Authors: Gaelen Foley
Lord of Ice (21 page)
One would have thought that her night at Drury Lane was the absolute thrill of her life. Childlike wonder played across her face, every nuance of emotion visible in her eyes, in the rosy flush of her cheeks, in her quick, absorbed smiles. The sight of her both amused him in an aloof way and made him go all soft and warm inside. Perhaps it was merely the symptom of a poor digestion, he thought dryly. Certainly, the drain on his savings had brought about worthy results. He ran a furtive gaze over her. She had been a diamond to begin with, but Bel and Alice’s efforts had polished her into dazzling beauty.
She was wearing the first of her new gowns to arrive from the dressmaker’s shop. Bel must have bribed the modiste as an extra incentive to work quickly, he thought, for he could only wonder how many seamstresses it must have taken to finish the gown so fast. In any case, Miranda looked radiant. The dark green silk gave an added luster to the emerald of her eyes, while her low, heart-shaped neckline continually drew his eye. Bel had lent her a pretty cross necklace on a gold chain. Against Miranda’s creamy skin, it twinkled in the bright illumination of the theater and nestled in the valley between her luscious breasts.
Damien dragged his stare away again, shifting restlessly in his seat. He folded his arms across his chest, then flicked a piece of lint off the scarlet sleeveof his uniform. At a burst of laughter behind him, he glanced over his shoulder at Robert’s sociable Whigs, then ignored them in distaste. He did not care for their unpatriotic notions. They were the party, after all, who had protested the expense and duration of the war—as though England could realistically have ignored what was happening just a few miles across the Channel, Napoleon swallowing the Continent whole.
Fortunately, his brother had become an Independent upon leaving the Tory party several months ago. Robert’s interest in Whiggish ideas centered on their efforts toward humanitarian reform, educating the children of the poor and so forth, to which Damien had no objections.
When intermission came, he braced himself for the onslaught of eligible bachelors who flooded their box on the pretense of paying their respects to the duke and duchess, but who were plainly angling for an introduction to the ravishing young lady in green. Bel and Alice doled out said introductions with unstinting generosity, much to Damien’s annoyance.
Soon, Miranda was holding court with the ease of a born coquette, while Damien sat beside her, arms folded, scowling and stewing in what he feared was outright jealousy, or at least frustrated possessiveness. It seemed that the experience of actually marrying Miranda off was going to prove to be as different from his expectations as most men’s notions of rushing into battle were from the reality of it.
The youngbloods hung on her every word and marveled aloud that they had never seen her before. Was she “out” or not? Damien tersely informed them she had been away at school. He told them she was his ward, Sherbrooke’s niece, but did not go into the details of her parentage. The ton would find out soon enough exactly who she was, and then would come the test of his own standing in Society.
More young men crowded into the box, introducing their friends to Miranda, once the first round had gained access to her through her chaperons.
“How do you do, Miss FitzHubert?” the newest arrival was saying, bowing over her dainty, gloved hand. “I hope you are feeling better. What, don’t you recognize us?”
“I don’t think she remembers us, Ollie,” his companion said with a smitten smile. He was a fair-haired youth, as lanky and anemically pale as his dark-haired friend was portly and ruddy faced. “She was rather shaken up, after all.”
Miranda opened her mouth to speak, but “Ollie” beat her to it.
“We were there yesterday on Bond Street, when you were almost trampled by that coach,” he told her. “By Jove, that was a close thing! I hope you are feeling better.”
“I am . . . quite well, thank you,” she said weakly, casting Damien a guilty glance.
Narrowing his eyes, he looked askance at his ward. “Whatever is he referring to, my dear?” he asked in a soft, imperious tone.
Her cheeks bloomed with a rush of color. “I had a bit of a, er, mishap yesterday when I was out.”
“Do tell.”
“It was my own fault—” she attempted, but he would hear none of it.
“Not at all, dear lady!” Ollie protested. “It was all that incompetent driver’s fault.” He looked at Damien, taking it upon himself to explain. “My lord, I do hope that bumbling footman was dismissed after his failure to look after the young lady better. I’d have fired him on the spot.”
Damien stared quellingly at him. “And you are?”
“Oliver Quinn, my lord, at your service. This is the Honorable Nigel Stanhope.” He jerked a gruff nod at his friend, who bowed to Damien with a hapless smile. The skinny one seemed to realize, if the husky one had not, that he verged on insult, daring to reproach the famed Colonel Lord Winterley on how he went about protecting his ward.
Or failed to, in this case. “I see.”
“I wish I’d had my horse, I tell you,” Ollie blustered on. “I’d have ridden after that carriage and found out who that driver was.”
“I’m sure you’re very gallant, Mr. Quinn,” Miranda said with an uncomfortable smile. She soon managed to dismiss him as the signal sounded for the end of intermission.
“What happened?” Damien demanded in a low tone, leaning toward her as the young fops cleared the box.
“It was nothing, honestly,” she whispered back. “When I was shopping on Bond Street yesterday, a runaway coach went by a bit close. I didn’t know how madly people drive in Town.”
“Miranda!”
“I was in no real danger, my lord.”
“It sounds as though you could have been seriously injured.”
“No, no, I was well out of the way. That’s why I didn’t mention it. There’s no cause for alarm.”
“You have to be on your guard in the city, Miranda. This isn’t Yardley village.”
“I know that now. I know I’m a provincial, but I’ll get used to it. Please don’t be cross.”
He set his jaw, cursing himself for keeping a distance between them when it could have led to her being in danger.
Intolerable. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
“I should have been with you,” he said through gritted teeth.
She fluttered her borrowed fan. “No, you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” he retorted.
“Because I was trying to buy you a Christmas present. If you had been there, I should not have been able to get you a surprise.”
Her reply took him aback. When she smiled, gazing into his eyes, he dropped his gaze and shook his head, feeling his cheeks flush slightly. Maybe keeping her at arm’s length was not the right thing to do, merely the easy thing. What did he know? For a man used to meeting dangerous situations with expertise, the girl had the power to reduce him to a bumbling fool.
“Everything you do surprises me,” he muttered.
“Oh? You haven’t seen anything yet,” she murmured, sliding him a wicked look; then she settled back into her chair to watch the show.
Snow dusted London afresh outside their windows the next afternoon, but within, the delicious pungency of cinnamon and cloves from the wassail simmering in the kitchen permeated every room. Miranda had the unique pleasure of helping the duchess, Lizzie, and Lady Jacinda decorate the shelves and fireplace mantels of Knight House in preparation for the family’s private Christmas Eve celebration on Saturday night. Together, the women of the house decked the mantels of every fireplace with evergreen boughs, pinecones, and clutches of holly berries tied with gold ribbons. They hung wreaths on the doors and set lacy illuminations in the windows.
Miranda draped ribbons and mistletoe over the grand, brass replica of the French eagle Damien had taken in battle, which was on display in the state room. The duchess made the butler tie a sprig of mistletoe over her husband’s piano, merrily laying the trap for him; then Jacinda seized upon the idea of a parlor theatrical for after their dinner on Saturday night. Miranda chimed in with numerous suggestions, helping Jacinda plan the evening’s comic entertainments.
As she did so, moving about the drawing room, she placed a few extra boughs on the carved white mantel in honor of the woman in the painting that hung above the fireplace. She had been told it was a portrait of Damien’s mother, Georgiana, the last duchess of Hawkscliffe. Miranda studied the portrait for a moment. In her tall white wig and panniered gown with its plunging neckline, the late duchess looked like a force to be reckoned with. There was pride in the angle of her chin, a mysterious sparkling intelligence in her deep blue eyes, and a tart sort of humor in the star-shaped silk face patch so artfully placed near her sensual mouth.
Just then, Mr. Walsh came in to announce, to Miranda’s delight, that more of her new clothes had just been delivered from the shops on Bond Street. The servants carried the thin, white boxes up to the elegant bedchamber she had been assigned, and Lizzie and Jacinda pounded up the stairs with her to see the finished products. She whipped off the lids and carefully pulled back the crepe paper, revealing three morning gowns in succession.
“What’s in this one?” Lizzie asked in excitement.
Miranda opened a fourth box and drew in her breath. “Promenade, I think. It feels like Christmas already!”
“Open this one,” Jacinda prodded, sliding the last unopened box across the bed to her.
She pulled off the lid and lifted the dress gently from the box. “Ooo! My riding habit!”
“Perhaps it’s time you had your first riding lesson, then,” a deep voice said from the doorway.
Her heart leaped with recognition. Pressing the smart brown bodice against her chest, she turned to find Damien leaning idly in the doorway, his thumb hooked in his waistcoat pocket. She blinked. Was she dreaming, or had he really come looking for her?
“Do you mean it?”
He nodded sagely. “Your education is sadly lacking until you can manage a horse.”
A smile spread slowly across her face. “I’ll be right there. Do you want to see my new clothes?”
He gave a boyishly shy shrug and sauntered into the room, nodding with probably pretended interest as she showed him her new dresses. Then he left so she could get changed.
A short while later, Damien took her out to Green Park for her very first riding lesson. She kept stealing little joyous glances at him. She couldn’t believe he had sought her out. She was nervous about riding, but at the moment, she didn’t care if she did break her neck. It would be worth it: Damien wanted to be with her at last.
While a groom stood in attendance, Colonel Lord Winterley turned all business, explaining the treacherous-looking sidesaddle to her. At length, he gave her a leg up onto the most docile animal in the duke’s stable: a placid, cherry-bay pony called Apple-Jack. Tall as she was, her legs dangled comically off the potbellied pony as it went plodding through the light, powdery snow.
“Do you laugh at me, sir?” she demanded of her guardian, noting the slight twitching about one corner of his beautiful mouth.
“Absolutely not, my dear.”
But she heard a distinct chuckle as she looked forward again. She scarcely minded. Her heart was light. If appearing absurd was what it took in order to be with Damien for a while, she would gladly endure it.
He kept Apple-Jack on the lunge line while Miranda rode in a large circle, braving a trot. Bouncing everywhere, sans dignity, she scrambled to manage the reins without insulting the horse’s sensitive mouth while trying to keep her seat centered at the same time. With each revolution around the circle, she could not help but steal a glance at Damien. The snow seemed to fall more gently around him. Bits of white clung in his black hair and stuck to his wool coat. As the half hour of instruction progressed, she applied herself to winning another coveted morsel of her riding master’s praise, but her heart soared: She and Damien were on speaking terms again, and all was right with the world.
When the lesson was over, Miranda took care not to overstay her welcome with Damien—as Mr. Chipping always used to say to his actors, “Leave them wanting more.” The groom held the gate open as they reentered the property. Miranda thanked her guardian for the lesson and accepted his offer of another on the morrow; then she parted ways with him in the graveled yard. This seemed to surprise him. He searched her face one last time as she nodded gracefully to him and turned back toward the house. With a puzzled glance over his shoulder, he led Apple-Jack back into the stable.
Exhilarated with her success and the fresh, brisk air, she swept off her veiled riding hat as she strode toward the house, then lifted her eyebrows to find Lord Lucien leaning against the stone balustrade of the veranda on the back of the house. His silvery eyes gleamed as he watched her come toward him. He moved toward her, sauntering around the snow-glazed statue of the blank-eyed stone cherub on its pedestal. Hands in his trouser pockets, he cast her a Machiavellian smile that made her a little uneasy. She realized he had been standing there for some time watching Damien and her together in the park just beyond the property.