Chapter Thirteen
A light rain fell upon the cobblestone street as Bram strode to Miranda’s residence in the late afternoon, frustrated that his morning meetings had taken so long. He was running late on all his commitments, the most important of all being his promise to visit Miranda.
He was over an hour late and she could not be happy about it. Nor was this helping his cause in proving she could rely on him.
Upon his arrival, he was surprised to find other gentlemen callers in the parlor. Well, he supposed most of the gentlemen were there for Miranda’s niece, since she was the one making her debut.
But several of these men who appeared to be about his age, and some, even older, were engaged in conversation with Miranda. They seemed interested in her and not her niece.
Did he have competition for Miranda’s hand?
“Your Grace,” she said, smiling as he approached her after being announced by her butler, “it is good to see you.”
He bowed over her hand, wishing he could take her in his arms and kiss her with all the ardor that he felt in his now-pounding heart. “My apologies for the late arrival. My meetings took much longer than expected.”
“I understand.”
He hoped so, but he wasn’t certain because she seemed tense.
He wasn’t feeling comfortable, either. His afternoons were usually taken up on Lanark business matters or urgent matters of politics, not genteel visits for afternoon tea.
Miranda looked as pretty as a dream in a lavender silk gown with lace of a matching color at the bodice. Of course, the delicate lacework across her bosom drew his eye straight there.
Mercy.
He lifted his gaze to her face, hoping she had not noticed his discreet gawking. But he also noticed she was still wearing the silver heart he’d purchased for her in York. His tension eased.
This said everything, did it not? He now felt a little less like a Scottish oaf.
However, he still felt out of place, having come straight from his last meeting by the London wharfs and not bothering to change into more fitting attire.
Did he smell of soot and fish? He ought to have considered that these scents would cling to his jacket because it was damp from an earlier rain.
He hadn’t bothered to wear an overcoat or don a hat when visiting the docks, thereby leaving him with no protection from a steady downpour.
He had not given it a thought, for it constantly rained in the Scottish highlands. One could not get work done if deterred by a few drops of water.
But here he was, about to dampen one of Miranda’s fine silk chairs, as she insisted on having him sit beside her. “Och,” he muttered, shaking his head, “I had better remain standing.”
He glanced at the suitors surrounding her and noticed their smirking at his disarray.
Tossing them out and telling them all to go to blazes was out of the question, so he simply nodded to acknowledge them, since he was acquainted with them all and cared for none of them.
“Perhaps I ought to stop by another time.”
And he’d forgotten to bring over his invitations in his haste. Once her company left, they were supposed to sit together to compare those invitation, see which ones they had both received, and decide upon which ones to accept.
She rose and placed a hand on his arm when he started to turn away. Just a brief touch to hold him back. “Please, stay.”
He cast her a pained look and spoke quietly so as not to be overheard. “I forgot to bring my invitations. Nor does this seem to be a proper time to review them.”
“I know, but it is your company I most desire.”
He did not see the point, but nodded. “If ye wish.”
“I do,” she said, glancing toward the opposite side of the room, where Gwenys was holding court with her gentleman callers. “I could use your guidance as to these gentlemen presently fawning over my niece.”
Was this all she wanted him for? It was important, he supposed. Although why should it matter if her niece’s heart was truly pledged to Douglas?
“Ah, I see.”
“No, you don’t, really. I’m sorry. I just made up that excuse because I did not want you to leave. Gwenys will not be moved by any of them. The truth is…I missed you.”
He gave a gruff laugh. “No’ as much as I miss the sight of ye, Miranda. Ye have no idea.”
He was a grown man with urges that she brought forth with full force.
Of course, since he had not planned on taking her to his bed without marriage, this meant celibacy was in the cards for him. No one was going to satisfy his needs but her.
“Do you have plans for supper tonight?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No plans.”
“Good, then will you join me and Gwenys tonight? Is seven o’clock too early?”
“It’s perfect.” In truth, he would have skipped a royal summons if it interfered with his seeing Miranda.
Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. But it would take nothing short of a cataclysm to keep him away.
He remained a short while longer before taking his leave, his heart lighter because he would not be parted from Miranda for long. Nothing could dampen his mood now, not even the rain, which was falling consistently harder. He was soaking wet by the time he arrived home.
“Your Grace!” Mortinson cried, immediately opening the door and stepping aside to allow him in. “You rushed out this morning without your hat, gloves, or cloak. You’ll catch your death of cold if you’re not careful.”
“Dinna berate me,” Bram replied, too cheered to be bothered about the state of his clothing. “I’ll run up and change now.”
“Oh, Your Grace. There’s a lady here to see you.” Mortinson cleared his throat. “I told her you were not at home, but she insisted on waiting.”
Bram frowned. “And ye let her?”
Mortinson cleared his throat. “She claimed you were expecting her. She was…ah, quite suggestive about it.”
“Suggestive? When have I ever brought a doxy home?”
His butler was blushing. “Well, she’s rather well dressed. I thought perhaps she was a…paramour, rather than a…um, ah…”
Bram strode into the visitor’s parlor, annoyed but not surprised to find Lady Trowbridge waiting for him. She rose, smiling, and approached him with her hand held out as though he were supposed to politely bow over it.
“I might have known,” he muttered, ignoring her outstretched hand. “I dinna have time for yer nonsense, nor will I ever have time for it. Do I need to be clearer?”
“And here I’ve come offering a truce,” she remarked with a feline purr that he found so irritating that it made his teeth hurt. “You cruelly blamed me for attempting to steal Miranda’s cheap necklace, and now Montrose will not permit Louisa to have anything to do with me.”
“I knew the lad had brains,” Bram said, trying not to show the remark about the cheap necklace having further roused his indignation. Miranda treasured that necklace, and this was all that mattered. “Louisa is best kept away from ye and her scheming mother.”
“And you,” she said, once again purring and coming closer to rub herself against him like an irritating cat. “You don’t really want to keep away from me, do you?”
But one touch of his wet jacket had her taking a step back. Just like a cat, she had an aversion to water.
He stifled his laughter while he took her by the elbow and ungently escorted her out of his home.
His timing was perfect, for there was a huge thunderclap at that very moment, and the rain suddenly fell on them in a deluge.
Lady Trowbridge screamed and cursed. Ah, ever the lady.
The downpour soaked him worse than he already was, but he took great pleasure in knowing Lady Trowbridge got the worst of it.
She shrieked and ran to her waiting carriage the moment he released her, but the damage had been done.
Her gown was soaked and strips of her fashionably styled hair had come undone, not to mention her fashionable hat was a limp mess and now dangling off her head.
“You’ll regret this, Solway!” she yelled.
“No’ as much as ye’ll regret messing me with me or anyone under my protection. I am no’ a nice man, Lady Trowbridge. Ye dinna want to find out what I will do if ye cross me.”
Mortinson’s eyes were wide and his mouth agape as Bram turned away, without helping the lady into her carriage, and strode back inside.
One of her footmen jumped down to assist her. Not that Bram cared. He’d delivered an appropriate warning and hoped the she-cat would take it to heart—assuming she had a heart, which he did not think she did.
“Mortinson, that woman is never to be admitted into my house.”
“Yes, Your Grace. My apologies for ever allowing her in.”
“Ye did no’ know. However, if Lady Miranda Lawson or her niece, Gwenys Lawson, ever call here, ye are to give them every courtesy.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
He clopped up the stairs and tossed off his wet clothes while calling for Caulfield to bring him a fresh suit of clothes.
No wonder Miranda was so tortured. It pained him to think of all she had endured, a young widow dealing with humiliation and loss, receiving nothing but malice from her husband’s family and a conniving viper of a mistress.
The sky had cleared and the air had cooled by the time he rode to Miranda’s townhouse in the twilight hour with his pouch of invitations.
Miranda’s butler, a kindly, elderly fellow by the name of Humbolt, opened the door to him. “Ah, Your Grace. Lady Miranda asked me to escort you to her study when you arrived. This way, please.”
Bram followed him down the short hall, not certain why he was led to the study and not the parlor. Perhaps she wished to review the invitations first, and setting up here was more convenient.
He set his pouch down on a small table in the corner beside a large window that overlooked her garden, which looked quite lovely amid the last gleams of sunlight. The spring flowers on display were quite colorful.