That Kind of Woman (14 page)

“It is close,” he said.

Her brown eyes widened. “What?”

“It is nearly time. I know it is. I just know.” The shaken sound of his own voice took him off-guard.

Miranda looked at George’s form on the bed, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Call Reggie,” she commanded in a choked voice.

Reggie. Again. “There’s no time.”

“There has to be!” she cried. She ran to the top of the stairs and called down, “Reggie! Reggie! Come now! Come right now!”

Gone was the customary smile, the exaggerated aplomb. His face pale, his mouth a thin, straight line, Reggie mounted the steps two at a time. “What is it, Randa? What’s the matter, dear?”

“He needs us. It’s nearly done.”

Hand in hand they raced to his bedside, and Andrew followed after, feeling painfully out of place. At the moment, he didn’t care what brought together the man and woman who shared this moment with him. He only wished he knew how to be a part of them and didn’t have to be so very alone. But he simply stood silently as his brother’s breathing became louder and more strident, then stopped, as though a window had been closed tight against the breeze.

Reggie moaned and sank slowly to his knees, Miranda kneeling with him. She wept softly against his shoulder as he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed next to George. This was no act. Andrew knew the grief he was witnessing was undeniably real, as were the comfort and loving support.

Still, he stood. A death in the family was so very different from death in war. He always knew what to do during and after a battle. There were orders to be given, things to be done. He felt useless when it happened at home. When Caroline had died, he was not in the room. The midwife had cleaned up his wife and their son, nestling the boy’s body in Caroline’s lifeless arms so Andrew might be comforted to see that they were together. He had stood silently then, too. He had wanted to do as Miranda and Reggie, collapse and let his grief pour out, but he had been no more able to do so then than he was now.

He had made a mistake all those years ago. He did not tell his daughter that her mama had died. Someone else—even now, he did not know who—had told her. He hadn’t been able to face Emma until the next day. It was the beginning of the rift between them.

Now, he left slowly and walked down the stairs. This time, he would do it right.

Three days later, not a single blossom in George’s hothouse had been spared. Neighbors and family acquaintances came to the house after the burial and gasped at the sight of all the exquisite roses adorning every room left open to visitors. It was as though death and the advent of winter had been left outside, but here spring and life prevailed.

Miranda rubbed her pounding temples, then pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve her throbbing sinuses. What had seemed like such a fitting tribute to her husband’s memory had filled the house with cloying sweetness. The scent blended with musty wool and crepe, wet from the snow at the grave sight.

Reggie slipped in beside her and handed her a cup of tea. She took a sip and smiled at him. Exactly the right amount of milk and sugar, bless him.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “You knew just the thing.”

He wrinkled his nose. “God, it smells awful in here.”

She shook her head. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. How are you doing?”

Before he could answer, a baroness, whose name escaped Miranda, came over to offer her condolences. Miranda gave her a sad smile and thanked her for her kindness, hoping that would suffice. But the woman launched into the perfectly horrid tale of how her father-in-law had died of a similar illness.

“I heard poor George had jaundice, too. The tumors just ate them both up, I suppose,” the baroness said. Her tone was one of gossipy chatter, devoid of any real sympathy.

“Really, madam!” Reggie protested, and Miranda put her hand on his arm.

“Let it go, Reggie,” she murmured. To the woman, she said coldly, “I am afraid this is just too painful, Baroness. Will you excuse us? Reggie, it really is overpowering in here. Shall we walk outside?”

He tucked her hand securely in the crook of his arm, and while Reggie seemed unaware of the looks his gesture caused, Miranda was not. Several women raised their eyebrows and bent their heads together to cluck their disapproval. Andrew crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at them from across the room. Miranda removed her hand, but escaped through the foyer and outside with Reggie anyway.

The air was cold but still, and it took a while for the smell of roses and wet wool to clear from Miranda’s nostrils. Her black heavy woolen gown kept the chill at bay. Reggie seemed comfortable enough in his suit of black broadcloth. They stood together behind a column on the front porch.

“Lud,” she said with audible relief, “it’s good to be away from them all. We’ll give them a chance to gossip about us.” She remembered stepping outside on her wedding day for the same purpose. How different were her expectations of the future back then.

“About us?”

“You touch me too freely, dear.”

Reggie scoffed. “Like a brother. Surely they can see that.”

She waved her hand in the air. “But if they were to see that, there would be nothing to gossip about, and then this would just be another dull funeral. A Henley woman can always be counted upon to provide some delicious scandal, no matter what the occasion.”

“There’s only one Henley woman here,” Reggie protested. “You are Lady Danford. But where is your mother? I haven’t seen her since we left the graveyard.”

“To the people inside I will always be a Henley. I was only a pretender to my title as Countess of Danford. As for my mother, she never leaves my father’s side among his peers. It leaves her open to the sniping comments of the gentry. Find Montheath and you will find Mother.”

Despite her comments about how it inflamed gossip when he touched her, Reggie put his arm around her waist. “Do you always call your own father Montheath?”

She gave him a wry grin. “Everyone does.”

“Even your mother?”

“She calls him Monty. He isn’t any more distant to me than to his legitimate children. In fact, I think I’ve had more affection from him than they ever did. Nevertheless, I don’t think I shall miss my parents overmuch when you and I leave England.”

Abruptly his arm fell and he stepped away from her. “I’ve given that some more thought, Randa.”

One look at the guarded, uncomfortable expression on his face sent her insides fluttering with alarm. “No, Reggie!” she cried. “Don’t you dare abandon me. We have an agreement.”

“An agreement that really isn’t best for either of us.”

“Yes, it is! We will take care of each other!”

“Randa, I’ve told you before, you need to find someone of your own, someone who can love you as you were meant to be loved. I’ll only get in the way.”

“Who are you to tell me what I need?” she shouted, but good sense reined her in. There were prying ears about. Dropping her voice, she continued. “I will not have my heart broken again, Reginald Toller. I will not stupidly hope for what I was never born to have!”

The anger in her died, and she pleaded with him. “All I need is a friend, and you need one, too.”

“In time, I’ll need more than that, my dear. I’m not like you, chaste, ignorant of what I’ll be missing. The day will come that I will be ready to seek another.” But the anguish in his voice belied the harshness of his words.

It took all her will not to sink to her knees before him. He could not leave her all alone! “I know that! We’ll be married, and you’ll be discreet, and no one will ever know! I’ll protect you, Reggie!”

“From what? It will never again be as it was with George; I know that. I’ll never meet another man with whom I’ll want to spend every moment of my life, so I’ll need no ruse to cover it. I’ll do as others of my kind—keep my own counsel. People tolerate us as long as we’re inconspicuous.”

“But—”

“You’re a passionate woman, Randa. Do not allow the flame to flicker and die before you’ve ever truly kindled it!”

Neither had heard the front door open, but they both jumped when it slammed shut with the force of gunfire.

“Enough!” Andrew shouted in a voice that had surely made thousands of soldiers snap to attention. “That will be
enough
! Toller, you will leave this house at once! Pack your bags. If you are still here by nightfall you may consider yourself formally challenged.” He gave Reggie a smile that did nothing to thaw the ice in his green eyes. “I somehow doubt you have my experience with firearms.”

“I—I’m not sure how much you overheard …” Miranda stammered, her heart lodged firmly in her throat. She couldn’t bear to think that George’s family’s memories of him might be tarnished in any way. If Andrew had been standing there long, there would be no way to undo the damage.

Andrew turned on her and grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Long enough to know that my brother has been in the ground less than three hours and his best friend is speaking of kindling his widow’s passions!”

Her knees went weak with relief. “It wasn’t what it sounded like,” she protested.

Without releasing her he looked back at Reggie. “Out of my sight, you treacherous bastard, or I’ll shoot you now!”

Having no idea whether to believe him, Miranda called to Reggie, “Go! I’m fine. I’ll catch up to you in London.”

Reggie retreated back into the house, and Miranda tried, without success, to pry Andrew’s fingers from her arm.

“You most certainly will not catch up to him in London, Countess! You will not be going anywhere.”

“I am a grown woman, Major. I will do as I please.”

“As if marrying you hadn’t brought scandal enough to his name!”

She stopped trying to tug free, refusing to continue to give him the satisfaction of overpowering her. “George never cared a fig about scandal, and you know it!”

“You really are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?” Andrew retorted.

She narrowed her eyes at him and felt her body go rigid. He had no idea how close she was to slapping his self-righteous face. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, Miranda Henley, that maybe you think you’re better because you marry your men, but a virtuous woman does not plan her wedding to her second husband before the first is dead!”

“Where did you hear anything about a wedding?”

“Days before George had even died. Reggie told you how very proud he’d be to make you his bride and you both declared your love, right there, one floor below your dying husband.” Finally, he released her.

“You listened?” she gasped, rubbing her arm where he had gripped it like a vise. “You listened to my private conversation?”

He puffed his chest out indignantly. “I did not listen. I overheard.”

“You cannot overhear what you do not listen to!”

“I think you are losing sight of whose is the greater wrong here. I
accidentally
overheard you very
intentionally
planning to do something patently immoral!”

“You overheard me planning to wed in a year, which is my right.”

“
After
your husband has died, it is your right to consider remarrying.”

“And perhaps I
would
have waited if I’d had any reason to think I might still be welcome here after George’s death.”

In an attempt to preserve what dignity she had left, she tried to step around him, but he stepped with her, blocking her way. Over his shoulder, she could see that the door stood open and the foyer was filled with silent, horrified mourners.

Oblivious to the people behind him, Andrew continued. “Do not put that upon me, my lady. I never said you were unwelcome here.”

She dropped her voice, but it still shook with anger. “You implied it clearly enough. Stand aside. You are making a scene.” With that, she finally pushed her way past him.

He turned and, still heedless of their audience, said, “Tell me, Countess, was there anything besides wedding plans you and Reggie couldn’t wait for?”

Miranda spun back around and stared at him, completely dumfounded. “Dear God!” she exclaimed. “You think he is my lover?” She could do nothing against the hysterical laughter that rose in her throat, choking her before it turned into sobbing. “Oh, this is rich!” she cried. “If you had any idea the irony! Of all the fantastic accusations you could make to destroy me. What have I ever done to you, Andrew Carrington?” She turned to face the crowd in the foyer. “What have I ever done to any of you?”

Andrew’s expression of righteous indignation transformed quickly into one of doubt. “Miranda?” he asked, his voice suddenly uncertain.

“I will not stay here and be humiliated and insulted!” She gestured broadly to her guests. “Please, resume your gawking and gossiping, but kindly do it without me!”

In the master bedroom, with the door closed, Reggie missed the drama that had continued to unfold behind him. Here, too, someone had thought to put two large vases filled with sprays of roses to chase away the lingering scent of sickness and decay. But the sour odor remained, just under the pungent sweetness. He plucked a lush blossom from one of the arrangements, inhaling its delicate fragrance and choking back a sob.

It had happened. George had left him forever. There was no luring him back. And now Reggie had been ordered from Danford, separated even from the place of his fondest memories.

He knew George’s will left certain tokens to him, but he could no longer wait for the solicitor to arrive and go through the formalities. For now, he took a gold pocket watch, a gift he had given George in happier times, from the drawer of the dressing table and dropped it into his waistcoat. From a shelf, he took one of George’s well-thumbed horticulture books and pressed the rose he still held between its pages. He wrapped his arms around the book, but it was cold and hard, a poor substitute for his love.

It was better this way, Reggie assured himself, loosening his grip on the volume. It would have been too easy to linger, despite his decidedly cold reception among most of the Carringtons. So, too, would it have been easy to allow Miranda to dissuade him from following George’s directive. He felt as though he were feeding her to the wolves, but there was no real remedy.