Iris’s hand stilled, and she lifted her gaze to Miranda. “Truly?”
Miranda released her pent-up breath. “Yes. I know the pain of missing a loved one.”
Iris nodded slowly, then bit her lip. “How, rather, when does it get easier? To not miss them?”
Miranda glanced away to the ground, gathering her thoughts and the unexpected onslaught of emotion. When she felt mostly in control of herself, she glanced back to Iris. “It never stops hurting, it simply gets easier to adjust to life without them.”
Iris gave a slow nod. “I see. Is it horrible of me to say I miss my father even more than my mother?”
Miranda shook her head. “No. I missed my mother significantly more than I miss—missed my father,” Miranda amended belatedly.
Iris twisted her lips. “When did you lose your father?”
Miranda took a deep breath, wondering how to answer that question, when a knock sounded at the door. A parlormaid came in with the tea.
Miranda gave a silent sigh of relief at the appearance of a distraction. Perhaps Iris would forget the question.
Miranda thanked the maid and said they would serve themselves. “How do you wish your tea this afternoon, Iris?” Miranda asked. Early, she had learned Iris didn’t simply take her tea the same way each time, but tended to cater it to her mood.
“Cream and sugar today, please,” Iris answered.
Miranda poured the amber tea into the china cups, watching as the steam swirled above it. The aroma was bitter and sweet all at once, so much like life. The cream lightened the tea and halted the swirling steam as soon as it was added to the cup. After dropping one sugar cube, Miranda carefully stirred the liquid and set the spoon to the side before handing it to Iris.
“You make serving tea look lovely. How do you do that? Everything you do is graceful,” Iris added just before taking a sip of tea.
“Thank you,” Miranda answered. Though she wasn’t sure how serving tea could appear graceful in the least, it was still a kind word from Iris. “I’m simply doing what everyone else does when pouring tea.”
“Yes, but . . . I’m not sure, you make it look effortless. It’s the same as when you dance. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to learn it, which is daunting.”
“I have a few more years’ experience,” Miranda answered, pouring her own tea and adding a small splash of cream. The steam swirled above her white china cup and she inhaled the sweet scent before taking a sip.
“I’m sure a hundred years’ more experience for me still wouldn’t make it stick,” Iris replied wryly. “But I digress. Tell me, when did you lose your father?”
Drat. Miranda didn’t wish to lie; she hated it. After all, hadn’t her father lied enough for them both? Why add to it? She took a fortifying breath. “I never really knew my father.” She answered honestly, hoping it wouldn’t invite more questions.
“I see,” Iris replied. “Well, it is a tragedy to be without one’s parents. But I will say it is . . . soothing to know I’m not alone in my grief.”
“You are certainly not alone. And I’m thankful that we have each other. I realize that I can be exacting, but in the end, I only wish the best for you, Iris. Please know that.”
Iris’s eyes turned glassy and she looked away. “Thank you. Forgive me for my stubborn nature. My frustration isn’t aimed at you but closer. I aim it at myself.”
“And such an action will only serve to defeat you as well. You are a very strong young lady, and in that you will be either celebrated or shunned if you don’t manage that strength properly. But you will. It just takes time.”
“And dancing lessons,” Iris replied, gaining some of her cheeky behavior back.
“Many, many dancing lessons,” Miranda said, chuckling softly.
“Speaking of dancing, I’ve never seen a gentleman quite so . . . broad as Lord Kilpatrick.” Iris leaned forward. “Tell me, are all the gentlemen in London like that?”
A shiver of appreciation traveled down her spine at the memory of the viscount. Never had an introduction to a gentleman had such an effect on her, and she’d been introduced to quite a few. “No, most are far less . . . imposing.”
“Good heavens, all I could think of was that I can’t even dance with you and you’re of my height, how will I ever master dancing with a man that tall!” Iris giggled, setting down her empty teacup.
Miranda grinned. “It isn’t as difficult as you make it sound. You’ll see.”
“Do you think he’d be willing to let us practice with him?” Iris asked, tilting her head thoughtfully.
Miranda almost choked on the sip of tea she’d taken. The thought of dancing with the viscount was both thrilling and terrifying. “I’m not sure. We can . . . ask,” she answered, albeit reluctantly.
“Perhaps.” Iris twisted her lips. “But not anytime soon. I need to master the steps first. Wouldn’t want to hurt his toes.”
“Simply mine,” Miranda replied dryly.
“You’re accustomed to my abuse,” Iris said teasingly.
“Sadly, yes,” Miranda replied, shaking her head. “Iris, why don’t we take the afternoon off? You’ve worked hard all day, and I’m certain tonight we’ll be dining with the viscount. You’ll want to wear something appropriate, and it will be a good opportunity to practice table conversation and manners.”
Iris sighed. “I was quite thrilled till you mentioned dinner. I suppose there’s nothing to be done to change it?”
“I’d think not.”
“Then I suppose I’ll be happy with my freedom this afternoon, however short lived.”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind—“
“No, not at all. Thank you.” Iris stood from her place on the sofa. “In fact, I shall take advantage of this time while it’s still being offered. Excuse me.” Iris curtseyed, grinned, and headed to the door.
With a quick glance behind her, she darted out into the hall, leaving Miranda quite alone with her tea and her thoughts. She lifted the cup to her lips once more, remembering the introduction to the viscount. There was a flash of something in his gaze. Recognition? Did he see the resemblance between Liliah and herself? It was unlikely. It did beg the question, however, how would he take the information concerning her close connection with the new lady of Heightfield? Would he resent his friend’s dishonesty regarding her identity? Would he perhaps understand the necessity of it?
Would he resent her?
The questions continued to flicker through her mind, and as she gazed into her almost-empty teacup, the now-cold tea gave no answers.
She supposed only time would tell.
And she was growing tired of waiting.
It seemed so much of her life had been consumed by it.
Wait till you master the waltz.
Wait till your French is flawless.
Wait till you come out.
Wait till you meet the man I’ve chosen for your husband.
Wait, wait, wait.
Even in her escape from her father, she was in a perpetual state of waiting.
Waiting for her sister.
Waiting for the viscount.
Waiting for the truth about her identity to be revealed.
When would she finally move past the purgatory of her life?
She set down her teacup and smoothed her skirt out of habit.
Because it was what ladies did when they waited.
She was bloody tired of waiting!
A blush heated her face at the thought of the vulgar word, but it was also honest.
What would it be like for the world to wait at her leisure? To have that kind of power, that control? To determine her own course, to be brave enough to try? She wanted to have that kind of courage, but the truth about courage was that you never knew you had it till you used it.
Or failed.
Well, she had gotten this far, hadn’t she? There must be some courage buried deep within her. Impossibly, her father hadn’t extinguished its flame. Resolved, she decide
d to fan the tender fire. Who knew? Maybe it would grow.
It had to, because the opposite was unacceptable.
She simply had to await the opportunity to feed the flame.
Bloody, blasted waiting.
Chapter Eight
Heathcliff licked his fork clean, then glanced at his plate, which held only the crumbs remaining from the treacle tart. Never in his dreams had he tasted anything so delightful, and he had tasted a great many things—delightful, pleasurable . . . things. The wicked thought brought a grin to his lips and he set the fork to the side of the plate, then rose from the table. It was blessedly quiet, and he paused to absorb the peaceful atmosphere of the room. Certainly it would be far more crowded during the evening meal.
Three constituted a crowd in his opinion—especially when the facility was his home.
His normally reclusive and very private home.
Bloody women.
But even as he thought back to the ladies in question, he couldn’t help but allow himself to linger on the governess. There was something about her that seemed . . . more. It was a simple word, with a complex meaning. Belatedly, he wished he had asked more questions regarding her background and references, but at the time, he was simply happy Lucas had solved his problem.
The nagging sensation remained, and in his gut, he knew something was amiss with the governess. And in his profession, one always trusted their gut instinct.
People lied.
They cheated.
And would risk everything to keep from being caught in either trap.
He wasn’t sure which category the beautiful woman fell into, but he was certain it wouldn’t take long to discover.
In fact, it would be a diverting little game he’d engage in, flirt with, and enjoy.
“Ach, did you taste it at all?” Mrs. Keyes rounded the corner and placed her hands on her ample hips.
Heathcliff chuckled. “Near enough.”
“Well, ’twill be more at dinner tonight. I’m taking the liberty of inviting the girls to dine with you,” Mrs. Keyes informed him.
“I see you’re still not asking my opinion on matters and such.” Heathcliff gave her a wry grin.
“I ask ye on the matters I want your opinion. On the others, I’m inclined to give you the option that’s best for ye,” she sassed with a grin. “Are you opposed to dining with the ladies?” she asked, growing more serious.
Heathcliff shook his head; no need to make her question her decision. After all, it was the one he’d have made as well, even if he hadn’t felt like it. “ ’Tis all well and good.”
“Good,” Mrs. Keyes replied. “I’m assuming you’re heading to your rooms to freshen up a bit. I had Emily tidy up the room this week, and I just sent up the footman to ensure the fire’s warm for you.”
“Mothering me still,” Heathcliff teased, bowing to the woman.
“Ach, you still need it,” she replied, hitching a shoulder. With that, she bustled past him in the hall, leaving him to the promised refuge of his rooms. He strode down the hall, the ground slightly creaking under his weight. A pained smile pulled at his lips. The house was alive with memories; even the sound of footsteps told a thousand tales.
Of when his father would stride down the hall, so powerful, immovable, strong.
Till he wasn’t.
And the stride became a shuffle.
And then nothing at all.
But it was an honor to the great man’s legacy to remember the years of health, of strength. It was also a painful reminder of how short Heathcliff had fallen when trying to measure up to the standard his father set.
He shook his head to dispel the memories and took the stairs that wound up to the second floor. Sunlight spilled into the room from the grand windows that stood guard over the hall, the air warm. He glanced out to the hills beyond the windows, mentally making plans to take his leisure in hunting the grouse that wandered there. It would be a welcome change of pace from the bustle of London.
London had its other charms.
But he didn’t miss those at the moment. He would eventually, but now . . . now he was simply happy to keep to himself, to have no expectations placed on his character, his reputation, or living up to either.
The metal of the handle was cool against his hand as he opened the door into the first of his suite of rooms.
Sure enough, his room was comfortably warm from the fire crackling in the hearth. Even though the end of summer, Edinburgh’s air was still damp enough to carry a chill. The scent of sunshine and lye soap filled the room, and he inhaled deeply. The fresh smell of laundry was vastly different here than his home in London. Never did the sheets fully become fresh from the clean air as they did here, and he breathed greatly, anticipating the delightful sensation of his bed that evening. Tugging on his cravat, he loosened the offensive garment and shrugged out of his coat. Twisting his neck, he tugged on his shirtsleeves and loosened his top button. Far more relaxed, he took the few steps to the window that overlooked the back of his property. Just as when he was a lad, he traced the correct path of the maze with his gaze, but as he reached the end, he paused.
Someone was in the maze.
He took a step closer to the window to inspect. Sure enough, a young lady—the governess, he suspected—wove through the path with expert ease, taking each turn correctly till she emerged on the other side of the puzzle. She walked toward the hills then, abandoning the maze and disappearing behind a hedgerow. His gaze darted ahead to where she’d emerge in the break between the hedges. It took only a few seconds and he saw her once again. The slight breeze was teasing her bonnet ribbons, and he saw her reach up to their drifting ends before disappearing behind the row once more.
He glanced to the next separation and grinned when he noted the absence of her bonnet. Perhaps the governess wasn’t quite as prim as she pretended.
He found he liked that idea.
Dismissing it, he was about to turn away when he saw her disappear once again. Out of habit, he glanced ahead to the next row, but after several seconds, she didn’t appear.
Curious, he waited a few moments longer.
Nothing.
Now confused, he placed his hands on his hips and studied the courtyard. She hadn’t turned back either.
Odd.
He waited a few moments more, and when she still didn’t appear, he disregarded the wayward woman and turned his back to the window.
But he wasn’t able to dispel his curiosity.
It was both his greatest asset and his greatest fault.
He changed his shirt, then turned to the window.
He washed his face, then turned to the window again.
He looked to the door, then to the window.
“Blast it all,” he muttered before opening his door and all but stalking out.
He moved down the hall and then opened the door to the servant’s stairway; it would be the quickest way to the back of the estate. He took the stone steps two at a time, then paused on the landing below. The wooden door creaked loudly as he opened it, spilling sunshine in over the gray stone. The call of a dove was the only sound above the gentle stirring of the wind. He took the path that led away from the house and toward the maze, then took a smaller fork in the path to where the hedgerow started its division of the property. Rather than follow the path the governess had taken, he opted for a more relaxed route, deciding to at least appear as if it were happenstance.
No need for the lady to think he was watching her.
He was simply curious.
It was innocent enough, yet how long had it been since anything he’d done could be considered innocent?
He glanced to the hills as he walked along the outside of the hedgerow, his hand tracing the lower hedge beside it, brushing the bright green leaves with his fingertips. When he reached the place he assumed the lady to be pausing, he gentled his steps and listened.
Nothing.
As he made it to the next break in the hedgerow, he turned,
expecting to startle the young lady.
But the there was no young lady.
Unaccustomed to being surprised, Heathcliff frowned, then glanced around, scanning the property. It was entirely likely she had moved while he was traveling between his room and the staircase, but wouldn’t he have seen her then?
And why in the bloody hell did it even matter? He didn’t need to chase a skirt; hell, skirts chased him.
In droves.
But it was something of a thrill, however small, to solve the mystery. He didn’t have any pressing plans for the afternoon.
And surely it wouldn’t take long.
Decision made, he glanced about once more, looking for clues as to where she might have endeavored to disappear. He noted a hill cresting perpendicular to the hedgerow. If she had crested the hill, he wouldn’t have seen her digress in her path, nor would he see her now.
It was a possibility.
He followed the deer path up to the hill and, as he crested it, paused to absorb the sight.
Nestled amid a copse of birch trees sat a forest nymph. She reclined lazily upon a rock, her stockings removed as she kicked a toe in the small pond just beyond. Her hair was pinned up properly, which was the only detail out of place. Didn’t nymphs, fairies, and the like have unbound hair? All the pictures he’d ever seen in the more salacious books he’d read had used the unbound hair to cover the more . . . delicate areas of the beauty, only to keep the reader fully engaged in imagining what was hidden.
It was a pity the fairy was utterly and properly clothed.
He’d like to remedy that.
She moved her foot about playfully in the water, and her chest rose and fell with a contented sigh. The movement highlighted the delicate curves and valleys of her feminine form, a heated and feverish fantasy in daylight.
The rational part of him knew it was simply the governess he’d hired for his ward—he was uncertain if he was bloody brilliant, stupidly lucky, or headed for destruction because of that decision—but the less rational and more amorous part of him was finding great satisfaction in the fantasy.
It was ironic.
He owned and worked at the most exclusive gambling hell in London. Courtesans and the like were in constant company—yet none of them had utterly stolen his attention, for however long.
Escaping His Grace Page 5