“What’s the matter, Miranda?” Bewildered curiosity laced his voice. “Why can’t you manage a conversation with him?”
She turned away, disheartened, as unshed tears stung her eyes. He made it sound so simple. As if she could just open her lips and enrapture Robert with her charm and wit. The way Miss Morgan did. Sebastian had no idea how difficult that was for her.
Difficult? Impossible.
“Because I’m always too nervous,” she admitted quietly. “I want him to believe that I’m…That is, I—I don’t think…If I could just…” She tossed up her hands in frustration. She couldn’t even talk about him without tongue-tying herself. How was she ever supposed to be able to talk directly to the man? “With Robert, there’s too much pressure to be…” She shrugged as her voice drifted off.
“Be what?” he prompted.
Then she sighed heavily, confessing to her deficiencies with a sag of her shoulders. “Someone interesting.”
“You are,” he assured gently.
She rolled her eyes. He was lying, she was certain of it. Sebastian Carlisle found her to be a lot of things—annoying, pestering, far too boisterous for her own good—but she was certain that interesting was not one of them. Still, it was sweet of him to say so.
“But not to Robert.” She grimaced at herself, the past three weeks proving how truly dismal she was when it came to engaging him in stimulating conversation. Or any conversation at all. “I just can’t talk to him.”
Sebastian reached for a grape from the fruit plate, his eyes lowering away from her. “You don’t have that problem with me.”
“That’s because you don’t signify.”
“Thank you,” he drawled sarcastically, popping the grape into his mouth.
“You know what I mean,” she scolded. “There’s nothing to be nervous about with you because I don’t want to impress you.”
“Thank you,” he repeated in the same sarcastic drawl.
Then she laughed, both at the sardonic expression on his face and at her own silliness, and pressed her hand against her mouth as she shook with laughter.
“Apologies,” she choked out as she fought back her giggles. “It’s just that you—well, you’re a duke, so I don’t have to make a good impression on you.”
He crooked a brow silently at that, letting her dig herself deeper. And at this rate, she’d be to China by nightfall.
“That’s not what I meant! I meant that Robert is more important than you.” Her hand flew up to her mouth in mortification as she realized what she’d just said. Apparently, she couldn’t talk to any of the Carlisle men without sounding like a goose. “Oh, I didn’t mean that!”
With a stoic expression, he plucked one of the grapes from the plate and took a quick glance over her shoulder at the lawn and his family scattered along its length to make certain no one was paying them any attention. Then he sat up and held the grape to her lips. “Open,” he ordered.
She hesitated, suspicious at his sudden graciousness. Then she opened her mouth as he’d asked, and he popped the grape inside.
“That’s better,” he murmured as she ate the grape, unable to say anything more and dig herself even deeper. When she saw the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, she burst out into a new fit of laughter, nearly choking on the grape.
He grinned at her, one of the old smiles she remembered from when he was younger and carefree, before he became so serious. It was nice. Quite nice.
She quickly chewed and swallowed as the last of the laughter eased from her. “Sebastian, I am sorry, truly. I didn’t mean any of that the way it sounded.”
“Apology accepted.”
He reclined again, once more assuming a pose that only Sebastian could somehow make simultaneously casual and imperial. The perfect picture of a powerful gentleman at leisure.
“I suppose I should address you as Trent when we’re in London,” she considered, struck by how every inch of him declared him to be the duke he was, even while stretched across a picnic blanket.
His amusement faded. “Please don’t.”
“All right,” she agreed quietly, but in that fleeting moment, she sensed the weight of the title on his shoulders and knew how much he must appreciate the rare moments when he didn’t have to be a peer. Like now. When he could be just Sebastian. “But only when we’re alone, or I fear your mother will make me memorize more passages from Debrett’s because she doesn’t think I understand how peerages work.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “Has she?”
Miranda sighed wearily as she nodded and reached for a sugared orange slice from the fruit plate. “She means well, I know. She thinks that knowing who everyone is will keep me from embarrassing myself by saying the wrong thing.” Not meeting his gaze, she stared down at the orange, her fingertips idly brushing off the sugar as she commented softly, “I’m not, you know.”
“What’s that?” he asked gently.
“Trouble.”
She didn’t have to look at him to know that he’d stiffened. She could feel it, so aware had she become of him since their encounter the night of the masquerade. “So you don’t have to worry that I’ll do anything scandalous this season and cause embarrassment for you. At least not on purpose.” She smiled faintly at the orange slice. “But trouble does seem to find me, doesn’t it?”
When he didn’t say anything, his silence confirming her suspicions, she lifted her eyes and met his as he looked at her solemnly.
“Perhaps I used to be like that,” she confided, “before I took over running the orphanage, but I’m not anymore.” Just as she was beginning to doubt that Robert might ever see her for who she was, she was also beginning to doubt the same in Sebastian, no matter that she’d now been in London for two weeks and had managed so far to avoid getting herself into any sticky spots. “But you know me from when I was just a child, so you know all the silly things I did before I grew up. I’m ten years younger than you, remember, five for Robert and four for Quinn…You were all so much older than me, and whenever I visited Chestnut Hill—”
“Which was all the time,” he interrupted with the start of a smile.
She smiled back, she couldn’t help it. “Yes, I suppose.” She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the orange slice. “By the time I grew up, you were gone—Eton, Oxford, London. But in your eyes, I never grew up, did I? To you, I’m still just the same awkward and annoying girl from next door that I’ve always been.”
She glanced up to catch him watching her, and from the guiltily thoughtful expression on his face, she knew she was right.
“I just want to help Auntie and Uncle, the villagers, your family…all the people I love. And sometimes that puts me in over my head.” Her fingers pulled idly at the orange slice, the same way Robert had worried at that blade of grass. “I couldn’t help my parents, you know. I was too young when they fell ill with fever. The physician wouldn’t even let me into the room to see them because he was afraid I’d catch it, too.”
She didn’t dare look at him now, afraid of what she might see on his face…disbelief, annoyance, pity. Oh, that would be the worst of all! Because she wasn’t telling him this to garner his pity; she simply wanted him to understand her. After all, if she couldn’t get Sebastian to see her as a competent, strong woman, how on earth would Robert?
“The housekeeper made me sit in a chair in the hallway outside their door, for hours and hours each day. Each day eventually became weeks…I couldn’t stand it. To be forced to sit still like that was bad enough, but to hear my parents inside their room only a few feet away, unable to go to them no matter how much I cried—” Her throat choked around the words.
“I’m sorry, Miranda,” he murmured gently. He reached out and rested his hand on her foot, and the physical connection soothed her. “I had no idea.”
“I’ve never told anyone before,” she whispered. What good would it have done? What good would there have been in pity? “I suppose I’ve been trying to make up
for that ever since, to help everyone in any way I can.” She forced a smile despite the stinging in her eyes at the fuzzy memories she had of that terrible time. “Truly, I don’t go looking for trouble. It just seems to find me on its own.” She tore off an end of the orange slice and thoughtfully chewed it with a contemplative frown. “I think it follows me around, just waiting to pounce.”
At that, he laughed softly. The warm sound rumbled over her like a soft summer rain. “It doesn’t lie in wait to pounce on you,” he assured her, amusement rich in his deep voice.
“Oh?” she challenged lightly, lifting a brow. “Unlike a panther, then?”
He froze, the laughter dying away. “Point taken,” he admitted, then cleared his throat. “But no one sees you as a child, Miranda. We just don’t know what to make of you.”
His comment pricked at her. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for one, you never sit still. You wear a man out just watching you. You’re excited about every new experience, seeing every day as a new adventure—”
“It is.” She stared blankly at him, not comprehending his point. Life was meant to be lived, to be embraced. Her parents’ deaths taught her that. No matter that he seemed to have forgotten that since he inherited. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Except that so few people have that, that no one knows what to do with you.”
“Including you, apparently,” she accused with a peeved sniff.
He quirked a brow. “Especially me.”
No, he knew exactly what to do…blackmail her for her slippers in exchange for good behavior. Although, she would have to admit, her London season was going remarkably well, most likely due to his influence and supervision. And he’d honored their agreement, going out of his way to help her with Robert, even if all their attempts had so far come to nothing. She owed him that much credit, at least. But she’d certainly never admit it to him.
“You have a nice laugh,” she acknowledged softly instead, giving up completely on the orange and setting it aside. She sucked the drops of juice from her fingers. “You should laugh more often.”
“Thank you,” he murmured huskily.
When she looked over at him, her fingertips still at her lips, she caught him watching her, his eyes glued to her mouth. A heat flashed over his face so intense that she shivered. That same tingling from the night of the masquerade began to stir faintly inside her, and her pounding heart leapt into her throat. When his eyes lifted slowly to hers and held her pinned beneath his gaze, the tingle blossomed into a full-out ache.
“You’re welcome,” she breathed, her eyes never leaving his. She simply didn’t have the willpower to look away. And a very confused, increasingly warm and tingly part of her didn’t want to. Did he feel that, too? Was he just as confused as she was? Gathering her courage, she asked in a whisper, “The night of the masquerade when I was in your room, did you want— That is, have you thought—”
“Are you enjoying London?” he asked abruptly, tearing his gaze away and sitting up.
She blinked, her question choking on her lips. He’d interrupted her before she could ask if he ever thought about that night, about what they did—about what they’d nearly done. Because she still did, almost every night since, wondering what would have happened if she’d not made that slip of her tongue and unwittingly revealed herself.
She had to pause a moment to digest both the sudden change in conversation and the sudden change in him. But then, it was simply Sebastian returning to his duke-like self, wasn’t it? The surprise, she supposed, was having for a few moments the concerned, sympathetic man who had listened to her about her frustrations over Robert and who understood the ghosts in her past. And who for a moment felt free enough to laugh.
“Yes, very much,” she answered, ignoring the peculiar pang of disappointment in her chest. “A marvelous time, in fact.”
“Good to hear.” But nothing in the tone of his voice concurred with his words.
“And you?” The devil inside her couldn’t help but ask, “Have you found any women to marry?”
He grimaced. “Good lord, you make it sound like a harem.”
She laughed, which only caused his frown to deepen and her laughter to grow at his expense. “It is—the English equivalent, anyway. It’s the marriage market, and you’re a duke.” She shrugged. “Most likely, you could have a harem of women trailing after you if you let yourself.”
“I am not letting myself,” he countered with an indignant scowl.
Robert’s parting words came back to her. “But you’ve made a list.”
He gave a curt nod. “A list is always helpful in making important decisions.”
“I’m certain,” she agreed with mock solemnity, fighting back the twitch at her lips.
He shot her a sideways glare that choked away all the laughter. Apparently, his search for a wife was not a matter of amusement.
She cleared her throat. “I will help you however I can, of course.” They’d kept to their agreement, with Sebastian assisting her as much as he could with Robert and Miranda telling him whatever insights she’d gained from retiring room gossip and other on dit at the events she’d attended. So far, it seemed that every eligible lady in London was all aflutter that the Duke of Trent was seeking a wife this season. Including Lady Jane Sheridan. “So Lady Jane is on your list.”
“Yes.” His gaze traveled across the park to find the earl’s lovely daughter still standing with her delicate parasol beside the pond, smiling serenely and chatting with Robert and Miss Morgan. “She has all the right qualities for a duchess.”
“I see.” Miranda frowned as she studied the woman. All the right qualities…Odd that she’d never before considered that a duchess should possess qualities. She’d simply thought they only needed to be loved, the way his father had loved his mother.
“She’s the daughter of an earl, of an old title and a well-respected family,” he commented, as if justifying his choice. “She’ll know her role, both in society and in our marriage.”
She bit her lip. Yes, Lady Jane was certainly all that, and more. She would undoubtedly make a fine Duchess of Trent.
But Miranda wasn’t certain she’d make a good wife for Sebastian.
“And she knows how to run a large household like that at Blackwood Hall,” he continued.
“Chestnut Hill, you mean,” she corrected in surprise, her gaze swinging to him.
“Once we’re married, we’ll reside at Blackwood Hall,” he explained. “Chestnut Hill will become the dower house.”
“Oh.” That took her completely by surprise.
Blackwood Hall was the grand manor house given to the family when Richard Carlisle received the title. It was currently closed up, the family preferring their smaller home of Chestnut Hill, where they’d lived for over thirty years. But of course Sebastian would live in the larger house with his duchess. How had that realization never occurred to her before, that he would be moving away from Chestnut Hill? But it hadn’t, and a stab of unexpected loss struck her. Now he would be with a newlywed bride he might not love, in another house that wasn’t his home, in a place where Miranda couldn’t picture him ever being happy.
Her chest tightened with a sudden, fierce urge to argue with him, to tell him how mistaken he was, that he had all his priorities hopelessly mixed up in his search for a wife. But it wasn’t her place to question his choice, or insist that he put his own happiness first. They were only childhood friends—
He deserved so much better!
“Lady Jane is all wrong for you,” she blurted out, the words spilling forth before she could stop them.
“Oh?” His gaze flicked curiously to her. “What kind of woman should I settle on, then?”
“The kind you won’t tire of in six months,” she answered, a bit too boldly. “One you love.”
“A lack of boredom has nothing to do with my choice in duchess,” he commented as he looked away again. “Or love.”
“Perhap
s not.” She rose as gracefully to her feet as possible and brushed her hands down the front of her yellow skirt to smooth out any wrinkles. Most likely, Lady Jane had never experienced a wrinkle in her life. Like freckles, they were simply not allowed into her world. “Although I think you should reconsider.”
“And why is that?” He pushed himself to his feet as she rose. Always the perfect gentleman, she thought with chagrin. Even when she didn’t want him to be.
“Because I know you, Sebastian, and your life will never be as simple as you’d like it to be.” As an afterthought, she reached down for her bonnet and gloves. “Why complicate it even more by choosing the wrong wife?”
She set her bonnet in place over her hair, although the afternoon’s freckle damage had already been done. Still, putting on her bonnet seemed like something a lady of the quality would do when leaving her companion for a stroll around the park, and she wanted him to know, no matter how mix-matched the comparison, that she could be just as refined as Lady Jane Sheridan.
His lips tightened as his mother and Quinn finished their turn about the lawn and returned to their picnic. “My life is not what—”
“Who would you rather be, Sebastian?” she pressed quietly, just low enough that his family couldn’t overhear as they reached the blanket, and right at the last moment so that he couldn’t answer. “A duke with a duchess whom everyone respects…or happy?”
CHAPTER SIX
Curtsy to anyone who’s a peer,” Elizabeth Carlisle instructed to a raptly listening Miranda as the carriage rolled through Mayfair. “Address them as your lordship or your ladyship, but only the first time when you’re introduced. Too many ‘your lordships’ makes you sound like a servant.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. As the ladies’ escort to the Countess of St James’s annual ball, he’d been subjected by proximity to last-minute lessons on proper etiquette all the way from Audley House. He should have ridden with Josie and Chesney, he supposed, and forced Robert to ride with the ladies, to give Miranda more time with him since her pursuit of his brother so far had been fruitless.
If the Duke Demands Page 10