by Darcy Burke
The duke narrowed his eyes. “Don’t overestimate Miranda’s skills, my boy.”
Fox’s jaw clenched just before he opened his mouth. Miranda clanked her spoon against her bowl to draw his attention then gave an infinitesimal head shake. Fox took a deep breath and looked away, but she could just detect color rising above the edge of his cravat. She appreciated his defense, but such heroics were pointless in her father’s eyes.
The soup dishes were soon cleared and the footmen appeared with the next course, red mullet with a béchamel sauce. With only two footmen serving, it took considerably longer than it ought. The gentle clink of silver against plate and the footfalls of the servants against the wood floor punctuated the droning silence.
“Oh!” Mother took a bite of the mullet and dabbed at her mouth with her serviette again. “Are there bones in this fish?” Dear Lord, she hated bones in her food. She likely wouldn’t be able to finish her dinner now.
Fox took a drink of his wine. “I’m certain at some point, yes, there were bones in this fish. I apologize if a stray one is still present.”
Mother did not look mollified. She rested her fork on the table and spent the rest of the course studying the room with an austere frown.
“So you’ve been to this orphanage, Saxton?” Father asked.
“Indeed. Massive undertaking what with the children, the building, and the land.”
“From what little I’ve seen of your estate, Foxcroft, it looks as if your energies should be directed here, not on some charity project.” Father took a bite of fish.
Fox set his utensils down. “My family founded that ‘project’ four hundred years ago. Just as you carry the titles of Holborn and Saxton and see to all of the requirements associated with such responsibility, I am committed to doing the same for my family’s legacy. It may not be a title, but I find it equally important and wholly fulfilling.”
Three sets of eyes stared at Fox. Had he just insulted them? Miranda bent her head over her fish.
“Humph. Spoken like a true provincial.” Her father didn’t bother lowering his voice. He never did.
More quiet while everyone ate, or in her mother’s case, beleaguered the art of silent disfavor.
“How’s your stable, Foxcroft?” The duke asked. Her father had one of the most successful breeding facilities in the whole of England. He lived and breathed horses.
Fox sent her father a bored glance, the gold in his eyes nearly impossible to detect tonight. “Dilapidated.”
“Have you any decent horseflesh?” Her father’s question made Miranda cringe inwardly. Phrased as such, it sounded as if he highly doubted the occupants of Fox’s rundown stable could possibly be judged adequate.
“Yes, but that’s subjective, isn’t it?” Fox cocked his head to the side, never wavering under the duke’s superior expression. “Perhaps you’d like to come back another day and provide your esteemed opinion.”
Her father grunted. “I’m afraid our time here is short, and we agreed to tour this infernal orphanage tomorrow.”
“How magnanimous of you.” Fox sliced his knife across his fish, splitting it in half. Miranda wondered if he imagined the duke’s face in its stead.
Did her family’s obvious condescension bother him? It had to, but he was doing a good job keeping his temper in check.
Miranda paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. When had she begun to notice their condescension? One could argue—and several had—she behaved as arrogantly as any of them. So why did she now feel so uncomfortable? She took the bite of fish and looked over at Fox. Was she more comfortable with him? Not now, while they were at odds. He’d barely registered her presence since the meal had started.
Her father winced after sipping his wine. “I suppose you’ll be asking for a larger dowry?”
Miranda’s mother turned narrowed eyes on her husband. “Surely this discussion can wait until after Miranda and I have left the table.”
Fox barely looked up from his food. “I’m certain Miranda’s dowry is sufficient.”
Her father leaned toward Fox. “Do you even know how much it is? From the look of this place and from what I hear of this ramshackle orphanage, you need thousands and thousands of pounds. Doubtless why you’re keen to marry her. Miranda’s got four thousand.”
Miranda set down her fork. “What about Grandmama’s estate? She left it to me and my heirs.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Great-aunt Cecilia still lives there.”
“And she may continue to do so, but the estate is to be mine.” Miranda’s heart thudded at an irregular pace. The evening was slipping toward catastrophe.
Her father inclined his head to one of the footman to indicate he’d finished his plate. “Yes, Turnbridge is yours.” The derision in his tone was evident. Leaving property to women was, in his opinion, the height of lunacy.
“Enough of this vulgar conversation.” Miranda’s mother adopted a half-smile. “Mr. Foxcroft, tell us of your ancestors. You say they founded this orphanage. What other illustrious deeds might they lay claim to?”
The footmen removed the fish and brought out a roasted pheasant and several side dishes. Fox sat back in his chair. He was incredibly handsome presiding over his table, something Miranda had never seen him do before. “Henry VIII imprisoned some ancient relative in the Tower. Turned out to be mistaken identity, so not a terribly romantic story, I’m afraid. Wait, you may enjoy this. Sometime in the fourteenth century, an indirect female relative was arrested for witchcraft. She escaped, however. Don’t know what happened to her.”
The pathetic attempt at a smile on her mother’s face disappeared, and again, her parents gaped at Fox as if he’d sprouted the antlers he’d mentioned earlier.
Miranda had heard quite enough. “Fox, I’m sure there are other relatives worth mentioning?” She pleaded with her eyes for him to stop. Now she was certain their condescension affected him.
He returned her steady gaze and the gold in his eyes seemed to flare. Finally, a bit of emotion. Miranda relaxed in her chair.
Suddenly two small girls burst into the dining room shouting at once.
“She did it!”
“No, she did it!”
“Fox!”
Then their voices died, and Miranda swore she heard her mother’s shock. She chanced a glance at the duchess. Before she could register her mother’s expression, a set of small arms hugged either side of her.
“Lady Miranda!”
“You’re here!”
Miranda opened her arms and gave them each a pat on the back. She didn’t dare look at her mother or her father or even Jasper. “Good evening, young ladies. I’m afraid you’ve burst into our formal dinner. Where are the manners I’ve taught you?”
They both pulled back and looked up at her with sheepish eyes. “Sorry, Lady Miranda,” said Becky, the smaller girl on Miranda’s left. “We weren’t sure where to go. It’s our first day here.”
Miranda looked to Fox. “Why are they here?”
His gaze was inscrutable. “I’m moving the children here until the roof is repaired.”
He was opening his home to them. Once, Miranda would’ve wrinkled her nose at such an intrusion, but now her heart warmed at his kindness and generosity. She’d never known anyone like him and likely never would again.
Mrs. Gates appeared, a bit breathless, in the doorway. “Girls! Come away with me now!” She held her hands out to them.
Becky and Emily clung to Miranda. Emily whispered, “Do we hafto?”
Miranda gave them each a squeeze. “Yes. But I shall see you tomorrow, all right?”
They both nodded, and after one more hug, joined Mrs. Gates who ushered them out of the dining room.
Now Miranda dared to look at her family. Her mother’s brow was puckered, and her lips drawn tight. Her brother shook his head at her with the ghost of a smile.
Her father glowered at her and said, “If those are the manners you’ve instilled, I can see you’re no better
at overseeing those children than you are any of your other supposed skills.”
Fox cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you are quite mistaken. You saw two young girls whose manners are greatly improved. Three months ago, they would’ve dashed in here and probably jumped on the table and helped themselves to your plate. Miranda has done an excellent job with all of the children, and I demand you speak of her in a more respectful fashion.”
Though his words were finely crafted, Miranda could see the ire burning deep in the gold rimming his pupils. She held her breath waiting to see how her father would respond.
The duke turned his frosty glare on Fox and leaned lightly forward. “You’ll demand nothing of me. I’ll speak to my daughter however I please, and you’ve nothing to say about it.”
“I will when she’s my wife.”
Her father snorted. “A fate that has not yet been determined. Your current course isn’t doing you any favors.”
Fox wrapped his fingers around the stem of his wineglass, and Miranda wondered if he might snap it in two. He inclined his head slightly and then downed what was left in his glass.
The footmen brought out dessert, and with it the interminable meal limped to an uncomfortable end.
“An excellent syllabub, Mr. Foxcroft.” Miranda could scarcely believe she’d bothered to compliment their host, but then Mother loved her sweets.
Father pushed his still half-full wine glass away. “Might you have some port for our after dinner discussion, Foxcroft?”
“Sadly, no.” Fox didn’t look at all sad. “But I’ve some French brandy.”
“I suppose that must suffice.” His tone clearly said it would not.
“Come, Miranda.” Her mother stood from her chair with the aid of a footman. “Mr. Foxcroft, is there someone to direct us to the drawing room?”
Fox stood. “Certainly. Rufus will take you.”
The footman bowed and preceded them from the dining room. Nervous, Miranda reluctantly left the men alone together. She walked slowly and looked back over her shoulder. Fox gazed intently at her brother and father as they all resumed their seats.
With an exhalation of pent-up breath, she turned to follow her mother and Rufus. He took them to the left and opened a door across the corridor. The large drawing room sported wide mullioned windows. Like the dining room, it appeared part of the Tudor addition. Unlike the dining room, it looked incredibly shabby. So much so, that her mother gasped. If not for the cheery fire burning in the enormous stone fireplace, the room would have been downright maudlin.
Her mother didn’t wait for Rufus to depart before launching into her criticism. “He can’t actually live in this room?” There were no draperies at all and the one rug—completely inadequate for such an expansive chamber—showed holes and had faded so much it appeared monochromatic. “Why, the carpet is brown on brown.”
Miranda looked abysmally at the five meager pieces of furniture arranged before the fireplace. A decrepit settee with a sagging middle, two commanding wooden chairs from the Tudor period, and two mismatched tables, one oval and painted with ivy leaves, many of which were cracked and peeling off, and one square with a semi-circular divot along one edge.
The duchess turned to Miranda wide-eyed. “You can’t live here. This is beyond awful.”
Miranda couldn’t disagree. How could he stand to inhabit such a place? Actually, he spent so much of his time at the orphanage, perhaps he didn’t even notice how badly Bassett Manor needed his attention.
“Only imagine how horrid his bedchamber must be!” Her mother poked at the cushion on the settee and a cloud of dust rose. “He’s either a miserly penny-pincher or a terrible spendthrift.”
“He’s neither, Mother.”
“Well, then what is the problem? His estate is quite large enough to support an affluent lifestyle. There’s no call for this level of degradation.” She waved her hand about the room, her face pinched in distaste.
How could she explain someone like Fox to her mother? That he spent as much of his time and energy on Stipple’s End as his own estate, probably more in all likelihood. “It’s not as if he doesn’t work, Mother.”
“I don’t care. I couldn’t abide you living here.” Her mother shuddered. “It’s clear to me that a marriage with Foxcroft won’t suffice. Perhaps you’ve forgotten what you’re used to after being closeted up in this backwater all summer. We never should have left you here this long. When we return to London in a few days you won’t want to come back. Mark my words.”
London. Miranda had almost forgotten how badly she’d wanted to return. To shop on Bond Street, ride in Hyde Park, have an ice at Gunter’s…but only for a short time. “I do miss London.”
“Of course, you do. You’re a sophisticated girl. A lifetime in the country would bore you to an early grave.” Her mother came back to her and patted her hand, an atypical gesture for her general lack of sentimentality. “Your father will persuade Mr. Foxcroft that marriage to you is not what he wants.” She glanced around the room to punctuate how easy the persuasion would be. “Come, wedding Foxcroft is a nonsensical idea.”
Miranda couldn’t disagree. Hadn’t she gone to great pains—even hurting Fox—to refuse him before Jasper had demanded they marry?
What kind of marriage could they possibly hope to have anyway? He wanted her for her money and, presumably, her body. She wanted him for the same physical pleasures, but at what cost? She didn’t expect love, an emotion her family skirted at the best of times and outright neglected at the worst. But she’d never expected, never wanted, to enter into marriage under these circumstances—feeling as if she had no choice. And now her mother insisted she not only had a choice, but that she was absolutely making the wrong one.
“Yes, Mother, you’re right. As usual.”
FOX turned on his heel and stalked quietly from the drawing room door. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the duchess’s shrill tone carried into the hallway and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Once he heard the topic of their conversation, he’d been rooted to the floor. However, upon hearing Miranda’s statement, he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Served him right for trying to personally attend to their comfort instead of sending one of his two footmen. He’d done so because Saxton had given him a silent communication to give him a moment with the duke. Seeing to Miranda and her mother had seemed a logical—and inviting—opportunity. How wrong he’d been.
He reentered the dining room and tried to forget what he’d just heard, but he feared it would be impossible. Miranda’s words were engraved in his brain.
Saxton stood near the fireplace with his brandy. The duke, still seated at the table, frowned into his glass. Fox waited for the inevitable insult about the quality of the beverage.
The duke didn’t disappoint. “You say this is French brandy? A damaged cask, perhaps?” He held it up and studied the amber liquid. “Reminds me of the bad batch Rothbury served last spring. Bloody hell, Foxcroft, but your cellar needs attention.”
His demeaning observation eroded the last of Fox’s tolerance. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Your Grace, but I am rather low on funds.”
Miranda’s father tilted his silvery-blond head and pierced Fox with a glacial stare that should’ve sent him running. “And why is that?”
Rage exploded in Fox’s chest. He’d been patient. He’d been kind—well, he’d tried to be kind. “I can assure you I manage Bassett Manor and Stipple’s End quite well.”
The duke snorted and set his glass on the table, apparently abandoning all pretense of drinking the noxious liquor. “It doesn’t look like it to me. A ramshackle house. Insufficient servants. A dilapidated stable. And from what I can tell this orphanage of yours is in even worse shape, particularly if you’re moving the urchins here. If this is running things ‘quite well,’ I’d despair to think if things were going poorly.”
“Things are going poorly.” Which didn’t put him at fault. “I manage the best I
can with what I have. And as you can tell, I don’t have much.”
The duke stood. “I understand your…dedication to the orphanage, but perhaps it’s time to let it go. There’s no shame in protecting your own interests and those of your tenants.”
Fox didn’t know their definition of shame, but it clearly didn’t match his. “There is plenty of shame in turning out forty orphans and six staff members. Those people have nowhere else to go, and I won’t consign the children to a workhouse.”
Holborn shrugged. “There are other orphanages, and absent those, a workhouse is precisely where those brats should be.”
Fox barely kept his rage in check. Brats? These people didn’t understand. They’d never understand. How could he marry into a family of such self-absorbed, arrogant, egotists? Fox stalked to the other end of the table, as far away from the duke as he could get. “Is there really anything for us to discuss?”
Holborn tugged at his waistcoat and straightened his spine, accentuating his still-impressive frame. “No, you’re quite right. You’ll not do at all for Miranda.” His lip curled. “For all I know you squandered your fortune at the gaming tables.”
Fox slammed his fist on the table. “I’ve never gambled a penny. Not once. Not ever. My life carries enough risk without the added stupidity of games of chance.” They couldn’t know about his father’s gambling habit, that it was the very reason Fox looked as if he were a complete failure.
“Wait.” Saxton set his glass on the mantel and finally entered the conversation. He’d been noticeably quiet all night. Like the others, he’d seemed terribly uncomfortable, but now Fox wondered at the reasoning behind it. Was it Fox’s house and offerings, or was it something else?
“Holborn, why don’t you give him a chance to explain?”
He called his father by his title?
The duke glared at his son and Fox began to perhaps see the root of Saxton’s discomfort. “What could he possibly explain? That if he could just marry my daughter, he’d turn all of this around? I can see the man’s got no head for estate management.”