Glimmer of Hope (2 page)

Miranda was beginning to drag. She cursed her body and its weakness. Here was Carter on her doorstep, just as she’d imagined so often those first few months before she’d accepted the fact that he would never come, and she was in need of a nap at two in the afternoon like an infant in the nursery wing rather than the mistress of the manor.

Undressed and in her wrap, Miranda climbed into her bed. Hannah pulled the covers to her shoulders.

“Sleep well, Lady Devereaux.” Hannah offered a curtsy as she stepped back from the bed.

“I will try, Hannah.”

“Now, don’t let
him
fret you none.” Hannah spoke with more confidence than Miranda felt. “Timms and me will look after you. Soon as we saw his lordship struttin’ around downstairs, we said to ourselves, ‘We’ll take right good care of her ladyship.’”

Miranda was too weary to correct Hannah’s grammar.

“And Mr. Benton’s due back in the next day or two.”

With the reassurance of her grandfather’s return echoing in her thoughts, Miranda slipped into sleep, hoping she wouldn’t dream of
him.

Two minutes past eight o’clock
and Miranda had yet to make an appearance. Carter stood beside the mantel in the drawing room, determined not to pace or show any outward signs of his inner frustration, though he was picking absentmindedly at the fir garland draped festively across the mantel. Beneath, a fire burned low and steady.

Three minutes past eight. Where was Miranda? Would she defy him? He’d told her eight o’clock. If he was to take charge of the situation—and he had every intention of doing just that—it would begin tonight.

This relaxing excursion of his was proving to be anything but.
What could be simpler
? he’d thought when the idea had been proposed a week earlier. Parliament was to be called back near the end of January, which left enough time for a short house party. He would spend a fortnight in Dorset with two of his associates from Lords. Perhaps they would even enjoy a few Twelfth Night festivities. The complications seemed minuscule.

Until Carter had seen
her.
Miranda was the last person on earth he had thought to find at Clifton Manor. The last he’d heard of her, she was living in Devon with her grandfather.

“I am sorry I am late.”

Carter froze. Miranda. He knew her voice, how it seemed to carry even when she spoke quietly as she did just then.
In control
, Carter reminded himself. Now was the time to set the ground rules.

Carter stopped his mindless shredding of fir needles, pasted a bland expression on his face, and turned to look at her, ready to affect a perfectly indifferent greeting.

She was stunning, standing framed in the doorway. He’d thought somehow the impact of seeing her would lessen since he’d already faced her down once that day. He’d been wrong. She’d always been the most breathtaking woman of his acquaintance.

Miranda wouldn’t have been labeled a diamond by society—hers was not the classical kind of beauty. It was something more. Her eyes, the color of an early morning sky, stood out in sharp contrast to the deep, rich chestnut brown of her hair.
Chestnut.
No one had hair quite the color of Miranda’s. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her. She seemed paler than he remembered, almost ethereal.

For a moment, he couldn’t look away. She, he noticed, seemed to be avoiding looking at him. He had no idea what she was thinking. There had been a time when he could read her feelings in her eyes. They had been expressive and unerringly honest. Now they seemed, essentially, empty.

“Miranda,” he said in a voice sans emotion. She still didn’t look at him. Well, two could play at that game, pretending to be indifferent acquaintances having a perfectly unexceptional conversation. “As it is only the two of us this evening, I will not remark on your being a few minutes late. However, in two days’ time, we will have guests. And as you are to play the role of hostess, I will require you to be on time for meals.”

She looked at him then, her eyes still shuttered, her expression unreadable. She stood perfectly still and silent, as if studying him. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, like a schoolboy caught pilfering pastries from the kitchen. Carter forced himself to remain aloof and unaffected. He would be in control this time.

He raised an eyebrow, an imitation of the aristocratic look he’d seen his father use, one that worked well when one’s point needed to get across quickly and effectively. It seemed to work.

“Of course,” Miranda said in that same placid, quiet voice she’d used earlier. “I will not be late again.”

Immediate concurrence? That made him suspicious. So he pressed on. “And you will be expected to entertain the ladies during the day, arrange for excursions and outings, see to the menus.”

“I was told your mother was to arrive shortly,” Miranda replied, the first signs of uncertainty in her voice. “She would expect to—”

“
She
is not my wife. Hostess is your proper role, not hers.”

“But I have never—”

“I will not court further scandal, Miranda. If you intend to remain here during the house party, the proprieties will be observed.” Carter pushed as much as he dared. Either she would realize he had the upper hand, or she would choose to leave. Both would be a better alternative to the mess he anticipated otherwise. She, as he well knew, had the ability to wreak havoc.

“These are important people, then?” Still she watched him with those newly unreadable eyes.

“Extremely.”

“I will do my best.” Miranda lowered her eyes to her clasped hands. “I have little experience with hostessing a gathering.”

“I am certain Mrs. Gillington has ample experience.” Carter turned back as if studying the greenery, though in truth he needed to look away before her air of feigned humility cracked his resolve. “All you need do is show up. On time,” he added with some emphasis. “And at least pretend to be happy about it.” He didn’t hear a reply. “I expect you to treat my guests with civility and the appropriate respect,” he added.

“When have I ever acted otherwise?”

Perhaps it was the sincerity she managed to force into her tone that grated on him so instantly.
Civility
?
Respect
? Did the woman even know the meaning of those words? Carter snapped his head in her direction and felt his jaw tighten.

“I will assume that question was intended to be rhetorical,” he said. “I don’t imagine you are truly inviting an in-depth discussion of past behavior.”

He saw the little color in Miranda’s face fade further as their eyes locked. For a fleeting moment, emotion showed in her eyes again, but it disappeared so quickly he didn’t have time to identify it. Surprise, maybe. Perhaps a little fear. He hoped, if nothing else, it was the dawning of understanding—that the tide had turned, and
he
would not be so easily duped again, that
she
did not have the last word in this marriage.

“No.” The flicker of feeling in her face hadn’t settled in her voice. She spoke evenly, matter-of-factly. “There are a great many topics I would rather not explore.”

Ignoring their grievances might be the only way to maintain peace between them. He need only endure her company for a fortnight, then he could return to living his life without thinking about her. It was the only way, he’d long since discovered, to keep from driving himself mad wondering how she’d managed to deceive him so entirely.

They proceeded to dinner. Miranda didn’t speak through the course of the entire meal. He remained behind after she took her leave, as was expected in formal dinners. He spent the entire twenty minutes thinking over their encounter.

Had he been firm enough? Too autocratic? Was she put in her place or had the battle only just begun? He couldn’t say and found the situation frustrating. If ever he needed to feel in charge of a situation, it was now, and yet, he didn’t.

There are a great many topics I would rather not explore.
That was to be the tactic, it seemed. Avoid personal conversation and anything that might lead to difficult and uncomfortable questions between them.

Miranda was seated by the fireplace when he entered the drawing room. She sat precisely as she had stood in the room earlier: still, almost unnervingly serene.

Carter disliked that she didn’t seem uncomfortable when he felt ready to jump out of his skin at the slightest sound or movement. Was she not ruffled at all? Not affected even the slightest bit by their unexpected reunion?

Perhaps she wasn’t ignoring their past so much as she was unbothered by it.

Carter sat in a chair directly across from her. “You didn’t used to sew.” He casually leaned back, forcing his features into a look of complete unconcern.

“No.” She continued to stitch without looking up.

“Are there any other newfound hobbies I should know about?” Her continued stillness rubbed him the wrong way. “I would hate for
our
guests to think we know nothing about each other.” He exaggerated the word
our
to point out that she was the outsider here. She didn’t so much as flinch. Could nothing crack her icy exterior?

“I have become an avid walker.” Miranda’s eyes remained fixed on the material in her lap.

“Ah.” Carter couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or being honest. The flickering light of the fire added to the unreadable nature of her expression.

“I attempted watercolors but found I had no aptitude for it.” Miranda tied off a thread. “The only thing I could convincingly paint was mud.”

Carter fought a traitorous twitch in his lips. Miranda still hadn’t looked up and didn’t realize she’d nearly broken his composure with her quip. He quickly had himself in hand once more.

“And I have developed a fondness for hawthorn berries,” she added.

“Fascinating,” Carter replied dryly. All she would tell him of the past three years was that she walked, sewed, and enjoyed berries?

She didn’t reply but continued sewing. After a few minutes had passed in heavy silence, she spoke again. “And what of you, Carter? Have you any new interests?”

“I have gained some influence in the party,” Carter said, infusing enough pride in his words that he thought for sure they would thoroughly impress her. She didn’t appear moved. “And I am quite in demand in society.” Carter rose to his feet, thinking frantically through his list of achievements, searching for something that would appropriately awe Miranda. “I helped pass the Slave Trade Act last year.”

“Did you really?” She looked at him then and seemed impressed. No. More than impressed. She looked almost pleased behind that placid demeanor. “That must have been very gratifying.”

Carter nodded, feeling a prickle of disappointment. So much for platitudes and praise from his wife.
Very gratifying
, she’d said. A good brisk ride was “gratifying.” A round with Gentleman Jackson could even be “gratifying.” Being instrumental in passing an historical act of Parliament was far greater than that. It made a man feel like he had done something important with his life, something intrinsically right.

“How long had you been involved with the Slave Trade Act?” Miranda asked.

Despite his determination to remain aloof, Carter began talking, recalling the months he’d spent aiding with the drafting and rewording of the act, the hours upon hours of debate. This was how he’d once pictured spending his evenings: sharing his work with Miranda, talking through his accomplishments and concerns. He lost himself in the retelling. Seeing that act passed was perhaps his proudest career achievement to date.

The clock struck the hour, and Carter realized he’d been speaking for a full thirty minutes. He’d enjoyed having someone to talk to. He felt enough in charity with Miranda to offer her a smile—that much he could give her, an acknowledgement that she’d been civil and courteous.

But when he looked back at the fireplace, he saw that she was asleep. So much for sharing his life with his wife. How much of his heartfelt recounting had she dozed through? At least she’d done that before he’d started thinking of her as human again. Now he could despise her as much as he’d decided to over the past three years.

But heartless or not, he couldn’t very well leave her slumped in a chair all night. Somehow, ringing for the servants to see to her felt humiliating—like he wasn’t capable of taking charge of his own wife. Not that any of them could be ignorant of the situation to some degree at least.

“I’ll have to carry her up,” Carter grumbled.

Perhaps she’d wake up in the morning confused and would have to think over how she’d come to be there. That ought to give her a moment’s pause. He didn’t doubt it would be the last time she’d fall asleep in his exclusive company. Next time, she’d listen to him and realize the kind of man she’d so carelessly tossed aside.

Carter lifted her sewing off her lap—a blanket, it appeared to be. Small and simple. For someone in the parish, perhaps? He laid it across a nearby chair.

“Come on,” he muttered, slipping one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees and lifting her easily from the high-backed chair.

She was light—far too light. For a minute, he found himself studying her. She was decidedly thinner than he remembered. Carter told himself quite firmly that he didn’t care and made his way out of the drawing room and up the staircase.

He was surprised that she didn’t wake up as he carried her. Not only were his footsteps occasionally jarring, but his heart also pounded so loudly in his chest he doubted there was a soul asleep in the entire house besides her. She really shouldn’t have affected him that way any longer.

She seemed strangely vulnerable in that moment, frail and fragile. Any gentleman would have been moved by such a picture.

With a little ingenuity, Carter managed to open the door to her sitting room and walk inside. The door to the bedchamber was mercifully open—door handles were tricky with no free hands.

One step inside and he was greeted by a nearly frantic whisper. “Laws! Is her ladyship unwell?”