Winter Wonderland (17 page)

It was obvious that the contrary feelings could not exist together; he had to rid himself of either the revulsion or the attraction. And since he'd lived with the revulsion for so long that it was now almost a part of him, it was the attraction that had to end. Separating himself from the source of that attraction seemed the easiest solution. Either Miranda had to leave this house, or he did. When he'd first learned that Miranda was to become governess in this house, he'd considered telling Delia what he thought of her, expecting that Delia would immediately sack the woman. But he hadn't done it. And now that Miranda was becoming a part of the household, and the boys were beginning to hold her in affection, it seemed a cruel thing to do. It would be easier on everyone if he simply took himself out of this house. All he had to do was invent an excuse for leaving and depart in the morning.

The plan was barely framing itself in his mind when the library door opened and Delia entered. She carefully closed it behind her, came up to the fire and seated herself on the hearth. “All right, my dear,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and meeting his eyes with a level look in her own, “tell me what's troubling you?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Why do you think anything's troubling me?”

“Come now, Barnaby, I've known you all your adult life. Do you think I can't tell when you're distracted?”

“I'm not distracted, exactly. Just … er … uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“Yes, uncomfortable about telling you that I must cut my visit short.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “How short?”

“I must go tomorrow.”

“Good God! Why?” She peered at him worriedly. “Are you ill?”

“No, of course not. I simply must get home.”

“But I don't understand. What must you do at home?”

“Er … nothing. Business.”

She recognized evasion when she heard it. And her nature was too forthright to pretend she believed him. “What business can you have that came up so suddenly?” she asked bluntly. “You can't have had a message from London. No stage has yet come through.”

He frowned, annoyed at himself for having launched on this course of lying without proper preparation. “It's something I knew about before I started.” He looked down at his hands awkwardly. “I should have told you before, but I didn't wish to spoil the holiday.”

“Barnaby, my boy, you are the worst liar in Christendom. I wish you would tell me the truth. I shan't hold you back if you truly must leave, but I'd feel much better knowing the real reason. It isn't something I've done or neglected to do, is it?”

“No, of course it isn't. Don't even
think
anything so foolish. You know you've always made me feel perfectly at home.”

“Then what
is
it? It isn't having to play the gallant to little Livy, is it? I warned Honoria that you might not like being compelled to court the girl.”

“Compelled to court Livy? To
court
her?” Barnaby looked over at his sister-in-law in sincere surprise. “Is
that
why she's here? So that I can court her?”

“Why did you
think
she's here? Really, Barnaby, you are unbelievably naive when it comes to female wiles. Honoria has been trying to marry you off for years! And all the ladies in her circle have aided and abetted her in that attempt. In fact, little Livy was the unanimous choice of all of them.”

“You don't say!” Barnaby grinned, more amused at this news than annoyed. “Whatever made them think that a young chit out of the schoolroom, with nothing to say for herself except how much she misses her mama, would catch my fancy?”

“She not a chit out of the schoolroom. She's twenty-two! And she's soft-spoken and modest, as you are, with a gentle disposition, proper rearing and, above all, very lovely to look at. Quite the perfect girl for you, wouldn't you say?”

Barnaby stared at his sister-in-law openmouthed, for a completely new solution to his problem burst upon him.
Livy Ponsonby
, gentle and modest and pretty as a picture! Why couldn't he make himself fall in love with
her?
The best way to get over one love was to find oneself another, he knew that. Another girl could be the perfect antidote to his heartache. That solution would be much better than making an awkward departure, better than enduring a lonely ride back to London through the cold and snow, better than tearing himself from the warmth of his family circle. “I wonder, Delia,” he said thoughtfully, “if Honoria hasn't done me a favor. Perhaps courting Livy is just what I should do.”

“What?” Delia asked, startled. “You don't intend to leave here after all?”

“No. On second thought, my business in London can wait.”

“Can it, indeed?” She eyed him suspiciously. “You're cutting it too rare and thick, Barnaby Traherne. Just what is going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing that need worry you. You've persuaded me that it is more important for me to learn the ways of females than to take care of business. I'm thirty years old, after all. It's time I did a little courting. And Livy Ponsonby
is
a sweet, pretty little thing, just as you said she is.”

“I don't believe a word of this,” Delia declared, rising majestically, “but as long as you're not going away, I shan't press you further. But be warned, my dear, I shall get to the bottom of this enigma sooner or later.”

“There is no enigma,” he insisted, rising also, “but if it amuses you to imagine there is, go ahead.” He preceded her to the door and held it open for her. “By the way, Delia,” he said casually, “Mrs. Velacott tells me you know her real identity. Is that true?”

Delia paused in the doorway. “That she's
Lady
Velacott, you mean? Yes, she told me all about it.”

“Doesn't her misrepresentation trouble you?”

“No, of course not. Why should it?”

He shrugged. “I don't know, quite. But if I were hiring someone to look after my boys, I would be leery of someone who lied.”

“She had good reason for dropping her title. The woman is penniless, you know. Her deceased husband left her without a farthing. As she quite sensibly explained to me, a title has no value to an impoverished female. So she dropped it. It's not really a lie, under the circumstances, is it?”

Barnaby peered at her for a moment, his expression strangely arrested. “No, I suppose not,” he mumbled after a long pause.

Delia cocked her head at him, her shrewd eyes suddenly alight. “I say, Barnaby, that's the second time you've shown an undue interest in our governess. Is there some significance in these inquiries?”

“Don't make this part of your enigma, my love,” he answered flippantly. “I already told you I don't like her above half.”

“So you did. But you didn't tell me why.”

He shrugged and started off down the corridor away from her. “She isn't my sort, that's all,” he said over his shoulder.

“Not like little Livy, is that what you mean?” she called after him.

“No. Not a bit like little Livy.”

Delia gazed after him, her eyes twinkling speculatively. “But at least our Mrs. Velacott can speak of more interesting things than missing her mama,” she said under her breath. “And I have a feeling that you, Barnaby Traherne, are even more aware of that than I.”

Eighteen

Miranda stood at the schoolroom window, looking down at the snowy landscape beneath her. But it was not the appeal of nature that had attracted her eye. It was the sight of two figures cavorting in the snow. Ever since Boxing Day, for three mornings in a row, Barnaby Traherne had taken Livy Ponsonby walking. Sometimes they strolled sedately arm in arm, but at other times, as now, they capered about like children, throwing snowballs at each other or tumbling about in the drifts. It was a sight Miranda found completely odious.

She turned away and fixed her eyes on her three charges, now bent over their slates, busily occupied with their lessons. A little while ago, she'd had to break up a fight (the usual tussle between Maury, who'd been teasing Jamie, and George, who'd charged in to defend his baby brother with clenched fists), but now all was calm. George was wrestling with a problem in long division, Maury with multiplication, and Jamie with listing “-AT” words—
b
at,
c
at,
h
at, and so on—laboriously on his slate. Their boyish absorption in their tasks made the governess smile. Each of them had an unconscious habit—a small gesture that revealed the intensity of his concentration: George pulled at his left earlobe, Maury twisted a lock of his hair, and as for Jamie, the tip of his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth and wiggled with every stroke of his chalk.

She walked slowly round the table looking over their shoulders, but none of her charges seemed, at the moment, to require her help. Then she wandered over to the bookshelf, looking for something to do, but the books were all neatly arranged. So, quite against her will, she found herself drawn back to the window and the view outside. The couple below were now chasing Miss Ponsonby's bonnet, which had blown off. As Miranda watched, Barnaby caught it and placed it back on the girl's head. The act was tenderly performed; he even tied the ribbons himself. For one horrible moment, Miranda feared he was going to lift the girl's chin and kiss her!

But he did not. He merely took her arm in his, and they strolled back toward the house.

Miranda sank down on the window seat, her heart beating rapidly and her emotions in turmoil. She couldn't understand why the scene below had such a powerful effect on her. Barnaby Traherne's doings were of no concern to her!

She couldn't help wondering, however, if he'd ever kissed Miss Ponsonby. But even if he had, it could not have been in the same way he'd kissed her. Miranda was not a green girl; she knew that the kiss they'd exchanged the other night was quite out of the ordinary. The memory of it still had the power to set her trembling.

The trouble was that she couldn't understand Barnaby Traherne's behavior. It was plain that he'd taken her in dislike, probably because he'd seen her in her youth indulging in some flagrant flirtation. That much was easy to fathom. But that abominable kiss had thrown everything askew. Perhaps he'd begun it as an act of dislike—more of an assault than a kiss, really—but he certainly hadn't ended it that way. She'd felt the tremor in his arms, the urgency in his embrace, the passion and hunger that had shaken them both. What had he meant by such an act?
Make of it what you will
, he'd said, but she couldn't make any sense of it at all.

She couldn't make much sense of her own feelings, either. Barnaby was sullen and insulting to her, yet, knowing this, she still was drawn to him. His way with Jamie endeared him to her, and she found his demeanor within his family circle warm and charming. The contradictions in her feelings were epitomized by her reactions to that kiss, at first so infuriating and later so … so overwhelming. At first, she'd wanted nothing more than to strike him down and stamp on his limp and prostrate body, but later, when he'd shown that unexpected tenderness and then such shattering passion, her whole body had responded. She would have clung to him forever, if he'd continued to hold her so.

But he hadn't continued. He'd made another of his abrupt mood changes. Cold and distant, he'd stalked away, leaving her shaken and confused. And shaken and confused she remained.

In the last analysis, however, the matter was not so confusing. If one faced it honestly, it was quite simple. She could state the problem in fewer than ten words:
I'm in love with a man who despises me
.

And now he was pursuing Livy Ponsonby. Surely he couldn't be serious. His character was too complex and too subtle to find the naive Livy interesting. Yet, on second thought, Miranda couldn't blame him for taking her up. Livy, besides being a beauty, had the more significant advantage of being quiet, sweet and virtuous. She was not wasting her youth in wild behavior and meaningless flirtations. Barnaby would not be able to accuse
her
of being a liar and a flirt.

Very well
, she said, addressing him in her mind,
if that's the sort of namby-pamby female who pleases you, I wish you well of her. Go ahead and woo her, with my blessing
.

Miranda peered out of the window again, but the two of them were gone. There was nothing to see now but the impressions of their movements in the snow. Footprints, male and female, side by side. The molded remains of a scene of blossoming romance. How picturesque. How romantic. How utterly revolting.

Nineteen

Delia, coming cheerfully down the stairs after a very satisfactory visit to the schoolroom (during which George cogently explained to her the causes of the War of the Roses, Maury exhibited a proud proficiency in multiplying double digits, and Jamie wrote half the alphabet for her in capital letters on his slate), was startled to discover her dignified sister-in-law, Honoria, down on one knee outside the closed library door, her eye to the keyhole. “Heavens, Honoria,” she exclaimed, “are you
eavesdropping
?”

“Sssh!” Honoria hissed, waving a hand at her in a gesture of restraint and not even bothering to look up. “I think he's going to
offer
for her!”

“Who?
Barnaby?
” Delia hurried to the doorway, her cheery mood dissipating. “Good God! You don't mean it!”

“Hush, I said! Do you want them to hear us?” Honoria tottered to her feet and drew Delia down the hall so they would be out of hearing of the pair inside the library. “I'm so excited I can hardly
breathe
!”

“Why?” Delia asked suspiciously, not wanting to be taken in by Honoria's histrionic fervor. “What makes you think—?”