And Then Comes Marriage

by Celeste Bradley

  “Most definitely.” Button smiled sweetly. “I cannot think without my tea.”

  What wasn’t so sweet was the blank desolation that crossed Cabot’s perfectly symmetrical features when he turned away to take away the cold tea.

  Which was why Attie could never bear to give Cabot any bit of bother.

  Poor Cabot.

  When Cabot had left the room, Button turned to Attie. “I believe your plan will work rather beautifully—this time. I applaud your personal growth and maturity in not resorting to firearms.”

  Attie smirked. “That was last year. I was just a child then.”

  * * *

  Nearly a week has passed since that day in the alley. My two suitors—I should say three, for it would not be right to forget Mr. Seymour, even in my diary, except that I do always tend to forget Mr. Seymour—attend me daily. They have worked out some sort of schedule between them, for they never overlap in their calls.

  Poor Mr. Seymour, however, does not appear to be in on the plan. A Worthington here, a Worthington there … they seem to pop up out of the woodwork just when he has a monologue in full steam, casting his opinion upon the waters of politics and tittle-tattle.

  I swear I never saw such a man for gossip.

  I find him by turns endearing and boring. Although I do not wish to be unkind, I cannot seem to attend to the words he is saying. I am all the while thinking of my identical Mr. Worthingtons.

  Mr. Poll Worthington, my “old” friend, he of the clever books and easy charm, is my constant companion of the mornings. During hours that most of Society is asleep, he and I sit just a bit too close together on my settee, laughing and talking.

  And that is all we do. Since my terribly embarrassing error, I have determined that I shall not kiss any gentleman who does not love me exclusively, and I him.

  It is hard not to kiss Mr. Poll Worthington.

  Mr. Cas Worthington, on the other hand, calls upon me in the afternoons. He chooses no regular time, instead seeming to prefer to stop in at whatever time suits him the best. He insists on calling me Mira, which is a bit disconcerting, as it constantly puts me in mind of my—of the past.

  I am, of course, quite cool to him and his shameless teasing, especially when poor Mr. Seymour is present. I fear Mr. Cas Worthington is not kind to poor Mr. Seymour, although it is true that Mr. Seymour often brings it upon himself.…

  * * *

  Castor Worthington strolled into Miranda’s drawing room as if he owned it. “Hello, Mira, my pet. Heigh-ho, Seymour.”

  Miranda watched Mr. Seymour stiffen as she tried to suppress her own sense of pleasure.

  “Mrs. Talbot is not your pet, Worthington!”

  Miranda bit back a sigh. When Mr. Seymour was not present, Castor Worthington was not inclined to call her any such thing!

  “Please ignore him, Mr. Seymour. You were telling me about your new purchase?.…”

  Mr. Seymour sniffed indignantly and pointedly turned away from Mr. Worthington, who had sprawled his length onto the sofa within reach.

  “It is a curricle, dear Mrs. Talbot. Just the sort of vehicle to take for a drive through Hyde Park.” He allowed himself a deep, indulgent chuckle. “Of course, I shall not alarm you with any races down Rotten Row! I know ladies don’t care for great speed—”

  “I’ve seen your nags, Seymour,” Mr. Worthington drawled lazily. “I’m fairly certain the only speed you’ll attain is when you flip over the traces when your vehicle stops due to sudden equine failure.”

  Mr. Seymour looked entirely stuffed, but could seem to find no ready rejoinder. Cas seemed almost discomfited to have won a battle of wits so easily. Had he believed his opponent to be more suitably armed?

  Cas let his attention wander the room, then fixed it upon the mantel, which now gleamed with a proper waxing and sported only a pair of silver candelabra and a small clock.

  “By gum, I knew something was different! Did the whole pack of them go hunting?”

  Miranda smiled demurely. “Hunting new homes, perhaps. I will be auctioning the lot very soon.”

  Mr. Seymour took a bit longer, but eventually he gasped. “The dogs! Oh my, what a shame. Such an impressive collection!”

  Both Miranda and Cas eyed him with some disbelief. He pinned Miranda with a disappointed moue. “Mrs. Talbot, you ought to have told me you were in such financial straits! I have a modest savings. I could have prevented such a terrible sacrifice!”

  Miranda drew back. “Mr. Seymour, you are very kind, but I am not selling the—er, collection out of need. It is quite my preference to be rid of them, I assure you.”

  “There’s no need to be brave, my dear Mrs. Talbot! You’re amongst friends!” Mr. Seymour leaned forward to pat her hand. Since her hand was on her lap, Miranda hoped he hadn’t intended that accidental touch upon her upper thigh. Surely the man was only being sympathetic to her ah, straits. Nonetheless, she moved her hand to the arm of the chair.

  His sympathy might be kindly meant, but he surely wasn’t listening to her at all. Still, she could hardly say, “I loathed the damned things!”

  “She loathed the damn things,” Cas informed Seymour irritably. “As should we all. She has the right to smash them all on the hearth if she likes.” He didn’t continue out loud, but his expression most clearly stated, You pompous twit!

  Miranda cleared her throat and shot a glare Mr. Worthington’s way. I don’t need you to defend my decisions.

  His response was a wry expression and a hand slightly opened, palm upward, in silent apology. Except that he didn’t look rueful. He merely looked amused—at her, at her silly tantrum over the dogs the other day, at her silly Mr. Seymour and his silly, self-important ways.

  She scowled outright at Mr. Worthington. Such an irritating fellow!

  Her furious glare only made his smile widen.

  * * *

  God, she was delicious when she was angry! Cas thought her still a bit too refined, however. When a woman was angry, a man ought to feel the need to duck—even if she wasn’t particularly inclined to throw large pottery objects!

  Of course, perhaps that was only Worthington women. Other sorts of women seemed to resort to less direct methods of expressing themselves. Like that politician’s wife he’d taken up with a few years back—now, she’d had very nearly a Worthingtonian sense of vengeance!

  Mira needed a good dose of that forthrightness. The sooner, the better—for then she’d no longer suffer the likes of that prig, Seymour!

  Not that he was here to rescue Mrs. Talbot from anything. He’d decided that he was interested only in a bit of distraction. The world had become quite dark some time ago, and Miranda’s company did much to lighten it.

  He’d not told Poll, but he’d grown tired of the game in the last year. Meet, seduce, leave. Again and again. Season after season. It seemed better to remain alone … or at least, it had until he’d flung himself at Miranda.

  He didn’t feel quite so jaded when basking in the glow of her shy honesty. He didn’t feel quite so deathly bored when presented with her intriguing contradictions—her beauty versus her naïveté, her natural sensuality versus her decorum.

  Someday, Mrs. Talbot was really going to speak her mind. Cas found himself looking forward to that day.

  Seymour, having found the object of his affection had become distracted by shinier and more interesting things—namely, Cas!—stood and gave a stuffed bow and an even stuffier farewell to his hostess.

  Cas leaned back in his chair and smiled, wiggling his fingers good-bye when Seymour shot him a black look that implied that he ought to leave as well.

  Cas fluttered his eyelids in injured innocence. But I only just got here!

  Frustrated and now obviously wishing he hadn’t assumed any such thing, Seymour could only continue to leave, which he did … very slowly.

  At last the front door closed on the insufferable twit. At once, Cas swiveled on his cushion and regarded Miranda with a challenging look.

&nb
sp; “Papa’s gone. Let’s set fire to the nursery.”

  She drew back primly. “Mr. Worthington, I must request that you desist in—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Seymour. He’s too thick-skinned to pierce with a fork. By the time he gets home, he’ll be convinced that he intentionally left me here so that I might embarrass myself before you—upon which you, of course, will immediately turn to someone more mature and responsible!”

  She looked down at her hands in her lap, but he could see her lips twitch.

  Leaning forward, he pressed his advantage. “I have a box at the opera this evening,” he cajoled. He didn’t, really. He had a friend who had a box—well, sort of a friend. A friend’s wife, actually—who had promised to keep her husband home tonight, busy with other matters. So the box would be empty. Nature abhorred a vacuum, did it not?

  Miranda looked up at him, unable to hide the excitement in her eyes. “The opera? You wish to take me out for the evening?”

  She looked like a little girl getting a birthing-day gift for the first time in her life. Damn you, Poll—did you think her a doll to leave on the shelf until you were ready to play with her again?

  Cas dropped his smirking facade and smiled warmly at Miranda. “Yes. You deserve to get out of this mausoleum tonight. This place looks like it was decorated by a committee of blind octogenarians on a slender budget!”

  She pressed her lips together at that description, then smiled openly. “At least it no longer looks like a china kennel!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Less than week after he’d walked all night following Mrs. Blythe’s festivities, Cas walked in the night again, but this time with the most beautiful woman in London on his arm; Mrs. Gideon Talbot, out about Town with him as her escort at last.

  He only wished she were having a bit more fun.

  It was a lovely evening. They’d had a wonderful time earlier. The opera they’d attended had been fairly good, but Cas had found more enjoyment in watching Miranda attend her first event after her mourning.

  She’d never been to the opera, she confessed. She’d been gratifyingly impressed by the posh private box. She’d worn her best gown, which, sadly, was black, but at least it was fine and she looked bright-eyed and lovely sitting forward in her velvet-upholstered chair, watching raptly, not for a moment realizing that most of Society was, in turn, watching her.

  Cas heard the whispers and saw the curious stares. They all knew him, for the Worthingtons knew absolutely everyone. Whether he was liked by them as well was a matter that concerned him not at all. Most people in Society thought the Worthingtons odd in the extreme. However, it was understood that they should be tolerated for their ancient name and high friends.

  Cas knew if Miranda realized that she was on display with one of the most renowned heartbreakers of the past five Seasons, she would want to flee from all those prying eyes.

  Such an odd mix, she was; so beautiful, yet so retiring in public. It was as if she feared the world and what it might do to her if she were caught stepping over some invisible boundary, or breaking some unwritten law.

  Cas broke laws, written or unwritten, as needed. He didn’t steal, or at least, did so rarely, when he felt the need to deprive some undeserving soul of their wealth. He didn’t cheat, unless the situation called for it. He didn’t lie—well, that was a lie, actually.

  He and Poll had been stretching the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior for so long that most people assumed they were mere moments from swinging from the gallows.

  It wasn’t that severe, truly. A bit of grift, a bit of card playing, a bit of charm, and a lot of nerve went a long way to supporting a young man’s lifestyle in London.

  He wished Miranda never had to know about all that … at least, not yet. Perhaps not until he’d had the opportunity to introduce her to Castor Worthington, inventor—a man of accomplishments, with a Royal Patron.

  Usually his reputation preceded him, and made him all the more attractive, especially to those ladies looking to experience life on the undomesticated side. Miranda didn’t require a rowdy life. She was starving for life, just plain, ordinary, go-to-the-opera life.

  Cas leaned back in his seat and enjoyed her rapt profile, happy to oblige.

  Afterwards, as they walked down Pall Mall, greeting a few people and nodding at a few more, Miranda turned to regard him in surprise.

  “You know everyone!”

  He shrugged. “I am Worthington. We’ve been around forever. My father likes to claim that our name is as old as Stonehenge. “

  She frowned. “I thought names of that time would be names of work, like Tanner and Sawyer and Smith.”

  “I think he means to be fanciful.” He laughed. “And, since I’ve never met a Worthington who worked, that would leave us out completely!”

  She smiled but her brow still wrinkled. “I thought you were an inventor?”

  Cas was surprised. Had he mentioned that? Poll had, most likely. “My brother and I tinker endlessly.” He wanted to keep the news of Prinny’s support to himself until he’d actually gained it, so he grinned as he glossed over his true dreams. “I suppose if we wished, we could open a shop of sorts, toys perhaps, but then we’d have to be there and sell things and count money.” He shrugged. “Dull.” He swung her into his arms. “Would you step out with a shopkeeper, Mira?”

  She smiled shyly up at him. “I would step out with you if you were a tosher down on the docks.”

  Cas pictured himself poking through the river mud, salvaging the trash and lost items off the ships coming in and out of port and shuddered. “Not me. I prune fiercely.”

  She gave him a little push as she laughed. Cas was delighted with her spontaneous touch. She’d spent the evening sitting most decorously far from him and even as they strolled, she’d not snuggled even a little, though the night was cool.

  He caught at that hand, palm open on his waistcoat and pressed it there. “There you are. I’ve found you.”

  She tugged at her hand slightly, casting her gaze about. A little line of worry appeared between her brows. “Mr. Worthington, please. People are looking.”

  Cas shook his head with a smile. “Mrs. Talbot, you are a grown woman, a widow, not an unaccompanied miss. The hand stays with me.”

  She sent him an exasperated glare and tugged her hand hard. Surprised at her force, he allowed her to escape.

  “Mira, why are you so afraid?”

  She lifted her chin and intentionally misunderstood him. “I am not afraid. You are with me.”

  He stopped walking and faced her, folding his arms and frowning down at her. “You are afraid of everything. You are afraid that someone will see. You are afraid that someone will—what?—talk about what they see? And then what will happen? The world will crack in two, because a person is telling another person that Mrs. Gideon Talbot let a gentleman take her hand in a deserted park?”

  She looked away. “Do not mock me.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Coward.”

  She turned on him furiously. “I am no such thing!”

  Cas cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the night, “Mrs. Gideon Talbot is a coward!”

  “Stop that!” She gave him a real push, this time. Two hands in his belly, making him grunt with the force of it.

  “I am not a coward! I am a lady!”

  He laughed, rubbing at his abdominal muscles with one hand. “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you a lady? There’s no one here but me.”

  She drew herself up. “I am always a lady.”

  “You weren’t a lady that morning you let me into your bedchamber.”

  This time when she came at him, he was ready. He caught at her wrists and pulled her close, holding her hands wide. “I think you’re a child, hiding out in your playhouse, hoping no one finds you out.”

  Her eyes flared and he wondered why. Had he struck a nerve?

  She went very still. “I am not a cowar
d. I am not a child. I am an independent woman of means.”

  He was a Worthington. He couldn’t resist. “Then prove it.” He released her and stepped back. “Go on. Stop being a lady for three minutes entirely.”

  She stayed where she was, though she let her hands drop to her sides. “I—”

  She had no idea what to do, did she? Cas found her inability to create mischief adorable—and a little heartbreaking. Who frightened the life out of you, Mira?

  Casting a glance down the path, he saw the fountain and had an idea. “A lady would never wade barefoot in a public fountain.”

  She looked askance at the falling water. “Never.”

  He knelt before her. Biting her lip, Miranda allowed him to take her foot in his hand.

  A big warm hand wrapped about her heel, while the other slid up her ankle, then her calf, then kept going. All the while, his green eyes stayed fixed on hers, promising hot reward for her boldness. Sweet shivers traveled up her spine.

  She barely felt her shoe slip from her foot. What she did feel were his warm fingers untying the garter tied just above her knee. With a practiced touch, he rolled the fine-knit stocking down until it fell in a warm coil about her ankle.

  Then both her feet and legs were bare beneath her skirts. She felt wickedly naughty already and she’d not stepped toe in the water yet.

  At his challenging expression, she turned her back on him and stalked to the fountain. Settling herself most demurely to sit on the edge, she swung her legs over to the other side, keeping a careful hold on her skirts.

  The water was icy at first. She felt for the bottom with her feet in the dark and then carefully stood, tottering slightly on the slippery tiles beneath her toes.

  “There.” She turned to face him triumphantly. “I’ve done—”

  Just like that, her feet slipped on the scummy bottom and she went down, falling facedown into the water.

  “Mira!”

  Like a cork, she bobbed up at once, spitting mad. He reached for her but she slapped his hands away.