After The Storm (19 page)

A delicate flush stained Elyse’s already glowing cheeks as she shook her head. “No. Not this time, I’m afraid. But you and Randi go on and enjoy yourselves.” She popped the last bite of croissant into her mouth and bounced up from her chair once more. “I’ll see you later...perhaps.”

Miranda and Diana laughed as Elyse hurried from the room. Diana turned to her. “Will you be joining us for the ride?”

Much as she wanted to, there were still her lady’s lessons to consider, and she preferred
not
having an audience. Especially one that might contain Sally Hayworth. Better to get them out of the way whilst the ladies were out riding. She sighed and pushed her chair back. “I’m afraid I will not be able to ride this morning. If you will excuse me.”

Diana nodded, her blue eyes dark with concern. “I do hope your day will allow you a break and you will join us later. I’d so love a chance to really chat.”

“As would I.” Miranda rose, a heaviness settling into her bones. Diana seemed genuine and warm, and she regretted she wasn’t quite lady enough to skip a lesson. But the last thing she wished to do was cause Diana Stanhope to change her mind about assisting her due to some improper behavior on her part.

Pausing at the door, she smiled at the duchess. “Enjoy your ride. Perhaps I will see you this evening at supper.”

Diana’s smile was as warm as her previous ones and she nodded. “Absolutely. And let’s not forget the ball closing the festivities.”

Miranda bobbed her head and stepped from the breakfast room. The sense of gloom thickened as she made her way up to her chambers, especially when she passed by Hugh’s door. There were no oaths flying freely, no creak of floorboards. No sign of the duke’s presence. Perhaps he’d joined the hunt. Perhaps he opted to not join in the hunt, but ride with Sally instead.

The throbbing behind her eyes worsened and she hurried away. “No. Do not think about it right now.”

In the safety of her room, she moved over to the windows overlooking the rolling pastures to the east. A clump of riders gathered in the distance, but they were too far away for her to see if Hugh’s mare was among the steeds.

She turned away with a soft, hopeless sigh. “Perhaps I ought but accept I must concentrate on the
eligible
gentlemen and
not
think about Hugh. After all, I have no desire to find myself firmly on the shelf.”

Chapter Fifteen

Though she’d gone above to take a nap after her first round of lessons, when Miranda stretched out on her bed, sleep mocked her. After lying there, staring at the bed hangings for what felt like an eternity, she gave up. With a sigh, she slid down from the bed and moved to the window, where she sank onto the seat to stare out at the gloomy afternoon. The grayness seeped into her skin, permeating her entire body.

The hunt was most likely in full swing by now, and the thought of Hugh dressed in scarlet hunting regalia, astride his beautiful horse, only depressed her further. She hated this feeling, the one that seemed to be her constant companion these days. The stares, Sally’s biting putdowns, and the feeling she’d never be more than a common farm girl, exhausted her to the point where she wished she could just pack up and take her leave of Thorpeton Hall. She’d never been so uncomfortable in her own skin since arriving in England.

She pressed a hand flat against the cool glass pane. Elyse was happily tucked away with her husband. The other ladies either joined the hunt, retreated for naps, or tucked themselves away in cozy corners to catch up on their correspondence. Not that it mattered. She didn’t know anyone well enough to confide her troubled thoughts.

“And here I am, alone,” she murmured, lowering her hand to her lap. “I am quite tired of feeling so bloody sorry for myself all the time. Self-pity is an ugly trait.”

She’d not stay locked in her room, like a mad recluse.

It was far too easy to descend from her chambers, creep down the back staircase, and slink outside unnoticed. The servants were busy elsewhere, and Aunt Arabella was most likely napping. It wouldn’t be long before Mrs. Anderson searched for her but she was in no mood to sit through any more lessons. Not today.

“I will deal with the trouble later,” she muttered, head down against the chilled air as she hurried up the path toward the Thorpeton stables. “Instead of sitting with a book upon my head and stays digging into my hips, I will sit with my arse in a saddle and let the breeze be the only thing that touches my skin. I only hope not every horse was taken for the hunt.”

As the stables rose up before her, she second-guessed the wisdom of her decision to steal yet another of Thorpeton’s horses. It gave her pause for a moment. Aunt Arabella would
not
be pleased, should she hear of this. “But it’s not
theft
. I’m not stealing a horse. I am but
borrowing
one. Yes, a much nicer term, as I fully intend to return it, unharmed.”

She stepped into the warm darkness of the stables and sighed in relief when she saw several horses in their stalls. At the first, she paused and reached over the door to rub the velvety dark nose of a beautiful pewter gray horse, Willow, according to the name emblazoned on the shingle above the stall.

If the groom or any stable boys lurked about, they were well-hidden, as none burst out of the shadows when she dropped a bridle. She readied Willow and led her from her stall. The clop of the mare’s hooves against the packed earth floor echoed like thunder claps, but other than the annoyed nickering of the other animals, she heard no other sound.

She led the mare to the mounting block, holding her carefully as she swung up into the saddle and gathered the reins. The mare responded to a slight pressure against her sides, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she guided the animal toward the thick woods on the western border of the Thorpeton grounds.

It was not as cold as it had been, but the iron gray sky looked quite threatening. Miranda shivered beneath her greatcoat as she followed a rather well-worn trail into the woods. All was quiet, the others most likely off to the east, and she savored the tranquil grayness around her. Riding was something she’d missed terribly since arriving in England, and she wished she never had to return to the manor house to smile, and simper, and hope to be found acceptable by an equally acceptable gentleman.

Melancholy weighted her heart, matching the grayness of the morning. It wasn’t something she was accustomed to, such sadness. Back home, her heart broke when she learned her father wouldn’t recover from his illness, and she grew sad whenever she thought about the mother she didn’t know. But those were temporary, and they passed.

Now, it seemed as if joy and sorrow switched places, with joy coming only in snippets. She hated the helplessness, hated being unable to do a thing, whilst others made decisions for her. For so many years, she’d decided and thought for herself and to have that stripped away made her feel trapped as well as unhappy.

“Although, it is probably just as well, as Aunt Arabella knows these people far better than I do. I ought to thank Lady Elyse, and Lady Sally, though it behooves me, for their assistance. I shudder to think how I’d have fared without either.”

Not that Lady Sally was much of a help, despite her insistence to the contrary. The lady seemed determined to find her the worst possible suitor, judging by the steady stream of oddlings who came her way. Lord Mahoney and his dull ramblings on the sorry state of the Thames in London. Sir Roderick and
his
nonsense that a woman should be seen and never heard.

But the worst, by far, was the Marquis of Saintsbury and his ribald sense of humor. The things he’d whispered in her ear were enough to make her blush now, despite the cold and gloom. Far from enticing, they made her skin threaten to crawl from her bones. Was what he’d suggested even
possible
?

Lost in her thoughts, time passed and the skies grew gloomier still. It was only when rain pattered against her heavy woolen greatcoat she thought to return back to the stables. She doubted the Thorpetons would forgive her
borrowing
should the mare suffer some injury due to foul weather.

“Come along,” she said, reaching out to pat Willow’s neck. “We’d best go back.”

The horse heeded the gentle pressure on her reins, but when she came about, Miranda frowned. Each tree looked exactly like the next in the thick woods. “Drat it all,” she muttered, guiding the mare carefully about a rather large chunk of rock. “I do believe we’ve gotten ourselves completely turned about, Willow, love.”

The mare’s ears twitched then went still, as Miranda twisted about in the saddle. Hopefully she’d catch a glimpse of
something
to help her right her bearings, but she saw nothing but trees and raindrops, and the rain grew steadier. Icy drops stung her cheeks and blinded her with each patter.

She shivered as freezing water trickled along her temples and beaded her eyelashes. Her breath emerged in a puffy white cloud as the temperature dropped. “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered, trying to battle off the rising sense of panic curdling her belly as she wiped her eyes to clear her vision once again. “I’m afraid the dowager will be quite upset, should she learn about this.”

Taking a firm grip on the reins, she urged Willow toward a crooked yew that seemed a bit familiar. The path forked, and she breathed deep to mutter, “When in doubt…” and took the right-hand fork.

Willow ambled on, ever patient, picking her way around tree roots, fallen limbs, various rocks and ruts, but to her growing concern, the woods grew thicker instead of sparser. As the temperature dropped, rain became snow. Soon, silent flakes fell hard and fast and the whiteout effect made everything look even
more
the same.

She tried to ignore the nervous knots in her belly as she brushed the snow from her face, but it was increasingly difficult. The snow fell harder still, obliterated all signs of paths.

“Bloody hell…” She drew Willow to a halt and squinted into the swirling, blowing snow. If any path remained, it was impossible to see. The flakes swirled in all directions, distorting her surroundings, and leaving her completely lost.

Something crashed through the undergrowth. The fox? Relief flooded her and she sighed. If the fox crossed her path, riders would soon follow, which left her with mixed feelings. She’d have a difficult time explaining her presence in the woods, but at least Willow would return unhurt.

The snap and crackle grew louder, and she shrieked as a stag burst forth from the trees. Willow reared up at their unexpected visitor, and though she tried to tighten her grip on the reins, her hands slipped along the wet, slick leather. Fighting to wrap the strap about her wrist, she reached with her free hand, in an attempt to calm Willow with a reassuring pat on her sleek neck. “Easy now, Willow. Easy, lo—Ay!”

Willow righted herself and jerked forward as all four hooves touched earth. The greased leather zinged through her lax hand and she lost her grip altogether. When Willow dashed forward again Miranda tumbled from the saddle. The powdery snow offered up no cushion for her fall, and she slammed into the frozen ground with a bone-rattling crash.

Her head spun as she struggled to lift it. Willow and the stag were both blurred silhouettes against the backdrop of the woods, frozen in place for the briefest of moments before each bolted off in an opposite direction to crash through the trees as if the Devil himself gave chase.

Her vision swam, nausea rose in a sharp wave forcing her to let her head drop back to the ground. The snow burned her cheek as blackness enveloped her.

****

A gentle breeze swirled snow against Miranda’s face as she slowly opened her eyes. She gingerly lifted her head and winced as a dull ache throbbed in the front of her skull. A deep chill settled in her bones as she lay unconscious and now she shivered so hard her teeth chattered.

She groaned as she rolled over and tried to sit up. Every muscle screamed in unified protest, and she grimaced as dampness seeped through her greatcoat and breeches. She was as stiff and frozen as a puddle in the middle of February.

Still, she thanked God she was in one piece and rose on unsteady legs. She stumbled a few strides before she caught a leaning tree for support. However, the branch snapped like seasoned kindling, and she sprawled into the snow once more.

Hot tears stung her frozen cheeks as she clawed her way upright again. “Why did no one help me?” she muttered, one arm wrapped about the gnarled trunk to steady herself. She slid off her left glove and reached up to rub her aching forehead.

“No. Wait…” She shook her head. “There was no fox. Only that bloody stag.”

Her throat squeezed tight. No hunters were going to crash through this section of the woods. She was alone.

A shaky sob hitched in her throat, but she choked it back with a wince as pain flared again. Had she not hurt so badly, she’d have panicked by now. Instead, she was far too occupied with regaining her balance
without
retching into the trees.

Taking a deep breath, she released her hold with only a slight stumble. It took every bit of concentration, but she managed to hobble a few feet. Her head throbbed making each step a slow, painful ordeal. Still, she pressed on, ignoring the aches and pains, and steadying herself with tree trunks and branches that thankfully did not give way beneath her weight.

It was impossible to discern what time it might be, or if anyone had noticed her absence. She only hoped Willow returned to her warm stable unharmed. If she did, perhaps searchers would be sent out to find her.

“I cannot stay outside,” she muttered, still rubbing her head and wincing as each step reverberated through her entire body. “I’ll not last long in this cold. Where the bloody hell is
something
?”

Snow danced crazily before her, obliterating her vision and causing her to trip over just about anything and everything in her path. Her spirits rose, though, as the trees thinned out. “Thank heavens…” she breathed. “I haven’t a clue how I did it, but I found my way o—”

Her thanks died on her lips as she reached a clearing. Instead of Thorpeton Hall’s golden, welcoming lights aglow in the distance, she’d happened upon a small, abandoned-looking cottage. Its windows were dark, the panes frosted in the corners with snow. It looked as forlorn as she felt.

Tears, fat and hot, filled her eyes, spilled over her lashes to scorch new paths down her snow-burned cheeks as she sniffed. “Bloody hell…”