by Joan Smith
“I’ll begin writing the invitations,” Miranda said.
She felt a twinge of premature lonesomeness to think of her future. The Hazards’ success ensured that they would soon remove permanently to London. She was tempted to rent out Hornby Hall and do the same, but she could not like to be a hanger on. The famous portals of Almack’s would not be open to her. The Hazards would soon have their own crowd, running with dukes and countesses, and she would be a mere nuisance to them, someone they felt they ought to visit from time to time, and invite to their larger parties.
She sat, staring at a partially written invitation when the knock came at the study door. The door was open. She looked up, thinking it was Samson, and saw Lord Bolton gazing at her with a gentle smile curving his lips. A smile that took her breath away, and left her so shaken she forgot to greet him.
Here was another reason she must not remove to London. She could not go on resisting this dashing charmer’s advances forever, when every atom of her body wanted to give in to his blandishments. She had never met anyone before who had this magical, magnetic effect on her.
“Then it is true,’ he said, strolling in. “Fortune does favor the brave. I had reservations about coming here today, thinking I would be hurled into a carriage and sent off with Miss Hazard -- and instead I find you alone. I planned to make it quite clear today that I am not courting her.”
He paused a moment, frowning at the window, then turned a worried eye to Miranda. “Will I be persona non grata if I do? Is your friendship with the Hazards strong enough to keep the door open to me? I would dislike to find myself cast into the role of a Cleary, having to fight my way past butlers and maiming grooms to see you.”
“I wager you could handle it,” she said. “You must have encountered a few chaperons in your day.”
“It is really you I am thinking of,” he said, in such a gentle way that she almost believed him. “It could be uncomfortable for you if I set you at odds with your hostess. If I were less impatient to claim you, I would arrange for some suitably dashing fellow to win Miss Hazard from me.” His cocky smile returned. “I have spent considerable time conning the problem. The difficulty is finding someone more dashing than myself.”
“What a sad commentary on London gentlemen,” she said with a withering glance, and picked up the pen to resume her writing.
“Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed, and sat down on the corner of the desk to peer down at what she was doing. “Pity the Iron Duke is already taken. Ah, we’re having a party. Excellent. Am I on the list?”
“You know perfectly well you are at the top of the list.”
“I wish I could be as sure I was at the top of your list, Miranda,” he said in a wheedling voice, taking her fingers. When she wrenched her hand away, he rose and went toward the door.
She thought he was leaving, and felt a stab of regret. But he just closed the door and came back to the desk, wearing a smile she didn’t trust an inch.
Sensing danger, she rose at once. “Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Why do you think, Miranda?” he asked softly, and took the two steps that put him within touching distance of her. She took a step back behind the desk chair.
Lord Bolton reached out one hand and seized her fingers, pulling her toward him. The other hand rose and gently stroked her cheek with an open palm. Her breaths quickened to light panting gasps and she stared at him as if hypnotized while his two hands settled on her shoulders. She didn’t say a word as he drew her into his arms. She just stared at him, staring at her, while his head descended slowly, inevitably, to hers, and the dark glitter of his eyes misted to a shimmering haze in the silent room.
Their lips brushed, then he was kissing her, not a gentle, tentative kiss, but a deep, hungry embrace, while his strong arms crushed the air out of her lungs and her knees turned to water. It had been two years since any man had touched her in this way. She hadn’t felt the lack — until the evening she met Lord Bolton. But she had felt it often since then. The former emptiness inside her had swelled to an aching longing for this moment.
And now that it had found an outlet, the longing rushed out in a torrent that engulfed her.
Every nerve end quivered as he pressed her feminine softness against the hard wall of his chest. A moaning, inchoate sigh echoed from her throat as his tongue pressed between her parted lips, sending a shudder of desire coursing like a tidal wave through her body. She knew she was a fool, that she should stop, but she could no more stop the rushing flood of emotion than she could stop a burning house with a puff of breath.
Just when she thought she could take no more and she must let him do what he would, he stopped. He lifted his head and pressed his forehead against hers a moment, with his warm fingers stroking the vulnerable nape of her neck, as if catching his breath before another attack. Their light, gasping breaths echoed in the still room as they gazed at each other in silent awe.
Soon his fevered lips moved across her cheeks to nibble at her ears, and softly murmur breathless words of love.
“Oh Miranda! I love you, my darling. I love you to the edge of madness. If I can’t have you soon, I can’t be responsible for what I might do. Say you love me, Miranda, as I have dreamed. Say it.”
“Don’t, Max,” she said in a shaking whisper, with her arms holding him tightly.
“You want me. You know you do. “ He drew back and stared down at her, with a frown between his eyes. “I can’t be that wrong about a woman.”
The words were like a bucket of ice water, quenching her fire. A woman! Was that all she was to him? Some convenient partner to share his lust? She drew back, lifted her hand and slapped him across the cheek with her full force. He fell back, stunned and disbelieving.
Before he recovered, Miranda rushed to the door and opened it, just as Mrs. Hazard came bustling down the hall. Miranda was so flustered she just stared, wondering what she should say, or do. She was relieved that Lord Bolton recovered so quickly, yet it angered her too that the interlude meant so little to him. Oh lord, and the imprint of her hand was on his cheek! Would Mrs. Hazard see it?
“Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard,” he said, with a graceful bow. In his confusion, he reverted to Ffoulkes-Hazard, the only sign of what he was feeling. “And looking charming, as usual.”
“Samson said you were here, milord,” she said, making an abbreviated curtsy. She didn’t seem to notice the red mark on his cheek. “Did you know your stepmama is calling on me this afternoon? She has someone special she wants Dotty to meet. Miranda thinks it must be one of the patronesses from Almack’s. Now what should I say to her?”
He shrugged. “Just what you would say to any other lady. They are but flesh and blood like the rest of us, ma’am. Don’t let them intimidate you. Almack’s is a demmed dull place when all is said and done. Cards for a penny a point, and orgeat to drink. Nearly as dull as court.”
“It sounds a dull scald to be sure, but it is the place, eh? Or so Miranda tells me. Let us go into the saloon and have a glass of wine to set up our spirits for the visit.”
She drew Bolton off to the saloon. As he left, he directed a long, searching look at Miranda. She had no idea what he meant to convey. Was it a threat that he would have revenge? Was it a request that she not reveal his lechery, perhaps? She was in a quandary as to how to treat that harrowing episode. He would not behave in that manner to Dotty, so she was in no danger. But Mrs. Hazard must be told.
And how could she reveal that she had not resisted as she ought? The blame was not all Bolton’s. He was the instigator, but she had almost encouraged him, at least by her compliance. A simple shout would have brought Samson to her rescue. But she had not wanted to be rescued. She had thrilled at that passionate outpouring of love — lust. She knew she would hear those words again in memory a hundred, a thousand times. In the very bottom of her heart, she wanted to hear them again in reality.
She was not so utterly abandoned that she would encourage a rake, however. She would caution Mrs
. Hazard that Bolton was a rake. But she had a sinking feeling that Mrs. Hazard would make light of it, so long as he behaved himself with Dotty. It was herself who was in jeopardy, and her best defense was to keep away from Bolton as much as possible. She must take pains not to be alone with him. There was safety in numbers.
When Dotty came downstairs, Miranda went to the saloon with her, carefully averting her eyes from Bolton. Dotty looked overdressed and with a too elaborate coiffure for afternoon. Bolton rose and greeted her politely but without enthusiasm. When she sat beside him on the sofa, he moved a few inches away from her. No one but Miranda seemed to notice. She didn’t look within a right angle of him, but from the corner of her eyes she was aware of every move he made.
Mrs. Hazard called Samson to pour them a glass of wine. During the little commotion, Miranda darted one quick glance at Bolton. He was watching her like a cat watching a mouse. She felt a telltale warmth stain her cheeks and looked away, relieved that her mark was fast fading from his cheek.
Mrs. Hazard kept the conversation lively, with some help from Lord Bolton. Miranda was grateful to be left alone. She doubted she could say a word, for her mind was still in a whirl.
It was not long before the expected sound of the door knocker alerted them Lady Bolton and the mysterious guest had arrived. All eyes turned to the archway to see who the guest could be. They were all expecting another lady, and stared to see a foppish young fellow with a lock of auburn hair tumbling over his forehead swagger in. It took Miranda a moment to recognize him, for he had changed a little in the two years since having his portrait painted.
During the moment, Lady Bolton came into the room, smiling proudly at one and all. “Here he is, at last!” she cried. “My son, Jeremy. Make a leg to the ladies, dear.”
Jeremy’s sharp eyes just flickered over Mrs. Hazard and Dotty before settling on Miranda, and his sulky lips arranged themselves into a sort of smile. “By Jove,” he said in a light, boyish voice as he made an exquisite bow. “Mama did not tell me you were a beauty, Miss Hazard, or I would have been here sooner.”
An awful silence settled on the room. It lasted only for seconds, but it seemed long. The awkward pause was followed by a gasp from Lady Bolton and a suppressed snort from Lord Bolton.
“Over here, dear,” Lady Bolton said, taking Jeremy by the elbow and directing his gaze to the heiress. “This charming young lady is Miss Hazard.”
“By Jove,” he said again, but without the enthusiasm of the first utterance.
It was, strangely, Mrs. Hazard who remembered her manners. “And I am Dotty’s mama,” she said, giving his limp white hand a shake. “This is my dear friend, Lady Wetherby. And I expect you know Lord Bolton.”
The gentlemen acknowledged each other’s presence with a nod. Lady Bolton recovered from the wound of Jeremy’s incredible gaffe and shot an angry, gimlet glance at Bolton.
“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply.
“Afraid of the competition, Adelaide?” he replied mischievously.
“Why don’t you all sit down and we’ll have tea,” Mrs. Hazard said, and rang the bell to summon Samson.
Chapter Eleven
Lord Bolton nudged his way to the end of the sofa to make room for Jeremy between him and Dotty. It was a good try, but it put Miranda directly in Jeremy’s line of sight, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He lacked experience in the petticoat line, and with has mama’s gimlet eyes boring into him, ordering him to make up to the heiress, he could make no headway with Miranda, but he kept gazing at her in such a way that Dotty had no idea he had come courting her.
Miranda was old enough and clever enough to realize exactly why Jeremy’s mama had brought him, and gave the callow boy not the least encouragement. It seemed hard that she should be the subject of Lady Bolton’s fiery stare and sharp jabs when she had done nothing but sit mute in a chair, sipping her tea.
“How did you enjoy your outing with Mr. Hume last evening, Lady Wetherby?” she asked, and added aside to her son, “Lady Wetherby is seeing Mr. Hume, Jeremy. You remember old Hume, a friend of your late papa.” She turned back to Miranda and added, “It would be nice to see him settled with some lady of a suitable age, like yourself, Lady Wetherby.”
“We are only new acquaintances, ma’am,” Miranda replied in a small voice.
“Sometimes new acquaintances prove the best. Why don’t you take Dotty for a spin while we oldsters have our tea, Jeremy, and you two new acquaintances can get to know each other better.”
“I am entertaining Lord Bolton, ma’am,” Dotty replied. “I can hardly leave before he does.”
“I expect it is just a dashing visit as Mrs. Hazard is so busy,” Lady Bolton said, with an imperative stare at her stepson.
“I get the feeling you wish me at Jericho, Adelaide,” was Bolton’s unhelpful reply.
She had to simulate amusement at this remark. “Max is such a jokesmith,” she said through tight lips. “The only reason I suggested a drive is that it is such a lovely day, and youngsters like Miss Hazard and Jeremy always prefer to be out and doing.”
“If Dotty feels like a drive, I’m sure Lord Bolton will take her,” Mrs. Hazard said.
“Certainly, ma’ am,” Bolton replied. “These tired old limbs are still supple enough to make it to the carriage. Would you like to go for a drive, Miss Hazard?”
“That would be nice,” Dotty said.
Lady Bolton bridled up like an angry mare, but soon pulled her chestnuts from the fire. “Why don’t the three of you go? Jeremy, you would like a drive, eh?”
“And Lady Wetherby, I hope you will join us as well,” Bolton said, directing a hopeful eye at Miranda, who refused to meet his look.
“By Jove! There’s an idea,” Jeremy exclaimed, and received a withering glare from his mama.
“Lady Wetherby will not want to go out on such a day,” the dame said at once. “We older ladies feel the chilly wind. That wind is pretty sharp.”
“Surprising, on such a lovely day,” Bolton murmured mischievously.
“Actually I am busy,” Miranda said. “I am writing the invitations for Mrs. Hazard’s party.”
“Don’t forget to write one for Jeremy,” Lady Bolton said, struggling to achieve a playful tone. The tea tray arrived.
While they were taking their tea, Lady Bolton set herself the task of discovering where the Hazards were to be found that evening. When she learned that the only invitation she had in common with them was to a rather boring do at Lady Harold Hiscott’s, she decreed it was the place to be.
When Dotty and her two escorts rose to leave, Lady Bolton said, “I shan’t be staying long, Max. As I’ll need my carriage to get home, you can give Jeremy a lift home in yours.” This arrangement had the advantage of ensuring that Max did not out-sit Jeremy upon their return to Berkeley Square.
Once away from the lure of Miranda, Jeremy took heed of his mama’s instructions and tried to make up to Dotty. She really wasn’t a bad looking gel, and if an out and outer like Bolton was dangling after her, she must be all the crack. Well, the Lyle’s Tonics heiress. By Jove! The chit must be worth a fortune.
He was not fool enough to think he really stood a chance against Bolton, and was surprised to see how easy it was to engage Miss Hazard’s attention. Bolton was so sure of himself that he wasn’t trying to impress her at all.
As they drove down New Bond Street, Bolton “remembered” that he had an appointment with his man of business, and said he would leave the carriage for Jeremy and Miss Hazard, and catch a hired cab home.
“This may take a while. I wouldn’t want to make you wait, Miss Hazard,” he explained.
“I’ll see you this evening at the Hiscott’s party,” she said, and watched as he strode off, with his curled beaver at a cocky angle on his jetty hair, and his broad shoulders and straight back making a fine display. She could not see the scheming smile on his face.
“You can tell he was an officer,” she said dreamily.
“What do you mean, pity?” Dotty asked, frowning. “Everyone says he was a hero in the Peninsula.”
“Oh nothing really. It’s just that all that killing and so on brutalizes a man. They are never the same when they come home. Mama says Bolton is impossible to live with. He insists on having everything done just so, a regular despot. Not his fault. Someone had to go and fight Napoleon, but there is no gainsaying it roughens a man’s nature.”
“I don’t find him rough,” she said, scanning her memory for past evidence. Perhaps he was just a little impatient from time to time. And really not such good company. He always seemed to be thinking of something else. Probably about killing people.
“They put their best foot forward when they’re courting,” he explained. “It’s later, after they’re married, that it crops out more. I had an uncle, a colonel in India. Used to beat his sons till they were black and blue. They develop a taste for torturing is what it is. Uncle Horace came home drunk one night and slit his throat. War — there’s the culprit.”
Dotty was impressed by this awful tale. She sat, worrying, until Jeremy had the idea of getting down from the rig for a stroll. They had a pleasant outing, stopping at all the shop windows and admiring the toys and trinkets. After much discussion in a toy shop, she bought a pretty fan with silk tassels and an illustration of the Prince’s pavilion, and Jeremy bought a very dashing dotted Belcher kerchief. She could not imagine Lord Bolton being such an obliging and amusing companion.
Mrs. Hazard and Miranda were in the saloon when Dotty returned.
“I hope you didn’t encourage Mr. West. Not that he needs any encouragement,” Mrs. Hazard said.
“He’s very nice,” Dotty replied. “We went shopping.” She showed her mama the fan and described Jeremy’s kerchief. “And what did Lord Bolton buy?” her mother asked.
“Oh he wasn’t with us. He had to do some business and didn’t want to make me wait. He left us the carriage.”