by Henke, Shirl
Brand's hands were occupied in gesturing as he explained the negative effect of foreign competition on home-grown grains. Good heavens, what if she touched his...limb when she passed the note! Or some place even worse! Seizing her wineglass, which the thoughtful footman Charles had just refilled with a fine claret to accompany the red meat, she took a deep swallow. No, she would have to wait until dinner was over. But that was the time when the ladies would excuse themselves and allow the gentlemen to remain at table with their port.
Then an inspiration came to her. She would have one of the footmen give the note to the baron. Of course, why had she not thought of it before? Because you have been so terrified, you haven't even had the courage to confess it to Tilda, she admonished herself.
She took another swallow of wine. The room was growing rather warm in spite of the cooling breeze from the windows opening onto the garden. She looked down at the slices of pink lamb surrounded by creamed turnips and fresh peas. Lori smiled gratefully at the footman Charles, who knew she detested venison.
Charles! She must give the note to him and instruct him. Once the baron had read it, they could slip away while everyone else was occupied in the parlor. When Charles returned to take her plate, virtually untouched although she'd emptied her wineglass, Lori slipped the note to the infatuated young servant. She murmured instructions under the cover of laughter at an amusing anecdote her mother had just finished telling.
Charles nodded ever so slightly. He had been smitten with her from a distance since coming to work here two years ago. As the next course of plover's eggs in aspic and a mayonnaise of pheasant was served, she watched him slide the note beneath the baron's plate. When Rushcroft took it surreptitiously and slid it inside his jacket, she breathed a sigh of relief...and took another swallow of wine.
Charles was such an attentive dear.
* * * *
By the time the ladies left the gentlemen, Miranda could see that her daughter was quite tipsy. Lori had never done such an unthinkable thing in her life. Her mother would have excused it as a case of nerves—if she had not observed the passing of Lori's note to the baron via that young fool Charles. She would speak to him about such antics, not to mention the way he over attentively refilled her daughter's wineglass.
In the meanwhile, she had to see that Lori retired before social disaster befell. As they made their way down the hall to the parlor, she took her daughter's arm. Begging the other ladies to pardon them and proceed, Miranda guided her into the nearest sitting room.
“You are unwell and must immediately retire to bed. I shall make your excuses,” she said crisply as soon as the door closed behind them.
“I...that is, what...” Lori's tongue suddenly seemed to trip over itself. Forming a coherent thought became inexplicably difficult.
Miranda continued, “You have had too much wine and I fear you'll disgrace yourself. And that is not accounting for the note to the baron.”
“You saw it!” Lori squeaked. Suddenly the room began to spin about her.
“Where did you intend to meet him? In the garden?” Miranda asked, torn between anger at Lori's uncharacteristically scandalous behavior and sheer amazement that her shy child would have the nerve to set up a tryst. Something was definitely amiss here.
In the back of her mind a thought hovered like a vulture waiting to pounce: Was she concerned about Lori's reputation...or was she jealous? She suppressed the absurd idea. She was Mrs. Will Auburn, unshakable woman of business who never lost her calm sense of direction. “I will deal with the baron if he dares to tryst with you. You will go to bed at once,” she said to the befuddled Lori.
But her daughter was not quite so addled as Miranda presumed. One thought flashed into her aching head—her mother and the baron alone...in the garden. Perhaps things would work out in spite of her incapacity. With a sickly nod of acquiescence, Lori murmured, “As you wish, Mother.”
* * * *
Brand reread the note for the tenth time as he stood in a dark corner of the library, inhaling the fragrance of a fine Cuban cigar. As if he did not have enough on his mind, that damnable Callie, mother of the army of attack kittens, sat quietly on the mantel. Sneaky beast. How had she slipped away from her assigned quarters? Across the room, none of the other gentlemen paid her any mind. She stared at Brand with basilisk eyes, as if mocking him for flinching when he saw her.
Just to show her who was the human in charge—and to put off deciding what to do about the note he had just read—he walked back to the cat. Taking a deep breath, he reached up and gave her a pat. She stood up, arching her back. Brand almost jumped out of his skin. He leaped away, praying the other gentlemen would not notice. Then he realized she had begun to purr. She wanted him to pet her some more.
Callie looked at him with an expression that indicated precisely how dense the superior feline race felt mere humans could be. Dare he take another stab at detente? Stepping up to the mantel again, he ran his hand down her back once more as she bowed up and preened. Growing bolder, he scratched her behind one ear and she nuzzled his hand affectionately, then ran her raspy tongue across his fingers. Amazing! Cats reciprocated affection just as dogs and horses did.
Emboldened, he gave her several more strokes before one of his companions called out to him. They were discussing how excellent Mrs. Auburn's choice of cigars was. The luxury was often frowned upon in polite society because Her Majesty disapproved of smoking. Congratulating himself on his first bold step in overcoming a lifelong fear, the baron deserted Callie and strolled back to rejoin the conversation. But in spite of his triumph, the note he'd received continued to burn a hole in his pocket.
He had seen the footman slip it beneath his plate, but who the devil had it come from? It was written on the expensive velum letterhead of the Auburn family, but unsigned. He could not imagine the timid Lorilee asking him to meet her in the garden unchaperoned. So, he concluded, it must have come from her mother. How amazing. What could she want to discuss that couldn't wait until tomorrow? Perhaps she had learned something regarding the attempts on her life.
He would meet the formidable widow and find out.
Chapter Ten
When the ladies and gentlemen reassembled in the parlor, Miranda made Lorilee' s apologies, saying her daughter had taken suddenly ill with a headache. However, their hostess insisted that the party should continue. Brand tried catching her eye as he edged toward the door, but Mrs. Frobisher, the elderly M.P.'s wife, cornered him before he could make his escape to the garden unnoticed.
Thank heavens the woman was myopic. When he excused himself to have a word with her husband across the room, she could not see that he slipped out the door instead. He expected Miranda to join him as soon as she could get away, but several moments passed and still she did not appear. They had to be discreet, so he understood the delay.
He strolled through the garden, which was cool and dimly lit by a couple of gaslights gleaming dully through the lush foliage. Lacy shadows swayed with the gentle summer breeze. Several marble statues of execrable taste were scattered about the elaborate topiary. Will Auburn had designed this garden to impress everyone with his wealth. Brand was certain of it. The same was true of the house and its interior. Auburn's home was a monstrosity of neo-Gothic architecture and massive, garishly carved furniture that literally made the floor groan beneath its weight.
It was as if, like their Yankee counterparts, the British noveau riche had to be absolutely certain everyone knew just how wealthy and, hence, how powerful they were. And the only way to do this was through a display of sheer mass. Even a sterling table knife weighed as much as a claymore, Brand thought contemptuously. But he was certain that Miranda Auburn had not chosen such vulgar ostentation. Her own Spartan taste in clothing revealed her preference, whether she was dressed to conceal her beauty or to reveal it. No, the late Mr. Auburn was responsible for this mausoleum and all its trappings.
He wondered why she had never changed anything. Most women live
d to refurbish their homes. Yet she left everything intact here and at her place of business, formerly her husband's place of business. Brand was growing more than passingly curious about the relationship between young Miranda and the husband who had been more than twice her age when he wed her. What hold from beyond the grave did he have on her?
Dare he ask such a personal question? In the past whenever he became too familiar, she'd given him firm set-downs, but he wanted to understand why such a beautiful woman had sequestered herself behind office walls. A widow of her wealth could have remarried and spent her life in a giddy social whirl. Then he smiled to himself. Miranda was hardly the social sort, much less giddy.
He could tell that she detested the protocol of pairing up dinner partners in order of rank. She'd looked bored to tears by the time the last tablecloth was stripped and the desserts served. If not for the political arguments, which some of the guests found unseemly, she would have nodded off during the soup course. So would he.
Lorilee, on the other hand, loved parties and had bubbled on about fashions, balls and the latest gossip with glee. How could he explain why he could not marry her without crushing her? Oh, he had no illusions that she fancied herself in love with him. She had been too wary and prim to indicate a girlish infatuation whenever they were in close proximity. The preceding week when he'd waltzed with her at the Mountjoys' ball, she had been as tense as a tightly wound watch spring.
But he was, after all, he thought bitterly, a fair catch on the marriage mart for a rich tradesman's daughter—her entree to the aristocracy. If she lost him, there would be gossip and speculation, the very worst thing for a debutante. He paced back and forth, searching for a way to untangle a Gordian knot, knowing that direct severance was not an option.
A tiny mew distracted him from his troubling thoughts. One of Callie' s kittens stood at his feet, poised to climb his pant leg. Emboldened by his luck with the mama, he felt the kitten to be no threat. Its round-eyed little face looked incredibly appealing and innocent in the moonlight. He scooped up the fur ball and began petting it as he paced. Again he was rewarded with the fierce vibrations of purring. Perhaps he was cured of his phobia of cats, he thought with a small smile. Then again, there still was Marm to consider.
Miranda stood hidden in the shadows of a willow, amazed as she watched him with the kitten. She knew there was little time to dawdle. With Lori already retired, she would be quickly missed. So would the baron. But she could not take her eyes off the way he cradled the small animal so gently in the palm of one hand...that scarred hand with its long, elegant fingers. I cannot think such thoughts!
What a shambles this whole evening was becoming! She should be furious with her daughter for sending the note and using Dutch courage in order to do it. But instead she forced herself to blame Brandon Caruthers. How dare he respond to such an improper request and endanger Lori's reputation! Fueling herself with righteous indignation, she stepped from the concealment of a willow tree and approached him.
Brand gently set the kitten down. Without turning, he said, “I wondered if it would be you or your daughter.”
Caught off guard, she blurted out, “How did you know it was I?” What had made her say such a stupid thing? As his eyes met hers in the moonlight, her breath caught and she fought the instinct to take a step back.
“Your scent,” he replied.
She did take a step back. “I do not wear perfume,” she replied in as frosty a tone as she could muster, although the moment she said it, she knew that was not what he meant.
His smile was as lazy as his drawl. “I know. It's your essence. Unique. Miss Auburn wears a lovely, light floral perfume. You don't require any artifice besides the lavender you rinse your hair with.” Without realizing he was doing it, Brand took another step toward her, closing the distance between them.
This time she stood her ground. “I did not come out here to discuss scents, but sense—as in common sense. And propriety. What ever made you respond to my daughter's request to meet her here? It was ill advised of her, but she's young and inexperienced in such matters. You should know better.”
“First of all, since the note wasn't signed, I wasn't sure which of you—”
“You thought I'd arrange a tryst with you in the moonlight?” she practically hissed. The idea that he had come here to meet her was a possibility she did not wish to consider.
“Well,” he chuckled, “I confess it didn't seem likely. But I didn't think your daughter would want to 'tryst' with me either. Miss Lorilee isn't exactly starry-eyed with infatuation over me, in case you hadn't noticed. Thinking about it now, I expect that's why she had to work up her courage with all that wine before she could face me.”
Miranda groaned. “You noticed her overindulgence. I suppose everyone else has, too. I don't know what's gotten into her.”
“She didn't tell you why she sent the note, which I assume you saw me receive.”
Miranda shook her head. “Yes...that is, I saw that footman—who is infatuated with her—pass you the note. Unfortunately, she was in no condition to explain it”
“Then wouldn't it have been wiser to let me stew out here after you sent her to her room?”
The question was quite reasonable, but at the moment, Miranda was feeling anything but reasonable. “I felt you deserved a proper dressing down for taking advantage of an innocent.”
“As I said, I doubt that your daughter's intent was romantic. I merely wanted to see who'd show up...” He let the words trail away as his eyes moved slowly down her neck to the soft pale flesh voluptuously revealed by her evening gown. The sudden urge to reach out and trace his fingertips across her collarbone took him utterly by surprise. So much so he nearly did it. “Miranda...”
“I have not given you permission to use my Christian name, Major! And I find your behavior most offensive.” She brought her hand up to her throat, as if to conceal the pounding of her pulse. “You are my daughter's suitor, not mine,” she said, as much to remind herself as to remind him.
“I apologize, ma'am. You're quite right,” he said softly.
“I believe our agreement may not be working out to my expectations.” She struggled for icy hauteur but managed only breathless wariness.
“Miss Lorilee is as skittish as a colt around me,” he agreed thoughtfully. So are you. “Do you think she's changed her mind? That could be what she wanted to tell me tonight.”
It made sense, but Miranda was in no condition to think straight with those hot tiger's eyes watching her. Yet she stood rooted to the ground like the damned willow tree, unable to move as he stepped closer and raised his hand, then lowered it when she finally managed to get out, “Yes, it might be that. I... I shall have to speak with her.”
The world spun and her heart pounded as if it would burst from her chest. She was acting like a moonstruck girl! He was years her junior and an utter rogue. Had she imagined that he had nearly touched her—in a most improper way? Or, worse yet, was it just her own foolish fantasy?
Suddenly a voice called out into the darkness, “Mrs. Auburn?” It was Fitzsimmons, the butler.
“I shall be in momentarily, Mr. Fitz,” she managed to reply as she turned away from Brand.
He let her go. Every fiber of his being ached to touch her, but he knew that to do so was folly. Instead he called after her softly, “Miranda... ‘Oh, brave new world that has such creatures in it!’ ”
She spun around. “Your recall of Shakespeare is faulty. The proper line is 'O, brave new world that has such people in't.' Miranda is speaking to Ferdinand, not he to her,” she snapped. Then she vanished into the house.
Well, he'd truly jumped into the hog wallow now. Damn, what was he thinking? There would be no money to rebuild the Rushcroft estate if their agreement was broken. He stood to lose everything. But he'd been thinking all evening of nothing but a way to let down Lorilee Auburn gently. Why had he not simply explained that to her mother?
But no, he had practically stalked M
iranda Auburn as if he intended to seduce her in the moonlight. As if a woman like she would allow such an outrageous thing! Brand walked around the willow, combing his fingers through his hair as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened between them. When the kitten reappeared, he picked it up without thinking. Stroking its soft fur soothed his troubled thoughts.
Ever since Ascot, he had been struck by Miranda's surprising beauty. But even before that, something...elusive had attracted him to her. And, unless he was misreading all the signs—something he seldom did where women or horses were concerned—she was equally attracted to him.
Where might it lead? Madness!
Brand prayed that his sudden insight into what Lorilee had wanted to say to him was correct. She was the wronged party in this whole mess. The last thing he'd ever intended was to hurt her. Then he smiled ruefully. With a protective mama bear like the widow looking out for her welfare, Miss Lori would emerge unscathed. He only wished he could say the same for himself.
* * * *
“Ooh, my head,” Lori whimpered as she clutched her stomach, doubling over so her throbbing skull rested between her knees. She was huddled wretchedly in the middle of her bed. “I'm afraid I'm going to die,” she moaned.
“Never worry. In a bit you'll be more afraid that you're going to live,” Tilda replied briskly, propping pillows behind the girl.
“What would I do without your tender sympathies?” Lori croaked as the older woman gently helped her lean back.
“Here, drink this.”
“Ugh!” Lori turned her head from the toxic-smelling brew in the cup. “What is it?”