Myriah Fire (2 page)

Dedication

This is for my dear friend and laughing buddy in the World of Make Believe,

Candice Stauffer

Contents

Myriah Fire

Preview: Taffeta & Hotspur

Preview: Oh Cherry Ripe

Preview: Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

Preview: Prince Prelude—Legend

Preview: ShadowHeart—Slayer

About Claudy Conn

Myriah Fire

~ One ~

LONDON, 1813

CASCADING RINGLETS OF fire framed an elf-like countenance of peaches and cream. Dark brows and curling lashes accentuated the almond shape of the blue-green eyes. Champagne organza fell alluringly about a form as delicate as it was provocative, yet the owner of these enviable attributes gazed at her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass and sighed deeply.

A maid popped her linen-covered head into Lady Myriah’s dressing room and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Tch tch, m’lady, here you be, idling your time away with your papa that anxious for you down in the ballroom! Why, gracious, the music is sweet to hear, and the dancers looking fine as five pence … and here you be, looking that sad! Why, it fair sets me in a huff, it does!” said the middle-aged woman, taking all the liberty that years of faithful service had won her.

Lady Myriah raised an eyebrow, and there was warning in her look though her tone was light. “Now, now, love, don’t be hipped with me. ’Twould never do! I don’t see why
I
must go down just yet, especially when I feel disinclined.” She stopped abruptly and noted the troubled look on the older woman’s face. “Oh, very well, don’t worry yourself over me, I’ll go,” Myriah said with one of her spontaneous smiles.

“Good girl—’tis that much those fine bucks below be wanting a look at yer sweet face!” her maid said, nodding and returning Myriah’s smile.

“Nonsense, Nelly, love. They have seen it all this season and last! All right, all right, don’t get yourself all puckered up again. I’m going!”

Myriah made her way down the red-carpeted, circular staircase, a slight frown between her eyes. The music floated up and enfolded her gently. Usually its mesmerizing effects lifted her spirits, but now she only sighed.

Whatever is the matter?
This one question haunted, irritated, and left her burdened. She did not know the answer, but she did know that she had no wish to hear the music she loved and no need to join the merrily waltzing ton in the ballroom below.

About to embark upon the glorious age of one and twenty, Myriah had already enjoyed two London Seasons and was about to take on her third. Yet the young lady was bored—bored and totally disenchanted with the beau monde, London, and all its frivolous activities.

She was Lady Myriah, the only child of Lord Whitney, and he was well able to indulge her many whims, and he had always seen fit to do so in the past. Lately, however, her worthy father had begun to lose patience with his headstrong darling. She lived in an age where women were supposed to be demure and submissive—which did not work for Myriah.

Beautiful, wealthy, and socially prominent, still Myriah was completely unattached and unspoken for. This last and somewhat astounding fact had not been achieved without some exertion on her part, to be sure, for Myriah had received no less than a dozen offers. Her papa and numerous interested relatives had spent much time and effort in their attempts to convince her that at least four of those offers were most exceptional, but Myriah had held out and refused them all. Perhaps
it
was because of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels—or her own imagination. She had often heard her aunts pompously deplore her father’s leniency
in allowing her to read such material. Perhaps it was Tom Moore’s provocative poems or Sir Walter Scott’s gallants. Regardless of the reason, by the time Myriah had reached her eighteenth year she had become most regrettably romantic. During an age when people of her class married for many excellent reasons, none of them having anything to do with love, she had the very odd notion that
love
was
the
most important prerequisite to matrimony. But, strangely, Myriah had never been in love.

She did not pretend her heart, which was as passionate as it was gregarious, had not yet been stirred. Several fine young bucks, in fact, had stirred it very well. However, it had not yet received its
coup de grace.
Thus it was that Myriah’s heart remained intact, albeit restless and seemingly fickle.

Myriah’s father, however, was not concerned with frivolous notions of romantic love; he had to contend with his sisters, who nagged him non-stop about her behavior. But though the dowagers frowned, though Lady Jersey chastised gently, though
Myriah’s
relatives wagged their fingers, Lady Myriah’s weighty family name and
its
accompanying fortune allowed much. So, in spite of her wayward nature, Myriah was as popular as ever with the fawning ton. Amused with her mild indiscretions, they called her ‘naughty puss’ and chuckled over her whimsies.

Myriah accepted their adoration as her due. Still, though she laughed at her aunts’ admonishing, she was aware her father would not tolerate her caprices much longer. He told her he had to get her married and soon. If she didn’t pick out a husband for herself, he was going to damn well do it for her!

Sighing at the thought she had little time before her father would press her to decide, Myriah gazed at the ballroom that lay before her gleaming
with
hundreds of candles in wall sconces and chandeliers. The marble floor could scarcely be seen as the waltzing feet of fashionable dancers glided around in time to the music.

Beautiful, delicate, and commanding in style, Myriah stood a moment at the entrance before she was surrounded and heralded into the room. Her name was on all their lips. Where had she been? Why hadn’t she come sooner? Promise a dance, Myriah. One for me, Myriah!

Suddenly she felt suffocated. She broke loose
with
a laugh and caught her father’s eye. He smiled warmly across at her, and she composed herself and blew him a gentle kiss.

“Sweet Myriah, have you a smile for me?” asked a quiet male voice.

She looked up into the face of Sir Roland Keyes, and a twinkle crept into her eyes. Now here was a diversion. “You, sir, have no need of such wispy things,” she said coyly.

“Although I don’t wish to declare you wrong, I need that and much more,” he said, taking her hand and leading her
firmly
onto the dance floor. They moved in rhythm to the music of the violins, and many eyes glanced curiously at them.

Sir Roland, a bachelor of nine and twenty, had many attractive qualities, and more than one of Lady Myriah’s suitors had noticed her apparent preference for the dratted fellow’s company. Sir Roland’s height was good, and his frame was such as to catch any maid’s eye. His thick, curling locks were auburn with a hint of gold. He always seemed to entertain Lady Myriah with an adroitness that kept her amused.

As the waltz ended, Myriah gazed quizzically up into his bright eyes. “Sweet Myriah, shall we continue our play on the dance floor, or shall we seek privacy?” he teased, kissing the wrist of her gloved hand.

“I think, Sir Roland, we had better remain here. I have already found that playing alone with you can be quite dangerous!” countered the lady.

“Dangerous for whom, sweet beauty?”

She laughed amicably, for as always
his
forwardness excited her. He had skill, and there was no denying it.

“You know very well for whom! Never say you fear for yourself?” she said.

“For myself, never—ah, but for my heart, that is something altogether different. I have not attained my years and remained unshackled by toying with danger.”

Her eyes flickered. “Well, there certainly is no danger of your becoming … how did you put it? … shackled to me? No, Sir Roland, you need have no fear on that score with me, as I have already told you I cannot marry you.”
The teasing quality of her voice had begun to ebb.

Sir Roland smiled and took her hand. Without speaking, he led her into a country dance. He was aware Myriah was attracted to
him, and though he had not yet discovered the means to win her, he had no intention of giving the sport over. She was far too wealthy, and Sir Roland needed her money! His lands were heavily mortgaged, a state that had been achieved by his father’s heavy gaming debts. He had tried everything else, even resorted to gaming himself with the little blunt he had left. Now, deeper in debt, he was desperate. Putting his estates in order had become all-important, and he needed an advantageous marriage to achieve this end.

If his financial affairs were not reason enough for wanting to marry Myriah, there was his desire for the chit. She teased him until he knew he must possess her—nay, not just teased but dallied with him, taunted him, and flirted with him outrageously. However, she had made it clear her virginity went only with marriage, and indeed a maid of her class could not be taken any other way.

They had been presented to each other just two months ago, and he knew she found him titillating, witty, and a stimulating companion. In turn he found her exquisite to behold, spoiled, wild, and irresistible. Though he knew neither she nor he were in love with one another, he meant to have her and her money. He looked long at her as these thoughts gravely carried his intent.

Myriah watched his face, and it occurred to her that her father might have his hopes around a match with Sir Roland. That was not what she wanted.

However, as Myriah and Roland met in the steps of the country dance, their eyes flirted, and it seemed to the onlookers that here was a match indeed.

Myriah’s cheeks were flushed when the dance ended, and Sir Roland eyed her with concern. “You need air, love. Come, the night is too beautiful to ignore.”

She hesitated and glanced doubtfully toward her father.

Sir Roland tugged gently at her arm, and with a shrug
she relented, allowing him to open the French door and lead her into the garden. It was a delicious night, smelling of roses and fresh grass. She looked up at the black sky and saw the half-moon shining brightly down on her, its star companions twinkling gloriously. It was the sort of night poets and minstrels sang about, and Myriah breathed it in with pleasure. They walked without speaking, without touching, and she pulled her light shawl about her arms.

“Cold, love?” he inquired quietly, and there was a subtle shading in his words she chose to ignore.

“No,” she replied and walked a bit away from him. He reached out and held her back. “Don’t run away from me, Myriah. There is no need. If you wish, I’ll take you back inside.”

“No
,
I don’t wish to go back.”

“Then come walk with me,” he said, linking her arm through his. He led her farther away from the house, down the path to a maze of neatly cut yews where a stone bench caught his eye. He coaxed her to sit down beside him. Suddenly, as if exasperated, he took Myriah by the shoulders and turned her face to him. “You want to be alone with me, Myriah. Why do you pretend otherwise? You are no silly miss declaring no when she means yes. ’Tis not your way.”