The Price of Indiscretion (12 page)

She frowned, not understanding, and he wasn’t about to explain.

“Just make it right,” he instructed her. “Whatever Miranda wants, no matter the cost.”

“And I’m to find her a husband?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Without asking questions?”

Alex knew she wouldn’t leave this alone. “She is someone I knew in my Shawnee days. I owe her a favor.”

“This great a one?”

“Yes.”

Isabel sat on the edge of a leather sofa. She studied Alex a long moment before saying, “I don’t always understand you, Alex. You are too independent. Michael is your only close friend.”

“I have my crew—”

“Yes, you do. Men very much like you. A more unconventional, free-spirited group of misfits I’ve yet to meet. I’ve watch you flirt with women. You tease them into thinking you are interested and then dance away before anyone can become too serious. You don’t want anyone too close. And now you bring Miss Cameron to me? And I find you’ve personally cared for her. You kept her alive, Alex. She wants to see you, if for no other reason than to give you a well-deserved tongue-lashing that I suspect you may deserve. Are any of my guesses correct?”

“Perhaps about the tongue-lashing,” he admitted.

Isabel didn’t smile. “You can’t leave without facing her.”

“It’s more complicated than that, Isabel.” He didn’t want to face her, because then he wouldn’t leave. Isabel didn’t understand the chasm between Miranda and him. Miranda had already paid a high price for daring to love him. He could force the issue…but at what cost? The words she’d mumbled in her feverish dreams haunted him.
White, white, white.

Yes, he’d already taken more than a pound of flesh from her.

“Find a husband for her. One with a title. Spare no expense.” He started for the door.

Isabel rose. “Where will you be?”

“The
Warrior
.” He turned the handle.

“Alex, wait.” Isabel crossed to him. Her expression concerned, she took a moment to gather her thoughts. “I don’t think it should be like this.”

He shrugged. He had no answer. His decision was made.

Isabel seemed to understand that. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair off his shoulder. It was a long one. “You should cut your hair,” she murmured.

“I won’t.”

“I know.” She raised her gaze to meet his. “You shouldn’t be so stubborn, Alex. You shouldn’t stay alone.”

He opened the door. “Thank you for your concern, Isabel.” He started to leave but then stopped. “There is one thing you can do.”

“What is that?”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

Isabel’s back straightened. “You should tell her yourself.”

“Then it won’t be said,” he answered and left.

Outside, his hat in his hand, he stood on the front step a moment. Miranda’s sickroom was right above the door. He was tempted to look up to see if she was there in the window.

One last look.

Instead he put on his hat and started down the street.

Miranda had not wanted to sip broth in bed. With Alice’s help, she had gotten up and taken a seat at a table set before a window overlooking the small, fenced park across the street.

She had just finished when she heard a door slam on the floor beneath them. Glancing out the window, she looked down and saw the top of Alex’s head. He was leaving. He’d not wanted to see her.

Miranda sat very still, feeling amazingly fragile, and not from her illness.

Alex was walking out of her life.

Again.

She’d given him everything he’d wanted. He’d taken all and was paying her off. What had he called her?
The drunkard’s daughter?

For years she and her sisters had protected themselves from men like him. She’d let down her guard, and he’d used her.

The bedroom door opened. Miranda didn’t turn to see who had entered. Instead she watched Alex until he rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

“Alice, give us a moment alone,” Isabel’s voice said from the doorway.

A moment later the door closed. Her hostess walked up to stand beside Miranda. “You’re crying.”

For the first time, Miranda was aware of the tears. They rolled silently down over her cheeks. Isabel offered her a handkerchief. The tears embarrassed Miranda, especially as Isabel knelt beside her. She took Miranda’s hand.

“Do you care for Alex, even just a little?”

What sort of a question was that?

“No,” Miranda said proudly.

“I thought perhaps you did,” Isabel suggested.

“But he left me,” Miranda explained.

“He will be back.”

“It’s too late.” Miranda pushed her chair away from the table, wanting to move a bit.

“I’ll help you back to bed,” Isabel said firmly.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Miranda said. “I don’t want to be here.”
Why had he left her?

Isabel proved a formidable opponent. Accepting no fuss, she steered Miranda toward the bed. Miranda would have liked to have dramatically gone out the door. In truth, she didn’t have the strength.

Tucking the covers around her, Isabel said, “I know you are hurt—”

“I’m not hurt.”
She’d never let him hurt her. Ever
.

Isabel corrected herself. “Angry then. However, leaving won’t get you what you want. He’s given you
carte blanche
to spend his money, and I believe you should.”

“I don’t accept charity.”

“This isn’t charity. I don’t know what happened between the two of you or what your history is,” Isabel said, “but I do know that this is the first time I’ve seen Alex behave this way. Use the money,” Isabel urged, “to make him notice.”

That was sound advice. There would be some vengeance in spending his money—but even more in marrying a man who wouldn’t look down his long nose at her. Or make promises he’d never keep.

“My sisters are going to be coming to England?” she asked.

“The message and passage for their fares was sent the day after you arrived in England.”

“So they will be here soon.”

“In a matter of months,” Isabel agreed.

And Miranda would have a husband by then.
There was no doubt in her mind. Alex had left. She owed him nothing.

A calm settled over Miranda. She knew what she must do. “There is a woman I must locate. Her name is Lady Overstreet.”

“Do you know where to find her?” Isabel asked.

“Yes, aboard the merchant ship
Venture.
They should dock in Portsmouth soon, if they haven’t already.”

“I’ll send a messenger,” Isabel said. “But why do you wish to see her?”

“She’s going to find me a duke.”

L
ady Overstreet was giddy with relief when she arrived at Isabel’s home and learned that Miranda still expected her to search for a suitable husband.

Upon seeing that Alex’s ship had left Ponta Delgada, she had assumed that Miranda had eloped. She’d been angry but she’d had Miranda’s money and apparently that bought some sort of loyalty from Her Ladyship who claimed she’d informed Sir William that Miranda had been “indisposed” when he came calling.

And glad she was that she’d practiced such discretion.

The
Venture
had just docked in Portsmouth when Isabel’s messenger arrived. Her Ladyship had been quite taken with the first-rate coach ride to London, the fashionable address of Isabel’s home, the idea of having servants at her beck and call. She was in such good humor she happily gave Miranda’s coin chest back to her, though it was obvious she had planned to keep the money for herself until she’d learned of Miranda’s new circumstances.

Established in the Severson household, Lady Overstreet wanted to give the impression that such tasteful and obvious wealth was commonplace, but even a rustic like Miranda knew it wasn’t. In fact, the longer Miranda stayed under her hostess’s roof, the more her respect for Isabel grew. She was a kind, caring person whose priorities were, quite simply, her baby, Diane, and her husband, Michael. He was a very handsome man. That he and his wife were a love match was clear for all to see…and Miranda found herself wishing she could have what they had.

Then again, the gleaming silver, the exotic woods of the furniture, even the meals made of the choicest and freshest of foods served to remind Miranda that Alex had played her for a fool.

He and Michael Severson were equal partners. Alex was as rich as he was, although Isabel had even suggested he could be richer since he didn’t spend his money on much. Miranda wondered if Alex secretly was paying off his conscience, and the thought made her angry.

Consequently, once she had sufficiently recovered from her illness, she went with Lady Overstreet to buy out all of London. Isabel joined them a time or two. They went only to the most expensive of dressmakers. Gloves and shoes had to be of the softest leather, hats the very height of fashion, and each and every accessory known to womankind had to be purchased for individual ensembles. They spent days, even weeks shopping and buying.

At the same time, Miranda threw herself into her lessons on manners and deportment with Lady Overstreet. No longer a reluctant student, she surprised Her Ladyship with how quickly she could learn.

All this activity helped her deal with her feelings about Alex. She would show him what happened when he walked away from her. She’d marry the most important noble in the land

Pleased with her progress, Lady Overstreet began calling on all her old friends and acquaintances. They came to lunch and to meet Miranda and Isabel—but very few invitations were reciprocated.

It also became clear as time passed that Lady Overstreet’s friends weren’t really good
ton.
Not to say they all didn’t drop names of titled gentlemen they thought were looking for wives. They knew that was the price of their invitation to lunch or dinner. Miranda was even introduced to two of the gentlemen. The first was a sluggish boor of an earl who didn’t have the wits God had given sheep. The other was a marquis of eighty who kept falling asleep during his call. His snoring was so loud, it was difficult for anyone in the room to converse.

Michael was present during this visit. It was hard for him to keep a straight face, even with his wife attempting to frown him into behaving.

At last Miranda had enough. She reached over and gently shook the marquis’s arm. No response. The man continued sleeping.

She gave him a harder shake. Michael couldn’t hide his laughter. Even Isabel was smiling, while Lady Overstreet pretended nothing was wrong.

The man still didn’t wake.

Miranda looked to her friends. “Do you imagine he’s dead?” she asked.

“Not with a snore like that,” Michael responded. “I’m surprised he doesn’t wake himself up.”

“Michael,” his wife warned.

“Yes,” Lady Overstreet said, offended, “you should be careful what you say. Lord Burndale is well known in many circles, and he has agreed to come tomorrow evening.” The Seversons were hosting a small party to introduce Miranda to society. They’d sent out invitations to those Lady Overstreet had suggested, but had not had many acceptances.

“I wish I could stay until such an important man finishes his nap, but business waits for no man,” Michael said, rising.

“You can’t leave until Lord Burndale does,” Lady Overstreet said, horrified. “It’s not done.”

Michael released his breath in an exasperated sigh and glanced at his wife, who apologetically nodded her head. Miranda was the one who took pity on him. She’d had enough of Lord Burndale, too.

She reached over and pinched his nose between two fingers.

“Miss Cameron, what are you doing?” Lady Overstreet said.

“He’ll never know what I did,” Miranda assured her.

In a second, Lord Burndale came right awake with a sputter. “I say, did I fall asleep?”

“You did nod off, my lord,” Miranda said with a humble gentleness she was far from feeling. “Shall I call for your man to escort you home?”

“Yes, yes, do so,” he said, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and rubbing his face with it before making a hacking sound and spitting into it.

Miranda stifled a gag and signaled for Lord Burndale’s servant to hurry forward with his master’s hat and cane.

His Lordship stood, his bones creaking. “Good seeing you again, Lady Overstreet.” He spoke in a slow, ponderous tone as if each word was almost too heavy to speak.

“Now don’t forget, you’ve promised to return tomorrow evening for the soiree Mr. and Mrs. Severson are hosting. It’s in Miss Cameron’s honor.”

“Who?”

“Miss Cameron,” she repeated, a note louder and toward his good ear.

“Who?” he echoed again.

Lady Overstreet made an exasperated sound and waved Miranda into his line of vision. “Miss Cameron, please, say your farewells to the
marquis.”
She said this last to remind Miranda of his title.

Miranda was tempted to stand her ground and ask, “Who?” but didn’t believe Lady Overstreet would have a sense of humor for such a thing. “It was very nice to meet you, my lord,” she murmured.

“Pretty gal,” the marquis said to Lady Overstreet. “Who is she?”

To the amusement of Isabel, Michael, and Miranda, Lady Overstreet gave up, choosing to say instead, “We shall see you tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, but Miranda didn’t think he’d truly understood half of what had been said to him the whole luncheon. She needed to escape before she either doubled over in laughter or burst out in tears.

The whole marriage market experience was humiliating. There was a definite pecking order among the
ton
, and she, Earl of Bagsley’s granddaughter or not, was on the bottom.

While Lady Overstreet instructed the marquis’s servant to make certain he came the next night, Miranda edged toward the sitting room, where she found Michael and Isabel in a deep discussion.

“—I expected him to come to his senses but he’s being stubborn,” Michael said.

“If he’s not careful, she’ll have to marry someone like that silly marquis. I want to introduce her to
decent
men, Michael. If Alex won’t step forward and do what is right, then I feel
we
must help her.”

“Not yet. I’m trying to get him to come to his senses—”

He broke off at his wife’s pointed look that they were no longer alone.

“Alex is still in London?” Miranda asked. Funny, but she had assumed that he would get on his ship and sail away. She’d
hoped
that had been what he’d done. It was disturbing to think he could be in London and ignore her so completely.

Isabel’s eyes filled with pity. Miranda hated pity. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime. “I don’t care where he is,” she insisted, proud that she sounded as if she really didn’t, as if she didn’t fall asleep thinking of him every night or wake in the morning aware that he wasn’t there. “There is nothing between us.” She even managed to give a small shrug of her shoulders. “He won’t be here tomorrow evening, will he?”

“Oh, Miranda,” Isabel said, “you do care for him, don’t you?”

Miranda crossed her arms. “No, not at all.” She didn’t trust herself to say more lest she protest too much. Nor did she want Alex to attend the affair and discover any suitors she had attracted were aging roués like the marquis and whoever else could be dragged in to meet her. She wouldn’t be able to stand the humiliation.

The door shut, and Lady Overstreet entered the room. “Well,” she said on a note of triumph, “he can’t wait until tomorrow. He is quite taken with you, Miranda.”

“Yes, he was,” Miranda bit out. She shook her head. “I appreciate everything the three of you have done for me, but I don’t think I’m going to be a success. I think Charlotte and Constance are going to arrive and learn I’m a failure.”

Both Isabel and Lady Overstreet were at her side in a blink with words of encouragement. Only Michael didn’t say anything. Michael…who saw Alex every day. She wondered what Michael had told him.

And that’s what made her angry.

Michael shifted his weight as if conscious of her thoughts. “We have friends,” he started, ill at ease. “Gentlemen who I’m certain would like introductions to meet you. My nephew is Lord Jemison. I have connections—”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Lady Overstreet said, her tone a touch offended. “We need men here, Mr. Severson.” She slapped the palm of one hand with the other for emphasis. “
Titled
men.”

“Absolutely,” Miranda agreed with self-mockery. “You wouldn’t happen to know the Duke of Colster, would you?” She’d deliberately chosen the name of the most eligible bachelor in London and one of the most powerful men in England. The papers were full of him. “Send him an invitation. I’m certain he wants to sit by the marquis and carry on a conversation.”

“Miranda,” Lady Overstreet warned, “you are being less than respectful.”

“No, I’m being honest,” Miranda shot back. “I haven’t met one man who was remotely eligible.”

“The marquis is an excellent prospect,” Lady Overstreet answered. “He’s just old.”

“I shudder to think of being anyplace close to the married state with him,” Miranda returned, a shiver of distaste going through her.

Michael sighed, and then, perhaps because of his own culpability, offered, “I don’t know a man like Colster, but there are others. Isabel and I had not wanted to come forward with such an offer because—” He stopped as if uncertain whether to continue.

“Because you anticipated Alex would call on me?” Miranda suggested, her sarcasm clear.

“Alex had been so concerned over you when you were ill,” Isabel said. “We thought he held deeper feelings for you.”

“Now, you know he doesn’t,” Miranda said flatly.
No, he’d gotten what he’d wanted, and left her to her own devices.

“That might not be true,” Michael replied, but Miranda had had enough.

“I’m going to the lending library,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “I haven’t read a book for weeks. I haven’t put a decent thought in my head during that time, either.”

“You can choose a book out of our library,” Isabel offered, following Miranda. “We have the latest novels.”

Miranda whirled on her. “No,” she stated forcefully, then softened the word by adding, “thank you.” She shook her head. “I need to get out. I need a moment alone without dressmakers and manners and bobbins and notions and
everything
. You’ve been all that is kind, but I have to have a moment to myself. I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t go alone,” Lady Overstreet insisted. “You can’t walk anywhere you wish in London unescorted. I shall go with you—”

“Absolutely not,” Miranda answered. “I’m taking my maid.”

“But I—” Her Ladyship started.

Miranda raised a warning finger. “No.”

Lady Overstreet capitulated. “At least take a footman, too.”

“I will.” Miranda left the room. Behind her she could overhear Lady Overstreet voicing her opinion of such an “independence of spirit, especially before a party in her honor.”

She didn’t care.

She could have sworn she’d heard Alex say he loved her that night on his ship. Or had her imagination or the oncoming fever played a trick on her?

She didn’t know. What she did understand was that whether she would have admitted it or not, in the back of her mind—in spite of being so furious with him for leaving her without so much as a curt good-bye—she had assumed he did care. That sooner or later he would make an appearance.

He hadn’t. He could live in the same city and offer not even so much as a single word. He’d taken on her expenses because what else did a man do when he’d taken a woman’s virginity?

Inside her room, Miranda shut the door and leaned against it, willing herself not to break down. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms until she thought she’d draw blood, and faced the truth.

The only thing she’d had of any value had been her virginity. She’d willingly offered it to Alex years ago, but he had insisted on speaking to her father first, and she had been secretly pleased that Alex was that much of a gentleman. Her love for him had grown with that one decision. Later, reacting to the violence of that night, she’d refused to go with Alex when he’d asked. For years she’d carried an enormous guilt for not having gone with him.

Now she thought herself wise. She’d been right to refuse him. He was a heathen and a wild man. He certainly had been both the night on the
Venture
when he’d kidnapped her—and she had responded to him in the most wanton way possible. She’d given him all she had.

For years Charlotte had gone on about how the pride of aristocrats ran through their veins. Miranda had mostly ignored her. Being an earl’s granddaughter meant very little when she was one of Veral Cameron’s daughters.