That Kind of Woman (5 page)

By the time Mrs. Charger led her back to her own apartment, Miranda was exhausted. Her bedroom was done in shades of dusty pink and gold. She sat down on the corniced bed hung with pink damask, which matched the drapes framing windows that faced the rear gardens and the park. The deer were gone, probably hiding in the trees somewhere. On one side of the room, a door led to her dressing room, on the other side, another led to George’s chamber. She got up and walked over to tap on it.

“George?”

The portal opened. “Back from your tour, Randa?”

“Y-yes. It is a lovely home.”

“Monstrously huge all alone. I shall very much enjoy your company.”

He made no move to step aside, but she peered past him. His chamber was a study in dark woods and rich greens and burgundy.

“You may redecorate your apartment, if you wish,” he said.

She swallowed, far too overwhelmed to consider making the slightest change. “It is fine just the way it is.”

“This door locks. You’ll have all the privacy you might wish.”

“But—” she protested.

“I’ve been gone too long,” George interrupted. “I should speak with my secretary. We’ll dine in the informal dining room, say eight? Tea will be brought up to your chambers so that you may settle in. I’m sure Mrs. Charger has a legion of maids on their way, even now.”

“About the door—”

A knock on her sitting room door carried through to the bedroom. “My lady?” a woman’s voice called.

“Enter,” Miranda answered, and Lizzie, her lady’s maid, opened the door for the troop of footmen who carried her trunks.

“We shan’t take long, my lady. You need your rest.”

A half dozen more maids swept in to unpack, and behind Miranda’s back a key clicked in the lock of the door between George’s room and hers.

True to their word, the women were models of efficiency, and in less than an hour they had her trunks unpacked and everything neatly stowed away. Miranda had Lizzie help her out of her traveling clothes, but since she would be taking tea in her room, she didn’t bother changing into a day gown. She would only have to change again for dinner. Instead, she settled onto her bed in her chemise, with a cup of tea in her hand and a scone and some fruit on a plate balanced on her knees.

She contemplated the locked door between her and her husband. His actions this afternoon were not those of a man in love with his wife, and she realized she might well have to reassess the meaning behind his words on their wedding night. He had said love was important to him, and that was why he had never slept with a woman before.

Good heavens! Did he mean they should wait until they fell in love? Why, that could take years! And it might not happen at all if they were never intimate. Miranda’s mother had always said love at first sight was nonsense, but that for Monty, it had unquestionably been love at first…

Well, that was a different matter altogether. Miranda had overheard her father talking about it once, and he had said that, while he hadn’t fallen in love with Barbara the first night, he had been utterly captivated by her enthusiasm. Eventually, all that captivation and enthusiasm had blossomed into a love that had scorned Society and survived repeated separations for a quarter of a century.

Would George ever be captivated? Could Miranda be half as enthusiastic as her mother had been? She would have to get past that door to find out, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to do it.

The scone was dry, the tea was bitter, and Miranda was worn out.

*

In the library of the Danford London townhouse, Andrew finished penning the report General Lawton had requested. He set down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Why was it that, even at home, where he was safe and far from the demands of war, he couldn’t sleep? It left him tired all the time. Here it was, an hour before dinner, and all he wanted was to go to bed, where he knew sleep would still elude him.

“Papa?” Emma said, poking her head through the doorway.

He tried not to wince. Once, there had been nothing sweeter than the sound of that word from her lips. Now, she used it only when she wanted something. Otherwise she called him Father, and her voice was always tart.

“What is it, Emma? I’m busy.”

For just a second, she looked genuinely hurt, and he hated himself.

“Of course,” she snapped, and her head disappeared back into the hallway.

“Wait! Emma, I’m sorry. There’s nothing here that can’t wait.”

When she didn’t come back, he rose and followed her out into the hall, but she was nowhere to be seen. In all honesty, the report finished, he had nothing pressing to do at all, so he wandered down to the drawing room to see if she might have gone there. Then he wished he hadn’t.

“Andy!” Henry greeted, a little too warmly. He was sitting on the couch sipping something amber and raised his glass to his half-brother.

“For crying out loud, Henry. Give me that!” He snatched the glass from Henry’s hand. Henry let go of it far too easily, a sure indication that he’d already had enough to feel pleasantly compliant. “Go upstairs and get ready for dinner.”

“Not hungry,” Henry replied, and Andrew was relieved to note that he wasn’t slurring his speech. It seemed to him the boy always managed to stay somewhere just short of drunk, but the amount he drank still bothered Andrew. “Thought I’d have a bite at Almack’s.”

“Bride shopping?” Andrew asked, and Henry laughed heartily.

“Cards, brother. Way too young to settle down.”

“And at eighteen, too young for this.” He lifted the glass.

“You’re too demanding by half,” Henry replied. “You drink.”

“Not constantly.”

Henry chuckled. “Neither do I. Tell you what. I’ll stop when I’m old enough to marry. I’ll need both hands free to chase a bride. Right now, I’m too young to be a serious candidate. Then again, I think I’ll wait as long as George did. It worked out right for him.”

Unbidden, that strange feeling of jealousy washed over him. He squashed it back without mercy. “You’re broke,” he said to Henry.

Henry shrugged. “I’m always broke. I was just on my way to see Mama.”

“George and I spoke at length before he went back to Danford. We agreed that Lettie has been overspending. We’re putting her on a much tighter budget.”

Henry frowned. “She’s hardly lavish. Tea with her friends, the occasional new gown for a ball, and you can’t ask her to do with less help.”

“We wouldn’t dream of curtailing her teas or clothes for parties, and we fully intend for her to keep her staff.”

His face relaxed, and Henry said, “Ah, Emma. It’s her little group of friends, all of them competing for the latest fashions, and not a one of them even old enough for the marriage mart. Bloody waste of blunt, that.”

“Nothing would please me more than the thought of Emma finally taking an interest in behaving and dressing like a young lady. If Lettie stops paying off your vowels, you’ll all be quite comfortable.”

“Now see here!” Henry exclaimed, rising from his seat.

“No, you see here, Henry. This family’s fortune is not yours to dispose of!”

“Why don’t you just go back to the front lines, Andy? Nobody asks you to come home and decide that you’re in command. Even your own daughter can never wait for you to leave when you’re here!”

The barb wounded Andrew more deeply than he would give Henry the satisfaction of knowing. “Someone has to take charge. You all take dreadful advantage of George.”

“He’s the oldest. He can take care of himself.” Henry grabbed his glass back and downed its contents defiantly.

Andrew drew himself up and used the same voice he used with drunken soldiers. “Not tuppence, Henry! You’ll wait for your next allowance and pay off your own vowels like a man instead of running to your mother and begging like a child for sweets.”

“It’s George’s money, not yours! Go back to the Peninsula, Major. No one needs you here.”

But the last thing Andrew wanted was to go back. He wanted to stay home, set things to rights. As fond as he was of Lettie and George, someone had to care enough about Emma and Henry to be strong and say no every now and again. But duty called, and like it or not, back he would go.

Later that night, Andrew vainly sought sleep and once again envied his brother. He tried to recall what it had been like to have Caroline next to him in his bed, but the vaguely remembered scent of lavender gave way to a more recent recollection of roses. The blond hair that had once spilled across the pillow turned chestnut in the shadows of the night.

*

Miranda looked out her window over the dark grounds. She thought she had seen a light in the dowager residence earlier, but the windows were all dark now.

She picked up her silver-handled hairbrush and ran it through chestnut waves falling softly to the middle of her back. It didn’t encounter a single obstacle from root to tip, and she had to admit the brush was a foolish stalling tactic. The plain truth was she had been the Countess of Danford for over a week, and she was eager to be truly married.

Her dark eyes narrowed as she took one more exacting look in her dressing mirror and decided she could live with what she saw. A sheer white lawn night-rail skimmed her generous curves. Her cheeks were flushed, but the color became her.

She wondered briefly if she would look different in the morning.

She never had tracked down a key to the door separating her from George, so she moved through her sitting room to the hallway. Carrying a single candle, she made her way to George’s sitting room. A thin line of pale light slipped from the bottom of his closed bedroom door. A small table sat in the middle of the sitting room, topped by a wide crystal vase filled with clusters of roses. Miranda smiled and gently touched the fragrant, silky petals as she passed. George’s rose gardens were his pride and joy, and the flowers graced much of the house with their beauty and perfume.

She tapped lightly on the door to his chamber, then gently opened it, expecting to see her husband engrossed in a novel or horticulture book. The sight that met her eyes made her blood freeze.

George looked up, a stricken expression on his face. “What?” he cried, while the one who shared his bed sought the cover of the sheets. “Miranda!”

Miranda gasped and took a step backward. Shock swept through her like acid, leaving her scalded and raw everywhere it touched. Her stomach twisted into a knot as she turned, fled, blundered into the table and sent the crystal vase toppling to the hardwood floor with a loud crash. She stepped on a sliver of glass but hardly noticed. All that mattered was reaching the sanctuary of her apartment, where she slammed the sitting room door and bolted it.

“Miranda!” George called through the barrier, but she ignored him.

A few seconds later she heard a chambermaid’s voice. “Are you all right, my lord? Is there trouble?”

Then George replied sharply, “Clean up the glass in there and go back to bed. My lady and I have just had a newlywed quarrel, that’s all.”

“Yes, my lord,” the maid replied. Light footsteps faded down the hall. Presumably the girl was fetching a broom and mop.

Miranda stalked to her bedroom and from her dressing table pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief that had been part of her trousseau. With it, she set about cleaning the cut on her foot. Hushed voices and muffled thuds in the room next door roiled her stomach. A minute or so later, she heard softly retreating footsteps and a key turning in the lock of their shared door. She jumped up and wedged a chair under the doorknob.

“Miranda,” George called again, attempting to open the door. “Miranda, open the door. I have to explain. Please.” He knocked a little louder. “Miranda, the maid will come back to clean up the mess, and the servants will talk.”

“Open your own door, George!” she retorted. “That should really give them something to talk about!”

“I cannot stand here and shout through this barrier. Please, let me in.”

“Is your lover gone?”

“Yes. Oh God, Miranda…”

Well, he was right about one thing: They couldn’t discuss this through the door. As much as she would relish his humiliation at the moment, it would be her humiliation, too, once the servants began to gossip and word got out. She removed the chair and opened the portal.

“There is no way on God’s green earth that you can explain this,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong and steady. “There is no reasonable, no acceptable, no worthy explanation. How could you? How
could
you?”

George stepped into her room and shut the door softly. He had hurriedly thrown on a silk dressing gown, and his graying hair was disheveled. With one hand, he pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, and when he removed them, the look in his green eyes was tortured.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Didn’t mean for me to walk in?”

“Didn’t mean for it to happen at all. I swear it. We—we had agreed not to see each other again. I was getting married to you. It was over. We both knew that, but somehow …”

“Oh, God,” Miranda moaned, turning her face from his. “This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.”

“I’m sorry. Please believe me. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. If you want a divorce, I’m sure there must be some way. Some way without telling all of it.”

A sob escaped her tight throat, and she looked up to glare at him. “A divorce? There’s a fine solution!” Her voice changed to a high-pitched mockery of Lady Worthington’s speech. “‘Miranda Henley is getting
divorced
. She’s a Cyprian like her mother. I said that at her wedding, didn’t I?’ And her flock will snicker and say, ‘Oh, yes, my lady, you said that very thing.’“ In her own voice, she added, “She did, you know. I heard her.”

George buried his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against them.

She turned to face him, and her voice trembled with emotion. “I’m so stupid. All I wanted was a family—a real family, a respectable one. I wanted a man I could love, with whom I could raise children. I would have been perfectly happy marrying into my mother’s class, but you tempted me. I thought I might actually fit into my father’s world. What a fool, to think I could have it all! If I divorce you, I won’t be fit to marry anyone, not even a common shopkeeper. And you can only stand there and tell me you’re sorry?”