Forsters 04 - Romancing the Runaway (3 page)

“Oh dear!” Miranda covered her mouth with one hand. “I hope he hasn’t been a nuisance. Tobias assumes that everyone likes him, even if they don’t. I’ve tried to explain that not everyone enjoys canine companionship, but he doesn’t seem to understand how that can be possible.”

Jessie smiled. “He wouldn’t leave this room at first. We knew he’d need to go outside eventually but had no idea how to persuade him. Then Lord Gabriel tempted him with a pork chop and the two of them have been firm friends ever since.”

“Yes, I dare say a pork chop would have done the trick,” Miranda said, smiling in spite of her precarious situation. “Tobias is very partial to pork chops. Well, to anything edible, truth to tell.”

Jessie laughed. “We’ve discovered that much already.”

There was a tap at the door and two footmen entered with a tin bath, which they placed in front of the fire and proceeded to fill with steaming water. Once they’d gone again, Jessie helped Miranda to stand up. She was wearing a nightgown that didn’t belong to her. She didn’t own anything made of such fine lawn, and wondered who in this house did. Probably every female beneath its roof. Once again she was surprised by their generosity in lending such intimate apparel to a trespasser and a thief.

Miranda’s head felt perfectly clear. Unfortunately that meant she could remember everything she’d done since leaving Delroy Point. She’d heard tales at school about reckless young women who used unconventional ruses to put them in the way of rich gentlemen. Everyone in the house must assume that was what she had done. Heat invaded her face as that possibility lodged itself in her brain. They couldn’t be more wrong, but who was likely to believe that?

Thankfully Jessie at least didn’t appear to be passing judgement, nor did she display any signs of curiosity about Miranda’s unconventional arrival at the Hall. There would be time enough for explanations, she supposed, when she faced Lord Gabriel—something she knew she would have to do sooner or later. Miranda would prefer for it to be later—much later. She winced, both at the thought of facing her rescuer and when she placed weight on her injured ankle.

“Here, let me help you, miss.” Jessie supported her to the bath and helped her into it. “That ankle’s still swollen. We reckon you must have sprained it.”

“Yes, very likely. I fell on it.” Miranda eased herself into the water and sighed with pleasure. It felt wonderful to wash herself after days of sleeping in a barn and then burning up with fever. Jessie washed her hair for her and as she did so two other maids stripped the sheets from her bed and replaced them with fresh ones.

“They were quite wet, what with the fever making you so hot,” Jessie explained.

“There’s no need to make a fuss over me.” No one else had during the past four years.

“It’s no trouble.” Jessie held out a towel. “Now then, miss, how does that ankle feel? Should we strap it up again?”

Miranda cautiously rotated it. “It hurts still but not as much as it did.”

“Then perhaps we’ll leave it be. The swellings gone down a lot. I’ll brush your hair dry by the fire and then perhaps you might enjoy another little nap.”

The hair brushing was another wonderful sensation. Jessie chatted away as she attended to the task, telling Miranda just what fair and compassionate masters the Forsters were.

“How long have you worked here, Jessie?”

“Since I was younger than you are, miss. My husband was head coachman here for many years.”

“Was?”

“He died two years back.” Jessie sniffed back tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“Aye well, he was getting on a bit. The marquess, he offered me a pension and a cottage in the grounds but I wasn’t ready to retire. I asked if I could carry on working and I get given light duties, ’cos of my age.”

“You don’t look
that
old.”

Jessie laughed. “Sometimes I feel it. I used to get aches in my bones something terrible but Lord Robert’s new wife has a brother who makes herbal medications. He sorted me out good and proper. Shame he’s not here now. He’d fix that ankle for you in no time flat.”

“Yes, it’s inconvenient, not being able to walk.”

“Right, there we are. Your hair’s all dry now and shining like the sun. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, Jessie.”

“Why not have a rest? You’re still not strong.”

Miranda had done nothing but rest for the past two days. Even so, she found the small effort it had taken to sit in a bath and have someone else attend to her toilette was enough to tire her again.

“Perhaps I will,” she said, stifling a yawn.

“That’s the spirit.” Miranda dutifully lifted her arms as Jessie pulled a clean nightgown over her head. She then turned back the covers and helped Miranda into the fresh bed. “Sleep for an hour or two and then tonight Lord Gabriel would like you to dine with him.”

Miranda froze. “Dine with him?” Why would he want to dine with a trespasser—one who’d caused him so much trouble?

“Sure, he says he’s looking forward to it.”

Well, that made one of them. “I have nothing to wear,” she said, convinced that would put paid to the ridiculous idea.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. We’ll soon fix you up with something suitable.”

Miranda closed her eyes and wished she really had died. How the devil was she supposed to sit across a table from Lord Gabriel and explain her behaviour? He’d never understand and, even if he did, he’d probably think that she was three-farthings short of a shilling.

Jessie woke Miranda again two hours later with a cup of tea and a cheerful smile. “We found a gown that ought to fit you, miss. It belongs to Lady Robert.”

“Won’t she mind?”

“All the family are up in town for the season, apart from Lord Gabriel. But I’m sure Lady Robert won’t mind in the least.”

Miranda allowed herself to be dressed and fussed over by Jessie.

“You’re the same height as Lady Robert, but slimmer. I shall have to pull these ties a bit tighter.” Jessie did so, stood back and smiled. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

In spite of her concerns over the forthcoming meal, Miranda couldn’t help but gasp as the lovely silk slithered over her chemise and clung to her form as though it had been made for her. When Jessie was finally satisfied with her handiwork Miranda glanced in the mirror and hardly knew herself. Gone was the girl freshly graduated from Miss Frobisher’s Academy. In her place stood a tall young lady who looked vaguely familiar. Except she couldn’t be Miss Miranda Cantrell because this creature was dressed in sumptuous cerise silk, her hair piled on top of her head, silk slippers on her feet.

With the exception of her riding habit, which was of vital importance, Miranda had never paid much attention to clothing. At school she was obliged to wear a uniform. The rest of the time, it hardly mattered how she looked. It wouldn’t occur to the self-obsessed Mrs. Peacock that their ward might be in want of clothes. Even if it had, Mr. Peacock would have insisted that the cost be deducted from Miranda’s inheritance, being too tight-fisted to provide anything without expecting recompense. Miranda had plans for her inheritance that didn’t include unnecessary clothing. Even so, wearing a silk evening gown for the first time, she at last understood why some ladies took such pleasure from their wardrobes. It made her feel…

Sensuous.

Yes, that was it. Sensuous, and imbued with much-needed confidence to survive the evening to come.

“Come along then, miss,” Jessie said. “You look a picture. Take my arm and I’ll help you down the stairs.”

Tobias followed her from the room. She didn’t know whether she ought to tell him to stay and in the end kept him with her. The sound of his familiar panting gave her courage. The upstairs corridors were grand beyond imagination, as was the wide, sweeping staircase. A horde of butterflies had taken up residence in Miranda’s stomach. If she could have thought of a reason to delay, she would have grasped it with both hands. But her active imagination had chosen a most inconvenient time to desert her and her mind was a complete blank. A footman opened a door for them when Jessie and Miranda reached the ground floor.

“Miss Cantrell and Tobias, my lord,” Jessie said, curtseying and then withdrawing.

A superbly attired gentleman rose athletically from a chair beside the fire, shook a shock of dark blond hair away from his eyes and sent her a penetrating look. He was quite
the
most handsome men she’d ever encountered in her admittedly sheltered existence. It took all the training that had been drummed into her at Miss Frobisher’s establishment to withstand his exacting scrutiny without revealing her inner discomfort at being examined by someone so closely resembling a decadent god.

He didn’t seem especially pleased to see her, which brought her down to earth with a resounding thump. In inviting her to dine he was simply being gentlemanly. What else had she expected? He probably intended to ring a peel over her in a civilized fashion during dinner, and she knew she deserved any chastisement he chose to dole out.

Even so, Miranda had her standards. She remained where she was, ignoring the pain shooting through her ankle, wondering if she was expected to speak first. Thanks to Miss Frobisher, Miranda was intimately acquainted with precisely the right depth of curtsey to make to a duchess, could perform every dance currently in vogue—and a few that weren’t—understood whom she could and could not address at a dinner table, and so much more. Unfortunately, her education had failed her in one vital regard. It had neglected to advise her on the rules of conduct when dining unchaperoned in a single gentleman’s residence.

Miss Frobisher would have palpitations if Miranda spoke when she should not. She would have the vapours anyway if she’d been aware of Miranda’s situation. The idea of disappointing that paragon of etiquette amused Miranda, and afforded her the courage to see this thing through. Her lips twitched as she squared her shoulders and looked directly at Lord Gabriel, deciding to wait for him to speak first.

He didn’t do so, but instead a slow, curling smile lit up his features. Intelligent brown eyes gleamed with a combination of amusement and—could it be?—approval. The guardian angel whose image had plagued her dreams, warming parts of her body that even the fever had left unaffected, was no myth. He was standing before her now, easily as handsome as he’d been in her dream, and he no longer seemed the slightest bit annoyed with her.

Chapter Three

Gabe was hard-pressed to conceal his astonishment at the remarkable transformation. The half dead child he’d rescued a couple of days ago was now a desirable full-grown woman. Grown in all the right places, he conceded, his eyes lingering on her décolletage. He recognised the gown she wore as being one of his sister-in-law Electra’s. Someone had added a fichu to the bodice, presumably to preserve a degree of modesty. Their efforts were wasted since the inadequate triangle of lace only succeeded in drawing Gabe’s attention to the firm, pert breasts beneath it.

He transferred his gaze to Miss Cantrell’s face, deciding that the dusting of freckles across her small nose suited her. Her creamy complexion remained pale, but her skin was otherwise smooth and unblemished. Her piercing blue eyes regarded him with a combination of curiosity and anxiety but she met his gaze without blinking, a defiant half smile playing about plump, rosy lips.

“Miss Cantrell.” He extended a hand and clasped hers in it. “I’m pleased to see you looking so much better.”

She curtsied and almost toppled over. He’d been told that she had a sprained ankle but had forgotten everything he’d learned about her—which was precious little—the moment she walked through the door looking so composed, so unexpectedly sophisticated, and yet unable to completely hide her apprehension. He reached forward and steadied her.

“Thank you, Lord Gabriel. I’m almost completely better and I ought to—”

“Shush, later.” He turned his attention to Tobias and ruffled his ears with the hand not supporting Miss Cantrell’s elbow. “Good evening, Tobias.”

Tobias woofed, wagged his tail and licked Gabe’s hand.

“Allow me to present my neighbour, Mrs. Grantley,” he said.

Miss Cantrell blinked. Clearly she hadn’t seen the small woman dressed in dark colours seated on the opposite side of the fire. Cautious by nature, Gabe had considered it wise to have another female present, at least until he got to the bottom of Miss Cantrell’s unorthodox arrival at the Hall. He was grateful to Mrs. Grantley for answering his plea at such short notice.

“My dear, how are you?” Mrs. Grantley’s kindly eyes sparkled with concern. “Lord Gabriel told me you almost froze to death.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” she replied, curtsying again. “Everyone has been so kind, and I’m feeling much more like myself.”

“It doesn’t do to go gallivanting about the countryside in such weather. No good can come out of it.”

“No, ma’am. Indeed not.”

“Mrs. Grantley is our neighbour and now also part of our family since my sister Flick is married to Darius Grantley.”

Miss Cantrell blinked. “The famous barrister. I’ve heard of him.”

Mrs. Grantley preened. “Well, his name does seem to appear in the newspapers quite frequently nowadays.”

Gabe led his guests to the small table laid for three in an alcove by the window. Munford, the footman who waited on Gabe since Hal’s butler was in town with the family, sprang forward to help Mrs. Grantley with her chair. Gabe provided a similar service for Miss Cantrell.

“We shall dine immediately, Munford,” Gabe said.

“Very good, my lord.”

“I don’t know about you, Miss Cantrell, but I’m sharp set, and I’m sure Tobias is too.”

The smile that had threatened ever since she’d entered the room broke loose. “That I can guarantee.”

She appeared to be conducting some sort of inner battle with herself, probably scared half out of her wits to find herself in such surroundings. That was why Gabe had ordered dinner to be served in the small sitting room.

He entertained her with light conversation, never once asking for the explanation she must be aware was overdue. It immediately became apparent that she was familiar with dinner table etiquette, which implied a good family, or a good education. Gabe was curious to discover which, or both, applied to Miss Cantrell.

“I’m anxious about my mare,” she said almost as soon as they sat down.

“Ah yes, you’ve both sprained your fetlocks.”

Her spontaneous smile hit Gabe squarely below the belt. “Yes, I suppose we have. How is Bianca?”

“My manager’s taking good care of her. I suspect you’ll both heal at the same speed. You’re welcome to check her for yourself tomorrow, if you wish.”

“Thank you, I do wish.”

“She’s a fine mare.”

Miss Cantrell’s eyes glowed. “Thank you. She’s pure Arabian.”

“I thought as much. How old is she?”

“Eight.”

“A perfect age. Have you considered breeding her?”

“Yes, I’ve been toying with that possibility.”

“I have a Trakehner at stud here. It occurs to me that their respective lines might make for interesting progeny.”

“Trakehners make elegant carriage horses,” she mused, her eyes alight with interest in a subject she clearly knew something about. “But mixed with Arabian lightness and speed, you could produce wonderful ladies’ saddle horses.”

“My thought precisely.”

“I hadn’t planned to crossbreed, but the idea has merit.”

Gabe had known as soon as he looked at her mare that the beast was exceptional. Miss Cantrell was clearly aware of that, too, and he was gratified by the extent of her knowledge and enthusiasm. It gave them an interest in common that kept the conversation flowing while they ate. Miss Cantrell relaxed her guard as she enthused about her mare and seemed to forget where she was.

And why.

“If you’re so keen on horses, Miss Cantrell,” Mrs. Grantley remarked, “you and Lord Gabriel will have much to talk about. Horses are the only thing that’s interested him ever since he was in short coats.”

Gabe smiled, even though he was annoyed by the remark. He hadn’t yet decided what to make of Miss Cantrell and didn’t wish to excite her expectations. He was slightly pacified when he saw from her expression that she was as embarrassed by Mrs. Grantley’s lack of tact as he was.

“Have you owned Bianca for long?” Gabe asked.

“Since she was a foal. She was a gift from my father.” She sent a defiant glance across the table. “I broke her myself.”

“Good heavens!” Now she really had surprised him. “Forgive me, but if Bianca is eight then you must have been very young yourself when you broke her.”

“Papa and I started backing her when she was two. I myself was twelve at the time.”

“Astonishing.”

“Not really.” She lifted her shoulders, as though they couldn’t stand the weight of the compliment. “I can’t really take any credit. Bianca and I connected right from the first and it carried on from there.”

Gabe wanted to ask a great deal more. There was a wistfulness in her expression when she mentioned her father than persuaded Gabe it wasn’t him she was running away from. It also made him more curious than ever to hear the reason for her reckless behaviour. Half an hour in her company was sufficient to persuade him that she wasn’t some flighty miss escaping from a doomed love affair or tyrannical parent. But explanations would have to wait until the meal finished and the servants had withdrawn.

Gabe changed the subject, stifling his amusement when she attacked the cream trifle placed before her with relish. For such a slim creature she had an astonishing appetite and, clearly, a very sweet tooth.

“Have you had sufficient, ladies?” he asked, valiantly trying to keep his lips straight.

“Thank you, yes.” Miss Cantrell glanced up, presumably saw the amusement in his expression and offered him an impish smile. “I was very hungry.”

“Obviously.”

“It
was
delicious,” Mrs. Grantley agreed, even though she had the appetite of a sparrow.

Gabe stood. Munford helped Mrs. Grantley from her chair. Gabe offered Miss Cantrell his arm to lean on as they crossed the room and the three of them took up the chairs on either side of the fireplace.

“Perhaps you will be more comfortable if you elevated your sore ankle.” Gabe placed a footstool before her and she lifted her leg onto it, giving him a brief glimpse of what he judged would be a well-turned ankle when the puffiness around the joint had completely subsided. “Is that better?”

“That you, much.”

“Tea for the ladies, please, Munford. And I shall have brandy.”

The footman bowed and left to comply with Gabe’s orders. It wasn’t long before Miss Cantrell and Mrs. Grantley were sharing a pot of tea and Gabe was nursing a brandy snifter.

“Thank you, Munford, that will be all.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The door closed softly behind Munford and his fellow footman. The only sound in the room was now the crackling of the logs in the grate and Tobias’s soft snores as he stretched out full length in front of the fire and made himself at home. Mrs. Grantley finished her tea and appeared to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.

If Miss Cantrell found the silence unsettling, she gave no sign. That was unusual in Gabe’s experience. He had yet to meet a female who didn’t feel the need to fill silences with unnecessary chatter. He examined her countenance, her features a combination of light and shadow in the flickering candlelight. Her brow was slightly creased and he could tell from the elevated rate of her breathing that she was nervous to find herself virtually alone with him. Mrs. Grantley lent respectability to the situation but already her eyes had fluttered to a close and her breathing had slowed, indicating that she’d fallen asleep.

Gabe leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. Then he took pity on Miss Cantrell and offered her an opening.

“Is there something—”

“Lord Gabriel, I ought to—”

They both spoke at once, and broke off equally abruptly.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Cantrell. Was there something you wished to say to me?”

She sat forward, still with one leg on the stool, and fixed him with an intent gaze. “Firstly, I wish to thank you for your kindness. You undoubtedly saved my life.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“But I think a very great deal about it, that’s my difficulty. Had it not been for you I…well, I doubt I could have survived for much longer.”

Gabe agreed with her but didn’t consider it necessary to say so. “Then it’s fortunate that I happened to find you when I did.”

“Also, I’m not a thief. It’s important to me that you understand that. I planned to pay for the things I…er, borrowed before I quit your grounds. I was going to leave coins in the tack room.”

A smile broke through Gabe’s guard.

“I was! I have money.”

That was true. Over fifty pounds was in her bundle of possessions—a small fortune for an unaccompanied girl to be carrying about. She continued to glare defiantly at him but said nothing more.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Miss Cantrell. Tell me who you’re running away from and why.”

“You’ve already done more than enough,” she replied guardedly. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

“Then humour me.”

*

Miranda was unsure what she ought to do or say next. She
did
owe him an explanation for what must seem like very bizarre behaviour, she knew that very well. But it was so hard to arrange her thoughts into any sort of coherent order when he looked at her with such droll amusement in his expression, as though he considered her an irrelevant diversion. More distracting yet was the way in which he moved, with such natural elegance and compelling charm. It fascinated her because she’d never seen such a display of easy manners before. He was perfectly comfortable in these grand surroundings, simply because they were his birthright, reminding her of the differences in their situations.

He was just the sort of young gentlemen she and her fellow students had sat up at night inventing. Miranda hadn’t supposed she would ever meet such a man, much less sweep him off his feet, something all her companions were confident they would achieve as a matter of course.

Miranda was in no position to do sweeping of any sort. Even if she’d been attractive enough to interest Lord Gabriel, it still wouldn’t have served. She was several steps beneath him in the strata society set so much stock by. The practical side of her nature knew it, and it saved her from making more of a fool of herself than she already had. She would give Lord Gabriel an abbreviated account of her situation, enough to satisfy his curiosity, and be gone from here just as soon as Bianca was fit enough to be ridden.

“I was making my way to stay with my friend Charlotte,” she said. “I took a shortcut, hoping to bypass Denby, and Bianca caught her foot in a rabbit hole.”

“Excuse me, Miss Cantrell,” Lord Gabriel said, fixing her with an indolent glance. “But I’d prefer it if you’d either tell me to go to the devil, or give me a true account of your actions. I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Miranda wanted to jump to her feet and protest. Then she remembered her swollen ankle and made do with placing her hands on her hips and expelling an indignant huff. “Why do you suppose I’m being untruthful?”

“I don’t suppose it, I know it.” He waved an elegant hand in her direction. “You’re a young lady of some quality and as such wouldn’t go anywhere unescorted. Besides, you had no luggage.”

He said nothing more, but his expression told her that she’d disappointed him, which made her feel wretched. Why it should matter Miranda couldn’t have said, but his good opinion mattered to her very much indeed. Her difficulty was, if she told him the truth, he’d send her straight back to Mr. Peacock, assuming he knew what was best for her. Everyone seemed to think they knew better than she did when it came to her own wellbeing. She found it most vexatious to be treated as if she didn’t have a mind of her own when, in actual fact, she had brains enough to outwit most of the men of her acquaintance.

She owed Lord Gabriel her life, which counted for something, but dare she trust him with the truth? She glanced up at him and the intensity in his expression gave her pause. Reckless sensuality, compassion, concern—there was something in his intelligent eyes that persuaded her to trust him.

“I was running away from my guardian,” she said, addressing the comment to the flames flickering in the fireplace.

“Your parents are dead?”