And Then Comes Marriage

by Celeste Bradley

  She forgot all about tardy callers and china dogs and undermining butlers and her own peculiar outburst.

  “You … he … I…” She blinked. “… seem to require a chair.”

  * * *

  Miranda sat in her chair, like royalty on a throne.

  I am Queen. In this house, I am Queen.

  Except that at this moment, she felt more like a criminal on trial.

  Resilience. She would not allow anything to rob her of her newfound confidence and stature. She was a wealthy, independent woman. She could handle anything that came down her road.

  Even prepared as she was, when she raised her eyes at last to look at the two men seated across from her on her putridly puce sofa in her ludicrously dog-infested parlor, she gasped slightly.

  One of them sardonically lifted a corner of his mouth at her small sound of surprise. The other only gazed at her earnestly.

  She looked down again, pressing her damp palms to her lap, sliding them over her skirt, smoothing what did not need to be smoothed. I need to be smoothed! I am feeling rather ragged at the moment!

  Because she’d known, of course. She’d realized it the instant she truly accepted that there were two of them.

  She had kissed the wrong man.

  Unable to suppress a small recoil at the notion, she twined her fingers together on her lap to keep them from flapping wildly in the air like wings broken by sheer mortification.

  “What you must think of me.” To her astonishment, her voice sounded low, smooth, and composed.

  Then she frowned and lifted her head, her attention snapping from one twin to the other. “Or rather, what must I think of you?”

  The earnest one held up his hands. “Miranda, it wasn’t intentional, truly—”

  “I see. One of you accidentally tripped and landed on my lips?”

  The cool one raised a brow. “That’s just what he said to me,” he commented in a low voice. “Perhaps the two of you have more in common than I thought.”

  She watched as the earnest one—the one she was beginning to suspect was her Mr. Worthington—er, her first Mr. Worthington—oh, bother it—turned eagerly to his twin.

  “That’s just what I was trying to tell you! It is I who belongs here, not you!”

  The cool one just looked arrogantly mulish—which seemed to be a rather well-set expression on his handsome features. Miranda suspected that it settled there often.

  She decided she didn’t like him at all. Yes, she much preferred the first one—the other one—

  “Oh, bother!” She shook her head with impatience. “Will you please introduce yourselves properly before I am driven entirely insane?” Because I am halfway there, I truly am.

  The earnest one, the first Mr. Worthington she was sure, confirmed her suspicions at once. He leaned forward. “Forgive us, Miranda. I am Pollux Worthington. Poll. I am the fellow who saved you from a snagged heel in the cobbles and I am the only one you encountered until yesterday morning—”

  “—when I saved you from a steam explosion—” The Other Worthington cast his brother an arch glance, as if to claim the superior rescue—which, in all fairness, it had been. “—and you invited me back to your house.”

  She scoffed. “I did not! I wouldn’t! I don’t even know you!” She glared at him. Such nerve! “I—invited—” She pointed to his brother. “—him.”

  Pollux nodded. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  The Other Worthington leaned forward to fix her with that peculiarly luminous green gaze. “You may have invited him, but you kissed me,” he said softly. Then he leaned back and spread his arms over the back of the settee. “And you know it, Mira.”

  Well, yes, her belly trembled a little and she might have pressed her thighs together ever so slightly beneath her full skirts, but she was sure that no sign of her disquiet showed when she lifted her chin. “Sir, we have not been introduced—and I certainly have not given you leave to address me by my given name—” Mira, he called her, as her mother had, disdaining the formality of Miranda. “—nor any versions of it!”

  He only tilted his head as he boldly fixed his gaze on her mouth.

  Poll elbowed his brother without the slightest attempt at subtlety. “He is Castor. Cas. He is insufferable—but in all honesty, he is still better than most of the blokes I know. And please do not let his general loutishness fool you. He likes you. We both do. Therein lies our dilemma, in fact. We both wish to court you.”

  Miranda drew back. She had not thought she would see either of them again after this horrifying revelation. How could they even think she would wish to continue seeing either of them, much less both? It was unthinkable, absurd, absolutely insupportable!

  So impossible was the very notion, in fact, that she’d already begun to imagine the endless, culturally enriching, politically educational, deathly boring afternoons with only Mr. Seymour for company.

  Fortitude. She inhaled deeply. She ignored Cas Worthington’s unconcealed appreciation of the general vicinity of her bodice. Lout.

  Then she rose to her feet. Both men stood as one, in movements of such eerie, mirrorlike similarity that Miranda was momentarily distracted from her purpose.

  Recovering quickly, she clasped her hands before her. “My most sincere regrets, Mr. Pollux Worthington, Mr. Castor Worthington, but I do not feel that it would be appropriate for a woman in my position to consent to such an outré arrangement. Now, I fear I must bid you good day.”

  She was gratified to see that the hand she extended toward the door did not tremble in the slightest.

  Poll looked terribly disappointed, and sent her a deeply wounded glance as he turned toward the door. Regret pierced Miranda. She’d so enjoyed his company. Her life had been much brightened these last weeks by his humor and his kindness and—

  “Wait!”

  Miranda went very still as she realized that it had been she who had spoken. To be truthful, she’d very nearly shouted.

  Both men stopped in the doorway and turned back toward her, Pollux standing slightly closer to her than Castor, who remained in the shadows of the hall.

  Miranda smiled tremulously at Poll. “Sir, I do not suppose it would be too difficult to put this untoward event behind us. You and I … we might continue our … our friendship, might we not?”

  Poll brightened for an instant, but then his expression fell. “No.”

  Miranda blinked. No? Oh, for pity’s sake, why not?

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, why not?” she asked sharply. Oh, dear. Her temper had not been improved by the day’s strange turn.

  She thought she heard a muffled snort from the man in the shadow of the doorway. Poll was not laughing, however. He looked entirely serious.

  “Miranda, you must understand—Cas likes you.”

  The feeling is not mutual, she almost said, but that would be somewhat less than the truth, and after a lifetime of hiding her true feelings, Miranda had vowed to be as truthful as possible, especially with herself.

  Instead, she limited herself to a single complete truth. “I do not understand.”

  Poll ran a restless hand through his hair. “I like you, so Cas cannot court you. Cas likes you, so I cannot court you. It is … it is an issue of honor, I suppose.”

  “It is an issue of life expectancy,” murmured a deep, matching voice behind him.

  Poll’s elbow shot backwards, though his earnest attention never left her. Miranda was quite certain he was not even aware of his own motion.

  She frowned, trying to decipher the variables of this “honor issue.”

  “So, if I am not mistaken, you are saying that one of you cannot court me … unless both of you court me?”

  Poll looked relieved. “Precisely.”

  Since Miranda had been shooting wildly in the dark—the stormy, windy, flying-debris sort of dark—she wasn’t at all sure she had been precise about anything. “If I desire one caller—” Oh, why had she used the word desire? “—then I must allow two?”r />
  Poll nodded. “Yes, yes. You understand.”

  She sighed. “No, I don’t.”

  Twin suitors? If she was scandalized by the notion, she was sure that the rest of Society would be agog. Constance would have kittens on the spot.

  However, she had been very secluded until Mr. Poll Worthington came around … and Mr. Seymour as well, of course. She didn’t care to think about going back to those long, dreary, endless days.

  Yet, what of her reputation? What would the world think of her?

  Do you mean the world that has forgotten you exist?

  Who could blame it if it had?

  I had very nearly forgotten that I existed.

  She shook off that thought, forcing her mind back to the most important question of all.

  What of all the many hard-won years of demure, circumspect caution? Could she risk all of that now?

  She had guarded her respectability as if it would keep her company during the long days of her widowhood, a chill but self-righteous companion.

  Just like Constance.

  “Fine!” She threw her hands wide. “Mr. Pollux Worthington, I choose you!”

  Poll looked sincerely flattered, but a glance at his brother had him shrugging in regret. “I’m sorry, Miranda, but I cannot accept your decision so quickly. In order for this to be a fair fight for your affections, you must give Cas a reasonable period of acquaintance.”

  He smiled at her so warmly that the back of her neck started to tickle.

  “But I thank you for the honor of your preference.” He shot a triumphant glance at his twin.

  For his part, Castor looked irritated and a bit … hurt? Blast it, she was going to end up hurting someone, couldn’t they see that?

  Didn’t they care that someone was going to get their heart broken in this mad scheme?

  It might be me.…

  She brushed that thought away. She had no intention of falling in love. What a ridiculous notion. She’d known several gentlemen in her life and she’d never been the slightest bit tempted to fall in love with any of them. Ergo, she did not have the disposition to fall in love.

  She could not give a heart to be broken if she couldn’t give her heart.

  Entirely simple. Or at least, it ought to be.

  Unsure, she frowned at her two tormentors. “I must allow both of you to call—forever? Or until one of you becomes bored? Are there some parameters to this odd arrangement?” Then a horrible thought struck her. “Have you done this before?”

  “No!” Poll assured her—

  “Well, yes, actually,” Cas interjected.

  Poll turned to his brother. “We have not!”

  “Remember when Mama forced us to that dancing master—?”

  “Yes, the one with the single hair wound seventy times about his pate—”

  “And there were one too many fellows—”

  “And we had to—oh, right.” Poll turned back to Miranda. “We have done this before, once, when we shared the attentions of one Miss Leticia Montgomery.”

  “A porcelain beauty, with hair as black as night,” Cas murmured. “She loved the attention.”

  Poll’s smile became slightly fixed as he looked sheepishly at Miranda. “Yes, well … that was rather long ago.”

  Miranda narrowed her eyes at him. “How long ago?”

  Poll turned back to Cas. “When was that? There was—”

  “—that long winter when we—”

  “—couldn’t leave the house for the ice—”

  “—and it was the year after that—”

  Poll turned back to Miranda, who was fast losing patience with their strange method of conversing.

  He smiled apologetically. “Eleven.”

  Eleven years ago. They would have been about nineteen or twenty, wouldn’t they? Old enough to know better. Shocking. Miranda closed her eyes briefly. “Eleven years ago?”

  “Eleven years of age.” That was Cas’s voice, arrogant and amused.

  She opened her eyes. Oh.

  Heavens, I’ll wager they were adorable. I’ll wager even more that they were terrors. Little raven-haired Miss Leticia Montgomery in dancing class hadn’t stood a chance against them.

  As the smile twisted the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts to remain cool and regal, Miranda was beginning to fear that she herself stood very little chance as well.

  Oh no.

  Oh yes.

  Chapter Nine

  Miranda answered her own door the next afternoon, positive that Mr. Poll Worthington would be standing on her step and not wishing to miss a moment of his presence. His brother she did not look forward to seeing again. At all.

  Instead, there stood a skinny little girl of perhaps twelve years.

  “Ah. Hello.” Miranda cast a glance about the street for any sign of a governess, nurse, or mother. Goodness, the poor little thing was all on her own! “Do you need help, little one?”

  “I’m not little. I’m twelve and three quarters.” The girl strode into Miranda’s house without invitation. Once in the entrance hall, she stood with her arms crossed, sharp green eyes taking in every detail of the house.

  Miranda frowned at her little intruder. “Is there something I can do for you?” Although she would wager that this self-assured little person did not require anyone’s help.

  The girl turned to her. “I’m Atalanta Worthington.”

  “Oh!” Miranda smiled. “I should have known it by your lovely green eyes. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance!” The little girl shot her a sour glance. Miranda tried again. “I’ve heard a great deal about you!”

  Mr. Poll Worthington had perhaps mentioned that he occasionally feared for the life of anyone who made an enemy of Attie Worthington—but Miranda couldn’t see how that was possible. She was just a wee little thing! Not very tall, and as thin as a straw. She looked as though she might break in a strong wind!

  Miranda held out a hand, gesturing welcome. “Please, come and sit with me. I’ll ring for some tea and cakes, shall I?”

  Little Atalanta settled on the sofa with her gawky ankles askew beneath her slightly too long dress and her hair quite frankly a mess under that many-times-crushed bonnet. Miranda had to wonder who had the care of the child. To not only let her wander the streets of London, but to send her out in such a state as well!

  Miranda’s untapped maternal instinct bubbled up and she found her fingers absolutely twitching to take a hairbrush to the girl’s untidy mop of amber-red curls.

  “Have you any interesting news to tell of your family, Miss Atalanta? I’ve heard so many tales now, I feel as if I know you all.”

  Attie glared at her with such ferocity, Miranda fought the urge to scan the room for weaponry that might be used against her. She dealt with the children from the home often enough to know a sad, bereft child when she saw one, no matter how furious or frightening they might think they appeared to others.

  Miranda wanted Attie to like her—she didn’t dare ask herself why—but she sat opposite the child without the slightest notion how to get through to her.

  * * *

  Attie sat across from her enemy. She was quite horrible looking … in a pretty sort of way. The ladylike way she sat reminded Attie of Ellie when she was on her best behavior, which made Attie want to sit straighter and move more gracefully. Which urge, of course, made her want to squat like a frog and screech like a chimpanzee.

  Callie said she was incorrigible. Orion said she was developing a large bump of antiauthoritarianism.

  Orion was terribly smart, but he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know what lived inside Attie’s mind. He couldn’t know that she was frightened that her family might be ever so slightly broken and that Attie had no idea how to fix it.

  He didn’t know that inside she wasn’t fierce or strong or dangerous, like they all thought. He didn’t know she was really terrified. No one could.

  “I recall being your age. I think I spent a great deal of time bein
g quite frightened,” Miranda Talbot said softly. “I know how lonely life can be, even in a house full of people.”

  Oh, no, you don’t! Attie scrunched up her face and prepared to put a hex of hate upon Miranda’s shining dark head.

  It would be worth it, Attie thought, as she wondered what terrible thing was about to happen. Except when the roof falls down, I’ll probably be under it.

  Then Miranda’s prune-faced butler came in with a tea tray filled with iced cakes and cream and early summer raspberries in a bowl—

  Well, perhaps I’ll hex her later, after tea.

  * * *

  Atalanta Worthington wasn’t normally one to dawdle when it came time for action, which was why she astonished herself by waiting nearly an entire afternoon after her visit to the she-devil’s house before climbing out from under her bed (Ellie was in a mood) and wrestling herself into her slightly too large walking dress (Ellie had grown a bosom at a very early age) and sneaking out through the kitchen while Philpott was in the larder, secretively concocting the blend of herbs for her evening “tea.”

  Attie didn’t know what herbs the cook used in the teapot, but the one time she’d managed to sneak a taste, she’d felt like a piece of paper on the wind and had actually begun to write words on herself before she lost track of the thought in a sudden urge to eat pickles and cheese and chocolate cake together.

  Once out on the street, she clomped confidently along the sidewalk, ignoring the astonished glances of strangers. It wasn’t more than half a mile to her destination, though she did take a side venture for a stop at a confectioner’s. She even paid for the sweets, for they were a gift and one couldn’t give a gift if one didn’t actually own it.

  On the Strand, she lingered across the street from a discreet and tasteful doorway, sucking noisily on a sweet. Eventually, a lady left the establishment, escorted to her waiting carriage by a very handsome young man. His sharp eyes caught Attie’s presence at once. With a twitch of his cheek, he told her to go to the back of the shop. Attie nodded and placidly made her way around through the alley.

  Cabot let her in. “He’s very busy.”