Authors: Gaelen Foley
Lord of Ice (22 page)
“Good afternoon, my lord,” she offered.
“Hullo, Miss FitzHubert,” he drawled.
“Are you waiting for Damien—I mean Lord Winterley,” she amended hastily, but she was too late.
He arched his eyebrow at her blunder. “Ah, 'Damien,' is it?”
She turned away sharply and swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “Pardon me. It was a simple mistake. If you’ll excuse me, I must change for dinner—”
“No, my dear. Do indulge me with a moment of your time, please. I find this all very curious.” He sauntered up behind her and dropped his smooth voice to a murmur. “I really have begun to wonder. What exactly is going on between you and my brother?”
“I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.” Her heart pounded wildly.
“Miranda,” he chided. “Do you think I’m as blind as everyone else around here?”
“It was a simple mistake,” she repeated, her mouth going dry.
“Not so very simple, I think.” He paused. “You would not lie to me, would you? That would be a very naughty thing to do. Besides, do you know I am a diplomat, Miss FitzHubert, professionally trained to ferret out the truth and drag it out into the light? You cannot hide anything from me, in the end.”
Her body tensed. She realized in alarm that she was caught. Apparently not even her acting skills were enough to fool Lord Lucien. Not knowing what to say, she turned around slowly and forced herself to meet his scrutinizing stare. He studied her vulnerable expression for a moment in mingled pity and amusement.
“Does he know you’re in love with him?” he asked.
She gazed at him, at a loss, then shook her head in despair. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if I
am
in love with him. Please don’t be angry at me. I can’t help it. You’re not going to tell him, are you? Promise you won’t?”
“I promise nothing until I know all. Why do you say you aren’t sure? It seems fairly obvious to me.”
“What is the point?” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands and dropping them again to her sides. “He is too high above me, as I know perfectly well. I have no designs on your brother, my lord, if that is your worry. There may be a certain . . . affinity between us, but I know where I stand. He is an earl and a hero. I’m not even legitimate.”
“You are talking like a fool, Miss FitzHubert. Come.” He offered her his arm. “Take a turn about the gallery with me and let us try to sort this out.”
She heaved a rebellious sigh but obeyed, trembling with the realization that her improper feelings toward her guardian, and his toward her, had been discovered. Lord Lucien did not seem exactly cross at her, but he was formidably determined to unveil her secrets, as though he sought to test her. She let him lead her back into the house, where they took a slow promenade down the long, narrow gallery where portraits of the Knight ancestors gazed down solemnly from the walls.
He began asking questions, and after an initial hesitation, Miranda told him everything. It was impossible to do otherwise. He was a shrewd, worldly-wise man who was shocked by nothing and impossible to fool. He asked such probing questions that he seemed to read her very mind. How Alice managed him so easily, she could not comprehend. But she had seen the strong bond between the twins, and she realized that if anyone would know how to help Damien fight his demons, Lucien would.
Reluctantly, she laid her cards down on the table in the hopes that he could read them better than she. She held back nothing: her career as Miss White; how Damien had mistaken her for a harlot; her attack by brigands on Bordesley Green and the savage way Damien had come to her rescue; his championing her and her friends against Mr. Reed at Yardley; and, finally, how he had lashed out when she had roused him from his slumber the night they had shared a bed at the hotel.
“Are you sure that’s all that happened in that bed?” he asked calmly.
“All? He nearly choked the life out of me, my lord. I’m sure that’s quite enough to have happened, is it not?”
He conceded this with a nod. “Yet you do not seem angry at him.”
“How could I be? It’s not his fault. All I want is to help the man. Surely you can see I owe him that.” She sighed and shook her head. “He would be furious if he knew I had told you all this.”
“Miranda, there are some things you should know about Damien. Come.” He handed her down to sit on the viewing bench at the end of the picture gallery, then took his place beside her.
She turned to him, heeding him in full absorption.
“My brother was in nearly every major action of the war. I was there, and I saw the dark transformation it wrought in him. For example, he led storming parties at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz. Only a handful of men served in both groups and lived to tell about it. You have seen him in action, so you know it is an awesome sight to behold. You may have heard about the insurrection among our troops after the fort at Badajoz was taken. Damien hunted down and executed those of his own men who had gone about raping and pillaging in the town. He was brutal. He felt betrayed by his men, and I suspect he felt personally responsible for losing control of them for those three days; but then, it had become a miniature war between the officers and the rank and file, by that point.”
“It sounds like a very ugly experience.”
“Ugly enough to disillusion me entirely about the way the war was being fought, but that is another story,” he said softly. “It was all beginning to get to Damien. The carnage, the grief, the powerlessness and anger an officer feels at his inability to protect the men who entrust their lives to his command. It began to change Damien, as well you might imagine, for he is a leader in the finest sense of the word. He cares as other men do not. That is why, everywhere he goes, people love him. He may look tough, but he is all heart—and I watched that heart break in the Peninsula, Miranda. I saw him take refuge from the pain in apathy, as though he were the hardened captain of some bloodthirsty band of Hessian mercenaries. I tried to keep him human, civilized, tried to reason with him. He resented me for it.” He shook his head. “It was easier for him to do his job by letting himself grow numb to it all. And he was good. By God, he’s good. Born to it, you know. Fearless, mean as hell.”
“I’ve seen,” she murmured, nodding.
“At any rate, after Badajoz, as I said, I simply could take no more of the insanity. I decided to sell my commission in the army and join the Foreign Office instead. I tried to get Damien to leave with me before the war destroyed what remained of the brother I knew, but he would not hear of it. We had a great row. He called me a coward for leaving, if memory serves, but it did not deter me. For me, it was a matter of conscience to serve where I could be more useful. But the one great question that has haunted me ever since is, how much worse did Damien become as a result of my not being there?”
Lucien paused, and Miranda gazed at him, mystified.
“For a long time afterwards,” he continued, “he wanted nothing to do with me, so I know how good he is at shutting a person out, especially those who care for him. That’s why I’m giving you this.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a small, rusty key, which he placed in her hand, curling her fingers around it with a gentle clasp. “Use only in case of emergency.”
Her heart skipped a beat as she glanced at it, then looked at him, wide-eyed. “What does it open?”
He dodged the question with a cryptic smile. “The important thing is, you have his attention, and that is more than I can say for any other woman I’ve seen him with. Take heart: None of them have shown your mettle, else we would not be sitting here. He needs you, Miranda. You may be his last hope. I am only his brother. I can’t do for him what you can.”
“What can I do?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“Love him,
chérie
. You have my blessing.” With that, he leaned toward her and kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you, my lord, but I don’t see how I
can
have your blessing,” she said rather miserably, holding his amused gaze as he pulled back. “I know what I am. I’m not refined like the duchess, nor proper and good like your Lady Lucien—my lord?” He had risen to his feet and was casually sauntering away. She looked after him, bewildered. “My lord, where are you going?”
He did not answer. He only kept walking. What a strange, exasperating man!
“Lord Lucien? Wait! How I am to make him love me?”
He waved his hand with an idle gesture, ambling toward the large, open doorway. “That is your concern, Miranda. I am certainly not going to sit here listening to your litany of excuses of why it can’t be done.”
“But what happens if I approach him and he turns dangerous again? I told you what took place at the hotel. He could have killed me already.”
“Stand up to him, girl,” he said heartily. “Stand up to these demons that beset him as bravely as Damien faced down the French. You’re a fighter, Miranda. I knew it from the minute I saw you, so fight to bring our brother back to us. Forget virtue and refinement; in this fight, your courage is the only measure of how 'worthy' you are.”
Her shoulders slumped in dismay. He was no help. “Won’t you at least tell me what door this key opens?”
His wicked laughter trailed after him, rebounding off the parquet floor and long walls of the gallery before he vanished from the doorway. “You’ll figure it out,
chérie.
If you want him badly enough, you’ll figure it all out in time.”
When Christmas Eve arrived the next night, Lord Lucien suggested a sleigh ride in anticipation of their feast. He wanted to show little Harry the illuminations of the great houses in the neighborhood and on St. James’s Square. The duke and duchess remained behind to visit with Belinda’s bespectacled old father, Dr. Alfred Hamilton. Miranda soon found herself bundled up in her new coat and gloves as the team of horses with tinkling bells on their harness whisked them over the snow.
The sleigh was only intended for six, but they squeezed eight people in, merrily passing around flagons of mulled wine to help them keep warm. The evening was dark, but the stars danced brightly in the black velvet sky. Lucien and Alice held little Harry between them; Lady Jacinda and Lizzie sat on either side of the dashing Lord Alec; while Miranda sat nestled close to Damien.
As their jaunt took them through Hyde Park, Lucien hushed their laughter and called to the driver to halt in the middle of the deserted park as the strains of what seemed a heavenly chorus of angels reached them, floating softly across the frozen Serpentine. Somewhere an evening service was in progress. Even Harry sat in wide-eyed silence as they listened to the celestial melody of an old, familiar hymn. To Miranda, the moment felt oddly suspended in time.
“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright . . .”
She wanted to hold onto that moment—the precious, elusive sense of belonging—forever. She glanced at Damien and found him gazing at her.
“. . . Sleep in heavenly peace.”
In the darkness, she reached for his hand, but he only gave her fingers a brief squeeze, then put his arm around her and held her closer for warmth. A breathless silence settled over their cheerful company as the delicate music shivered into nothingness.
Damien quietly ordered the coachman to drive on.
Jacinda stared longingly at the frozen ornamental lake. “We must remember to go ice skating before the Serpentine melts. Lizzie, Miranda, shall we go on Monday?”
Miranda shuddered and shook her head. “Not me, thanks.”
“Why not?” the girl protested. “It’s fun.”
“And good exercise,” Lizzie chimed in.
“Why don’t you try it?” Damien asked her in an intimate tone, his eyes aglow. No one seemed to mind or even to notice that he had his arm around her.
She shivered. “Not for me, thanks.” None of their easy assurances could have talked her out of her utter phobia of the water.
Soon they viewed the illuminations at Apsley House, stately Buckingham, and the prince regent’s Carlton House behind its screen of Italianate columns.
Back at Knight House once more, they drank negus in the drawing room until Mr. Walsh, with a red carnation tucked in his buttonhole that did little to make festive his grave manner, announced that dinner was served. Their Graces led the way, followed by Lucien and Alice. Old Mr. Hamilton offered Lady Jacinda his frail arm; Lizzie went in with Alec, doting helplessly on the golden rogue every step of the way. Last of all, Damien offered Miranda his arm and escorted her in to dine. The chandelier blazed above; the room held the faint perfume of evergreen boughs. Miranda had never beheld a table so magnificently laden. It was bedecked with silver and exquisite china, yards of creamy white damask, and gleaming candles whose flames were reflected in the great mirrors on the walls.
They all joined hands around the table as the handsome young duke offered up a simple grace of thanks for God’s gift of his Son this holy night; for their country’s victory and peace after twenty years of war; and for the fact that, at last, Christmas found them together again. His prayer brought a lump up into Miranda’s throat, though she had only known these people for a short while. She stared down at her shiny Sevres plate, then looked over at Damien as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
She thanked God most of all for her guardian—guardian angel, as she sometimes thought of him.
“And may our baby be healthy,” the duchess added softly.
“Amen,” her husband answered, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
“And God also bless Jack, wherever he is,” Jacinda added, casting a brief, melancholic look around the table at her brothers.
“God bless Jack,” Lucien and Alec echoed, but Robert and Damien remained silent, exchanging a grim glance.
The duchess gave the footmen a nod, and they began to wait on them.
“Who’s Jack?” Miranda asked cautiously.
“He is our brother,” Alec answered in a mellow, faraway tone. “He is the second-born, after Robert.”
“He could not be with you tonight?”
“He does not live in England,” Lizzie said delicately, giving her a warning glance.
The subject of their missing brother seemed to be an awkward one, so Miranda dropped it, turning her attention instead to the meal, which was sumptuous even by Knight House standards. A silver tureen of pease soup held pride of place in the center of the table. On one side, there was a roasted turkey with celery sauce; on the other, buttery cod and a rich, red chine of lamb. Mincemeat pie and fillet of pork with sharp sauce graced the foot of the table; at the head was fried sole, which Miranda did not fancy, and two whole chickens with broccoli. And this was only the first course of three.
“None of my new clothes are going to fit anymore,” she told them with a laugh.
“They had better,” Damien muttered, giving her a teasing look askance.
Next came apple puffs and startled-looking woodcocks, arranged lifelike on the plate; pickled lambs’ ears; galantine. The flaky sturgeon was done to perfection, nearly as good as the hare with mushrooms. Miranda took one bite of a savory cake. It was delicious, but she could not finish it. She marveled at the days less than a fortnight ago when sometimes all she had had for dinner, provided she was not being punished with starvation on any given night, was a hunk of stale bread and a tepid cup of tea.
Again, the four liveried footmen posted in the corners stepped forward, cleared the table, neatly brushed off the crumbs, and refilled the wineglasses. Miranda’s thoughts drifted. She studied each face around the table, memorizing them, in her gratitude, and relishing the wonderful feelings this night had given her.
She took particular pleasure in simply looking at Damien and his collection of tall, handsome brothers. Though there was a family resemblance, it puzzled her that they did not look more alike. Robert, the eldest, was in his mid- to late thirties, with jet-black hair touched with silver at his temples and penetrating brown eyes. If he had not possessed such a kind smile, Miranda would have been impossibly intimidated by the duke. She did not need to know how many estates he owned or how many seats in Parliament he controlled to feel his aura of power, yet when he gazed at his wife, one could see him turn smitten.
She looked at Lord Alec next.
What a rogue.
She shook her head to herself with a wry smile. She quite adored him, for they were similar in nature, Alec and she—both flamboyant, provocative creatures who loved to be the center of attention. He was the youngest of the Knight brothers and the one Damien had called the current darling of Society. She could see why. Lord Alec was utterly gorgeous and knew it. He spoke his mind with frank, rapier wit and, like any true arbiter of fashion, took pleasure in his own eccentricity, dressing in rather loud colors, wearing his sun-streaked, dark gold hair shoulder-length, pulled back in a queue. He was the very sort of man she had mistaken Damien for the first night they met—the highborn, pleasure-hungry thrill seeker.
She knew she had found favor with the princely young rake and sensed that this was a rare privilege. When Alec had offered to introduce her to all of his friends in her search for a husband, Damien had promptly said, “No thank you.” Alec had laughed. She had no doubt that when the golden charmer was not under Robert’s stern eye, he was altogether wicked.
Finally, she turned her gaze to Lucien. She never tired of glancing from one twin to the other, fascinated by their identical appearance. One man so strikingly good-looking would have turned heads, but en suite, with their glossy black hair and gray eyes, the effect was irresistible. They looked like a pair of matched archangels, she mused, as the footmen brought out yet another course, setting half moon and potted larks on either side of her.
Feeling adventurous, she sampled the ox palates with red currant sauce and fricassee of crawfish. Damien took a sip of his wine and eyed her askance as she ate a few of the fried oysters on a dainty fish fork. She brushed her napkin over her lips self-consciously.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He glanced at the oysters with a gleam in his eyes. “Nothing, my dear. Eat up.”
She did, though heaven knew she would not be able to move soon. She picked at the fruits offered up at the end of the meal, Jargonel pears and China oranges, and the little tart lemon biscuits to clear the palate.
“I fear that we shall all burn for gluttony,” Jacinda announced, pushing back from the table with a mild groan.
“And I, for one, am not a whit sorry,” Dr. Hamilton replied with a chuckle.
At last, the ladies withdrew to the parlor while the men stayed at the table for a smoke and final glass of port.
“Don’t be long,” the duchess ordered her husband, father, and three brothers-in-law. “There are presents to be opened.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Robert answered, flashing her a conspiratorial smile.
Following Alice, Miranda glanced back at Damien. Again, she found him staring at her, his expression as tender as it was guarded; then the footman closed the door between them.
This was the moment Damien had waited for, the moment he had gone into debt for; the moment he could finally show Miranda beyond any doubt that there were people who did care about her. Uncharacteristically, she had been trying to make herself inconspicuous while the others exchanged gifts. The rounded line of her shoulders, the nervously twisting hands in her lap, every inch of her proclaimed her uneasiness as she waited for the entertainments to begin. It was obvious that she saw herself at this moment as an intruder upon their family holiday, but Damien went over to her, grasped both her hands, and pulled her up from her chair in the corner and led her over into their midst.
“Come, I have something for you.”
Her cheeks turned bright red. “Oh, surely, Damien—I mean Lord Winterley—you shouldn’t have.”
“Damien,” he corrected her softly, though the others heard. “I did. Now, sit.”
She gave him a flustered yet adoring look and lowered herself to the ottoman near Bel’s chair.
“First this,” he said, handing her a small velvet box. She glanced at him uncertainly. “Go on,” he murmured gently.
She took the lid off and gazed down reverently at the regimental medal inscribed to Major Jason Sherbrooke, awarded for valor at the Battle of Busaco.
She looked up at him with a sheen of crystal tears in her emerald eyes. “Thank you.”
“Jason wanted you to have it. He is never far from us,” he added softly.
She nodded, blinking the tears back with a delicate flutter of her long, black lashes.
“Now, then. It seems there are a few presents here that have not been claimed yet by their rightful owner.”
She looked at him suspiciously, and he gave her a roguish smile, barely aware of anyone else in the brightly lit salon.
Lucien and Alice gave her a neat leather desk stocked with a very correct set of calling cards and stationery, indigo ink, and excellent writing utensils. Bel gave her a strand of white pearls with earrings to match. Lizzie had monogrammed Miranda’s initials into a set of three fine handkerchiefs. Jacinda gave her an opera fan made of feathers with a little spyglass inserted into the handle. Alec gifted her with an oversized fur muff of sable, very fashionable. He had given one of spotted ermine to Jacinda, one of white rabbit to Lizzie. Even Mr. Hamilton had brought her a present, a book of Sir Walter Scott’s verses, signed by the author, who had often dined at Robert’s table.
Lastly, Damien gave her a piece of paper folded in triplet and sealed with a drop of red wax indented with his signet ring.
Her hands trembled slightly as she tore it open and read the message. She looked at him, wide-eyed. “You didn’t.”
He smiled.
“What does it say?” Jacinda exclaimed.
“Damien got me a blood-horse!” she cried, leaping to her feet.
“Aye, excellent stock.” He beamed. “She’s a liver-bay mare, sixteen hands, from Eclipse’s line. Very gentle and moves like a dream. She’ll be delivered here the day after Christmas. By then, I trust you’ll be ready to graduate from Apple-Jack?”