All the Pleasures of the Season (8 page)

Miranda squeezed his arm. “Does that mean—”

He shook her off and rose. “It means you had better go and ask Goodwin to find a bedchamber for Mr. Fielding while I consider the matter. You will have my answer when I have considered everything.”

They turned to leave the room, and Carrington called them back. “Miranda?
Should
I expect other young men to arrive with similar offers? Does everyone know that you have broken your betrothal?”

She smiled. “It doesn't matter. This is the man I want to marry, Grandfather. This is the man I love.”

He scanned her face, and regarded Gilbert carefully. “I see. Off you go then, and let me think.”

 

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

“H
e'll say no,” Gilbert murmured as they left the room.

“He could have said that at once,” Miranda replied. He watched as she gave instructions to the hovering servants. She introduced him by name, bade them make him welcome, and dismissed them.

“Come with me,” she whispered. Her hand in his was warm, and he let her lead him along a corridor filled with portraits and paintings and sculptures. At the end of the hall, a pair of footmen snapped to attention and opened a set of oak doors to let them through.

Miranda breezed through and doors closed again behind them. He found himself in another huge room, lined on three walls with bookshelves that soared two stories toward a ceiling painted with cherubs and summer clouds. Beyond the windows just as tall as the bookcases, snow was falling.

Miranda threw herself into his arms, her mouth finding his, kissing him passionately for a long moment, the warmth of her lips lending heat to his own. He pulled her close, held her as she laughed softly. She cupped his face, kissed his cheeks, his mouth, his chin, his eyes. “You came!” she said over and over. “You came.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “How could I do otherwise? I should have done it months ago. I love you, Miranda.” He hesitated, looked down into her blue eyes. “Should I have asked you first, before seeing Carrington? Will you marry me?”

She laughed. “I asked
you
first, if you'll recall. I think I've wanted to marry you from the moment I met you,” she said. “I was riding with Phineas in Hyde Park and you came down the track toward us. I couldn't stop looking at you. You were different than anyone else I'd met.”

“No title, no money?”

“No insincerity. You spoke to me like a person, didn't look at me as if the value of my dowry was written on my forehead.”

He smiled. “You were the most remarkable woman I'd ever met. You didn't simper like the other ladies of the
ton
. You weren't haughty or silly. You were beautiful, and witty, and perfect. I couldn't stop thinking of you, or dreaming about what it might be like if I could—”

He groaned and stepped away. “Your grandfather might still say no.”

She crossed and poured wine into a pair of pewter mugs, and went to sit on the rug in front of the fire, sinking in a billow of soft woolen skirts. She was at ease here, a lady born to the gracious surroundings of a castle, raised to run a gentleman's estates, to become the consort of a duke or an earl, yet she pushed the poker deep into the glowing coals like a country lass and turned to beckon him to her side.

The firelight turned her golden curls to molten copper. “Tell me again what you liked best about me,” she teased, a saucy debutante again.

He stood and stared at her, but she held out a hand to him, inviting him again to join her on the hearth rug. He sat beside her. “You are humble,” he teased.

She laughed out loud. “Thank you for not comparing my hair to the golden rays of the sun, or my beauty to an English rose covered in dew.”

“Well, you are beautiful—”

She laid a finger on his lips. “Don't spoil it, Gilbert. And you did not once mention my dowry, or how you would spend it.”

He removed her hand from his mouth and clasped it in his. “If we marry, we'll live off my income alone. I won't have anyone saying that I married you for your money. We will invest your fortune.”

She smiled. “Kelton wanted my money more than he wanted me. So did Lord Simmons and Viscount Fox and all the rest.” She met his eyes, her own shadowed in the firelight.

He touched her cheek, still unable to believe that he was here with her and that she was in love with him.

“I want you, sweetheart. Your sense of humor, your beauty, your kindness, your love. What's money compared to those things?”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his palm. “What will you do if Carrington refuses?”

He sat back on his heels. “I will leave at once. I won't take you from your home and your family, Miranda.”

“But you are my family as much as they are, Gil. At least you will be. My home will be at Wintercliff, with you. We'll raise dogs and sheep and children, and we'll be happy. We'll make our people happy, too.”

He didn't reply.

She took the poker out of the fire, picked up one of the mugs, and stirred the wine. The liquid hissed as it heated. She handed him the first cup and stirred the other.

“A winter tradition,” she said, sipping. “They've been warming the wine this way since the castle was a single tower.”

The wine warmed his throat, his stomach, and spread to his limbs. She leaned against his shoulder. “Tell me about Wintercliff,” she said. “I want to picture us there, in front of our own hearth.”

Gilbert stared into the flames and found it easy to imagine indeed. Outside, the snow thickened and icy flakes feathered the windowpanes, sealing them inside behind frosted patterns.

But they hardly noticed. They were safe inside, together, and the future lay before them. He wove his dreams for her, and listened to hers as they waited for Carrington's decision.

 

 

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

T
he next morning, the snow had stopped. Miranda rose early, but Grandfather and Gilbert were still abed. Carrington had not appeared for supper and Goodwin had stood watch in his stead, chaperoning Miranda like a faithful hound.

Miranda went down to the kitchens, and greeted the cook and the maids.

“It's just as I said, my lady. There's one foot of new snow exactly,” said Mr. Wilkins, rubbing his champion bunions with a smile from his seat by the fire. “I'll be bringing out the sled instead of the coach to be taking ye out, my lady, if you're up for going ‘round with the Christmas hampers today.”

Every year since Marianne had married and gone, Miranda had helped with the task of packing Christmas baskets for Carrington's tenants. She looked forward to the tradition of visiting everyone.

“Is Mrs. Hales still sickly?” she asked, adding an extra jar of honey and some strawberry jam to that basket.

“Aye. Ever since the last babe was born. Carrington had the doctor down to see her. A bit of Christmas cheer and some good beef will do her a world of good,” the cook replied.

“And how is your family, Tilly?” Miranda asked the kitchen maid.

“All well, my lady, thank you for asking. My sister is getting married next spring.”

Miranda noted the quick look of censure that passed from cook to maid. So they had heard of her broken betrothal. She felt her face heat. Did they know about Gilbert's proposal as well? Since Grandfather had not come down yet to give his answer on the matter, there was nothing to say. Fortunately, until then, there was plenty of work to do.

Miranda changed the subject away from weddings. “Will we have mince pies for Christmas?” she asked. “And plum pudding?”

“Of course, my lady!” the cook replied. “And Mr. Samuels has a goose for us as big as a sheep, and a huge ham, and a brace of pheasants.”

“Hare as well,” Tilly added. “And grouse.”

“And a mighty roast of beef,” said the spit boy, looking up from the pot he was cleaning.

“And sugared almonds? Candied lemons?” Miranda asked.

The kitchen erupted in happy chatter about Christmas delicacies, and the work went much faster, until every hamper was filled to bursting with the specialties of the season that each tenant liked best. Mr. Wilkins and four of the footmen began to load the small parade of sleds that would be required to make the deliveries. Miranda went upstairs to fetch a warm cloak. It was a fine, crisp day, and the snow lay on the hillsides like fresh linen.

“Mrs. Harris, might Tilly be allowed to accompany me?” Miranda asked, knowing the young maid would enjoy a chance to visit her mother for the afternoon.

The cook nodded. “Aye, off you go, lass, but be sure to wear a warm cloak. It looks bitter out there.” She smiled at Miranda. “I'll check with Mr. Wilkins about tomorrow's weather, my lady, and have a fresh basket of ginger scones waiting when you come home. Does the gentleman upstairs have a favorite pastry I might send up?”

What kind of wife would she be if she didn't know that? “I'm sure Mr. Fielding would love your gingerbread, Mrs. Harris,” she said. “No one could resist it!”

Mrs. Harris beamed. “Then I shall see he has some, and make extra, too, in keeping with the season! Now off you go, my lady, before it starts to snow again!”

U
pstairs, Gilbert sat at the small desk in his room and tried to compose a letter. Actually, he was writing two. They were both addressed to his family in Shropshire.

The first letter announced the happy news that Lady Miranda Archer had accepted his proposal, and the Duke of Carrington had approved the match. He pictured his mother falling over in a dead faint at the breakfast table when the news arrived, and being carried to her bed. She would adore Miranda.

The second letter, barely started, advised them that he had bought a small estate, and would be returning to Shropshire after Christmas. Alone. His father would not be pleased to hear he had given up his army career before it had even begun. The baron would probably be the one to faint dead away at
that
news, and wake up cursing faithless sons.

Gilbert looked out the window at the lovely hills of Cumbria. They reminded him of the hills of Shropshire, of the Long Mynd. Would Miranda be happy there, comforted by the similarities to Cumbria? He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. If Carrington refused his suit, his family would never know.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Gilbert called.

He rose when the Duke of Carrington entered. “Good morning, Mr. Fielding. I trust you are comfortable? I see that Goodwin has anticipated my answer by putting you here in the yellow room. The King once stayed here, you know. Not the current King. King Charles II.”

Gilbert glanced at the bed where the royal head had once lain. Was it a good sign?

Carrington sat down at the desk, taking the chair that Gilbert had just vacated, and he watched the duke's gaze fall on the two letters. After a moment he looked up. “Your parents are unaware of your proposal to my granddaughter?”

“They know nothing of it, Your Grace,” Gilbert said. He resisted the urge to stand at attention, his hands behind his back like a schoolboy brought before the headmaster.

“And would they approve, if they knew?”

Gilbert swallowed. “My father intended me to enter the army. He would see my proposal to Miranda as overreaching my station, I believe.”

Carrington looked around the room, as if he were remembering back to the time of Charles II's visit, and had been there personally. But that was over one hundred and fifty years ago.

“Have you heard the tale of the first Archer, the man who established our line?” Carrington asked. “Miranda reminded me of him yesterday.”

“I know only that he was a bowman who fought at the battle of Agincourt, Your Grace.”

He saw pride spark in Carrington's eyes. “He was indeed. A simple peasant's son, trained to shoot a longbow. He wasn't expected to survive the battle. The French hated English bowmen, mostly because they were good at their work, and they killed as many as possible—taking no prisoners, sparing no one. Thomas Archer was lucky enough to shoot a French knight as he was about to slay our king. The king granted him a boon. He asked for a piece of land, and the hand of his lord's second daughter. Many called him an upstart, but the king gave him what he asked for. Thomas became Sir Thomas, then the Earl of Carrington. His great-grandson became the first duke. Miranda's son could possibly become Duke of Carrington someday—not likely, of course, if Phineas has a son and Marianne keeps bearing children, but possible. The point is the unexpected happens. Thomas rose on his merit, became great by his own efforts. He might well have asked for a simpler boon—like a bag of gold, or a hogshead of ale—but he was considering the future, and where his choice might lead him and his descendants.”

Gilbert swallowed, and the duke shifted in the chair, easing an aching knee. “You realize that by asking for Miranda's hand you are going against your family and hers, and yet you have come all the way through the snow to Carrington to see me,” Carrington said, his tone lofty. “I can only assume you love her a great deal to do something so foolhardy. Tell me, young man, what will you do if I refuse to allow the match?”

Gilbert felt his skin heat, but he met the duke's gaze boldly. “I will leave at once, Your Grace.”

Carrington's eyes narrowed. “Bound for where? Gretna Green is only a day's ride from here. Will you take Miranda with you?”

“No, sir, I swear I will not,” Gilbert said. “I will return to Shropshire, alone. I love her, and I know that you love her as well. Miranda deserves to be happy, and I do not think that would be possible without her family's regard. I will not force her to choose.”

He recalled how Kelton had wanted to take her from her family, and her heartbreak over it. “More than anything on this earth, Your Grace, I want Miranda to be happy. With me, or without me.”

Carrington studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he picked up one of the letters from the desk and handed it to Gilbert.

“Send this one,” he said, and rose. “I'll leave it to you to tell Miranda, and I will see you at dinner. Most of the family will have arrived by then, I expect.”

Without another word, he left the room.

Gilbert stared at the letter in his hand and collapsed into the chair in disbelief.