Cousin Louisa uttered a long-suffering sigh. “I do wish you wouldn’t insist on flying in the face of conventions. Society has a long memory, but I’m certain there are any number of people, short of the most proper, who’d eventually overlook
your … er … fall from grace if you’d just give them proper reason to. ”
It was an old argument, one Miranda had given up on ages ago. She could spend the rest of her life doing penance and being grateful for the scraps of acceptance tossed her way, or she could embrace her new life on the outskirts of polite society, no more apologies to anyone. The choice was simple and she’d made it without a second thought.
“No. ”
Cousin Louisa was too good-natured to argue. “Enjoy your drive, my dear, and try not to wake me when you return. I sleep so dreadfully that my little naps are crucial. ”
In fact Louisa slept at least twelve hours each night, aided by her admitted fondness for the French brandy Benedick provided for them. And since she found the trip up the stairs to her bedroom too exhausting to accomplish more than once a day, she tended to nap in the salon.
By the time Miranda had changed into driving clothes the horses had been put to and she could hear faint snores drifting from the drawing room. In fact, Louisa slept like the dead. The house could fall down around her and she wouldn’t notice, she thought with an affectionate smile.
One of the great joys in Miranda’s altered life was her curricle and horses. She loved driving, and owning her own carriage and pair delighted her to no end. In truth, she would have loved a phaeton, in particular a high-perch one, but she’d resisted temptation, deciding her family already had enough censure to deal with.
She never confided this particular concern to her brothers; Benedick would have immediately purchased the most outrageous equipage he could find for her. They were loyal to a fault. She adored them all, but in truth they’d been through enough, and she’d discovered that an insult to a family member was always more painful than an insult to oneself. And the pain that she caused them was far harder to deal with than her own censure.
She headed for Hyde Park, perversely enjoying the cold, damp air. She could feel her hair escaping the confines of her bonnet, and she knew her cheeks would be flushed and healthy, rather than the fashionably pale, but she didn’t care.
Author: Anne Stuart
She let the horses out a bit, enjoying the sensation as they pounded through the park. Perhaps she ought to go out to the countryside, to the family estate in Dorset, but that would scarcely solve her problem with her family away in the north. She would still be kicking her heels in frustration, bereft of any kind of stimulation apart from the solitary enjoyment of books and the theater. She had no one to talk with, no one to laugh with, to fight with. And it looked as if it would continue that way for the rest of her life.
An unexpected fit of melancholia settled down around her, and she bit her lip. She made it a rule never to cry about her situation. She was simply reaping the rewards of her own foolishness.
But after endless days of rain and gloom she could feel waves of obnoxious self-pity begin to well up. The damp wind had pulled some of her hair loose, and she reached up a gloved hand to push it out of her face.
The swiftness of the accident was astonishing. One moment she was bowling along the road, in the next the carriage lurched violently and she just barely held on to the reins, controlling the horses as she kept them from trying to bolt.
She knew immediately that something must have happened to one of the wheels, and she hauled back on the reins, trying to stop the frightened beasts, trying to maintain her seat and not be tossed into the road, just as a huge black carriage came up from behind her. Within moments two of the grooms had jumped down, pulling her frightened animals to a halt.
It had begun to rain again, and Miranda was getting soaked. The carriage had stopped just ahead of hers on the road, a crest on the door, but she didn’t recognize whose it was, and she was too busy castigating herself as an absolute idiot, a total noddy for letting the horses panic like that. Her curricle was tilted at a strange angle, and she scrambled down before anyone could come to her aid, passing the broken wheel and moving to the leader’s head, taking the bridle in her hand and stroking his nose, murmuring soothing words.
The footman she’d displaced went back to the dark carriage and let down the steps, opening the door, holding a muffled conversation with someone inside before returning to her. “His lordship wonders if you would do him the honor of allowing him to assist you,” the groom said politely.
Bloody hell, Miranda thought, having been taught to curse by her brothers. “I thank him, but he’s already come to my rescue. ”
A voice emerged from the darkened interior of the carriage, a smooth, sinuous voice. “Dear child, you’re getting drenched. Pray allow me to at least give you a ride home while my servants see to your horses and carriage. ”
She bit her lip, glancing around her in the rain. There was no one else in sight, and she certainly couldn’t handle this on her own. Besides, he was of the peerage—he was unlikely to be terribly dangerous. Most of the titled men she’d known were elderly and gout-ridden. And if he offered her any insult she was quite adept at kicking, biting and gouging, all skills that would have stopped Christopher St. John two years ago … if she’d possessed them then. Her father and three brothers had seen to it that she would never again be at the mercy of any man.
“You are very kind. ” Giving up the fight, she handed the reins back to one groom as she allowed the other one to hand her up into the darkened carriage. A moment later the door shut, closing her in with her mysterious rescuer.
He was nothing more than a shadowy figure on the opposite seat of the large, opulent carriage. The cushions beneath her were soft, there was a heated coal box near her feet and a moment later a fur throw was covering her, though she hadn’t seen him move.
“You’re Lady Miranda Rohan, are you not?” came the smooth voice from the darkness.
Miranda stiffened, glancing toward the door. If need be she could always push it open and leap to safety—they weren’t moving that fast.
He must have read her thoughts. “I mean you no harm, Lady Miranda, and no insult. I simply wish to be of service. ”
It was a lovely thought, but she still wasn’t certain that she trusted him. She glanced out the window. “Where are you taking me?”
“To your house on Half Moon Street, of course. No, don’t look so distrustful. The sad fact is that London society is a hotbed of gossip, as I’ve discovered to my own detriment. Everyone knows of your … ah … unique lifestyle. ” His voice was gentle, unnervingly so.
“Of course,” she said with a grimace. “You would think polite society had better things to do than concern itself with me, but apparently not. There is nothing worse than having the world judging you, making up outrageous stories and even worse, believing them. ”
“In fact, there are any number of things that are a great deal worse. ” His voice was dry. “But I do understand what you mean. I’ve been the victim of the same sort of malicious gossip for most of my life. ”