This Rake of Mine (4 page)

But nothing came for her.

And then one winter, she read in a months-old copy of
The Ladies Magazine
the following note:

DEATHS.

August 15. At her house in Mayfair, Mrs. Jane

Mabberly, wife of Mathias Mabberly.

Miranda dropped the journal and gasped.

She furiously sent off an urgent missive to her father demanding to know how this had transpired, why she hadn't been told. When that went unanswered, she sent another, a more contrite page, begging him to allow her to come home. She could keep house for him, they could share their grief.

Please, could she return home?

And still she waited.

Then the hand of time intervened. Mr. Hibbert passed away early that summer, and Mrs. Hibbert followed him to her reward before the leaves had turned to autumn gold. While these were sad events, for the Hibberts had been well-meaning, Miranda saw it as an opportunity to finally go home. But shortly after Mrs. Hibbert was laid to rest came a letter addressed to Miranda.

She'd opened it with trembling fingers, certain this was going to be her summons home. But to her dismay it was a terse note from her father's solicitor instructing her to travel further north to take up residency with a cousin of her father's. Enclosed were the funds for her travel expenses.

Nothing more, nothing less.

The letter and notes fell from her hands and she stood for some time in a state of shock.

And then something happened, something inside her snapped. Anger at Lord John, anger at her father's stubborn refusal to acknowledge her, anger at herself for being bullied and pushed into this wasted life. She'd spent the last five years waiting for her life to begin anew.

She wasn't going to wait another day.

Packing up her valise, she'd bought a ticket on the mail coach going south, but not to London—rather to Bath.

Over the years she had corresponded with her former teacher, Miss Emery, for the dear lady seemed to be the only person who still held any regard for her. In her most recent letter, Miss Emery had lamented that her decorum teacher had eloped with a naval officer. Such a scandalous situation and now there was no one to be found to take the position.

Miranda smiled to herself, the irony of such a proposal almost too funny. Who better to teach young ladies to preserve their reputation than someone who knew firsthand the experience of ruin?

However, she found Miss Emery hesitant to accept her proposal, for she had the sterling reputation of her school to consider. So Miranda came up with a solution: she would change her name, thus to keep Miss Emery's polished standing intact.

So, Miss Miranda Mabberly ceased to exist, and Miss Jane Porter became the new decorum teacher at Miss Emery's Establishment. And on that day, Miranda made one other change in her life; she vowed never to give the rake who had ruined her life another thought.

And until today, Miss Emery's had provided her a perfect haven for such a course.

Until
he
had come barging back into her life.

Now, unhindered by the shock of seeing Lord John so close, Miranda, aka Miss Jane Porter, took the time to study the man and see what nine years had wrought upon him.

Well, perhaps she'd been hasty in her estimation that he hadn't changed, for in fact, he had.

The Corinthian who had been beloved by the
ton
for his expensive taste was all but gone.

How had she not noticed the shabby jacket and boots that looked like they hadn't seen a decent polish in years? And his hair, which had always been styled
à la
Brutus, or some other noted cut, looked like it had been trimmed with a kitchen knife. Long and ragged, he wore it brushed back in a poor attempt at civilization.

Not only that, it was gray at the temples. Gray hair on Lord John?

Her hand went to her own head and touched the strands tucked into her very proper chignon. Heavens, if he looked so ancient, what must she look like? Did she look so different as well?

She must.

For he'd held her ever so close, looked deeply into her eyes, and—if she wasn't mistaken—been about to steal a kiss, detestable beast, yet he hadn't even blinked in recognition. Hadn't known her from any other lady.

She took a deep breath and tried to still her hammering heart.

He didn't recognize her.

The astonishment of such a notion nearly bowled her over as she tried to fathom how he couldn't know who she was.

For even after all these years, when she had all but forgotten the dark hue of his hair, the blue of his eyes, the breadth of his chest, and his commanding height, (well, perhaps she hadn't forgotten
those
things) there were other bits and pieces of Lord John she had forgotten, but that didn't mean she wouldn't have recognized him anywhere.

Even as ragtag and tattered as he looked now.

So how could he not know her? She took another breath as a second, more damning notion thudded into her thoughts.

Lord John had recognized her and had neither the desire nor the honor to acknowledge her.

What did she expect? He'd ruined her and hadn't possessed the wherewithal to offer for her. Why she thought time would have afforded him a sense of honor or responsibility, she knew not.

Pushing the curtain shut, she turned from the window, having realized that in some foolish, dark corner of her dreams, she had always thought that one day he would seek her out, proclaim that he had never forgotten her kiss, and redeem her ruined reputation with a proposal of marriage.

"Harrumph!" she sputtered. Lord John had held her and tossed her aside once again like a week-old mackerel.

Worse yet, he pitied her!

My apologies. Miss Porter. For whoever he was, he was a fool to leave you here.

"Yes, you were a fool," she muttered. No more than she had been to carry such ridiculous romantic notions around all these years. She was five and twenty now, a woman of means and certainly no longer susceptible to the bird-witted memories of a man's kiss.

Shoving her hand into the pocket of her apron, her fingers closed over the solid silver reminder of that fateful night.

The button that had fallen from his coat. A keepsake from a rake who had kissed her until she'd been senseless, breathless.

And very ruined.

She didn't know why she had kept it. Then again, perhaps she did.

Miranda shivered, her body still tingling where his hands had touched her, her lips parting, as if waiting for the kiss she had thought for one blissful moment to be hers yet again.

So when she turned and glanced once more out the window at Lord John, she knew he still did. Somehow. Some way. Even after all these years.

Leave her breathless, that is.

"Dreadful, wretched man."

The front door opened and Miss Emery bustled inside, closing it behind her with a decided thud.

"There you are, Miss Porter," her employer said, coming to stand beside her at the window. "Sorry business all this, but don't think for a second I feel that Lady Arabella's indiscretion reflects on you in the least. She is a Tremont, after all."

Miranda nodded her appreciation but said nothing.

Miss Emery, who never liked silence, continued on unabashed. "My dear, I wish you would think again of staying on. Are you sure you want to leave at the end of the term?"

Nodding, Miranda smiled at the lady. "Yes. I think it is best that I go." She had gained her inheritance recently and with it, a measure of independence that she'd never thought she'd possess. So she'd taken a house in Kent and invited an elderly cousin to come live with her. It was all very respectable and proper.

Miss Emery wasn't so convinced. "My dear, I worry about you."

"I am quite capable of managing for myself," Miranda told her. "Look what I've done for your accounts and the school's budgets. You of all people should know that I will not squander my father's money."

Miss Emery waved her off. "Yes, I'm not disputing your business acumen." She lowered her voice to a whisper before continuing, "But Miranda, my dear girl, the world isn't made up of account ledgers, and life can't simply be tallied up in a column. I fear you've been far too sheltered—"

"Sheltered?" she protested, shaking her head. "I think you know as well as I that I've—"

"Yes, yes, I know all about that. But it was years ago," Miss Emery said. "And only a kiss. It is high time you stop hiding—"

"I am not hiding, I'm—" Miranda protested.

"Retaining your respectability," the lady said "Yes, I know. But, my dear, you have nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to hide. Quite the contrary. Besides, your newfound fortune will most likely smooth your way back into Society's embrace. I would guess it will even help you find a man who—"

"You mean marry?" Miranda shook her head. "No. I think not. I am well past such folly."

Miss Emery persisted. "But a husband would give you the protection you need. Would keep you safe from harm. It isn't right for a woman of your age to be on her own. To be
alone
."

"I'll be well enough," Miranda told her, patting the lady on the hand and smiling at her. "Miss Emery, I want only to live a quiet and exemplary life. My solicitor tells me Rose Cottage is a fine house, the housekeeper of excellent repute. I'll be quite content to spend the rest of my days working on the charities my mother loved and tending my rose gardens."

The lady put forth one last plea. "When you leave here, you will be on your own. I wish you would reconsider. The world is full of—"

Miranda straightened her shoulders and looked out toward the now empty street before them. "I am well aware of the sort of people one finds in the world, and having taught decorum for you for the past four years has given me a fair regard for propriety. It is highly unlikely I will ever do anything improper or untoward."

Gathering up her basket, she nodded to the lady and went up the stairs to her room.

"That's what I'm afraid of, my dear," Miss Emery whispered as she watched Miranda ascend the stairs in modest and perfect precision. "That is exactly what I fear most."

«
^
»

Three months later

M
iranda Mabberly might have thought her perfectly ordered future well in hand, but Lord John's visit had changed all that.

The button, which had fallen from his coat that night and had sat all but forgotten in her sewing basket for so many years, had suddenly become a beacon.

She found herself digging it out and putting it in her pocket. Fingering the smooth shank, tracing the engraved design on the front.

Remember his kiss… remember that night
… it seemed to call to her.

Every time she found herself reaching for it, hunting through her ribbons and threads and needles and pins to spy its shiny temptation, she swore it was going to be the last time she picked it up.

By heavens, she was going to take the blasted thing and give it to the first beggar she spied on the street. But when it came to actually marching out the door and giving away the token, something stopped her.

Pride, perhaps. She didn't need to get rid of the button to forget about Lord John, she told herself. She could do that on her own. And so she'd tuck the button back into the bottom of her sewing basket where it was safe.

Out of sight. But hardly out of mind.

She soon realized that seeing Lord John had opened a Pandora's box inside her, far more dangerous than a single button. It was a tangled, niggling whisper of desires that wheedled and wound through her limbs, her thoughts. For years she'd banished such feelings as hardly proper, but now they'd become intrusive.

Barging into her thoughts when she was planning lessons or knitting, or worse, intruding upon her sleep, bringing dreams that no proper spinster should ever have…

Dreams of a dark-haired man who lured her to a shadowy corner. Once there, she'd find herself trapped in his arms, unable to escape (perhaps slightly unwilling to leave) while this devilish fellow whispered offers and enticements into her ears, upon her lips, that left her bolting up in bed and shivering for all the wrong reasons.

And much to her chagrin, filled with a sense of disappointment and longing that the dreams didn't continue until he made good his enticements…

So finally, when the time came to leave Miss Emery's Establishment, Miranda heaved a sigh of relief and packed up her belongings, ready to make a new life for herself. She'd even gone as far as to leave the button behind, but at the last minute, she tucked it into the bottom of her valise, determined that somewhere in the next fortnight, she'd find a new home for that pestering little piece of silver.

As it was, three of the students—the Misses Felicity and Thalia Langley and their cousin Lady Philippa Knolles—were going to spend the summer with a Lady Caldecott in Kent, and had offered a space in their carriage to Miranda for her journey, in exchange for chaperoning them during their travels.

Miss Emery provided the party a letter of introduction and suggestions for proper places for them to spend the night, as well as a list of historic and educational sites along the way that would give some substance to their days.

"I expect a full accounting, ladies," she told the girls. "Sketches, historical vignettes, and a well-written expense account. Do not waste your summer lolling about and daydreaming." And then she turned to Miranda and, with tears in her eyes, said, "And I wish you find the answer to whatever has been on your mind these past few months. If anything, don't be afraid to do more than tend roses, my dear Miss Porter."

Now, a sennight later, Miranda looked out into the dismal night and wished that tending roses was the least of her problems. Unrelenting rain beat against the carriage, and a fierce wind rocked the elegant conveyance nearly off its well-hung springs. Their trip, which until today had been entirely uneventful, had now turned harrowing. As they had dipped toward the sea, traveling along the edge of Sussex, a horrible storm had blown in from the Channel, leaving the road a mire of mud and slowing their progress down to a crawl.