That Kind of Woman (19 page)

A wounded look flashed across Miranda’s face for a brief moment, and then she masked it with studied coolness. Andrew felt his blood begin to boil. After everything she had done for their family, nothing about Miranda was ever quite good enough for Lettie.

Before he could chastise his stepmother, Emma turned to her. “Oh, yes, just exactly like Aunt Randa, blood or no! When I am grown, I shall scorn all those silly, vapid girls in Town and live my life just as I choose. I shall travel and play music, and when I have tired of it all, I shall retire to the country.”

Henry laughed and applauded. “Hear, hear Emma!”

Andrew raised his brows. “‘Vapid’?”

Lettie pursed her lips. “Miranda, you shouldn’t be filling the child’s head…”

“Really, I—” she protested.

Henry leaned toward Lettie. “That would be my fault, Mother. I believe Emma is quoting
my
sentiments about girls in Town.”

Emma played a quick, flawless scale with a flourish. “Henry and I quite agree: Miranda is of the very highest caliber!”

The praise drew a smile from its recipient. For the moment, it seemed to soothe some of the hurt.

How Andrew wished he could soothe the hurt, as well.

God help him. He simply had to stop thinking of her this way. He had to stop finding excuses to be alone with her and go back to avoiding her as much as possible. Still, he knew he was ever in danger of walking into an empty room, thinking it a safe haven, only to catch the light scent of rosewater she had left behind.

*

The next day, Emma, her tongue caught between her lips, diligently hammered out one of Mister Beethoven’s latest concertos. The composer himself had sent the music to Randa’s father, with whom he was on friendly terms. Randa had been practicing it earlier, and Emma was excruciatingly aware that her own rendition bore little resemblance to her aunt’s. Still, with an exasperated sigh, she started over from the previous measure.

Henry strode into the music room, carrying a crystal glass and wincing painfully. “Em,” he said, “aren’t you about ready to rest those busy little fingers of yours?”

“I know it doesn’t sound all that good right now, but have you heard Randa play it? It will be beautiful, once I get it down.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I can take that many years of this in the meantime.”

“Oooh!” Emma seethed. “That was just plain mean, Henry.” She gave her head a defiant toss. “That’s only the drink talking, anyway. What is that?”

“What?”

“In the glass.”

He stared at it quizzically and sniffed. “It’s”—he swirled the contents before his eyes—”brown.”

“You cover it up all right,” Emma said, “but you drink a lot more than everyone realizes. I know you keep bottles hidden away in your chest of drawers.”

“You’ve no business in my drawers!” he declared.

“I was
bored
,” she huffed back.

Henry gave her a sour look. “Well, there you go. That’s the very reason I drink. There’s not a damned other thing to do out here in the country.”

“Posh! You drank in London, too. Besides, I thought it was the cold country winter that made you drink. If you hadn’t noticed, it’s spring!” Emma sneered at him.

“What’s all this?” Henry asked. “You used to be on my side.”

“That was before you started panting after Randa like you were her little lap dog!”

“Lap dog! See here, Emma …”

Emma sniffed and rose from the piano bench. “If you’re so bored here, why don’t you go back to London? You were
irate
when Randa said she was taking the townhouse. Well, now she’s staying here, so you can have it after all.”

“I have my reasons,” Henry replied.

“Like what?”

“Mother and Andy say that I must stay. I have to learn all about running the place.”

“Ha! As if you cared! You’re staying because you fancy yourself in love with Randa.”

“And what if I am?”

“You can’t be!”

“Why not?” He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her. “What do you know? You’re only a child.”

“I am not. I’m fourteen. And I’ll tell you what I know. Randa’s marrying Father, not you.”

He smirked and drained his glass. “Yes, that shows what you know. She can’t marry Andy. He’s her brother-in-law.”

“So are you. What has that to do with it?”

“Yes, but George was only my half-brother. I’ve decided to petition for a special license.”

“What do you mean?”

“If a man marries his brother’s widow, the marriage can be voided by almost anyone who sees fit. That’s the law. Now, Andy’s made no move to pursue Randa, but if he seeks to marry her, I’ll have it voided immediately. Of course, as I said, George was only my half-brother. Why, we hardly knew each other. I should think I can arrange a rock-solid, legally binding marriage.”

Emma frowned. For once, Henry seemed to know what he was talking about.

“But Lord Bilkes married his widow’s sister!” Emma cried.

“Well, there’s no law against that.”

“But that makes no sense!” She was on the brink of tears, and she wanted to slap Henry’s oh-so-certain face!

“Calm down, Em. I won’t take her away. She’ll still be your aunt.”

“But I don’t want her for my aunt!” Emma protested. “I want her for my mother!”

Henry laughed. “Your mother? As you say, Em, you’re fourteen. You’ve no need for a mother.”

“I do so have a need for a mother! Who is to help me when it’s time for my coming out?”

“Well, Andy, of course. And I have a mother I’ll gladly lend you.”

“I don’t
want
Grandmama there.” Emma stamped her foot. “She’ll ruin my whole Season. I need someone who knows something about fashion. Someone who understands that I need more from a husband than wealth and position.”

“Like what?” Henry scoffed.

“Like a romantic heart.”

“And a handsome face?”

“So what if I do want a handsome man? Randa would understand!”

With a shrug, Henry set his empty glass on the table. “Too bad you can’t do what we men do—take a proper spouse and keep a lover on the side. Better set your mind to it, Em. One day you’ll marry money and a title, like all the daughters of the
ton
. Even Randa married George, and he was nearly old enough to be her father!” He left her and the glass behind, meandering back out into the hall.

Emma flounced back down on the piano bench, but she didn’t so much as glance at the music. Could Henry be telling the truth? Was it possible that Miranda couldn’t marry her father? She had seen the way her father and her aunt looked at each other when they thought no one was watching, but Emma observed everything around her very carefully. All this time, she had thought the two of them were being so stiff and formal because Randa was in mourning. She had just assumed that, once the year was up, they would get past all that and get married. It had never occurred to her that they
couldn’t
get married.

Foolish Henry! Randa would never marry him. She looked at Henry nearly the same way she looked at Emma. Anyone with eyes and a brain could see she thought of him as a little brother. Marry Henry indeed!

But then, whom would she marry? She didn’t seem to want to find a new husband, but what if all that changed when the year was up?

Emma’s stomach began twisting itself into knots. If she couldn’t count on her father to keep Randa here, what could she do? She thought back over all that Henry had said, wheels spinning furiously in her head. Miranda’s mother and father had never married. That thought made her smile. It was purely the most scandalous thing she had ever thought of. That was what made it so delicious! Why couldn’t she count on her father to keep Randa at Danford?

Emma’s smile widened as Miranda chose just that moment to walk into the room.

“Have you given up for the day?” she asked Emma.

“For a while, at least. Henry said I was terrible.”

Miranda patted her on the head. “He’s just jealous because he hasn’t the slightest talent for piano, although his voice isn’t too bad.”

“Can we go on a picnic?” Emma asked. “Mrs. Applebee will pack us a hamper.”

Both Miranda and Emma turned to look out the window at the warm day and the grass that was greening up nicely.

“I don’t see why not,” Miranda answered.

Emma scampered quickly off to the kitchen. She would have to be careful. Randa almost always figured out when she was up to something.

*

Wrapped in a luxuriously soft cashmere shawl and settled comfortably on a quilt, Miranda basked in the incipient warmth of spring. It was still a bit cool for her muslin gown alone, despite the somber color that soaked up the sun. Otherwise, it was glorious to be outside. Behind a copse of trees, the river gurgled merrily, and birds twittered in the branches. The earth smelled new and full of promise.

She glanced up at the canopy of young leaves festooning the tree that sheltered them, then over at Emma. “You were quite right, Emma. This lovely spot was worth the long walk.”

Emma smiled in agreement, but her eyes slid back to the dirt road crossing the land at the foot of their little hill.

“Are you looking for something, dear?” Miranda asked. “You’ve been peering down that road ever since we arrived.”

Emma turned back to her with the wide-eyed look that nearly always signaled trouble. “No, Aunt Randa, nothing at all.” Despite her words, she looked back down the road. Suddenly, she seemed to perk up. “But look! There’s Father! I just remembered, he said he would be looking in on the Hathaway family. He wanted to be sure Mister Hathaway’s leg had mended well enough over the winter to get his crops in.”

“I see,” Miranda remarked dryly. “You just remembered that, did you?”

“Yes,” Emma replied earnestly. “Just this very moment. Won’t you have a slice of cake?” She pulled a tin from the hamper and opened it, releasing the aroma of vanilla and spice.

Miranda accepted the offering, but kept her eyes on her niece. What was the silly chit up to now? Andrew, looking tall and proud atop his white stallion, kicked his horse into a canter the moment he saw them. When he came close enough, Emma dropped her cake onto her plate and ran to him. Her voice carried back on the gentle spring breeze.

“Papa! What a coincidence! Randa and I were just having a picnic. How is Mister Hathaway? Are the crops in? Rest your horse and have some cake. In fact, I’ll take Napoleon here to the river for a drink.” She grabbed the horse’s reins the instant Andrew’s feet touched the ground. The horse resisted at first, but Emma was not to be denied. After a bit of urging from his master, he set off with her, through the trees toward the sound of rushing water. For a moment, Andrew stared after her in perplexed silence, then he scratched his head and climbed up the hill toward Miranda.

“Napoleon,” Miranda commented as Andrew gracefully folded his long legs under him and joined her on the blanket. “I’ve often wondered at the name you gave your horse.”

“A bit of humor. If I could master a horse named for the man, I could master the man’s army.”

“It seems Wellington must take care of him without you.”

“It looks well for him, though. Wellington, that is,” Andrew replied.

She tried not to notice the way his snug, buff trousers hugged every bulge and sinew of his thigh as he sat, but it was an impossible task. The navy wool of his jacket had absorbed the sun’s heat, magnifying it and radiating it back out across the small space between them. With a little sigh, she noticed his wilted cravat and allowed herself a brief moment to dream of untying it and loosening his high, proper collar.

Her mother had been right. Although she had tried to spend as little time with Andrew as possible, he affected her in ways that were becoming harder to ignore.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her cheeks color a bit.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, his expression suddenly closed. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, there was nothing to intrude upon,” she lied. “I was just thinking how grateful I am that spring is here.”

His face relaxed, and he smiled. How was it that he could look the stern army major one moment, and a carefree boy the next? The deep green of his eyes contrasted darkly with the tender green things that sprouted around the hill. His gaze was more the color of evergreen forests than spring meadows.

It was several moments before she realized they had been staring wordlessly into each other’s eyes.

How much simpler things had been when he had believed she was cuckolding George, when he hadn’t wanted her too close to his daughter. Without that barrier between them, the life she had sworn never to live beckoned. Her mother had been right. She could not stay at Danford much longer and keep her resolve.

“How is Mr. Hathaway?” she asked, looking away.

Andrew cleared his throat and reached for a piece of cake. “Fine. His leg has mended well, and his fields are ploughed and planted. His wife sends you her greetings.”

“And their children?”

“All fine. I think Mrs. Hathaway would like to see you. The crofters all say you often accompanied George when he visited.”

She nodded. “I did, but you are their lord now.”

“To them you are still their lady. Little has changed here in generations. Our tenants are used to seeing the whole family. I suppose I’ll have Emma and Henry ride with me from time to time. You are welcome to join us.”

“Well, Emma can use the practice riding, and it will be good for Henry to meet everyone.”

Andrew shook his head. “I don’t know what we’re to do with Henry.”

She ate the last bite of her cake, savoring its spicy sweetness. “He’ll be fine. What he needs is some pretty, sensible young thing to pull him into line.”

“You’ve been too long in the country. London hardly abounds with pretty, sensible young things. I was beginning to think the army might be just the thing for my brother.”

With a little laugh, Miranda replied, “Henry’s not much like you. I can’t see him tramping across the Peninsula or taking orders. But I agree, London’s not the answer. I was thinking of one of our neighbors, Miss Fenton.”