by Carrie Lomax
“By Atlantic standards, perhaps,” Miri laughed. Her skirts were wet and heavy around her legs. As refreshing as the saltwater was, she knew she would not be sea bathing for more than a few minutes longer. “Where is your foreign friend?”
Lizzie’s expression shaded. “We have had a falling out. I don’t know that he’ll come today.”
She reached behind her and splashed the lad who had sent her into the wave. “Cheeky brat!” he yelled, slapping water back at her. Miriam stepped out of the way. A child, no more than eight, paddled by. Recognizing him, Miriam caught his ankle. He flipped onto his back and kicked free, knocking her into the water.
Miriam laughed when she surfaced, shaking water out of her face. The hat was gone, floating a few feet away. The boy retrieved it and tossed the soggy thing to a friend, who caught it and pretended to use it as a bucket.
“Look out!”
A large wave caught her off-guard. Miriam tripped over her skirts and fell with a splash. Lizzie bobbed in the waves a few feet away, her bare foot propped against her new lad’s chest. Though everyone looked younger while wet, Miriam guessed the man couldn’t be more than twenty—hardly older than Lizzie herself.
Bobbing in the water, Miriam felt the weight of her skirts lighten. They swirled around in the sandy silt churned by waves and feet. She turned her face to the sun. Lord Richard wasn’t coming today. Freckles be damned.
“Look out!”
Miriam rolled aside. The ruined hat, now a toy, plopped where her face had been a moment before. Lizzie laughed hysterically. “Good aim, Spence!”
“That’s my head you were aiming at!” Miriam laughed and tried to kick water at him but was hampered by her skirts. She recognized Spencer Laughton as one of Lizzie’s many distant cousins. The Laughtons had taken a family mill and, over two ruthless generations, turned it into an enterprise stretching from Chicago to New York. Lizzie’s mother was a Laughton, as well.
“Aye, and I’d have nailed you too if Lizzie hadn’t shouted warning!” Spencer splashed away, out of range. A dark scowl flitted over Lizzie’s face. Miriam turned to glance over her shoulder. A tall, well-formed man dressed in white linen sauntered up the beach. A frisson of anticipation skittered through Miriam. She forced her attention back to Lizzie.
“Hmph. If he thinks he can just show up late and pretend that everything’s all right, Lord Fancypants has another think coming.” Lizzie turned and dove in the water toward Spencer. She popped out of the water and kissed him square on the lips.
A beat of collective astonishment settled over the beach. Even Spencer’s eyes had grown wide as wagon wheels. He alone looked pleased. The youngest child whooped, and the spell broke.
Miriam glanced up the beach to where the Englishman had stopped. From this distance and with so short an acquaintance, she could detect no sign of irritation. Instead, he casually bent to pick up something from the beach. She felt cold standing there ankle-deep in the water, so she splashed her way out and worked her way up the shore in the direction of her tent. By the time she collapsed in its shade Miriam was panting. Mrs. Kent cast fluttered nervously at her side as they spread Miriam’s sand-crusted skirts wide to dry.
“May I sit?” a man asked in a wonderfully accented, low voice. Miriam could close her eyes and listen to him talk all day. His voice vibrated through her. Miriam had been waiting for so long for something to happen to her, and now she began to wonder if Lord Northcote was it. Lizzie was done with him. She had said as much herself. Surely that made it all right?
“By all means,” Miriam replied as though she wasn’t shivering in sodden, sand-spattered linen. Mrs. Kent cast them both a baleful glare and wrapped a sun-warmed blanket around her shoulders.
He was silent for several minutes. “I would guess that Lizzie has told you that she and I have parted ways.”
“Yes, she has indicated as much.” Perhaps it was simply the harsh light of the beach, but Lord Richard appeared off, his expression pained, his skin slightly ashen. It seemed an odd phrasing: I would guess. Maybe the English had a slightly different way of discussing delicate matters. She had heard that Americans were considered overly forthright. Lizzie more than most.
“Well. It is true,” he continued, shifting his weight back onto his palms. Lord Northcote possessed admirable arms. His were corded with muscle and sprinkled with dark hair. He sounded oddly resigned.
“Did you not want the association to end?” Miriam asked as delicately as she could.
“On the contrary, I am thoroughly pleased by it.” Lord Richard glanced at her. “Lizzie washes into one’s life like one of those waves and recedes just as quickly. I am free to pursue a closer acquaintance with you, Miriam.”
Miriam felt her heart swell and pump erratically in her chest. “Me?” she finally squeaked.
The man’s thick lashes lowered and rose like curtains. Tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You, Miriam. What do you think our falling out was about?” Lord Northcote reached out one large, warm hand and enfolded her fingers within his. He placed something hard in her hand. “May I call on you this evening, Miss Walsh?”
“Yes,” Miriam replied breathlessly. “Yes, please, do.”
Lord Northcote pushed off the ground and rose in a fluid motion that made Miriam’s heart flip. He bowed and sauntered away, unconcerned by the awkwardness his presence had brought to the stony beachfront. Miriam opened her hand looked down at the object in her palm.
An oyster shell. Oysters were supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Innocent girls were not supposed to know of such things, but she was well-read in the classics and girls at school had liked to pass around scandalous reading material. Had Northcote known she would recognize the significance, or was Miriam reading too much into it?
“Miss Walsh?” Mrs. Kent hovered nearby. “Miss Walsh, it is past time to be headed back to our lodgings.” The older woman wore a pinched, worried expression.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“I do like him, in fact, what little I know of him. But I do not like Lizzie and never have, as you well know. That he has been…” Mrs. Kent trailed off. “If they were involved, then it does not speak well of him. You deserve someone who is entirely honorable, not someone who flits from girl to girl in the space of an afternoon.”
The thought turned Miriam’s stomach. Lizzie was great fun but careless of the consequences of her actions upon others. Worse, she had a temper and a mean streak. Together the women disassembled the makeshift tent.
“You aren’t having trouble breathing?” asked Mrs. Kent worriedly.
“No. The sea air is beneficial.”
“Mrs. Kent, I would like to see Lord Richard again,” Miriam said as she shook the sand from her still-damp skirts and accepted a small stack of poles. Her nurse labored to hoist the heavy roll of tent canvas.
“This evening is your aunt’s Dance Beneath the Stars,” Mrs. Kent huffed warily. “I expect you may have a dance with the Englishman before retiring. There are always more ladies than there are partners. Mark my words, though, Miriam. Handsome men bring nothing but heartbreak.”
Chapter 6
Miriam had brought few gowns to the shore. She regarded her options critically, thinking of the gilt-threaded, bejeweled creations hanging in her wardrobe at Cliffside, her father’s country residence.
“The gray silk is beautiful on you,” Mrs. Kent opined.
Lord Northcote had not called. Miriam had secreted the oyster shell beside her paste jewels for temporary safe-keeping. She brought it out when she thought her companion wasn’t looking to thumb the smooth interior. A gift whose significance was wholly unsuitable to an unmarried woman. The doctor and her father had advised her against marriage. An asthma attack could harm a baby or prove fatal in childbirth. Miriam chafed at the restriction. A man who had allied himself with Lizzie seemed like the kind of man who could offer a rebellion against the strict limits upon her life.
“I was thinking the rose is pr
ettier on me. It brightens my complexion, don’t you think?” Miriam asked, holding one aloft. The soft evening light filtering in through the window added a radiance she didn’t ordinarily possess.
“Both are lovely.” Mrs. Kent clearly preferred the gray silk. Miriam chose the pink anyway. Mrs. Kent set to arranging Miriam’s hair, threading imitation pearls into her glossy dark curls. Mrs. Kent wore her usual shapeless black dress. At her side hung the leather case that the physician had given her to aid Miriam during an asthma attack. It contained a light bowl, a flask of hot water which Mrs. Kent dutifully refreshed before each excursion, and vials of vile substances. Though Miriam hated the constant reminder of her physical limitations, she loved Mrs. Kent, who had been more mother to her than her own unremembered one.
Music spilled out over the verandah of the party. Each summer, Lizzie’s aunt hosted a gala at the shore. There was dancing, punch, and a pig roasted on a spit. The punch was liberally spiked, and last year even Mrs. Kent had enjoyed a glass or two. Miriam stood with her family at the edge of the party, scanning the crowds for Lord Northcote. For the second time that day, he hadn’t joined the party. Perhaps he didn’t know he was invited. How lonely for him to be left out of the festivities, especially with his parting from Lizzie.
Miriam sipped a glass of punch. Spotting Lizzie with Spence’s arm over her shoulder between dances, she marched over. “Lizzie, I hate to ask but I must. Where is Lord Northcote staying?”
“At the cabin,” replied Lizzie, a gleam in her eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I was thinking. If he came here for you, and now you two have split, perhaps he doesn’t know that everyone is welcome to the Dance Beneath the Stars. Someone ought to tell him, don’t you think?”
“If you want to tell him, go right ahead, Miriam. I do believe he would appreciate the company.” Lizzie turned to Spencer and kissed him. How long before word of her most recent dalliance got back to Arthur?
It wasn’t her affair. Miriam turned away from the sight and hurried away from the party. The whitewashed exterior glowed in the rising moonlight. Before she could second-guess herself, she gathered her skirts and bounded up the steps. She rapped loudly at the door. Footfalls on floorboards indicated someone was inside. Her heart leapt into her throat as the rough door scraped open.
“Hello, Miss Walsh.”
Miriam gulped. Lord Northcote had just finished shaving. She recognized the scent of his soap, besides which the man was naked to the waist, his shirt flung carelessly over a nearby chair. A single candle in a glass dome flickered next to the washstand.
“I—”
“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine? As you see, I am not quite ready for the evening’s entertainments.” His dark eyes dared her to wickedness. Lightheaded, Miriam held his gaze. He smirked and turned his back, giving her a full view of the play of his muscles and the indentation of his spine. Richard’s broad shoulders sloped into narrow hips and two tight rounds of buttocks. Miriam exhaled at the thought of grasping them with both hands as he…did ungentlemanly things between her thighs. The specifics of what he would do there remained vague in her imagination. Miriam had been horrified when Mrs. Kent had explained the mechanics of sexuality to her. Yet the idea of twining their bodies together held a sudden, visceral appeal.
Inside the little cabin, A bottle of wine sat on the table. There was only one glass, with a red ring in the bottom. Lord Richard poured water into the vessel, tossed it, and wiped the rim with a rag.
“Yes. Please.” Miriam needed the glass of wine, after the hot flush of desire that left her weak-kneed. She was deeply aware that she had broken every rule by coming here. “May I take it on the porch while you finish your preparations?”
“Of course. I admire your sense of propriety, Miss Walsh.” Richard returned and passed the glass through the door. Their fingertips brushed as she accepted the vessel. Another ripple of desire ran up her arm like a stone thrown into a pond at the light contact. “I was not sure whether I would be welcome at the party this evening.”
“You are. I have come to personally ask you to the dance.” Miriam thought her words came out smoothly considering the turmoil that made the red liquid in her cup tremble on account of weak fingers.
“Then I shall attend, Miss Walsh, on one condition. You must promise me a waltz.”
Miriam shivered. “Of course.”
She returned outside and held the wine glass unsteadily. Miriam could envision herself promising Lord Northcote anything he asked of her.
Richard kept silent as they walked along the path. The sounds of merriment echoed into the night: barks of laughter, the ebb and flow of voices in conversation. Threaded through the sounds were strains of music.
Before anyone could spot them, Richard reached forward and tugged her hand. “Wait. You should go in first. I don’t need the guilt of taking a shine off your sterling reputation, Miss Walsh.”
“I confess myself touched at your concern for my welfare, Lord Northcote,” she responded breathlessly.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you?” Miriam asked, pressing closer to his strong body. The hard press of his thighs against her skirts sent a fluttery sensation through her midsection.
“Richard. In truth, I am called lord only by courtesy.” His arm braced at the small of her back. Too familiar but too delicious to make him stop. A warm summer breeze kissed her exposed skin at the neckline of her modest, girlish gown and her forearms, but it did little to cool the heat on her cheeks.
“What does that mean, precisely?” she asked.
“It means I am in no danger of inheriting a title. I am only styled lord because I had the very good fortune of being born to an earl,” he explained in a bored tone. Richard must have tried to explain this to many of her fellow countrymen.
“Then, why won’t you be an earl one day? Isn’t that how it works?” After the unthinkable happened. Miriam shuddered at the thought. This was not a night to summon death.
“Because there is only one earldom, and I have an older brother who has inherited it,” Richard replied patiently.
“Oh,” Miriam replied, feeling small. Of course, there would only be a single heir. Primogeniture wasn’t the law here as it was in England, but she had read about it.
“The only way I can become the earl is if my brother and his newborn son were to perish,” Richard continued. “I am not such a monster as to desire the death of a babe.” He paused. “Though undoubtedly some would describe me as such.”
“Why?” she asked. But he only cast her a sidelong glance and sighed.
Miriam felt as though she should offer him something in return for his rueful confession. “You can call me Miri if you like. Only my father and Lizzie do now. It sounds childish, though.”
“I disagree. It is beautiful, and perfectly suited to a goddess of the night.” He caressed her jaw with the back of one knuckle. She raised her face to his and found Richard staring at her with a hooded, unreadable gaze. Miriam glanced away.
“I never had a nickname.” His arm fell away from her waist, and they continued along the beach as though the intimate moment hadn’t happened. Miriam would have called his words sad, but the lament in his voice conveyed too much raw pain for such a tepid description.
“Not even Richie, as a little boy?” she asked.
Richard lifted on shoulder. “No one ever cared enough to give me one, I suppose. My older brother called me Itchy when we were young. He was barely two when I was born and could hardly pronounce my name.”
Miriam snorted a laugh. Her hands flew to her lips. Horror washed through her. What must he think?
Richard laughed too. Relief washed through her as bracing as a winter wind off the Hudson River.
“Rich?” Miriam tried the name on for size and decided that she didn’t like it.
“Inapt, for I am as poor as a church mouse.”
“Oh.” Miriam had no idea what to say to this reve
lation. She had never been poor. She could not imagine the first thing about her life if she did not have ample resources to pay for her lodgings, for fine gowns, for a full-time trained nurse and the best physicians in America, along with visits to the seaside whenever her health took a turn for the delicate. Physical labor was not an option. It would kill her in short order if she attempted it. Even with the agreeable sea air, splashing about in shallow water had stolen her breath. What would it be like to lose her fortune and her family in a single stroke of bad luck?
They stood there in the shadows of the party, watching.
“Do you like working?” Miriam asked, inanely.
“I find that I do, actually. It was not until I came to America that I learned to value physical exertion. In England the upper-class scorn labor, generally. Unfairly, as I am starting to understand,” he responded after a moment. She liked his thoughtfulness.
“I work for my father sometimes. Small things, like researching investments.” Miriam did not mention the substantial pile of money that she had amassed by investing her own money. Her one act of rebellion had been to open an account in the name of Marshall Walsh, which she held independently, with her father’s approval and occasional assistance. “Things that don’t trigger my asthma.”
“Is it difficult, living with a delicate condition?” Richard asked.
The last thing Miriam wanted was his pity. “It’s nothing if I manage it. I can’t exercise to any great extent. Overtaxing myself always triggers an episode. It is worse in the late summer and fall, which is why I spend so much time at the seaside. That and of course it is so wonderfully pleasant here.”
“It is, truly. I had not expected such a wild place.” Richard remarked. He sounded genuine.
“Are the rumors true? Did your brother send you into exile?” The question burst out of Miriam. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’ve overstepped. I am unable to fathom such a thing. How could a sibling do that to his own brother? I would have loved to have a sister or brother while growing up…”