Her Wicked Ways (11 page)

Mr. Carmody clasped his hands behind his back. “Next week is the assembly and although you won’t be attending, Lady Miranda, I expect you to assist Beatrice with her preparations. Teach her the latest dances, ensure her costume is de rigeur.”

Disappointment stabbed Miranda’s chest. “What assembly? I wasn’t aware of an assembly.”

Mrs. Carmody positioned the embroidery hoop stand before her and picked up her needle. “The quarterly assembly. You cannot accompany Beatrice given your parents’ edict.”

Of course
. Rather than giving in to irritation and glaring at her jailers or saying something that would likely get her into trouble, Miranda tried to focus on doing what she must to escape Wootton Bassett. She composed her face into a serene expression. “I understand. I will do my utmost to ensure Beatrice is a smashing success.”

If she didn’t absolutely believe Mr. Carmody would ensure she was confined to her room for the duration of the summer, Miranda would already be plotting a way to sneak into the assembly. But there was no way she could enjoy herself at the event
and
keep her presence from them. Pity.

“Beatrice, perhaps we should spend our evening reviewing dances. And tell me, what do you plan to wear?”

The new curls framing Beatrice’s face were an improvement over her formerly severe hairstyle, and a flattering dress could transform her into a very pretty girl. “My new gown will be ready day after tomorrow.”

Miranda dearly hoped it wasn’t pink or yellow. Beatrice’s wardrobe seemed to be made up of only those two colors and neither did much for her complexion. She needed earthier tones, a rich red or a deep plum. “What color is it?”

“Daffodil.” Mrs. Carmody answered for her, piercing her needle into the linen. “My favorite flower. Beatrice looks lovely in yellow.”

Miranda weighed whether to speak or not. Good Lord, when had she ever thought twice about speaking? They had asked her to provide input and it didn’t seem right for her to say nothing. “Daffodils are splendid flowers. However, I wonder if Beatrice might look more vibrant in persimmon.”

“Oh!” Beatrice lit up. “I love red!” She glanced at her mother whose entire face had puckered. “But the dress is nearly finished.”

Miranda nodded. “Perhaps next time, then.” She paused a moment and then risked plunging forward. “You have beautiful skin, Beatrice, but pink tends to make you look pale and yellow tinges you, well, yellow.” She smiled apologetically. “I don’t mean to offend, merely capitalize on your strengths.”

Mr. Carmody tapped a finger against his chin. “Does her gown have so much effect, then?”

Miranda studied the older man, a bit surprised at his interest, but then he did want to marry Beatrice off. “It can. In London, one’s wardrobe can greatly influence a person’s acceptance. I’m sure the right gown will transform Beatrice. You would undoubtedly be pleased with the results.”

His lips flattened, and he remained silent for a moment. At length, he said, “Tomorrow, Lady Miranda, you will accompany Beatrice to town and select a new gown for the assembly. You will also commission three other new gowns.”

“Ouch.” Mrs. Carmody shook her finger out after apparently poking it with her needle. “Four gowns? We can’t afford such extravagance.”

Mr. Carmody narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t question my authority. The chit made Bea’s hair look better, so I’m inclined to listen to her opinion—at least in this. And no, I am not changing my mind about a new chair for your sitting room.”

Mrs. Carmody glared, first mutinously at her husband and then malevolently at Miranda. Oh dear, she might’ve helped Beatrice, but at what cost? Miranda chanced a look at Mr. Carmody who didn’t appear the least bit ruffled by his wife’s irritation. Just as well, since Miranda was more concerned with his opinion of her than his wife’s.

Beatrice fairly beamed. “Thank you, Father.”

Miranda silently triumphed. Beatrice’s excitement had been worth Mrs. Carmody’s vexation.

Mr. Carmody stepped away from the pianoforte. “You may thank me by landing a husband.”

“I will, Father.” Beatrice looked back down at her hands.

Such a cold, unhappy family, not that Miranda’s was any better. She loved her brother, but he didn’t live at Holborn House and was quite content to stay as far away from their father as he could. Miranda had no such luxury. Except for when she misbehaved.

Now, to turn the disappointment of missing the assembly into something positive. “Since I will not be going to the assembly, perhaps I may spend the evening at the orphanage so Mrs. Gates and the others might attend. I suspect they don’t enjoy many social occasions.” And an evening alone in a library full of novels would be a treat indeed.

Beatrice’s head snapped back up. She regarded Miranda with astonishment that quickly softened into admiring approval. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Miranda.”

A twinge of regret prickled Miranda’s neck. Did it matter her offer was not entirely altruistic? Certainly she didn’t mind helping and allowing Mrs. Gates to attend the assembly, but more importantly this endeavor might improve Mr. Carmody’s opinion of her. And he’d share his new opinion with her parents, which just might get her out of here before fall. In addition, there was the library…

“Indeed.” Mr. Carmody paused on his way out of the room. “I’m surprised at your offer, but perhaps you are learning from being here after all. Your parents will be pleased.”

Miranda pushed her guilt away. A reprieve from the Carmodys’ house was worth anything.

ON the night of the assembly, Miranda paced the girls’ dormitory at Stipple’s End while her charges readied themselves for bed. She tried not to think of the party taking place in town. Tried not to think of how charming Beatrice looked in her new persimmon gown. Tried not to think of how long it might be before Miranda enjoyed a similar event. Instead, she thought of Mrs. Gates dressed in her finery and smiled. The woman had been ecstatic at Miranda’s offer to watch the girls tonight.

“Lady Miranda, will you tell us about London?” Flora sat cross-legged at the end of her bed, her eyes huge in the light cast by the fire and a scattering of candles positioned about the large room. The youngest girls were already drifting into slumber on the other side of the dormitory. The eldest girls had collected on Flora’s and Delia’s bed and the one next to it.

Delia pulled a blanket around her shoulders. “Yes, please. Have you met the Prince Regent?”

Miranda sank onto a small wooden stool at the foot of Flora’s bed. “Yes. And his daughter, Princess Charlotte.”

Flora’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve met a real princess?”

“Indeed. I even went to her wedding in May.”

A few of the girls gasped. All of them appeared awed. Comments and questions flew from their mouths.

“A royal wedding!”

“Was it in a grand cathedral?”

Miranda couldn’t help but smile at the girls’ excitement. Once upon a time she’d been equally enthralled with the trappings of Society. Now it was simply the way things were. Or had been. “No, it was at Carlton House.”

“The Prince Regent’s residence,” Flora put in.

Miranda nodded. “Yes, but how did you know that?”

Flora plucked at the blanket across her lap. “My friend Rose sends letters. She lives in London now.”

Delia pursed her lips. “Rose works in a bawdy house.”

“Delia!” Lisette glared at the dark-haired girl.

“Well, she does!”

Miranda held up a hand. “Who is Rose?”

“She used to live here,” Lisette explained from Delia’s bed. “She went to work at the local brothel after she left the orphanage. Recently she moved to London to better her prospects.”

“The local brothel.” Miranda supposed that made sense. Such things would be as necessary in the country as they were in London. What did Mr. Foxcroft think of Rose and the choice she’d made when she left? All of that work and care given to her and now she sold her body. “And Rose went to work for an, er, establishment in London?”

“Yes, the White Palace.” Flora rejoined the conversation, but lacked her earlier excitement. “She says it’s very popular. She entertains fine, regular customers.” A blush colored her cheeks as her gaze dropped to the coverlet.

Miranda knew next to nothing about this subject. Certainly she’d seen a few courtesans. Some of them blended so well into the upper echelon of Society it was sometimes difficult to discern them from actual Quality unless someone pointed them out, which someone always did.

But Miranda didn’t want Delia making Flora feel bad because Rose was clearly Flora’s friend. Miranda sought to put a smile back on Flora’s face. “Perhaps she will find a wealthy protector and move even higher, become a courtesan.”

“A courtesan?” Flora spoke the word reverently. “Could she really become a courtesan? Why, then she’d have her own house, maybe even a carriage.”

Miranda wished to avoid a lengthy discussion of the benefits of selling one’s body. “Probably. But there are plenty of things you can—should—do instead.” She studied each girl. A couple of them seemed to barely hear her, their eyes drooping with exhaustion. Delia and Lisette nodded furiously. Flora merely smiled and hugged her blanket around her shoulders. Miranda stood. “Come girls, it’s getting late. Time for bed.”

The girls bid her good night, and she exited the dormitory. Shaking the conversation about courtesans away, she made her way downstairs to the library. She could hardly wait to find something to read.

She stepped over the threshold, poised to breathe in aged leather and paper.

“Good evening, Lady Miranda.”

Mr. Foxcroft stood from a cozy, dark green chair situated before the fire. He held a book in his hand, his forefinger inserted between the pages.

“Mr. Foxcroft. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” There went her carefully constructed plan, unless they could read in quiet company. Somehow she doubted that. She was far too…aware of his presence to simply ignore it.

He wore a slight smile. “Surely you realized someone would be supervising the boys?”

Miranda walked toward the bookcase to her right. She ran her hand along the soft, worn spines. Some were more tattered than others, but all appeared to have been loved. She’d missed such simple pleasures. “Yes, I just didn’t expect to find that person in the library. Why aren’t you at the assembly?”

Mr. Foxcroft ambled toward her. “I’d rather be here.”

She turned her head and raised her brow at him. “I might have guessed as much.”

He came to a halt next to the bookshelf. “What other assumptions have you made about me?”

She tapped her finger against her lip. “You don’t dance, do you?”

He laughed softly. “Yes, I dance.”

She wasn’t sure why she baited him, but he seemed to be going along and so she continued. “Mrs. Gates has consented to allow me to instruct the children in dance soon. Perhaps you can assist me?”

He bowed, sweeping the book before him. “I should be delighted.” Standing upright again—he really was quite tall—his lips quirked. “What do you have in mind?”

“The waltz.” Miranda folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the bookshelf. Surely he’d never waltzed. Not when he didn’t attend assemblies and hadn’t been to London. She didn’t think he’d been to London anyway. “Have you been to London?”

“Not in a long time.” He tapped the book against his thigh. “That doesn’t recommend me, does it?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’m merely doubtful of your waltzing abilities.”

“I could demonstrate. Now, perhaps.” He cocked his head. “If you’re willing.” And now he was baiting her.

“I am. But there is no music.”

“I will hum.”

Miranda grinned. “All right, Mr. Foxcroft.”

He set his book on the shelf behind her, his arm brushing her shoulder. He held his hand out and she placed her fingers in his. She stepped forward and he wrapped his other arm around her back, pulling her into his embrace. He leaned into her and said close to her ear, “You must call me Fox, as everyone does.”

An inexplicable shiver traced down her spine. He straightened, arranged their positions in perfect form. Then he did exactly as he’d said. He hummed Haydn’s Clock Symphony and swept her into the dance, one hand deftly cradling her back while the other clasped her fingers with seemingly effortless technique.

“Where on earth did you learn to dance?” She shook her head. “No, don’t answer, for then the music will stop.” Miranda closed her eyes briefly, imagined his voice was the sound of actual musicians, that they glided amidst a thousand candles, that they weren’t trapped in an orphanage in rural Wiltshire.

The feel of his hand splayed against her gown was surprisingly pleasant. No, pleasant wasn’t the right word for the flesh beneath her gown tingled with awareness and…something more. His touch grew firmer, bringing her a hair’s breadth closer. She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her intently, his eyes seeming to glow from their amber center out past the jade and into the deep sapphire blue.

She was cognizant of his bare hand warming hers. Dancing skin to skin with him sent flickers of secret sensation—intimacy, she realized—through her body. She’d never removed her gloves with a gentleman before. In London, it would be inappropriate for them to share company without gloves. Just as their unchaperoned dance would be. Strange, but this hadn’t occurred to her until now. Apparently country ways were leaving their impression on her. Her lips curved up.