Winter Wonderland (9 page)

He gaped at her, unable for the moment to speak. In her severe blue muslin gown, trimmed only with a ruffle of white at the neck and at the edges of the long, narrow sleeves, she looked so proper and prim that she almost seemed to be someone else. That the voluptuous girl of the Lydell ball could be the same person as this straitlaced woman was hard to believe, though in both incarnations he had to admit she was lovely. Utterly lovely.

But as soon as those words registered in his consciousness, he was stricken with self-disgust. This woman represented everything he despised. How could he still find her lovely?
You must watch yourself
, a voice inside him warned,
or she'll make a fool of you again
. He must give her a set-down, and quickly, to be certain she was kept at a safe distance. He drew his eyebrows tightly together into his most forbidding frown. “Did you say good
morning
?” he asked disdainfully. “It's almost afternoon. I suppose ladies in your set are accustomed to sleep away half the day.”

His tone put her instantly on the defensive. “But I'm usually quite an early riser, sir. It was just that the morning was so dark, and the featherbed so warm …” But she suddenly realized she had no need to apologize to him. “Not that my habits are any concern of yours,” she added, lifting her chin.

“Mrs. Hanlon served breakfast three hours ago,” he chastised, “and I had risen more than an hour before
that
. But it's not surprising I rose early.
My
bed was not conducive to late sleeping.”

“I am sorry for your discomfort, sir, but you can't blame me for the inn's meager accommodations.”

He merely shrugged and turned back to the window. “That tea tray on the table is for you,” he informed her. “Mrs. Hanlon brought it in when she heard you stirring.”

Miranda seated herself and reached for the teapot. She was discouraged by her failure to soften him but not defeated. “Would you like to join me?” she asked, determinedly cheerful. “The water is still hot.”

“No, thank you.”

She sipped her tea, calmly enduring the lengthy silence. After she'd poured herself a second cup, she tried again. “Do you think the snow will stop any time soon?”

“Soon? Huh!” he snorted. “If our good luck holds, we may expect to be imprisoned here till spring.”

“If that's a sample of your sense of humor, sir,” Miranda retorted, “I would not care for more of it. It lacks optimism.”

“Then I would suggest, ma'am, that you go and exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Hanlon. She's as full of happy optimism as a puppy with a bone. She's gone to fix us luncheon. She promises ham and cold chicken and river trout and poached eggs and potatoes and custard pudding and, no doubt, several other tidbits I've forgotten. As if one could rouse an appetite after seeing the damnable depth of the snow on the road out there.”

“I think it's very kind of her to feed us so lavishly. If she's gone to such trouble, we should try to do the meal justice.”

“You must suit yourself, ma'am, but I would find it very hard to swallow a bite. This situation in which we're embroiled has taken away any semblance of appetite I might have had when I started out.”

“I admit that our circumstances are discouraging, but it does no good to make matters worse by sulking.”

“Sulking, am I?” He threw her another of his withering looks. “If you think, Miss Pardew, that you're likely to improve the situation by bandying about insulting epithets, you're far off the mark.”

“Miss
Pardew
?” She stared at him in astonishment. “You called me Miss Pardew!”

He winced.
Damnation!
he cursed in his mind.
How did I let that slip?
If he wanted to keep her at a distance, he'd made a serious error. But he was a trained diplomat; he had some experience in rectifying blunders. He quickly adjusted his facial features to express bland surprise and asked calmly, “Did I? How strange. Is that your name?”

“You must know it is. At least, it was. I have not been Miss Pardew for many years.”

“Ah. Your maiden name, then?”

“Yes. I am Lady … er, Mrs. Velacott, now.”

So she did wed Sir Rodney, then, he thought. But she denied her title. He wondered why. Aloud, he only said, “How do you do?” and made a polite bow.

“You can't put me off with foolish amenities, sir. How did you know my name? Have we met before?”

“I suppose we must have, though I have no recollection of it.”

“Then how can you explain—?”

He shrugged. “The name must have popped out from some deeply buried cache of memory.”

“Astounding,” she murmured, eyeing him suspiciously. “In fact, almost unbelievable.”

“Yes,” he agreed, turning away to pretend an interest in the bleak outdoor scene, “quite unbelievable.”

“You've not yet told me
your
name, sir. Perhaps, if I learned it, I could determine where and when we met.”

He had no intention of telling her his name. “What of your husband, ma'am?” he asked, ignoring her request. “Will he not be concerned about your absence?”

“My husband died a year ago. I am a widow.”

“Oh. I see.” He took a moment to let the information sink in. His reaction to the news was confused, his feelings unclear. Was he pleased? Relieved? Sorry for her? None of those reactions was appropriate, and all of them were dangerous.
Watch yourself
, the warning voice reminded him. But, too curious about the details of her life, he ignored it and plunged ahead. “Your children, then. Will they not be worried?”

“I have no children.” She studied his back intently. “Now, sir, you know all about me. And I have yet to learn your name.”

He turned round. In his head, he could hear her voice as it was a dozen years earlier. She'd asked him for his name then, too. But before he'd managed an answer, she'd waved him off.
I'd rather dismiss you incognito
, she'd taunted. He could give her that same “cut direct” right now, with almost the same devastating effect, and in almost the same words. Why not? Wasn't it said that revenge was sweet?
I think, Mrs. Velacott
, he could say with cold deliberation,
that I would rather remain incognito
. He took a breath and prepared to say it. “I … I …” he began. But something took over his tongue. “My name is Traherne,” were the words that came out of his mouth.

He could not believe his own ears. He'd obeyed her request as meekly as a lamb.
God curse me for a damned jellyfish!
he berated himself furiously. What was the matter with him that in the presence of this woman he became a milksop, weak and unmanned?

But she, hearing the name, gazed up at him with a beaming smile. “Traherne?” she exclaimed excitedly. “Mr.
Terence
Traherne? I can't tell you how delighted I am that it's you! Who better than you can explain to your wife why I am so delayed?”

Was the woman speaking gibberish? Barnaby wondered. He couldn't make sense of a word she'd said. “I only understood one thing in that speech, ma'am, and that is that you've misidentified me. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I am not Terence. My name is Barnaby. Terence is my brother.”

But if Miranda was disappointed, the feeling was momentary. After a brief blink, she turned her gaze back upon him with an expression of renewed delight. “Then you are Mrs. Traherne's brother-in-law. How wonderful for me! Her brother-in-law can as easily be my savior as her husband.”

“Your … savior?”

“Yes, don't you see? With you to explain to your sister-in-law exactly what happened to delay us, I'm certain she will forgive my lateness. Oh, Mr. Traherne! What luck that we happened to be traveling together!”

“
Luck
?” He eyed her in disbelief, as if she were speaking in a completely foreign tongue. “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice dripping with irony, “what luck, indeed.”

Eight

In the afternoon, the snow stopped. It was the only good thing to happen that day. To Barnaby, it was otherwise the worst of days, full of irritations major and minor. First, there was the news that, of all people, Miranda Pardew (or Mrs. Velacott, as she apparently wished to be called) was heading for his brother's house. The prospect of having to spend his holidays in the same house as she was a major blow. Furthermore, she told him that she was to be employed by Delia, his sister-in-law, as a sort of governess. How Delia (whom he thought of as a perfectly sensible woman and an excellent mother) could have chosen this particular candidate to help raise her charming little boys was quite beyond him. Miranda Velacott was a sharp-tongued woman without an iota of sympathy for males; she would never have been Barnaby's choice as governess for his nephews. The youngest of them, little Jamie, was a quiet, sensitive sort (reminding Barnaby painfully of himself as a child) whose personality would not thrive under the tutelage of an overbearing, sardonic, cold female. Delia would soon learn what a mistake she'd made in her choice.

Added to his blighted expectations for his holiday and his concern for the well-being of his nephews was Barnaby's vexation at the prospect of having to spend another night on that hellish bench. If it were to be only one more night, he might not have been overly dismayed, but he feared he might be doomed to that deplorable wooden “bed” for a week or more. If the weather stayed cold, the roads could remain impassable well into the new year. That possibility was worse than anything else; it meant that he would be stuck here in this tiny, uncomfortable, Godforsaken inn with no one but Mrs. Velacott for company. This journey, he thought, was fast becoming a blasted disaster!

Miranda, however, was overjoyed at the cessation of the snow. Her spirit soared as the sky cleared. “Do you think Mr. Hanlon will be able to arrange a carriage for us tomorrow?” she asked Barnaby eagerly. “Do you think the road will be passable by then?”

He was unable to answer in the affirmative, but even that didn't dampen her mood. So long as she didn't let her thoughts dwell on the encounter with the highwaymen and the loss of all her worldly possessions (and there was no point in thinking about that, since it was spilt milk), she found herself surprisingly cheerful. She truly believed that her prospects were much improved since this morning; after all, the man with whom she was marooned was her employer's brother-in-law, who would not only take her to her destination but would also provide supporting proof of her explanation to Mrs. Traherne of her late arrival. If Mr. Barnaby Traherne weren't so grumpish, Miranda would have found this experience an interesting adventure.

During the long afternoon, while she sat at the fire warming her feet and he prowled restlessly round the room, she tried to converse with him, but he, when he deigned to answer her at all, responded only in monosyllables. Bored and frustrated, she finally sought out Mrs. Hanlon and prevailed upon her to unearth a deck of cards. Then she coaxed and cajoled Barnaby so relentlessly to play with her that he at last agreed. They sat down at one of the tables, and she proceeded to teach him a game of two-handed whist that she called Hearts (because, she explained, hearts were always trump). They played a full rubber, which she gleefully won. “If there's anything I despise,” he growled as he pushed back his chair, “it's a gloating winner.”

“Better that,” she said with a throaty giggle, “than a grudging loser.”

“I do not begrudge you the rubber. The whole matter is too insignificant to make me begrudge you your petty triumph.”

“Petty it may be, but even in petty matters a triumph is better than a loss.” She gathered up the cards and shuffled them expertly.

“You do that very well,” he said, getting up from the chair. “Like an expert, in fact. Your skill at cards, coupled with your knowledge of thieves' cant, makes me wonder about you, ma'am. Can it be that beneath the prim and schoolteacherish costume hides the heart of a card-sharp?”

“Card-sharp?
I?
” She laughed heartily at the suggestion. “I hardly think so, Mr. Traherne. My knowledge of thieves' cant consists of that one word, tongue-paddler. I'm not certain how I came to learn it. I think my solicitor once referred to himself with that term. And as for my skill at cards, it was gained by spending long hours playing with my maiden aunt, who lived with me for the past decade. We passed many a lonely evening in this mildly entertaining fashion. To make it more exciting, we kept score with make-believe money. I believe, by the time we parted, that I owed her something in the neighborhood of forty-five thousand guineas.”

Barnaby had to smile. She looked so innocent sitting there, the firelight on her face, her eyes misted with memory, that his suggestion seemed ludicrous. But so did her suggestion that she'd spent a decade of her life playing whist with a maiden aunt. She may not have been a card-sharp, but neither could she make him believe that she was a spinsterish stay-at-home. What really had happened in her life? he wondered.

But he had no intention of following this line of inquiry. He did not wish to become involved in her life. He had no interest in her history nor did he want any part of her future. He'd be damned if he'd permit her to charm him and entice him into any sort of web. He would not play fly to her spider.

He changed his expression from small smile to forbidding frown. “Card games are a sinful waste of time,” he growled as he got to his feet.

Startled, she gaped up at him in sheer mystification. His shifts of mood confused her. This was not the first time he'd seemed to warm to her and then abruptly turned to ice. She cocked her head and studied him quizzically. “Card games
sinful
?” she teased. “What gammon! And as far as wasting time is concerned, what have we to do with our time here but waste it? Really, Mr. Traherne, you sometimes sound like a priggish Evangelical.”