in and they sped off, heading to the chapel.

  The village church in Dalford had been decked out with garlands and white roses. Mirabelle had chosen to have the ceremony here, wanting something small and quiet. Her marriage with Arthur had been all empty fanfare. This time, she wanted something simple, and sincere.

  She had expected only two witnesses – Glenna, and Mr. Headsley, the village schoolmaster. She was in for a surprise.

  “Now, there you are! I did tell them you'd not be late, but who'd believe me. Now, dear, let me help.”

  “Arnott? How did you get here?” Mirabelle stared in wonder at the tall, gaunt figure of Lord Prychley.

  “I went in the coach, of course. How did you reckon I managed?” He asked, straight-faced, though those ice-blue eyes glinted with merriment.

  “I can't believe it!” Mirabelle said. She had to look away, then, or she really would have cried, as he linked his arm with hers and walked with her into the chapel.

  The village had turned out and filled the pews. With them, were faces Mirabelle didn't recognize, in the front, with her guests. She smiled, bemused, and then looked up at the front of the chapel, where the altar was.

  He had been standing facing the preacher, but when she came in, walking up the aisle, he turned. His pale hair shone in the sunlight from the clerestory windows. He saw her and beamed, a smile that mixed love and awe.

  Mirabelle felt her whole body ignite with fierce joy. She floated down the aisle, bot knowing she walked. There, at the front of the church, the village vicar read the ceremony, and they were man and wife.

  Mirabelle looked up at Bradford as he kissed her, and knew she had never felt this solid, real contentment that settled inside her. She was in love. She always would be. This man was the companion who held part of her heart, and always would.

  They walked out of the church together into the light.

  The ceremony had seemed short, and the dinner, too, passed in a blur. The guests were introduced to her as George and Harry – Bradford's brother and his cousin.

  “Regrettably, Elton couldn't be here – he sends his regards from London. And my brother William is on the Continent. You'll meet them both, soon.”

  “Yes, you will,” George beamed, nodding shyly. Mirabelle instantly liked him. He was like Bradford, but totally unlike him. Everyone in the world was unlike him.

  The dinner finally ended, and they were alone together.

  “I...” Bradford said, suddenly nervous. The hall was dark, the guests all gone. Glenna had left too, leaving one lantern burning on the table. There was no ceremony and no fuss – just the two of them, alone, in a house of charcoal shadow.

  Mirabelle looked into his eyes, and saw the longing that filled her being reflected there. In him, it was mixed with a strange shyness that made her feel protective and joyful, at once.

  “Mirabelle,” he whispered. He reached for her and kissed her, so tenderly, so slowly, that she felt her whole body melt under the touch of his lips. He looked into her eyes, uncertainly.

  “Bradford,” she said gently. “Oh, my dearest.”

  She let him push her back against the wall, his body lean and hard and filled with longing, pressed against her own. She held him to her; fiercely, gently. He kissed her again, his tongue in her mouth, lapping at it with all the urgency she felt.

  She looked up into his eyes, her heart beating wildly. He looked back at her and she took his hand. Gently, slowly, they walked up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  As she lay down on the bed, his weight pressing her back against the pillows, her body igniting in ways she had never known, her heart melted with the tender passion he called up in her, she knew that she had never known anything like this before, and that, experienced as she was, this was a place where all the maps stopped, and she was in uncharted waters, tossed on waves of passion she had never known.

  She also knew that there was no uncharted water with him, because her heart and his had known each other since the beginning, and so she would always know the way. They were writing it together.

  Epilogue:

  The morning broke, filtered light shining through the mist, warming her. Mirabelle stirred. She was nestled in bed, hand on Bradford's arm. She woke with the rich contentment she had felt every morning since he came into her life.

  “Dearest?”

  She smiled. She hadn't known he was awake, or that he'd felt her shift beside him.

  “Yes?” she whispered.

  “Mm.”

  He reached for her and his lips moved gently over hers and they kissed.

  When they had parted, they lay beside each other, the warmth of the blankets holding them close in a haze of love. She shifted so her head was on his shoulder and together they waited as the sun slowly rose over the mountains.

  “It's a cold day,” Bradford whispered.

  “Mm,” Mirabelle agreed. “It's been a cold winter.”

  “I suppose,” Bradford agreed. “I hardly noticed.”

  Mirabelle looked up at him. His eyes were half-open, and he was smiling. She chuckled. “Oh, you. You do talk nonsense sometimes.”

  “It's true, I assure you,” he protested, kissing her. “I barely noticed the cold, being too distracted.”

  “Oh?” she giggled, hearing a certain note creep into his voice – one that meant he was as aroused as she was starting to feel.

  “Yes.”

  They made love, and lay back together afterward, lost in blissful warmth.

  Mirabelle came drowsily awake, hearing a pot or something metal clatter to the kitchen floor, then Glenna's muffled curse. She smiled. Things were all as they should be.

  With the debt gone, the house was becoming prosperous again. They ate well, things were clean and well-maintained, and the servants had started to come back. Old Sutton, the fellow who had looked after the stables, had returned first, followed by the gardener, and a maid. They now lived very well, contentedly. Sometimes she heard Glenna sing.

  Bradford stirred and took her hand and she lay there, heart filled with wonder. A thought occurred to her. She smiled, and flipped onto her side, snuggling closer.

  “Bradford?”
>
  “Yes?” he asked, kissing her. He lay quietly.

  “You think George and Elton will be able to make a visit here in spring?”

  “Mayhap,” Bradford allowed, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “George finished with studies this year. I don't think you'll find a happier fellow. Why?”

  Mirabelle chuckled. “Well, I just thought it would be better for them to visit in spring, while I can still be on my feet more.”

  “On your feet?” A worried frown crossed Bradford's face. He reached for her hand. “What do you mean, sweetheart? You're ill?”

  Mirabelle laughed. He looked so horrified! Her heart sang, even as she chuckled at the sweetness of that.

  “No, my dearest,” she said. “I'm not ill. It's wonderful news.”

  “Wonderful news?” Bradford looked down at her, mystified. “How can it be...Oh!” He suddenly put the pieces together, and the picture they made transformed his face with awe. “Mirabelle?”

  “I'm going to have a baby,” she said. Her voice caught in her throat, as tears sprang, utterly unplanned, to her eyes. “Your baby, Bradford.”

  “I...my...You're...Mirabelle!” he was speechless. He leaned down, laughing, eyes shining, and kissed her. She lay back, feeling a contentment she had never known before, flow through her.

  “Oh, Bradford,” she whispered into his ear. This time, as she thought about it, she couldn't keep the tears from flowing, freely, down her face. “It's so wonderful.”

  “Yes, my dearest,” he whispered, feelingly. It is.

  They kissed.

  Inside, everything was wonderful, the small room filled with more happiness than Mirabelle had ever expected possible.

  Outside, over the mountains, the sun rose on a new day.