Lord of Ice (12 page)

Miranda raised an eyebrow at him. He sent her a distracted frown, then looked around with a tautly strained smile as the various guests and servants in earshot stared and bowed to him.
Here we go again,
he thought, wishing he could turn invisible.

“Good evening,” he mumbled, nodding politely to the people who were staring at him.

Miranda glanced around at the onlookers in curious amusement, but the concierge could scarcely contain himself.

“May I just say, well done, my lord, well done!”

“Thank you.”

The man handed him a pair of numbered room keys, then gave him back the gold sovereigns with which Damien had already paid for their night’s room and board. “Now there, my lord, I won’t take tuppence from you. I wish I had the finest rooms to give you and the young lady, but I’m afraid they’ve already been let. Roads are crowded, what with all the holiday visitors going to and fro.”

“That’s perfectly all right. Please, take it.” He pushed the coins back across the counter. “It’s only fair.”

The little man grinned. “Not a chance, Colonel.”

Damien laughed. “Very well, then. Send the lads in the pub a round or two with my compliments.”

“Very good, sir, as you wish,” the maitre d' said with a hearty chuckle. “Please, call on us if there is anything you require. The stagecoach leaves tomorrow morning at seven sharp. We begin serving breakfast at half-past six. Miss.”

Miranda returned the man’s nod.

“Hungry?” Damien asked her as they left the counter and walked toward the staircase, followed by two porters who carried their bags.

“Starved,” she said.

“Let’s settle in, then get something to eat.”

She nodded at his suggestion, looking askance at him. Her green eyes danced at the staff’s continued compliments behind them in the lobby as they went up the stairs.

“What a fine fellow.”

“Now, there goes an Englishman!”

“Blood will tell!” the people said.

He could feel them watching his every move.

“Goodness, Damien, you didn’t tell me you beat Napoleon single-handedly,” Miranda whispered as they turned onto the landing and started up the next portion of the stairs.

“I thought you already knew,” he said wryly.

“Do people always fawn on you like that?”

“No.”

“Yes, they do. You’re just being modest,” she chided in a playful tone, studying him closely. “But you hate all the attention, don’t you? Why? You deserve it.”

“Not any more than the rest of my men. Not any more than the ones who died.”

“Pshaw. There’s nothing wrong with taking a bow every now and then when you’ve earned it,” she scoffed.

“You’d be the expert on that.”

She shot him a quelling smile at his jibe.

When they came to the third floor, the porters showed them to their rooms, which were situated across the hallway from each other. Miranda unlocked her door, back to back with Damien while he did the same; then the porters carried their bags into their respective chambers and lit the candles for them.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Damien said in the hallway. “Pub or dining room?”

“Your choice.”

He tossed her a narrow, teasing smile. “And to think Mr. Reed called you a difficult girl.”

With a saucy little half smile, she shut the door in his face.

He really wasn’t half bad when he wasn’t barking orders or chopping people’s heads off. Leaning against the door with a sigh, Miranda turned around and surveyed the compact but pretty room her guardian had taken for her. Her gaze traveled over the sturdy oak furniture and inviting sleigh bed, the neat fireplace of whitewashed brick, and the flower-printed curtains. She could barely remember the last time she had had a whole bedchamber all to herself. A foggy memory filtered back to her through the mist of years—her childhood bedroom in Papa’s country mansion. She remembered a light blue canopy over her high, frilly bed and wallpaper printed with beautiful birds.

She closed her eyes, her shoulders drooping slowly with a pang of loss, not just for her uncle, but for the loss of this chance to walk through the door Damien had opened for her into a new life: a door into her father’s glittering world of elegance and privilege. Lord Winterley moved in that world, belonged in it. For a second, she let herself imagine what it would be like beyond that threshold.
London
. . . Parties, balls, suitors. Oh, that was what she really wanted, she thought in longing. The tinselly world of the stage was only a sham of the
beau monde
that she still recalled through the rosy haze of her childhood memories. Hadn’t her mother’s one burning wish been to see her daughter become a real lady, as she, herself, the notorious Fanny Blair, had never been?

But even if Miranda were to let Damien lead her through that door into the glittering world of elegant people that was London high society, once there, she would never fit in. She was not fine enough, and this arguing with herself was a waste of time. Her pensive expression hardened.

Her first priority was saving Amy. Until the child was safe, nothing else mattered—not her own dreams of a beautiful life, nor her disturbing attraction to her guardian. Pushing away from the door, she hurried to freshen up for dinner.

When she went back downstairs half an hour later, the noise of cheers and manly laughter from the pub advised her of the war hero’s location without her having to ask the concierge. Shaking her head to herself in amusement, Miranda walked into the dim pub and saw him at once.

He was seated on a large, rough-hewn table near the fireplace, surrounded by a crowd of overfed, ruddy-cheeked John Bulls buoyed up with patriotism and liquor. They were buying him bumpers of ale and clamoring to hear his stories of battle. Stories, she judged by his uneasy smile, that he had no interest in telling.

As she strode toward him, the buxom blond tavern wench carried over a round of pewter tankards on a tray, stopping to whisper something in Damien’s ear just as he looked past the crowd and saw Miranda coming. The barmaid made a point of thrusting her breasts practically in Damien’s face as she handed out her pints before hurrying back to her duties. Miranda sent a guarded scowl after the little hussy while Damien rose to his feet.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I have the pleasant duty of escorting this young lady to dinner.”

A collective groan of disappointment went up from the men.

“Don’t let me interrupt your fun,” she muttered under her breath as he captured her hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow.

“Perfectly all right, my dear. It is hardly proper for young ladies to loiter in taverns.”

As he led her out of the taproom with guilty haste, the tavern wench crossed in front of their path. Miranda’s smile withered at the implicit look Damien and the barmaid furtively exchanged; her heart balled up as tightly as a hedgehog in self-defense at the hungry way his gaze followed the girl, much as he had eyed
her
the night before, when he had mistaken her for another sort of woman. Actress that she was, she pretended not to have noticed.

Obviously, he had already made up his mind to use that girl tonight, but what did she care? she thought in disdain, more stung than she cared to admit. With him distracted, bedding his little tramp, her escape would be all the easier.

Damn,
Damien cursed mentally. She had caught him red-handed planning his assignation with the barmaid. Now she was pouting like a jealous wife, as though she did not realize that his current state of frustration was her fault. The sweet torment of holding her on his lap for three hours had driven him to distraction.

She turned to him in the lobby, her emerald eyes snapping sparks. “Why don’t I just go back upstairs and eat in my room and leave you here with your little friend?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear,” he said in bland superiority. “Come, the dining room is this way.”

They went in, sat down, and ordered dinner. The waiter brought out wine and poured it, and still Miranda barely made eye contact with him. Damien drew a mental line in the sand, refusing to grovel, refusing to explain himself. She ignored him for a while longer, punishing him for his transgression. He had no idea why he felt guilty. He rested his elbow on the table and drummed his fingers by the base of his wineglass. She stared across the dining room at the mediocre paintings on the wall, watercolor landscapes and foxhunting scenes.

“Miranda,” he said dully at last.

“What?” She turned to him.

He gave her a knowing half smile.

She curled her lip in disdain and veiled her gaze with her long, black lashes, looking away. She took a judicious sip of her red wine. Carefully setting her glass back down, she leaned across the table toward him, crooking her finger at him to come closer.

He obliged.

“I think it’s only fair someone should warn you”—her tone was prim and confidential—“a lot of the girls I knew from the Pavilion sell their bodies like your friend in the pub. Let me just say—you could catch a disease.”

“Miranda!” he whispered, scandalized. He glanced around to make sure no one sitting near them had heard. “I am not going to discuss this with you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re my ward.”

“You’re certainly singing a different tune than last night,” she needled him.

He narrowed his eyes at her in warning and shook his head. What an outrageous chit she was.

“Perhaps you already have the French disease,” she said sagely. “There must have been a lot of camp followers at the war. You seem to go in for that sort of thing.”

“Perdition, girl! I do not have the French disease,” he retorted in a whisper. “For your information, I’m careful.”

She lifted her eyebrows, apparently enjoying his discomfiture. “What do you mean? You only bed virgins?” She took a sip of wine and innocently added, “I’m a virgin.”

Mid-swallow, he coughed on his wine. Devil take the little hellion, she was toying with him! How dare she?

Ah, he knew what was going on here, he thought, recovering quickly. If they had been alone, she would not have dared act so cheeky, but the presence of the other hotel guests seated at their tables around the dining room had emboldened her past her healthy respect of him. His interest in another female had pricked her vanity and so she was back to rebellion, back to testing and challenging him like a cocksure fresh recruit who saw no reason to listen to his drill sergeant. Well, the headmaster had warned him of this, had he not? Damien could not decide if he was vexed or amused at her jealousy over him, but he preferred to indulge her rather than to risk scaring her again.

“I am delighted to hear it, Miss FitzHubert,” he said mildly.

“I did have a beau once who almost changed that, though,” she remarked with studied nonchalance, her eyes flashing. “He was in the cavalry.”

He scowled. “What’s his name?”

“Trick.”

“What the devil kind of name is that?”

“A nickname for Patrick.”

“Patrick who?”

“I forget. He had a blue uniform, though. I thought him very dashing.”

“You’re lying, my love.”

“Why shouldn’t I have had a beau? I wanted to believe that
someone
cared about me, since your Major Sherbrooke obviously forgot I existed.”

He looked away, unsettled by the bleakness in her eyes, all at odds with her false, brittle smile. “What happened to your beau, then?” he grumbled.

“I refused to give him what he wanted, and he never came back. I was sixteen.” She lowered her lashes, sitting very still.

He shook his head, simmering. “Cavalry’s useless.”

She looked up with a roguish smile. “Aye, that he was. But he was a good kisser.”

He clamped his jaw and turned away, then looked at her again, quite incensed. “Stop it.”

“My lord?”

“You are deliberately baiting me.”

She tilted her head with an innocent smile. “Oh, don’t be cross, Damien. He didn’t kiss half as well as you do, though. I imagine you’ve had more practice.”