After The Storm (28 page)

The blunt truth curdled in the pit of Miranda’s belly. To make it worse, Arabella’s words were the only ones she had as her father couldn’t tell
his
side of the story. Perhaps he didn’t want to marry her, perhaps he’d felt, deep down, Arabella hadn’t truly wanted to marry
him
. Whatever the truth, she’d never know.

She swallowed hard. “He never did marry, Aunt…” The words died on her lips. She didn’t even know
what
to call this woman seated across from her. Aunt? Mother? Neither one seemed appropriate.

She cleared her throat and tried again. “I believe you are wrong. He rarely spoke of my mother, but when he did…he sounded…
broken.
”

Arabella blinked furiously, and breathed deep, only to exhale a shaky sigh. “He never asked me. I thought I’d hinted well enough, but he never asked. Perhaps he thought I’d not say yes.”

A single tear dropped from her lower lashes. “Without that proposal, I couldn’t remain in Inverness. I was always afraid my father would come for me, that he’d break down the door and steal me back to England. I thought it best for all of us if I returned home before that happened. So, I left you in your father’s most capable hands, and came back to London.”

She swiped the trails of tears from her cheeks. “I married shortly after my return. Rumors flew about your existence, but my father had great influence and deep pockets. You were but a few months old when I was married to the Earl of Campion. He was old and stodgy and I was frightened to death.

“I was widowed after six years, but by then it was too late. I was free to come see you, and I did so whenever possible, but it was not often enough. You were no longer a baby, but a little girl, and you had no memory of me. I was a stranger to you.”

“You’re still a stranger to me,” Miranda whispered, unable to make her voice any louder for it hurt to speak. Crushing the parchment into a tight wad, she rose from the sofa on shaky legs and crossed to the fireplace, where the crackling flames mocked her with their merriment. “I used to cry myself to sleep with wanting a mother so badly. Did you know that? And Papa refused to speak about her—
you
.

“I needed you then. I’d have done anything in my power to have brought you back to the living.” Anger burned raw and hot through her and she hurled the wad of crushed parchment into the fire. The flames attacked it, devoured it, reduced it to ash in the same amount of time it had taken Arabella to plunge Miranda into utter confusion. “And when you did come to visit, you were always so warm and loving. I used to wish that
you
were my mother. Every night I prayed you’d never leave me.”

She turned back to Arabella. For an all-too-brief moment, she pitied her for not having courage enough to put her child above herself. Her pity soured into disgust as Arabella quavered, “You need understand, I
had
no other choice. I
had
to remain distant. It was the only way to protect myself...and you. You thrived in Angus’s care. I’d never be so selfish as to take that away from you.”

“But you did. I was an utter disaster because I had no idea what awaited me here. And now you tell me…” Her voice broke and she shook her head. “No…this is all a terrible dream and when I awaken, I will be back in Inverness.”

Arabella rose to her feet and reached for her but Miranda jerked back. The nausea rose up in a sour wave and she thought she was about to retch. She swallowed hard against it, and shook her head. “Do not touch me. You do not have the right. You do not get to abandon me for twenty-four years and then suddenly play mother. I’ll not simply throw my arms around you and play as if overcome with joy. You do not get absolution so easily.”

Arabella stared and then slowly bobbed her head. “You have every right to be angry with me. But you must—”

“I must what?” Miranda couldn’t keep hold back the fury scorching her words. “I must forgive you? I must say,
Oh, that’s wonderful,
and hug ye tight?” A dry, dull laugh burned its way up her throat and past her lips. “Och, I dinna hope ye are not too terribly disappointed, as that willna happen. How
dare
ye think it would, or tha’ it should? Are you sae great a fool tae believe this makes everything right? Tha’ this does make ye my mother? Because ye aren’t. And I highly doubt ye ever will be.”

Arabella’s cheeks flushed crimson and her shoulders slumped. “I deserve that. But you need understand, I did not do it for selfish reasons. I did not want to see your spirit crushed.”

“How generous of ye.” She didn’t try to keep the sneer from her voice, though she struggled to calm her tone. “As I’d much rather have had a mother instead. Ye will understand I see it differently. Had ye not played dead, I’d have been raised knowing all that Lady Elyse needed teach me. I’d have felt at ease at Thorpeton Hall. I’d have been an acceptable lady, wouldn’t I? Instead, ye made it impossible fer me tae be any of those things, didn’t ye? Ye were sae bloody selfish, such a bloody coward. Hae you had even a bit o’ backbone, a bit o’ courage, we’d not be havin’ this conversation. I’d be a proper lady, and what’s more, I might have also been the one Hugh chose.”

To her horror, sobs tore from her throat at the thought of Hugh. It was too much to bear.

Fresh tears spilled from Arabella’s eyes as well. “Miranda, please—”

“Nae!” Miranda backed away, one hand raised. “I canna do this now.”

Anna appeared then, carrying the tea service on a silver tray. Miranda did not offer up so much as an apology, but shoved by her out the door. She needed time alone, time to digest what her aunt—no, her mother—had done. She had to put as much space between them as possible. To share the same room, to breathe the same air, made her sick to her stomach. She hated Arabella as she had never hated a soul before.

Ignoring the surprised looks on the servants’ face as she hurried past, she hiked her skirts almost to her knees and took the steps two at a time. Her boots thudded against the wood as she stormed down the hallway to her chambers. The slamming door echoed throughout and she locked it behind her.

Leaning back against the cool wood of her closed door, she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the annoying tears from them. “This is not happening…it simply can’t be…”

It was
all
too much. Her mother, back from the dead, in London the entire time. Her legs wobbled, her knees buckled, and sent her slumping to the floor as her head spun and her eyes closed. She fought for air, fought to hold the faint at bay. She dragged in a deep breath and surrendered to the sobs bubbling up from within. It was of little use trying to hold them back.

How could her father have
lied
to her for so many years? He
had
to know how badly she hurt, and how much she needed a mother. But no, he went on playing the charade, went on lying to his only child…all to avoid an uncomfortable explanation.

She hated both of them for their deception, but she hated her father far worse. At least she’d be able to confront Arabella once her head cleared. She could rail and rant and clear herself of the horrible thoughts and emotions plaguing her. She’d take a great, if childish delight, in punishing Arabella. But there’d be no resolution, no explanation, and no atonement from Angus. Death made that impossible.

“How could you?” she whispered brokenly, staring up at the ceiling as if she’d find him there. “How could you lie to me about something so important? About something…” Her voice trailed off as she buried her face in her hands.

The day of Angus’s death, she barely cried. The morning of his funeral she hardly shed a tear. Now the damn broke and she wept as she hadn’t in years. Her shoulders shook from the force of her sobs, and she heaved and trembled as she spilled out years’ worth of grief and anger. Her head pounded, her heart ached, and finally, when she was close to fainting from lack of air, her sobs subsided. Numbness set in and she had no more tears left to cry.

Sitting against the door, she swiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands as she fought to breathe. “No more tears. What’s done is done.”

As calmness crept over her, it brought with it an unexpected guest. Emptiness. A numbing emptiness poured into her like an icy stream. One terrible decision, made by someone else in a moment of fear, forever altered the course of
her
life.

The room, once so cozy, now threatened to suffocate her. Staying and pretending as if everything was well, as if her entire life hadn’t been a lie was impossible.

A choked cry rose in her throat. Had her mother
not
been such a coward, had she the courage to remain with Angus, she might have been introduced to Hugh years earlier. She was the granddaughter of a marquis. Hers might have been the hand he sought.

Instead, here she was, alone, and dreaming of a future that would never be. Unfair. Especially when she had no say in it, and never had. The decision was made and now, Hugh was gone. Sally won. By circumstance of birth, Sally won.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, dragging the back of her hand over her eyes. “There is nothing left for me. Nothing here. Nothing.”

No. That wasn’t entirely true. There was something. There was the possibility of seeing Hugh and Sally at various balls once the Season began.

Her stomach clenched again.

It hurt now, just imagining them, Sally in his arms, smiling up at him, as they circulated about the dance floor, or chatted gaily in a corner, or—her stomach lurched again—Sally presenting the world with the duke’s heir.

“That is what I have to look forward to… seeing the happy couple over and over. Watching as their family grows…” her voice broke with a brittle laugh as she swiped at her eyes again. “I canna possibly do that. Not now…”

A deep breath, a shaky sigh, and she leaned her head back against the wall. “No. It’s time to go home.” Yes. Home. Back to Scotland. Back where she belonged. Perhaps then she’d see about righting her life again. She had no qualms about abandoning Arabella as Arabella abandoned her so many years ago.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The blasted room wouldn’t stop spinning.

Hugh groaned as he rose from his chair and the room tilted the opposite way. “Bloody hell…what the deuce is going on?”

Next to him, Harry inhaled sharply, sucking down cigar smoke, and promptly choking on it while Evan wiped his streaming eyes. “I do believe you are quite foxed, Thorpeton,” Harry sputtered, his face scarlet as he hacked and coughed to clear his lungs.

“The hell I am,” Hugh retorted as he reached for the back of his chair to steady himself, missed it, and stumbled three paces to his left. “Where is my bloody stick?”

“Under your chair, old man.” Evan slid down from his own chair and disappeared beneath the card table. He popped out on the far side, brandishing the cane in question. “I cannot remember the last time I saw the stodgy Duke of Thorpeton foxed.”

“I tell you, I am sane and sober.”

“And talking to the coat tree.” Harry flew into another choking fit as Hugh whirled back to face them.

“I might as well be,” he grumbled, staggering toward the table bearing six crystal decanters, all but two empty now. He squinted as the two became four, and it took a few attempts before he managed to grasp the one that held the brandy. It sloshed onto the tabletop as he tilted the decanter, but he managed to fill his glass all the same.

“Sally is going to be most put out, should she learn of this drunken gathering.” Edward exhaled a thin stream of bluish smoke. “Or is this a new habit of yours?”

With an inelegant snort, Hugh lurched back to his chair and threw himself into it. He grabbed the cane from Evan to prop it against the table once more. “I care not how put out she is. I’ve made myself quite clear I want no part of this farce any longer.”

Evan climbed back into his chair. “What did you just say?”

“My dear friends,” Hugh lifted his glass high above his head. “You are looking at a man taking a wife steadfastly against his will. The stodgy duke, eh? And what if I were to tell you about a quite wonderful evening I spent not too long ago, in a freezing cold gamekeeper’s cottage, ravishing a beautiful woman who was
not
, I repeat,
was not
, the fair Lady Sally Hayworth?”

“The devil, you say,” Harry finally calmed his choking fit to gape at Hugh, his eyes perfectly round.

“Ah, yes, but I did. As I am thoroughly a gentleman, that is all I will say about it. I’m not one to kiss and tell, you know.” He grinned when met with a round of hearty protests. “Ah-ah, a gentleman, my friends. A gentleman.”

“Oh, come now, old man. You cannot offer up the bait and not tell the entire tale.” Edward leaned an elbow on the table, his drink held firmly in his free hand.

“I can and I will. Suffice it to say that I cannot recall a more perfect night. Not in the whole of my life.” Hugh brought his glass to his lips and tossed back the contents.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “You tumbled some wench in the gamekeeper’s cottage and consider
that
a perfect night? Are you mad?”

“I am not.”

“You are a fool, Thorpeton,” Evan snorted, refreshing his drink and Hugh’s as well. “An utter fool.”

“Ah, you’d not say that if you experienced what I did,” Hugh corrected him as he accepted the brandy. “The surroundings mattered not at all.”

“And you won’t tell her name? Bloody unfair.”

The brandy made his innards warm and his brain fuzzy, but not so fuzzy Hugh was about to let Miranda’s name cross his lips. It wouldn’t take much for any one of them to figure it out. He hoped not one of them was sober enough to do just that.

He shook his head. “I’ll never breathe her name, gents. Suffice it to say, she was warm and sweet, and innocent beyond belief. Had she been my first, she’d be my only.”

“Well, now, this sounds quite serious,” Edward chimed in as he rose to fetch the brandy decanter and plunked it in the center of the table. “Does the fair Lady Sally know you’ve been dallying with another?”

Hugh chuckled ruefully and drained his glass again. Lowering it, he said, “She wants to be the Duchess of Thorpeton badly enough she will overlook just about anything.”

Harry stubbed out his cigar and leaned forward to rest an elbow on the table. “I won’t say I am surprised. A lofty enough title will blind even the most jealous lady. She’s probably certain you’ll come around and settle with her into a life of wedded bliss once the oats are sown.”

Some of Hugh’s good humor faded at that. “Wedded bliss…is that even possible when I feel nothing for the woman but resentment?”

Harry, his face aglow with the red hue of inebriation, slapped his palm against the smudged tabletop. “
You, my fortunate friend, have won the most sought over lady in London. Nations go to war over one such as Sally Hayworth and you bemoan that you are the one she wants?
”

“Yes, the lady is lovely.” Hugh gestured toward Harry with his glass. “And I am sure many will think me mad, but I find I’d rather be with one who was a bit less packaging and a bit more substance.”

“But think of what you’ve missed with Sally.” Evan chewed the end of his cigar. “We’ve all been wondering if she’s as sweet as she looks.”

“That’s what
I’ve
heard.” Horsey laughter rang through Harry’s words.

It took several moments for the full meaning of Harry’s statement to penetrate Hugh’s brandy-fuzzed brain, but when it did, his gut flared and his eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

Harry’s laughter died away and his ruddy cheeks grew ruddier still as he lifted his head. He reached for a fresh cigar and the gold cutter bearing the Thorpeton crest. “It’s but a rumor, Thorpeton.”

“
What
is but a rumor?”

Harry’s face burned crimson now and the cutter slipped from his fingers to clatter on the table as he hedged, “Well…I bumped into Rod Stanley at White’s not too long ago and he made mention of having…ah…
knowledge
…of…well…” His bloodshot eyes met Hugh’s and filled with panic. “Promise you’ll not take me apart for this.”

Hugh’s fingers went white as he gripped the handle of his cane and rose from his chair. “I’ll take you apart if you do
not
tell me.
Now
.”

“Now, now, calm yourself,” Harry replied, gesturing with both hands for Hugh to remain in his chair. “This is not
my
tryst, I’ll have you know. And I am not even certain it truly happened, as Roddy is quite fond of boasting about things that happened to
others
.”

“If you do not stop sniveling—” Hugh growled. The urge to reach across the table and choke Harry blue was stronger than ever.

“Roddy claims he took liberties with your bride at your house party a few weeks back…said you were out searching for a missing guest. A giant Scot, he said, got lost in the woods while riding.” Harry’s words tumbled over each other in his haste to get them out and he fumbled for the cutter, only to drop it again. “It was his assertion he whiled away that same night in Sally’s bed.”

Evan smirked. “And did this Scot have something to do with a pleasant, if chilly, night whiled away in Nailor’s shack?”

Hugh ignored him, glowering at Harry as he rumbled, “Roddy said that, did he?”

“Now, remember,
I
had nothing to do with this. I wasn’t even there that night.” Harry finally snatched the cutter between his thumb and forefinger.

The knot in Hugh’s gut had little to do with the fact another man sampled
his
future bride’s charms. Rather, it was because the two-faced Sally Hayworth had grown so furious with
him
when she was equally guilty. She played the wounded party, all the while knowing she was not the virtuous miss she proclaimed to be. It was enough to make him want to ride over to the Hayworth townhouse and end their farce of a courtship, right in front of her fat, conniving mother. Let her feel some of the humiliation he was sure she made Miranda feel.

Harry’s hands trembled as he snipped off the end of his cigar. “As I said, I know not the authenticity of Roddy’s words, but you might wish to ask your bride.”

“Oh, I’ll do that.” Hugh sank back into his chair with a grin and took a long swallow of his brandy. It was easy to slip back into good humor, as Sally had just given him the one valid reason for ending their courtship. The night was still in its infancy and he’d enjoy it to the fullest. Freedom arrived with the coming dawn.

****

The Hayworth townhouse was only a stone’s throw from the Montgomery residence in Belgrave Square, and though his head pounded from the night before, Hugh opted to walk, rather than summon a carriage. The thick yellow fog had yet to break, but it kept the weak sunlight from blinding him as he squinted to protect his sensitive eyes.

Taking the steps as quickly as his stiff knee and cane allowed, he gripped the brass knocker to rap it firmly against the door. Taking a deep breath to quell the bubbling in his gut, he pulled himself upright as the door opened and Grantham, the Hayworth’s butler, regarded him with cold blue eyes. “The Duke of Thorpeton to see Lady Sally.”

“Do come in, Your Grace. I will see if the lady is receiving.”

Hugh stepped into the rather cluttered entrance and winced at the jumble of paintings and ungainly sculptures littering every inch of free space. Apparently the countess was quite the collector, though her tastes left a bit something to be desired. He’d never seen such ugly pieces before, and he shuddered to think how Sally would have redecorated their home.

“Duke?”

He looked up as Sally hesitated on the stairs, her forehead wrinkled in confusion. At one time, his belly would have burned with a mixture of anger and jealousy over learning she’d offered her charms to another. Now, however, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. He was quite certain this scene ran the risk of becoming quite ugly, but was also assured of obtaining his freedom by the time he left, which did much to relieve the sour taste in his mouth.

“A word, my lady.” He took in her mussed hair and somewhat wrinkled pale peach dressing gown with a bit of surprise. It was the first time he’d ever seen her look less than perfect. “Unless you prefer to dress first.”

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, she nonetheless shook her head. “No. Now is fine.” Turning to Grantham, she said, “If you don’t mind?”

The butler bobbed his head in her direction. “Yes, my lady. Shall I bring tea?”

“No.” Hugh spoke up before Sally could. “You might give us a whit of privacy, though.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Hugh waited until she made her way into the drawing room and then he followed, closing the door behind them. “I wish an explanation, my lady.”

Her eyes widened and he took a whit of pleasure in the flash of fear that darted through them. “An explanation? For what?”

“Roddy Stanley. Tell me, did you play about in your bed or his? And was this before or after you were so sick with worry over my whereabouts?”

Fear widened her eyes for a second, and her cheeks burned as red as a sunset. “I-I…I am quite certain I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“The devil you don’t,” he growled, tucking the handle of his cane beneath his arm as he folded both over his chest. “I have it on good word you had quite the enjoyable evening whilst I was freezing my arse off in a rundown cottage.”

Despite the blush staining her cheeks a frightening crimson, her mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, and her eyes narrowed to accusing slits. “You mean whilst
you
were plowing that Scottish whore, don’t you?”