After The Storm (24 page)

“A dalliance.” Her insides went as cold as the snow.

He flushed. “I did not mean it that way.”

“Oh, of course not.”

“Miranda—”

She cut him off with a glare. “Do you know what I see? I see a man so afraid to disappoint his mother he’s willing to trap himself with a wife he does not love. Yet not think twice about breaking his vows for a mere…dalliance.” Her voice broke as she spit out the dreaded word. She couldn’t keep the hurt and disdain from her voice, not that she put much effort into restraining it. “And just because you’ve made no promises yet does not absolve you of guilt. I’d wager Sally would be most put out, if she knew that whilst she worried the night away about you, you didn’t give her a passing thought because you were far too occupied making love to
me
.”

His eyes narrowed to angry slits. “And how is it you know I wasn’t thinking of
her
the entire time?”

His words stung like nettles, slashed into her with the sharpest of thorns. She gasped at his cruelty. Her fury bubbled over and she hissed, “Bastard!”

She turned heel and stormed on ahead of him, shoving branches aside, not caring when they swung back to slap him in the face. By the time Thorpeton Hall loomed ahead, she had quite a lead on him.

She didn’t halt her stride, but burst through the kitchen door, surprising the cooks who shrieked and jumped. Ignoring them, she marched through the kitchen, down the hall, past the clump of people clamoring over her return. Though her aunt, Sarah Thorpeton, Elyse, and Sally all tried to follow her, she ignored every last one of them, hurried to her chambers, and slammed the door. Then, she sank back against it, sliding to the floor as she gave into the hot, angry tears that plagued her journey back.

They streaked down over her cheeks and dripped onto the floor, as she stared up at the ceiling. “A dalliance. That’s all it was...all I was.”

The knowledge hurt worse than she thought possible. It wasn’t magical to him. It was convenient. She was convenient. What she saw as the most special moment of her life, he saw as merely a way to pass the time. It meant so little to him that his thoughts wandered to Sally even as he made love to
her
.

Her breath hitched and the sobs broke free. She gave up trying to hold back, but covered her face with her hands and surrendered.

Chapter Nineteen

“Miss MacDonough, Lady Marchand wishes a word with you.”

Miranda frowned at the manservant over one shoulder. He hadn’t even troubled himself to knock, but opened the door wide enough to step inside. It was embarrassing, his standing there while her eyes streamed so badly and her cheeks stung with fresh tears. She dabbed at her eyes with a limp handkerchief. “I was beginning to wonder how long she’d make me wait.”

“If you will come with me, then.”

“Very well.” She slowly rose from where she’d sprawled across the bed earlier and dabbed again at her chapped cheeks. The manservant did not wait for her, but turned heel and started down the hallway.

Her belly roiled as she trailed behind him, head down, gaze focused on the green and gold pattern of the carpet. Her dread had multiplied as she’d waited for her aunt to summon her, now she felt only marginally relieved. Still, it was better to get it over with.

She hadn’t seen Hugh since they emerged from the woods, which was fine with her. As far as she was concerned, she did not care if she ever laid eyes upon him again. He’d been the cause of her downfall, and now that morning had come and gone, she never regretted anything as much as she did the night spent with him.

She frowned. No. That was not entirely true, nor was it fair. The blame could not be placed squarely at his feet. She was equal in fault.

If only she had bid him halt…

No. Even if she
had
stopped him it wouldn’t have mattered, for no one would believe it.
She
wouldn’t. As it was, most of the
ton
already knew, judging from the crowd gathered when she returned. Her face burned with what the gossips most likely whispered about already. The duchess probably wouldn’t even acknowledge her existence now. She had made a terrific mess of everything.

She swallowed hard as her throat threatened to squeeze shut and deny her air. Disgraced. Ruined. There’d be no Season, no balls. And most importantly, no successful marriage. She’d brought the worst sort of shame to her family, to herself, and destroyed even the smallest hope she’d had. Scandal blackened her name. Aunt Arabella would be ruined by association and after all she’d done. Miranda swallowed a groan and whispered, “Bloody hell…” as her throat constricted.

The knots in her belly tightened as the manservant paused beside a closed door at the far end of the hallway. Rapping on it, he cleared his throat, saying, “Miss MacDonough to see you, my lady,” when it swung open.

“Show her in.”

“Miss MacDonough, if you would?” He moved aside to allow her passage. As she entered the room, he closed the door, leaving her to face her aunt alone.

Her mouth went sand dry as she stepped into her aunt’s sumptuous room. Obviously it was one reserved for guests held in high esteem for it was furnished with gleaming Hepplewhite pieces and heavy plum velvet draperies, gilt mirrors, and had a separate bathing chamber. It was a far cry from the simple cottage in Dunsmore and it was impossible not to gawk about even as she faced her aunt.

Aunt Arabella’s eyes were red and puffy and she clutched a limp, lacy handkerchief in one slender hand. Behind her, Mrs. Anderson glared down her pointed nose. Miranda’s belly lurched as a hot wave of shame rose up. How could she have hurt her aunt this way? Arabella had been so generous, so selfless, and she, Miranda, spat in her face for it.

She wanted to retch. Her gut twisted sharply and she was convinced her breakfast was only moments from reappearing. A sickly sweet taste rose in the back of her throat, and she winced as she swallowed to say, “Aunt Arabella?”

Arabella dabbed at her right eye with her handkerchief and sniffled. “The duchess—”

She winced as Arabella’s voice cracked. The elegant fingers clutching the handkerchief were white at the knuckles. Her own voice was no steadier. “Aunt Arabella, I—”

“No, Miranda.” The lace trembled as Arabella lifted it to dab at one tearstained cheek. “No. You must listen.”

Miranda snapped her lips together as a numbing chill crept over her. She nodded and moved to sit beside her aunt on the chaise. Arabella shifted her legs back to make room, and her eyes welled up again as she drew in a quivering breath. “The duchess has requested we take our leave at once.”

Though it was nothing less than she expected, the announcement made her chill worse and she shivered. “I thought as much,” she murmured, then paused a beat. “Has the mare returned?”

“She has. With a terrible cut on one foreleg.” Mrs. Anderson snapped before Arabella could reply. The chaperone’s voice was icy with fury. “Have you no brains at all? Are you truly so stupid—”

“That will be all, Mrs. Anderson,” Arabella broke in, twisting the handkerchief. “There’s no need—”

But Mrs. Anderson was not about to be silenced. “There most certainly is.” She took a step forward, her face white, her fists clenched at her sides. “This girl has been an utter disgrace since the moment I set foot in that sorry little cottage in Dunsmore. I tried to tell you this was wasted effort, but did you listen? She is a pathetic creature and the only man who will have her now is one step above guttersnipe—”

“I said, that will be all, Mrs. Anderson.” Arabella’s voice hardened with each word as she glared at the chaperone. “I have had more than enough of you and I will
not
stand for this outrageous, insulting, and thoroughly uncalled-for slander.”

Miranda had never seen her aunt so furious. And furious was the only way to describe it, as color rose in Arabella’s pale cheeks and her eyes narrowed to slits. She held her breath as Arabella rose and faced Mrs. Anderson. “In fact, I am no longer in need of your services. You will clear out your things and take your leave
now
. And when I return to London, I expect your rooms to be empty.”

“But…but...” Mrs. Anderson sputtered, her cheeks fiery red and her voice breaking. “You can
not
—”

“I can and I have. Consider yourself sacked!”

Drawing herself up to her full height, and with her nose firmly in the air, Mrs. Anderson sniffed and without another word, stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Miranda stared after her, almost smiling at the sight of the insufferable chaperone’s dismissal.
And good riddance.

Her happiness was short-lived as Arabella sank back to the chaise lounge and shook her head. “That changes nothing.” The quake in her voice returned and she pressed the handkerchief to her pursed lips as if to control a rising sob. “What were you thinking, Miranda? How could you do such a thing?”

Her voice held no anger, no fury, only hurt and concern, by far more painful to Miranda than her anger could ever be. Tears stung her eyes. This was beyond foolish. It was selfish, more selfish than anything else she’d ever done, and she had no justifiable reason whatsoever. “Aunt Arabella, I am so very sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Not ever. I am so—” Her throat squeezed shut as bile rose and her aunt went blurry beneath the shimmery veil of tears.

Her back refused to remain straight, and she huddled over, her face buried in her hands as a sob broke through. “I am so sorry.”

The hand on her back was gentle and soothing. “Oh, Miranda. You are so young…oh…if I had but known you and the duke were going to cross paths, that you’d enjoy each other’s company…”

Swiping at those pesky tears with one hand, she lifted her head and clutched Arabella’s hand with the other. “I will speak to the duchess, Aunt. I will promise to stay far, far away from the duke. I won’t so much as look at him again and I—”

“No. No. That won’t do.” Arabella’s voice was low and heavy with regret. She pulled her hand from Miranda’s grasp to twist the handkerchief. “I’m afraid it is too late for that.”

“But nothing happened! The duke was a perfect gentleman.”

Arabella’s long stare conveyed her disbelief, but all she said was, “Miranda, love, I’m afraid no one will believe you.”

“But we were—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Arabella’s tone wasn’t at all unkind, but it was still heavy with disappointment. She smoothed the balled up handkerchief over the cushion and shook her head. “It is all of little consequence anyhow, as I’ll wager the tongues are wagging all the way back to London. And I can only imagine how Sally feels knowing her intended spent all of last night with another woman. I know you meant no harm,” she continued as Miranda opened her mouth to protest, “but I’m afraid it is not at all simple.”

More than anything, Miranda wished she had some way to take away the horrid disappointment weighting her aunt’s words and shoulders. The last thing she ever wanted to do was hurt her and yet, she’d done just that. “Aunt Arabella, I swear to you, and to Sally, and...and to anyone who will listen, the duke was a perfect gentleman. We merely sat huddled by a small fire in a rundown cottage. That is all.”

Arabella sniffled again and shook her head with slow regret. “I am sorry but it’s immaterial now. The damage is done and I’m afraid there’s no
un
doing it.” She pressed her lips together for a moment before she added, “And now, we must ready to take our leave.”

Arabella gracefully rose from the chaise and crossed to toss her handkerchief in the small woven basket by her washstand while Miranda’s head ached with the million questions ricocheting through it. However, the only one she could bring herself to ask was, “And?”

“And we begin anew. Perhaps we’ll go to France. Or even to America. I’m afraid it’s all we
can
do now.”

Miranda stared down at her hands lying in her lap, her fingers laced together. “I have made an absolute mess of this, haven’t I?” The lump in her throat thickened and her eyes stung with fresh tears. “I am so very sorry. I know I keep saying that but—”

“I don’t doubt that at all. I know how hard you’ve tried, how far you’ve come. I tried to make as warm and comfortable a home as the one you knew in Scotland.” Arabella offered up a sad, rueful smile. “Perhaps I was far too lenient with you. Had I been stricter—”

“No. This is in no way your fault. You
have
made me feel very much at home.” She rose from the chaise and hurried to catch one of Arabella’s hands in hers. “Since Papa died, I’ve been…so…lost. And alone. And you’ve eased my grief.”

Arabella squeezed her hand, her eyes still shiny with tears. She didn’t say anything, but held Miranda’s hand tightly and pressed her lips together as if holding back powerful sobs. Then she cleared her throat and her voice was calm and even as she said, “I think it best if you went and packed your things. I’d hate for the duchess to have her servants toss us out on our ears in front of everyone.”

Miranda nodded as she slid her hand free. “Yes. You’re probably right.”

Arabella’s sigh was shaky. “Off you get, then. I am sure the duchess will send up a footman when our carriage arrives.”

With nothing left to say, and nothing else to do, Miranda left her aunt’s chambers and made the long walk back to her own. There was nothing left for her now but to pack up her beautiful gowns and silk slippers and prepare to bid farewell to any hope of becoming a proper lady. That was impossible now. The best she had to hope for was that somewhere beyond England’s borders, she’d find a man accepting of a bride who was no longer an innocent maiden.

****

Steam rolled from the water’s surface, the vapor fingers beckoning to Hugh like a seductive lover. With a satisfied groan, he sank into the tub and sat back as the heat soaked in. The chill seemed to have permeated clear through to the center of his being after spending the night on a stone floor, with only meager fire for warmth. Everything pulled together to form one monstrous ache.

Closing his eyes, Hugh leaned back and the water soothed the pain into a dim memory, the warmth seeping into his muscles to relax each blasted kink.