Her Wicked Ways

by Darcy Burke

  And into his nose.

  “Oh!” She hurried down the stairs, stopping near the bottom so she stood at eye level with him.

  Fox managed to catch the unintended weapon with one hand. The other he used to massage his stinging face. She brushed his hand away. “Let me see.” She leaned forward and studied his nose while Fox tried not to think about how close her lips were, how alluring her spicy citrus scent was, how badly he wanted to kiss her again.

  And then she made matters worse by touching him.

  She reached out and ran her fingers along his nose. “It’s not broken, is it? It doesn’t look swollen, just very, very red.” Her eyes met his. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” And then her words about boldness came back to him, and he gave in to impulse. “You could kiss it.”

  She pulled her head back the tiniest fraction, but seemed to consider, her golden brows drawing together.

  Had he gone too far? “I thought you liked bold.” He said this with less confidence, but infinite hope.

  “Hmmm. Perhaps I should.” She leaned forward again. If he took the first step, just below her, his mouth would replace his nose—

  “Here you are!” Mrs. Gates bustled into the library, thoroughly shattering the moment.

  Fox stepped back instead of onto the stairs, put his head down instead of up, urged his body to relax instead of enflame. He handed the novel to Miranda.

  She took it without looking at him. “Good evening, Mrs. Gates. How did you enjoy the assembly?”

  His surrogate mother clapped her hands together and beamed. “Delightful. Simply delightful. I can’t thank you enough. And the children, they were no trouble?”

  Miranda shook her head. “None at all.”

  Mrs. Gates looked at Fox. “The boys were no trouble, either?”

  He stared at her while trying to form a coherent answer. His mind was still kissing Miranda, disrobing her, savoring the feel of her body…Christ, he couldn’t fantasize about that right now. “Perfect angels.”

  Mrs. Gates chuckled. “Now I know that can’t be true. Lady Miranda, the Carmodys are waiting outside in the carriage to see you home.”

  Miranda clutched the book to her chest.

  Fox inclined his head. “You can take the book with you.”

  She ran her palm over the cover, longing etched in her features. “Thank you, but no. Mr. Carmody doesn’t allow me books.” She sighed and then held it out to him. “I’ll read it next time.”

  Surprising. Bold, risky Miranda following someone’s ridiculous dictates? “I’ll save it for you.” He accepted the book, his fingers grazing hers. He suppressed the need to breach the space between them.

  “Thank you.” She lifted one brow and gave him a small, saucy smile. “For everything.”

  With the loss of her presence, the room tinged to gray. Fox stared at the doorway until Mrs. Gates coughed, a small smile playing about her mouth. “It’s good to see you like this. It’s past time you started looking forward instead of back. Time you left Jane behind.”

  They rarely spoke of Jane. “I moved on long ago.”

  She straightened a table sitting askew. “By ‘moved on’ I hope to heaven you aren’t talking about that awful Mrs. Danforth.” She frowned and shook her head. “I forgot to tell you she came by last week with some clothing for the children.”

  He set Miranda’s book on the shelf, his hand lingering on the cover as if he could draw every bit of her essence from where she’d caressed it. “We can’t afford to deny Polly’s charity, regardless of how you feel about her.”

  Mrs. Gates bustled about the room tidying things unnecessarily. “Can’t she send her donations over instead of coming personally? Better still, you could have Rob fetch them. It galls me to have to see her after she lured Rose away to work for her.”

  They’d had this argument before. Fox tugged at his cravat. “Rose was a troubled girl. She came to us older than most children and was already well down the path she chose. I regret her decision as much as you, but we did our best to convince her to stay—the best she let us anyway. And you oughtn’t blame Polly. Contrary to what you believe, she comes here to offer what help she can, not entice our girls into prostitution.”

  Mrs. Gates sniffed in disdain. “Your mother wouldn’t approve of you spending time with her, either.” His mother and Mrs. Gates had been close friends until Fox’s mother’s death. Mrs. Gates sometimes invoked her name when she wished to inspire guilt.

  And Fox refused to feel guilty about needing the company of a woman after Jane had married Stratham. “I’m not spending time with her.” Mrs. Gates raised a brow at his declaration. “Anymore.” And he wasn’t. Not since Miranda arrived.

  She went to fuss with a pile of books on a table near the windows. “Do you mean to pursue Lady Miranda, then?”

  He’d never been able to hide his motives from her. “I do.”

  After aligning the books in a neat stack, she turned to him. “Is she amenable? I can’t tell if she’s happy here.”

  “I think she finds the country quite pleasant, and I have reason to believe she might be open to my suit.” At least he assumed so given she’d been about to kiss him.

  Mrs. Gates grinned at him. “That’s wonderful news, Fox! You need a wife, and I’ve been surprisingly impressed with her work here. You should see her at lunch with the children. The improvement she’s managed is astonishing. And they truly adore her. But how can they not? She’s…” Mrs. Gates shook her head as she passed her hand over the top of the book pile, “one of a kind.”

  Yes, she was. Fox couldn’t quite believe his luck, but reasoned he was well overdue. “I may not compare to the gentlemen she’s used to in London, but I’ll take that as a mark in my favor.”

  “As well you should,” Mrs. Gates agreed with a firm nod.

  “And you might be a wee bit prejudiced.” Fox pinched his fingers together and smiled.

  Mrs. Gates’s chuckled as she walked towards him. “Perhaps, but with good reason. You’re an extraordinary man. Who else would’ve forgone university to stay here and care for a struggling orphanage? You could have easily sent the charges to the workhouse and carried on with your life. No one would have blamed you.”

  “You give me far too much credit. After Harrow, I was tired of lectures and rules. It was far easier—and more exhilarating—to come home and manage two estates.” Was that true? Fox realized he’d never know, but didn’t regret the path he’d chosen.

  “Lady Miranda will have no trouble seeing what a fine gentleman you are.” She stood on her toes and bussed his cheek.

  Tonight had gone much better than he imagined. He was more than encouraged and his resolve had never been more strong.

  He was going to do it. Ask Miranda to be his wife.

  Right after he purchased some canvas.

  THE following afternoon, Miranda walked into the orphanage, sorry to be going indoors when they had a true summer day at last. For once she hadn’t minded traveling to Stipple’s End on foot, especially given Beatrice’s excellent mood.

  Last night on the drive to Birch House, Beatrice had talked incessantly about the assembly and how her dance card had never been so full. Instead of hanging on her every word—as Miranda would normally have done for any other girl extolling the thrills of a social event—Miranda kept thinking of Fox and how she was certain he’d been about to kiss her in the library. And how she hadn’t minded. No, that wasn’t precisely true. How she’d wanted him to.

  She was still thinking about that shocking revelation today.

  Maybe her parents were right after all. Men showed a slight interest in her—or not, in the case of her initial encounter with the highwayman—and she crumbled at their feet.

  Beatrice turned toward the stairs. “I’ll be in the schoolroom.” She paused. “Miranda, thank you for your help. Last night was the first time I had…fun.”

  Miranda smiled. “I wish I could have seen it.”


  Beatrice looked away, as if she were uncomfortable with Miranda’s kindness, before hurrying up the stairs. Could this possibly be the only joy the poor girl had ever known? Now Miranda felt doubly glad to have helped her.

  Miranda glanced at a clock adorning the mantel over the enormous medieval fireplace. The children were still outside enjoying their post-lunch exercise. Mrs. Gates had insisted Miranda skip luncheon at the orphanage today in exchange for being here last night. Miranda had been disappointed and not just because it meant she’d had to take luncheon at Birch House. She’d missed being here. Goodness, but the country was full of surprises.

  A heavy rap sounded on the front door, like the head of a walking stick striking the wood. Miranda turned, but no one came to respond to the caller. With a shrug, she went to open it.

  Mr. Stratham stood on the threshold, his beaver in hand. Moisture dampened his forehead, likely a result of the warmer temperature. His eyes widened slightly and then crinkled at the edges as he smiled broadly. “We missed you at the assembly last night, Lady Miranda.” He stepped inside without invitation.

  Miranda closed the door behind him. “I was here tending the children.”

  “Lucky children.” He threw her a flirtatious glance. “I hoped today might be the day I convince you to take a drive with me. I’ll be tied up with district business for the next few weeks and will be heartbroken if you don’t come away with me immediately.” He leaned on his walking stick in a most elegant manner, presenting a stylishly attired leg. Buff breeches clung to his compact frame and disappeared into magnificently shined Hessians.

  While she’d love a drive on such a fine day, she daren’t risk the consequences. Besides, she wanted to conduct her duties. She liked working with the children. She laced her fingers together in front of her waist. “I’m afraid I must decline. I have only just arrived.”

  “Oh come now, surely Mrs. Gates will excuse you from your duties for one afternoon. Particularly since you spent your evening here instead of at the assembly last night.”

  Had he forgotten she was forbidden from attending social events or partaking in social excursions such as driving? Or had he simply not been paying attention that day in Wootton Bassett? Fox had been paying attention.

  Mr. Stratham took advantage of her silence. “Excellent, I’ll wait here while you inform her of our plans.”

  Miranda unclasped her hands. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not allowed to drive with you.”

  “With me?”

  “With anyone, actually. Please don’t take offense.” She smiled, truly not wanting to upset him. He seemed like a jovial fellow, even if he had stolen Fox’s fiancée. Had she cast Mr. Stratham into the role of villain? Her mind chased that thought and missed whatever he said next. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “I merely suggested we could take a turn about the grounds then, if you aren’t allowed to drive. It’s such a lovely day.” He plucked up his walking stick, tossed it into the air, and caught the slender piece of wood and ivory in his fist.

  She ought to have declined but suspected his persistence would continue. Mrs. Gates would likely not object to delaying the children’s afternoon schedule on their first real summer day. “I’ll need to check with Mrs. Gates. She’s probably out back.”

  Miranda led him down the back hall and into the yard. Bright sunlight met her eyes, and she held her hand against her brow as she sought the floral muslin skirts of Mrs. Gates. She stood past the vegetable garden talking down the well. Down the well?

  Panic drove Miranda through the yard. “Mrs. Gates?”

  The headmistress turned and waved, heralding a rush of relief. “Good afternoon, Lady Miranda.”

  Mr. Stratham followed as Miranda made her way to the well. She stopped next to Mrs. Gates and peered into the blackness. “Is something down there?”

  “Just me,” came a voice. Miranda’s neck tingled despite the day’s heat. She’d heard that voice before…on a dark road perhaps?

  Mr. Stratham sidled up to the well and placed his gloved palms on the stones. “Fall down, did you, Fox?”

  Fox? He was the voice in the well? She’d imagined, for a moment, she’d heard the highwayman. Stupid fancy. She’d been thinking of Fox nearly kissing her last night and had dreamed of the highwayman who had actually kissed her.

  A rope tied to a nearby tree and dangling over the side of the well into the abyss went suddenly taut. Another moment later Fox pulled himself hand over hand to the top, a bucket looped over his right elbow. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his muscles flexed with his effort. Society dictated she be offended by his state of undress, but such outrage was for other, more virtuous women. Instead, she studied his exposed flesh and found him to be quite well-formed. Her dress clung heavily to her breasts, but she blamed it on the temperature.

  Fox grasped the side of the well and hoisted himself up and over, swinging to the ground with ease. He set the bucket on the ground and then pushed his hair back from his forehead. He looked dewy and hot, his forearms wet, presumably from the well. The opening at the collar of his cream-colored linen shirt exposed his neck. Miranda stared for a moment before realizing the scandal of her behavior and steered her gaze to Mrs. Gates, who frowned at the bucket.

  With a shake of her head, the headmistress gave Fox a cloth. “I’m sorry you had to climb down there. So terrible of the boys to cause you such bother.”

  Fox wiped his face and hands. He chuckled. “It’s all right. I remember being a lad with mischief to spend.”

  “What happened?” Miranda asked.

  Fox looked at her, his gaze burning into her as warmly as the sun on her back. “A couple of the boys put the bucket down the well without the rope.”

  “Insolent pups.” Mr. Stratham had stepped back from the well and now swung his walking stick through the grass, breaking the blades as it arced.

  Fox glared at him, but said nothing. Mrs. Gates took the cloth from Fox and shoved it into the pocket of her apron. “I should round the children up.”

  Mr. Stratham raised a hand toward Mrs. Gates. “Before you go, I must beg you allow Lady Miranda to stroll with me and enjoy this fine day for a small while.”

  Mrs. Gates looked at Miranda, who answered the headmistress’s silent question with a slight nod. For some inexplicable reason, she looked at Fox. He bent his head and a lock of hair fell over his forehead. A proper miss would find his disarray appalling, but Miranda liked the way he looked. Rugged. Strong. Overwhelmingly male.

  “It would be a shame not to enjoy this pleasant afternoon after all the dreary weather we’ve had,” Mrs. Gates said. “I’ll give the children extra time outside. Let me know when you’re ready, dearie.” She took herself off toward the back of the house.

  Mr. Stratham held out his arm. “Shall we, then?”

  Miranda took his arm but snuck a glance over her shoulder at Fox. To her surprise, his smoldering gaze fixed on her in return. She hurriedly turned back, lest she trip over her foolishness.

  FOX watched Miranda walk away on Stratham’s arm and wondered how easy it would be to persuade Philip and Bernard to throw Stratham into the well. Too easy. Fox pulled up the rope he’d used to climb down the well and tied it to the bucket.

  With a muttered curse, he turned and strode from the well. Damn Stratham. Fox refused to lose Miranda to him. His extortion and corrupt election processes were bad enough.

  But maybe she wouldn’t want Stratham. Last night, she’d danced and laughed with him. Not Stratham, not some London fancy-pants. Fox.

  He walked to the edge of the yard. Farmland rolled away beyond the fence. His farmland. June was aging and the crops were way behind. Too behind. He pushed the worry away. He couldn’t control the weather. He could, however, control his own actions. And he needed action.

  He glanced back at Stratham and Miranda strolling through the yard, now heading toward the orchard. Then he looked down at himself. They weren’t his worst clothes, but he looked like a serf next t
o Stratham with his tailored coat and intricately wound cravat. Hell, Fox wasn’t even wearing a cravat. He touched his throat and felt the moisture there. He was also dirty and sweaty.

  Not the finest picture to present to one’s lady, but he couldn’t afford to wait until properly attired. Furthermore, if he wasn’t mistaken, Miranda had looked at him at the well with anything but contempt.

  Fox walked toward the orchard. He crested the slight slope that blocked the view of most of the apple trees from the yard and paused. Stratham was leaving. He’d just bent over her hand—and probably slobbered all over it, the lecherous sod—and she waved him off with a smile.

  Did Fox need to rush down there now? Looking like he did? The threat was gone. For now.

  And then he heard it. A high-pitched cry down the hill to his right. The water hole!

  Miranda had heard it to, too. She looked around for a source. But then she didn’t know the property very well and was likely unaware of the small pond.

  Another screech spurred Fox into action. He ran down the hill and called out, “Miranda, this way!”

  She hitched up her skirt and followed him as he sprinted toward the sound of the child’s cries. Flora nearly doubled him over as she came through the shrubbery and slammed into his chest. “Oh, Fox! It’s Clara. She’s drowning!”

  Fox grabbed the girl by the upper arms to steady her. “Go fetch Mrs. Gates. Go!” He let Flora loose and she tore up the hill.

  Miranda had caught up to him and they ran the last few yards to the water together. Several children were standing on the bank. Philip swam out to a flailing Clara.

  “He’s too slow.” Fox pulled off his boots. He dived into the water, knowing from experience it was deeper here than on the opposite side. Stretching his arms and legs, he swam out to Clara, quickly passing Philip who had paused to catch his breath.

  In another moment he grabbed the girl under her arms. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded furiously, water flying in every direction from her sodden hair.